***chapter 11***
***Listeners***
Little Javert gave a frightened cry and would have taken flight but something from out of the darkness had already seized him. He fought desperately against the grip, kicking, punching, struggling, biting, terror giving him an unnatural strength, and, issuing a string of oaths, the creature was forced to drop its prey. The little boy fell backwards, his elbow and shoulder blade taking the brunt of the descent as he slammed against a wall. Panting, he could do no more now than watch in fear as the shadows, one of which had held him, conferred together in low, urgent voices.
And then the moon, round and full, climbed to the very top of the night sky, illuminating the scene, and the icy air blowing on his face, and the dogs whimpering softly, and the yard's familiar smell of hay and manure, and the grass coated with patches of melting snow and drops of his own blood. A curious thing. A curious thing to come to him now. If gypsies were black-souled, why was their blood rich and red like the white man's?
Despite his pain, Little Javert managed to push himself upwards and to sit, half leaning against the wall, gypsy-red blood pouring in a crooked trail down his arm and dripping profusely off his wrist. They were two, the shadows standing above him. And in the shimmering light of the cold moon he suddenly knew them.
First, the stable boy, wild-haired, large-nosed, wide-mouthed; downy hair growing above his lips, a square chin where often he stroked an imaginary beard, crooked teeth that would laugh mockingly at the gypsy brat though his eyes betrayed his fear. A deep scar ran from his cheekbone to the tip of his ear, the result of a childhood accident when his mother left him and his brother alone, though he liked to claim it was the handiwork of a thug he fought off while running an important errand for M. Laurent. It was a favourite pastime of his, to regale younger, more gullible staff with tales of his fictitious heroics.
Next, the girl they called Louise. Thin, pale, solemn, quiet; eyes the same dark brown as the long, fine hair that a dozen times or more a day she would stop to re-tie after it twisted itself free. Her voice was slower, her words more pronounced, than was usual for a Parisian serving maid, and by this he deduced she had not lived long in the city. It may seem odd that one so young should see and hear so much, but sharp Little Javert, kept hidden in shadows, from there made a habit of studying others, being witness to even the smallest detail. As now. A button missing from Louise's dress. A button shining nearby. An answer to his silent question each time he noticed the long glances exchanged as they went about their business. A reason for their stealth this bitter winter's night, soft snow to hide their footsteps, darkness to hide their presence.
The indistinct whispers grew loud as they dared without carrying their secrets to the great house. "He is a child, Pierre!" The girl hissed angrily, and in an instant the scullery maid dropped to her knees beside Little Javert.
Fourteen, and no more than a child herself. She wiped a hand across her wet eyes, tugged at the thin, ragged shawl covering her head and bony shoulders. Her whole body quaked. Afraid. Until death took all but she, until poverty and starvation drove her to seek work in the city, she'd lived in the country with her widowed mother and four siblings, where, now and then, some filthy, swarthy gypsy would come by, begging food, or selling lucky stones, combs and trinkets, and Mama always too frightened to refuse. Louise remembered being five or six years old, hunger gnawing at her stomach, cramming wild flowers and leaves into her mouth because Mama had given a fierce-looking old gypsy woman the last of their bread. Gypsies were dangerous. They killed and they stole. They took away good Christian people's work, their homes, their food. Marie, who had been in service with the Laurents many years, had told Louise Tomas's story. How he had been born deformed because a gypsy cursed his mother when he was still in her womb. How his crippled body prevented him from earning an honest crust, and so he turned to crime and had been a convict, until Inspector Laurent took pity on him and flew in the face of respectability, purposely, Marie said, for liked to flout convention, to hire him as a labourer.
But this gypsy was a hurt, frightened young boy. