BOOK FIVE:

Inspector Poutou


A Denial of Innocence

Aurelie and Cuny had raised their hands to the sky in surrender as the officers hurried over, locking them in irons behind their backs. As they were escorted from the apartment, the men on the ground were lifted, though they fought the officials as fiercely as their broken bodies would allow, these men far more criminal than the revolutionary. They, too, were placed in irons. The four were locked into a paddy wagon and taken to a police station in Bastille.

There, they parted ways, a guard at either shoulder, an inspector leading the way to separate rooms for interrogation.

Aurelie did not know that she was brought to a cleaner, tidier room than the others. It was not an office, but she was not chained to a wall as the other three men were. Instead she was able to sit across the table from Inspector Poutou. The guards unlocked her irons, then were ordered to bring her water and a damp cloth.

While waiting for these things, pen in hand, Poutou asked: "What is your name?"

"I am Madame Aurelie Enjolras."

This was scrawled in messy handwriting across the top. "And your address, Madame?"

"Eighty-two rue de la Pompe."

In that second, the inspector glanced up at her to meet her eyes in a sort of surprise that a woman from Trocadero was here with blood on her hands. He'd been told she'd been taken from the scene of a murder in Montparnasse, and though she dressed as a bourgeois, he had not expected her to hold such status.

"If you live there, may I ask what you were doing in the slums?" he cried after a moment, and he was certain of her innocence upon knowing her arrondissement, no doubt she must have been dragged there for some vile plot by the hands of these men.

"I was visiting my friend, Monsieur Cuny," Aurelie stated, as she would not lie. The whole truth would be told, and if that made her a murderer, then that she was. The story would speak for itself.

Poutou narrowed his brows, failing to comprehend. "You are friends with a dangerous convict on parole forever?"

"I am."

His features morphed once more as he thought that maybe this woman was lying about her residence, or that she was not what she seemed, or that this woman had taken the convict for a lover on the side. But the more he imagined it, the sicker it made him. There was no way this creature was guilty of anything. It was preposterous.

The guards returned with a glass of water and a damp towel, which were both placed in front of her upon the table.

She did not move, and this reaffirmed the inspector's instinct that this woman was good, because she was no doubt waiting for him to give her permission to pick one up. She was gentle, judging by how proper this was, and did not want to alarm him.

"Please, Madame," he said, then pushed the glass a centimeter closer to her so she would know that he meant it. "Clean yourself. Drink."

Taking a sip of the water first, Aurelie then picked up the damp cloth and ran it across her face. She was surprised by how little blood there actually was, as the scene around her had been extremely macabre. Aurelie was unaware that her back and hair was soaked in it.

"You should remove your jacket," Poutou suggested, having seen her back. He gestured at a guard, then saw how Aurelie winced and shied away from the man as he had reached out to help her with the shoulders.

No, this woman had done nothing wrong. Beneath it all, she was terrified.

"I'd like to leave it," Aurelie said under her breath, embarrassed that she'd had this moment of fear over the idea of the man assisting her in the garment's removal. "Please," she added for good measure.

Poutou shooed the guard away with his hand, though he desperately wanted to get her out of that blood-soaked jacket. A woman this beautiful should never be bathed in such gore.

"Please leave us alone," he said to the guards, and they were dismissed.

A flash of fear coursed through Aurelie as she watched the men disappear through the door. The very thought of being left alone with a man made her chin quiver, her eyes shutting tightly as she braced herself for anything and everything, as she had now been through anything and everything. With a stunted breath, she was able to find the calm, forcing herself to be present, to be strong, and to be accurate.

"How are you friends with a convict?" he asked, studying her now that the guards had left. He couldn't fathom it.

"We knew each other before he went to prison," Aurelie said.

"Does he scare you?"

"No."

"After what transpired at his apartment, does he scare you now?"

"No."

"Are you friends with the other two men in custody?"

"No."

"Had you ever seen any of those men before?"

"No."

"Were they friends with your friend?"

"No."

Poutou could not help that he was entranced; in fact leaning closer and closer to her across the table with each answer. He had never spoken to a woman like her before; she was offering nothing. Had she tacked onto any statement, he may have questioned her answers, as men tend to get wordy as they lie. She was brave, bordering on heroic in tone.

Though he needed the story, so he rephrased his line of questioning to evoke it from her.

"What happened in that apartment?"

"I killed that man."

Aurelie did not blink.

The inspector did, however, quite a few times. If Aurelie had slapped his face he would not have been as shocked as he was now, and she could see that he did not believe her. So she continued.

"I came to visit my friend," she explained. "Three men who had ended up in a bar brawl with his friends the night before were waiting to ambush—"

"Madame," Poutou said, then shook his head to shake the shock from him. "Do you want a lawyer?"

"No," Aurelie said, her tone a flat-lined statement, so clear it could have echoed through the room. "They were waiting to ambush him and, because his door was open, I walked in believing—"

Poutou cleared his throat. "Madame," he tried once more, then swallowed heavily. "You need a lawyer before we proceed."

"I walked in believing he was home," Aurelie continued as though he'd said nothing, though she had allowed him to speak without interrupting him, and she had heard every word. "Once inside, the man with the gray cap: the man I killed, shut the—"

"Please, Madame!" Poutou cried as he held his hands out, and he wished he could pretend he hadn't heard her again say that she had killed that man. He watched Aurelie shut her mouth and raise her brows to let him finish. "I must insist upon sending word for a lawyer before you continue."

"But I am telling you I am guilty," Aurelie stated.

Poutou did not like how she would not blink as she said such things. He was at war with himself. Oh, how he wished it was always this easy, yet this was the most difficult interrogation he had ever been a part of. So very many guilty men and women had sat face to face with him where he had done everything he could to get an admission from them as they demanded representation, yet here this woman sat refusing one!

"Madame," he said peaceably, placing his hands delicately on the table and circling them, trying to get through to her. "If you say such things, I will need to write them down and they will be called into examination when this meets trial."

Aurelie nodded. "Then please," she said, then held her hand out. "I will write it for you, if you cannot."

Cuny had saved her life. The man in the gray cap would have died from the wound she had inflicted one way or the other. She would not say otherwise.

Poutou stared at the paper in front of him, the pen across the top. He had done nothing but write her name and place of residence. Peering at her address, such an important part of Paris, he said, "Listen." He did not hand her the pen. "You live in Trocadero. I know these homes and I know men who live in such places hold a wealth I would not achieve in seven lifetimes. Perhaps you already have a lawyer your family uses?"

"My husband is a lawyer," Aurelie stated.

"Then surely you must understand that you should not speak to me any further!" Poutou cried. He couldn't fathom it! The woman must be mad, however pulled together she looked. He thought for a second. She was covered in blood, so perhaps this was trauma. He knew of the delicate natures of high-born women. "You must be in shock. I will reach your husband."

"Please do," Aurelie said.

Poutou heaved a sigh of relief and pushed his chair from the table so he could send a messenger to fetch her husband.

"But before you do that," Aurelie began, and Poutou cringed. "Please write that I have killed a man this morning."

These words made Poutou blanch, and his face became ashen. He swallowed, picked up the pen, scrawled across the paper, then swept it up before she could see that he had written: The Madame denies any involvement in the murder.

He then tried to make a quick exit, but Aurelie stopped him once more. "Should you leave me here?"

"What?"

"I am not in a cell," Aurelie said, circling her hands around the room. "You dismissed your guards. I could walk from here while you call upon a messenger."

"And where would you go?"

Aurelie smiled, and Poutou could see the sorrow for the first time today. "I believe I would walk through Bastille," she said wistfully. "I'd head to 712 rue de Clare in Bourse, where my husband's office is. There I would tell him to hold me and never let go."

Poutou held his hand out. A moment passed as Aurelie stared at it, though Poutou could not pinpoint what she could be thinking as this was done, as her face gave away nothing. "Then come with me," he said regretfully. "I will place you in a cell so you will not do that."

Using his hand to help her to her feet, Aurelie followed him through the door.


Disdain, Defense, Destitution and Double Standards

There were twenty-six women in the holding cell, including Aurelie.

This particular cell had iron bars and brick, separating other packs of women and men in their own cells, separated based on their crime, and as Aurelie looked around, not one woman was like her.

They were crammed inside, seating lining the outer rim with three benches together in the middle. The space was no larger than eight meters, though it felt like only four. There was nowhere to lean, nowhere to lay, and for Aurelie, nowhere to sit. These women looked upon her with disdain from the moment she'd entered, Aurelie the embodiment of the reason they were locked up: the bourgeois generally robbed, the poor turning to thieves, the police called when all they'd needed was a scrap of food. As Aurelie would walk over to a free space, a woman would quickly shuffle so it was well occupied.

But it was important to Aurelie that she be treated as nothing less than her crime, though she was unaware she'd been placed with the most benign of female criminals. As it was the bourgeois who generally escaped the law, she was not one to accept double standards. These women had not committed a crime nearly as grave as she had, yet Aurelie had no doubt she wouldn't be sentenced to a day after a trial, if she even ended up with one at all.

She had given up her jacket on the way, the inspector insisting upon its removal, and though she had looked blandly upon it once off her person, she had been stunned by the amount of blood across the back.

And so in this cell, she hovered. She thought through the events of the morning, thought through the blood. She had without a doubt rolled in it, the first when she'd tumbled from the table on top of the man with the knife, whose head was so wounded by the board cracking the side of it that he'd been caked in red. She did not know the bulk of the blood on the back of her jacket was Cuny's as he'd caught the knife on its way down. She did not know he'd saved her life in that particular moment, too panicked by the grasp on her hair as she was yanked by Gray-Cap.

Gray-Cap, whom she had stabbed and Cuny had finished.

She was innocent by law of self-defense. It was Cuny she worried for, and if it meant a few days in a communal prison cell, then so be it. Even if it meant years, which it would not, Cuny had saved her. The horrifying part of it all was that, were she a poor woman who had actually been raped, she would be found guilty and likely hanged.

But perhaps it would meet trial. Perhaps she would be found guilty. Perhaps she would be hanged. Perhaps she would leave her children without a mother, and as the thought struck her she began to feel dizzy.

Dizzy enough to have to grip the iron, and one woman, in a sudden moment of pity, took her hand and said, "Sit, dearie."

It was a relief, as it seemed that everything was catching up with her finally. Aurelie did not know she had been in a state of shock, instead behaving according to her own standards. But she had demanded the inspector write of her guilt. She hadn't even had a chance to get her story out.

"He didn't even listen to what happened," Aurelie muttered, her eyes in the unfocused nether of the cell, seeing her crime and not the poor and sick women.

The woman who had kindly offered her space placed a hand on her knee. "They never do," she said sympathetically. Aurelie felt the woman squeeze her leg and she glanced down, finding the woman balling up the fabric. "Awfully nice dress, you got there."

Leaning her head back, two bars cradling either side, Aurelie breathed, "You're welcome to it," with a heavy sigh.

This caught the attention of all the woman immediately surrounding her, and they whispered amongst themselves, some noting that she had gone mad, others asking if she was serious, while two women boldly began to argue who deserved it and if they should strip her from it here and now.

Aurelie caught one above all: "I wish I had such a dress."

It reminded her of Manon, who had said exactly this the night of their first banquet at her house, which of course Langelier had been right about; it was no banquet. Not in comparison. But it had kicked off the campaign.

There was little more Aurelie wanted than the stupid horrible gown off. Surrounded by these women, half of whom were likely innocent, the other half guilty of trying to live, she remembered all those years ago how she had worked to become one of them. Her first day in Saint-Michel when she'd felt so out of place arriving on rue Saint-Martin that she had dirtied her dullest of dresses, browning a patch with a match, scraping the fabric across the floorboards.

She felt the same inclination here, if only for them to stop staring at her for what they viewed as a far worse crime than any she could commit: having wealth.

Her eyes fell on the woman who had said this, and in her, she saw her former self. The woman was no woman, she was a girl, certainly no more than twenty. Like Aurelie, she had blond locks and embodied the innocence of Aurelie when she'd first arrived in Paris, though of course we know that Aurelie had been fierce from the get-go.

Glancing further down, Aurelie could see a few drops of blood across the neckline; an area that had gone uncovered as Gray-Cap unbuttoned her jacket. "There is blood on it," she noted, the same tone one would use as they stared at the sky and mentioned it looked like it would snow. "Does that bother you?"

More rumbling, the questions as to how this fine woman could possibly have blood on her dress, women around her now openly mentioning how her hair was a frizzed ball upon her head, pointing out the places she still had blood: in her hair, along her jawbone, across her clavicle.

The girl who had originally echoed her daughter shook her head. "Blood does not scare me," she said strongly.

Aurelie smiled what little she could. Nodded firmly at the girl. "Well, I no longer wish to wear it," she said, then rose and awkwardly worked the buttons down her back. It pained her, not because she was in pain, which she indeed was, very much so, but because it was generally Enjolras who did this for her. She felt near tears as she imagined it was her husband and not the work of her own hands.

Once down to her corset and chemise, she resembled the ensembles of those women who surrounded her, albeit clean instead of dirtied and worn.

She handed it over to the girl.

"It's yours," she said, then sent a daring look at all those who surrounded them. "It is hers," she warned them, this meant to tell them that if they dared try to take it away, they would have to face her. And judging by the looks she received, as much as they hated her, she had been caked in blood, so she was equally feared.

Aurelie then sat down feeling far more comfortable and far more at ease. She gently closed her lids and meditated, trying to find some repose. It was impossible, and now that she thought about it while comfortable without the weight of the dress on her person, she could see little else than Gray-Cap working it up her legs. It made her sick.

But the cold always cleansed, and this cell was indeed cold. Chills reminded her that she was alive. Thus she forced her thoughts upon the family she had given her purse to before the terrible events at Cuny's apartment. And though the images of the violence would suddenly interrupt the perfect picture of those children eating warm soup in the inn, a peace was found in the middle ground between the wonderful and the horrible.


Admitting Innocence While Demanding Guilt

In a private room, Cuny, who had already been grilled by an inspector, was now facing the superior officer: Poutou. After sending a messenger to retrieve the woman's husband, he felt an urgent need to find out how the extraordinary woman had ended up in such brutality.

Cuny, who was cuffed to a chain on the wall, had been given a chair and that was all. He had not received water or a damp cloth to wipe the blood from his skin. His eye and jaw were beginning to swell, cuts on his brow and lips. They had not cared that he was still bleeding from his wrist, though the wound was not grave. The blood had begun to clot, so he wasn't about to bleed out.

He had been careful in his answers as to not indict Aurelie, taking sole ownership over every move that had been made. But this new inspector who began interrogating him was curious.

"I am inspector Poutou," the man said, then excused the guards. As with Aurelie, he did not wish for anyone else to overhear their conversation, as he felt the words this pair spoke could end her up in more trouble than she should be.

He was tormented by this; having never felt in his life that the guilty should be found innocent. But he did look upon Cuny as the worst of criminals and desperately needed the wrong answers so he could feel right once more.

Rolling his eyes, Cuny looked away and did not answer.

Poutou pulled the other chair closer to the man and sat down, which was new. He generally towered over criminals to make himself imposing, evoke the fear in them. Poutou was well known for his success with convicts, widely regarded as the greatest inspector to have graced Paris since a man who had committed suicide in 1832. A man named Javert.

"Consider your yellow passport forgotten for a few minutes," Poutou said. "Let me pretend you are not a violent criminal on parole and speak to me as a man."

Cuny chuckled darkly at this, as no man could ever forget the passport he carried. He was judged by it for the rest of his life, and frankly, that was perfectly alright for him. He'd earned it and relished in what he had done in 1832 at both the barricade and his trial.

"All right, Monsieur," Cuny said, his eyelids dully fluttering. "I am not a criminal who had his death sentence commuted, and you are not a government goon ordered to find the innocent guilty. Let us begin this game, shall we? You are first, I will follow."

Unsure as to why this made him so uncomfortable, Poutou shifted in his seat as he studied the man. On one side of the spectrum, he'd seen violent outbursts in these rooms, the other side: men who would not even speak. Between he found tears, denial, admissions, lies, guilt and innocence.

He had never encountered well-spoken sarcasm.

"You were brought here with a woman," Poutou said, then continued as though Cuny may not remember, "Blond and covered in blood. Do you know her?"

"Yes."

"Does she visit you often?"

"Yes."

"You know she resides in Trocadero?"

"Yes."

"You know she is wealthy?"

"Yes."

Poutou felt as though it was all an echo of the interrogation he'd left only thirty minutes ago. He was once again talking to a pillar of strength, and it was intriguing and terrifying.

"How do you know this woman?"

Cuny shrugged with nonchalance. "I am a friend of her husband."

The best way to cross examine criminals is to report conflicting stories, and Poutou did just this.

"Really?" he asked in feigned surprise. "She claimed you were a friend of hers."

"Is being a friend to the wife of a man exclusive?"

The inspector pursed his lips to the side. "I suppose not," he said, then scooted his rear to the edge of the chair as though they had been friends for life. "But tell me this! Anything more to your friendship with her?"

Cuny glared at the man with distaste. "It sickens me that you would suggest such a thing," he said through his teeth. "Beautiful as she may be, coveted by many men, that is a woman who would never let an eye stray sideways. Think of me what you will, but Madame Enjolras is not to be besmirched in my presence."

While Poutou of course had not though for a moment that the woman was anything but perfection, he was impressed by how this man defended her honor, going to show exactly how well loved and respected Aurelie was.

"But what was she doing at your apartment?"

Cuny's wicked chuckle had returned, and through it, he responded despondently, "I couldn't tell you. We never ended up in any sort of conversation."

"Because you were ambushed. . . ."

Always considered dark and on the brink of dangerous, Cuny surpassed it all with how his brows lowered into brutal gaze that could leave a man or woman running away screaming.

"Because I walked in finding three men attempting to rape her."

Poutou felt bile rise in his throat, remembered how she had shirked away as the guard had tried to take her jacket. There was a sudden need for him to run and retrieve her from the holding cell and usher her into the original room where she could be protected until her husband arrived. But he wrestled with it all so greatly! Why had she been so adamant of her guilt? A woman raped was innocent in self-defense, of course that was—

His stomach churned further. He, himself, was guilty. Women who had struck men had so often claimed the same, yet he had locked them up anyway, dismissing their claims. Of course they were crying it so openly, in direct opposition of what he'd just seen. But Aurelie had proven to be like no other woman he'd ever spoken to.

Poutou had never felt desperate in his life. Not until now, and he managed to impossibly edge further on the chair, this time wrought with concern.

"Tell me," he urged. "Did she kill that man?

Cuny's laugh was loud and joyous, no longer a dark chuckle. He tossed his head back with the sound, as if he found it the funniest thing he had ever heard. Poutou stared at him, wondering if he had said something that warranted this outburst.

"Did she kill that man?" Cuny cried, still laughing, and were his wrists free, he might have slapped a knee. It was, of course, a show—he knew Aurelie had killed before, and he had seen her stab that man—but he still found it hilarious.

"I'm failing to see what is so . . ." Poutou trailed off. He did not know himself; never had he felt that he was not in control. In fact, it was beginning to outrage him that this man—this convict—had managed to get Poutou on his side. "Why are you laughing?"

Cuny shook his head, reigning it in. "No," he said, then inhaled deeply through an open mouth that created a hissing sound. "Aurelie did not kill that man. I did. But if you'll allow it, I'd like to ask you a question."

Poutou shrugged. "All right."

Suddenly Cuny lurched forward, so abruptly that the chains clanged together, and so quickly it sent the inspector back in his chair, spooked by this shadowy criminal.

"If you were a woman and men were attempting to rape you, would you kill them?"

Poutou was a man of honor who believed firmly that good men were righteous and bad men were sinners. That there was no gray area and, as a zebra cannot change his stripes, a man cannot change who he is in his heart and soul.

Poutou was a righteous man, the men he sent to prison were sinners. Murder, of course, was the worst of them all. Taking a life was unforgivable by man and God, and those who do such should suffer not just a death, but a public humiliation of one before they entered the gates of hell.

His beliefs had suddenly been turned upside down.

And his voice trembled as he answered thus:

"Yes."

Cuny grinned, and despite the chains, he managed to turn his palms up to the sky.

"And so it is."


A Favorable Outcome

Monsieur Enjolras,

It is of great importance that I see you imminently at the police station on rue de la Cerisaie in Bastille as soon as you receive this message. There was an incident this morning involving Madame Enjolras. She is in our care, please ask for me personally when you arrive.

Inspector Poutou

This message had taken some time to reach Enjolras' hands: exactly ten hours after it had been sent. The messenger had first travelled to his place of work. There he had been told that Monsieur Enjolras was at court this morning, but when the boy arrived at the municipal building, the case had wrapped up and the Monsieur had taken to lunch. Where, he had inquired? No one knew. So the messenger had asked if he was due back anytime soon, to which the bailiff, after having looked over the schedule, told him that no, he had no other trials to attend to this afternoon.

The messenger had then hurried back to the office and asked where the Monsieur generally took to lunch. A man named Cremieux explained that Enjolras could be anywhere, considering he often made personal calls around Paris to visit those he defended instead of bringing them to the office.

After looking over Enjolras' itinerary for the afternoon, they found it offered no information whatsoever for his plans. A strange coincidence neither knew of was that Enjolras had gone to the police station to meet with a man accused of lechery, though it was not Poutou who showed him to the accused, so he was oblivious to the fact that the intriguing woman's husband was in the building at all.

Enjolras left the station around three, heading out to speak to Langelier of a case brought against him, then furthering their discussion over a glass of brandy as to how they must be prepared for any scenario in these final weeks of the campaign, and should the government decide to not step in, how they could take advantage of public perception, proving the government weak and too afraid of the rise of the people, which would ultimately mean they must rise and begin a coup.

It was at exactly this time that the messenger showed up at Enjolras' private residence. Chaverin opened the door to find a frantic, soaked messenger and shuffled the poor boy inside, calling to his daughter Elaine that she fire up some hot water and bring the boy a towel.

The messenger, however, had been told specifically to see that the message was placed in the hands of Monsieur Enjolras, and therefore politely repeated to Chaverin as he drank down the tea that he was sorry, he could not leave the message with even the butler. Chaverin, who was fully trusted by Enjolras to handle such secrets, had dealt with this often enough with the many confidential documents for the eyes of the attorney, only.

Thus, the messenger was on his way.

The poor young man made circles through the afternoon, returning to the courthouse, then to the Monsieur's house, then back to the law firm. Rinse, repeat. Again and again he travelled, as Poutou had made it clear that this message was urgent and the boy was determined not to let Poutou down.

Just as the messenger was about to give up and return to his employer, explain that they would have to wait until tomorrow, he decided to make a final stop at the Enjolras household on rue de la Pompe, mostly because he liked walking the fine clean streets through Trocadero while admiring the houses he would never reside in, and when the butler answered the door this third time today for the boy, the messenger was relieved to hear that he was home.

The messenger was shown into the foyer, where Enjolras met him promptly, looking agitated.

And Enjolras was agitated. No, the word agitated is far too light of a term for how he actually was. He had returned home to find Aurelie missing, and he had spent the last hour obsessively flipping from anger to worry. Angry that she might have just turned around and defied him, as he'd feared, and worried that she may have done so and it was out of his control, something Enjolras feared more than anything.

Of all things, he was most uncomfortable in a state of helplessness, as it was rare that he did not feel a complete control over every element of his life.

But through this anger and worry, he had not once imagined that she was in any sort of danger; the two of them separated often enough that they were fully aware the other could take care of themselves. He could feel her, always, and throughout the day he'd been hyperaware of her because of their morning. He'd felt that something was wrong, but chalked it up to their parting.

He did not make it fully through the message before he was gathering his jacket and demanding the messenger leave the house at once to find him a coach so that once he was out on the street, transport would be waiting.

The messenger, seeing the side of Enjolras that was terrifying, gulped and did as he was bid. He'd never seen eyes that held so much power and intensity as those of the man who had taken the paper from him, and he exhaled in enormous relief when he was able to locate a carriage quickly. He did not want to face the Supreme Being he had just met should he fail, as he had failed so terribly throughout the day.

"I haven't any idea when I will return," Enjolras said with urgent authority, talking to Chaverin without directly looking at him. "Be sure Madame Moubray is aware and my children are not to know anything is amiss."

"Yes, Monsieur," Chaverin said, bowing his head, then held out Enjolras' hat. "Is there anything else I can—"

"Nothing, Chaverin," Enjolras said. "As soon as you've talked with Madame Moubray, you and Elaine can take your leave for the evening."

Enjolras then stormed from the house with his hat in hand without ever hearing Chaverin say, "We wouldn't dare."

"Monsieur," the messenger called, beckoning Enjolras with an urgent wave of his hand toward the carriage.

Enjolras was inside a second later, ordering the driver to Bastille. He then eyed the messenger and cocked his head to the side. "What are you waiting for?" he asked the boy.

Wide-eyed, the messenger quickly dashed in the carriage beside Enjolras, the coach rolling down the street before the door had even shut.

The building had closed its doors to all but officers and intakes two hours prior to Enjolras' arrival. The messenger ran ahead of the man he'd spent ten hours trying to fetch so he could see Poutou first, as he now felt he was in danger of losing his job. The man he'd been sent to find was obviously someone of great importance and, awestruck as the boy was, a single word from a bourgeois had enough power to have him out of employment.

Enjolras took two stairs at a time up to the station, not caring the least how he was perceived when it came to Aurelie. He did not think of the many men he had seen entering this building and exiting; how slowly they would walk, appearances around police meaning everything. He did not think about the men who worked here; men who either greatly respected his profession or despised him for defending people viewed as criminal. He did not think about how these stairs were a routine for him; they were entirely new, as though he'd never in his life felt his feet against the pavement.

He only knew his world was dark, and ahead, there was light.

Before the door had shut behind the messenger, Enjolras' hand was swinging it wide open once more. And once inside, it briefly dawned on him that he had never entered this building in the night, and what was already a cold institution felt far colder and more menacing than ever before.

"—all day," he heard the boy from around the corner. "I went to Bourse, and the municipal building, and then to Trocadero . . . back here! I tried, Inspector Poutou . . ."

Enjolras saw the tall Inspector round the corner, and they locked eyes. The inspector, who had been so entranced throughout the day, baffled by how the convict and Madame had affected his head, recognized now the man who stood by the entrance at intake.

"Consultant," Poutou breathed reverently, then inclined his head out of great respect for the prominent senior attorney. "Forgive me, Monsieur Enjolras. I suppose I needed the face to the name as to recognize you."

Enjolras was not interested in formalities.

"Inspector Poutou," Enjolras said, his chin pressed outward, jaw locked. He did not nod, instead he began to hastily unbutton his jacket as he was in motion, refusing to stand in place for pleasantries. "You wrote me of my wife. Where is she?"

Blinking a few times, Poutou, a public servant, albeit one of the best, kept his posture smaller than the great man in front of him out of humble respect. He had never liked this man, while at the same time admiring his tenacity and acumen. He viewed the man as both genius and the enemy; this one of the few barristers who could manage to undo his hard work.

His movements languid, Poutou gestured toward the hall. "If you'll follow me to my office, Consultant, we can—"

Poutou stopped himself as he noticed Enjolras would brush by him before he finished his statement, and so he turned before Enjolras could catch up and walked down the hall with the imposing man behind him.

Something he'd also hated; how such a small framed man, barely his height and with such youthful features, could be so commanding and imperial.

Enjolras had already removed his jacket and gloves by the time they were in the office, and he tossed them carelessly onto the wooden chair he should sit at, and would refuse to, as was made clear here:

"Please, have a seat," the Inspector said, sitting himself down at his desk.

"No, thank you," Enjolras said.

And so the Inspector rose, made it about half way to standing, then ended up hovering with both palms on the desk. He did not like that this put him a head lower than the lawyer instead of eye to eye, as Poutou was a tall man, but he could not continue to shuffle lest he be viewed as weakened instead of humbled.

He was an equal mix of both, along with the many other feelings that this man's wife had evoked this morning.

"I do wish you would sit," Inspector Poutou said regretfully, then sighed. It was time to physically admit that he was weakened, and after a wipe of his brow, he fell down upon his chair despite it all. Gripping his chin with one hand as he leaned back, he met Enjolras' eyes. "There was a severe incident this morning that I must make you aware of before I bring your wife out here."

He did not like that he received only a bland look in response. He hated that Enjolras folded his arms over his chest in impatience.

Of course the angelic woman would be married to a god; everything managed to fall into place. Both fearsome, both imposing, both virtuous and supreme.

"Four of my officers were alerted of a disturbance in an apartment in Montparnasse," Poutou explained. He was a careful man and good at reading reactions, but Enjolras gave him nothing other than patronizing defiance. "They rushed to the residence and found your wife inside with a convict."

He paused again to gauge any reaction, and finally received one along with a response.

"Monsieur Cuny," Enjolras said, and the look he gave clearly read: what of it?

"The very same," Poutou said. He was tired. He'd been waiting all day for this man's arrival, and he had spent much of it preparing an explanation that he couldn't seem to remember now presented with the husband in front of him. "Will you please sit down?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable that I am standing?"

Poutou swallowed, then offered a self-deprecating smile. "To be quite frank, it does," he said as his shoulders slumped.

Enjolras could not help the small grin. "I will sit," he stated. "After you tell me my wife is unharmed."

"She is perfectly safe!" Poutou cried, shaking his head. He then realized that he had not visited the lockup since he'd placed Aurelie in there, though at her own request. In that instant, he thought he should excuse himself and retrieve her immediately before Enjolras saw her behind the iron bars, but he had to be careful. For the first time in his life, not only was he questioning some of his core beliefs, he was feeling as though his job may be in jeopardy.

"Before I listen to another word, I need to know that she will come home with me tonight," Enjolras said, then raised his brows with a motion of his eyes though could have been a roll, if he ever lowered himself to such an action, which he did not. "If you are about to tell me she has been arrested, I do not have time to waste listening to any sort of story when I can be working my way through the legalities of her imminent release."

Poutou finally felt the first wave of relief, having decided in his interview that she would be released to her husband regardless. In this, he was breaking the law, as the woman had admitted to killing a man. But on the other hand, a convict had admitted the same, and he had willfully made the decision to believe the con instead of the Madame, despite thinking it may be the other way around once he'd spoken to Cuny.

The words haunted him still: If you were a woman and men were attempting to rape you, would you kill them?

Through that question, Cuny had as much as proclaimed himself as innocent. Poutou hadn't even known of the attempted rape until he'd interrogated the man; astounding him further that Aurelie had kept herself so pulled together.

"She was arrested," Poutou admitted, and he sorted through his words, as they must be chosen carefully. "But there is no need to wake any judges. I will release her to you, and I'd like to speak to you not as inspector to consultant. Simply as two men, for I have some fears that you need to address with her before she gets herself into any trouble."

Enjolras deliberately moved his jacket, gloves and hat over to the coatrack, taking his time and hanging them carefully in place, then sat down in the chair, concerned and forcing patience.

"I am not here to interrogate you, consultant," Poutou began.

"If we're to speak as gentlemen, you'll address me as Enjolras."

"Monsieur Enjolras, I only—"

"Enjolras," Enjolras responded, insisting upon dropping all formalities if this inspector demanded a casual discussion of concern.

"All right," Poutou finally submitted. "Enjolras."

"Poutou."

The hint of a grin was at his lips, and was this not so urgent and grave and paramount, it may have shown outwardly. His tone had no doubt been bordering on mockery, as he viewed this all as a ridiculous but necessary charade.

All he wanted was his wife safely in his arms.

"Because you knew the man before I said his name, am I to understand . . ." Poutou did not know how to phrase the real question, and he wasn't lying when he'd said this was not to be an interrogation. He truly was troubled and wanted to be sure Enjolras was on the same page. "They have both claimed friendship, and please forgive me, as this question is quite out of line and possibly delicate, so I hate to—"

"They are not lovers," Enjolras interrupted. "Many men lose their wives as madames to others on the side, and pertaining to my wife, many have wished to make her such. I am not ignorant, I am firm. She lives for me as I live for her."

"I of course knew that with only a word from her," Poutou said, a blush on his face over the awkwardness of the conversation, but he felt completely alleviated that above his instinct, he'd now had the denial of all parties involved.

Enjolras crossed a leg. "I sent her to Monsieur Cuny this morning," he explained. "We have both known him for a very long time, and you may call him a convict, as he was found guilty of a crime. But a yellow passport does not brand a man as a sinner, and I do not view the action he was convicted of as a crime when it was a time of war. If you'll remember before judging him as a peccant man, our good King of July announced to all that he was a pardoner of the barricades of June, despite leaving those found guilty behind bars and chained in slavery."

Poutou coughed uncomfortably, such diatribes the very reason he feared this lawyer above the rest of his kind. Enjolras was far too knowledgeable, far too persuasive. It was hard to listen to the man without questioning everything you believed in.

"Madame Enjolras was—"

"Aurelie," Enjolras said, another near smile on his lips. "I'll remind you that we speak as friends, and you have my permission to refer to her as one of yours."

"Aurelie," Poutou said, his skin prickling in discomfort. "Forgive me. We are speaking as friends, and it's important to me that we keep it on such a level, as I am about to dishonor myself by breaking a law. Enjolras, your wife was arrested at the scene of a murder in Monsi—in Cuny's apartment."

It took every ounce of effort for Enjolras to not physically react to this statement. His muscles craved to tense against such a violent blow in hearing this news.

"Well," he began, then tried to hide the lump in his throat that his saliva had to work through to swallow. "If she is innocent, I will take her home and hear the story of how this came to be."

"Ah, yes!" Poutou said, trying to contain his turmoil and anguish. He could feel himself beginning to sweat. "This is where I say we must speak as friends. It's so very delicate, and what I'm about to say is strictly between us and out of my deepest concern for such a—"

"Stop," Enjolras said, his impatience getting the better of him. "I know my wife, I understand your concern based on the insistence that this stay man to man. I like you, Poutou—" He half meant this, it was more a level of respect for the man's dedication to his work, despite Enjolras' viewing the man as ruthless with those he strived to protect "—so let's get down to it, shall we?"

Poutou nodded and retrieved the paper atop a stack of interrogation transcripts. He gazed at it for a moment, then spun it around to Enjolras.

Enjolras leaned over the paper, saw that very little had been written. The name of his wife, their address, and below it: The Madame denies any involvement in the murder.

"So then you believed her, you've done your job well," Enjolras said.

"This is the problem," Poutou said, defeated. "What I wrote is a lie. Your wife confessed."

Enjolras became ashen and his heart sunk to the pit of his stomach.

"The only reason I penned anything was that she demanded I write of her guilt," Poutou continued, his words agony. "I only placed the pen on the paper so she would believe I was doing as she asked. This record states otherwise, which is why I tell you that I have dishonored myself by breaking the law, but consul—Monsi—Enjolras—" It was so difficult to decide what to call him; he felt at a loss, as he had all day. "—I will stand by this record. There was no man in the room to say otherwise. It is why I sent for you immediately, for you must rein her in before she gets herself into any trouble."

There had been many times Enjolras felt gratitude, but never this magnitude. This man, Poutou, was surprisingly looking out for his best interests, and for the first time, Enjolras respected the harsh inspector, however unfair to others it was.

And his gratitude was shown as he uttered: "My god . . ."

"Yes," Poutou agreed vehemently. "I have struggled greatly with this, I cannot even begin to express how I wrestle with such a thing. Your wife is exceptionally stoic and rather fearsome in firmness, brevity and eloquence, which is why I make such an exception. This must be kept between us; I am trusting you here, for this could ruin me."

"I don't know how to thank you," Enjolras said honestly, his heart both light and heavy at once. Of everyone on this great earth, he knew his wife, and he understood the effect she had on people. What he did not understand as of yet is why she would dare insist upon her guilt! Where was her self-preservation?

Like a brick, he remembered that she had none. She was self-sacrificing, always.

It was Cuny.

"Monsieur, I do not know if she has spoken to anyone else, but she demanded she not receive any special treatment, threatening to walk from here," Poutou explained. "I regret to tell you that she is persuasive enough in her demands that I placed her in a cell, and I will take you to her now under a full release. But because she was arrested, she will be involved in the proceedings, so I urge you greatly to make her see that the story must be changed—" He then leaned forward severely and with warning "—even if it is true what she says."

Enjolras nodded firmly. "I will aid you in the investigation and offer you my full cooperation from here on out. But this also means that I will act as consultant on behalf of the innocent parties dependent on the facts, while prosecuting those guilty."

Poutou finally fully relaxed, so much that he brought his hands to his face and dug his fingers into his tired eyes.

"I wish I could tell you more, but I put a halt to the interrogation after she refused representation and demanded I write of her guilt," Poutou explained. "I have spoken to Cuny, yet still do not have the full story. All I have is the report: my officers walked in to find five men, among them your wife and Cuny, two others severely injured, and one man dead. Facts but no story."

"And of the two men?" Enjolras inquired.

"Loudly declaring their innocence," Poutou said with a tone that went understood: The louder the declaration of innocence, the larger the amount of guilt.

Unfortunately, in these times, this was not a reliable statement, as those unfairly arrested had enough to fear, it was never a wonder when they would scream of their innocence as they were carted away.

Everything caught up with Enjolras, and now the only thing that mattered was getting his wife far away from this place.

"You'll free her?"

Poutou nodded. "I'll take you to her now," he said, then rose, casually continuing. "Get the story, and make it straight. I'd like to meet with the both of you tomorrow when she remembers that she is innocent."

"I will make it happen."


Clarity of Madness

When Enjolras rounded the corner, his eyes were drawn to the focal point of his world, always. For a moment, he froze in motion; a simple split second of time as he saw her angelic face, head nestled in the most crooked, uncomfortable way against the iron, her shoulder against the support of an elderly woman beside her.

The cells were quieter than in the day, torches keeping it lit enough to see, too dark to do in this abhorrent place. But there was the murmur of voices and cries echoing throughout the large expanse. His wife, never a chin tucked, never a shoulder slumped, was fast asleep.

And so he had faltered with an emptying of his lungs, relief palpable to see that she was safe. It only lasted a moment before he skipped a step toward the inspector, and as the keys were jingled at the lock, the women inside stirred to life, many rising as they wondered what was happening.

"A plaignant!" one woman cried, which caught the attention of more, though he looked nowhere but at Aurelie even though the voices rose, crying at him for help.

"No, I seen 'im before. He's a consultant," another called, louder now. "Consultant, please, I am innocent! My children!"

The door was unlocked, and at the noise, Aurelie stirred, her eyes fluttering open. And she felt him, as she'd been able to feel him, always. In that instant, everything caught up with her so heavily that she lost all semblance of herself, not because she had feared this place, but because of what she had gone through this morning. Her salvation had arrived.

She met his eyes, and her own began to water.

"Madame Enjolras," Inspector Poutou called out loudly, just as he would were she any common criminal ordered to attention.

Aurelie rose from the bench, realizing now the many pains in her body, and it was not easy to take to her feet. When she began to stumble, Enjolras dashed inside to catch her. The world stopped turning, and it was only the pair as she was steadied in his arms, gazing up at his face.

And for some reason, a moment later, she was angry. She was so very irrationally angry and she could not pinpoint why. It wasn't that he was late, it wasn't residual from their fight. Perhaps it was aimed at the world, aimed at the state of the poor women who had surrounded her this day, aimed at the vile men who had attacked her in the morning.

Whatever it was, it swelled through her so violently it rocked her body and she immediately shoved herself away, knowing it was irrational, yet unable to control it.

Enjolras peered at her with confusion and worry.

Poutou recognized something was not quite right, so he said, "Come with us, Madame," and gently shuffled the few women who pleaded him at his side so they would not push by as he ushered the lawyer and his wife from the cell.

Even though it had not been a full shove, Enjolras had noted it and did not touch her as they left the holding cells and transitioned through a thick iron door into the long, clean hallway. He did take her in, however, even if it was only her back, and realized only now that she was wearing just her corset and chemise.

Worse, her hair was caked in dried blood.

At intake, she signed a discharge form. Enjolras went to sign it as well, but Poutou caught his arm and shook his head. He did not understand what the man was silently trying to communicate at first, but upon remembering their discussion, this was a full release based on innocence, not a discharge into someone's care.

"Poutou, I thank you," Enjolras said at the door, then shook the man's hand. "I will be by tomorrow the moment I have cleared my schedule."

"Enjoy your evening, Monsieur," Poutou said, deeply inclining his head, as was proper to a man of wealth and status.

Enjolras turned and reached for Aurelie to place a delicate hand on her back, but she jumped away, and his eyes widened, then turned to slants, once again peering at her and completely failing to understand what was going on. He could always read her, even though she was an enigma to everyone around them. Now she was an enigma even to him.

"Cuny," she said, her pitch high in question, her tone innocent and bewildered. She let her eyes dart between Enjolras and Poutou, who looked at her in confusion. She shook her head as her hands rose on limp wrists, palms at the sky. "Where is Cuny?"

The chuckle that Enjolras exhaled was that of a man uncertain and nervous. "Whatever do you mean?"

Aurelie became firm. "Cuny," she insisted. "Where is he?"

"Madame, he is in a holding cell similar to the one—"

"What?" Aurelie cried, not a shriek, though not a whisper. It hovered in the nether bordering on a demand and completely appalled.

"Aurelie, let's get you home," Enjolras said, holding his own jacket out for her to shrug on, making the mistake of reaching for her once more even while knowing better, and he did not like the show this offered Poutou and the two officers at intake as she lurched away.

"Where is Cuny, Enjolras?" Aurelie demanded, now insisting that he answer the question instead of trying to pull her away. She had not seen him since they'd been carted away.

Deciding it best to not reach for her again and desperate for the explanation as to why, he felt even more urgent in his need to get her home so they could talk.

"Cuny is here," Enjolras said. "He's perfectly fine." This a complete lie, only meant to pacify, as he had not once inquired as to the state of Cuny.

He then saw Aurelie's eyes slowly, so very slowly, narrow into slants, and she peered at him in what he could only read as rage. Between her teeth, she said, "Get him out, Enjolras," and pointed toward the long hall.

"I'll deal with it come morning," Enjolras said quietly, not appreciating the display, as they were both extremely lucky this had gone so well. The inspector had gone above and beyond what Enjolras thought him capable of, and a scene on their exit could ruin everything.

Fury. Aurelie was furious. "He saved my life," she breathed, and her breathing was heavy and fast, and if she were thinking of it, she was on the verge of hyperventilating, though it didn't cross her mind. All she wanted was Cuny free. "Get him out, Enjolras. Get him out right now!"

Her tone had become progressively louder with each word, and once again the mistake was made by Enjolras to grab her, only this time, she did not just lurch away, she jumped back and her arms pointed firmly at the floor.

"Get him out!" she screamed on the top of her lungs. "Get him out!"

"Monsieur, I suggest you take her—"

"I'm aware," Enjolras responded darkly, then gave up all pretenses. He was not angry, though it may have appeared that way to Poutou as he slid his jacket on, then quickly snatched Aurelie's wrists, and, aiming his words at her, he said, "We're leaving."

"Get him out!" Aurelie demanded for the last time, stomping her foot on the ground and ripping her wrists from his grasp. Only this time, she did not say it again. Instead, she shoved the door open and stormed from the station with her husband at her heels.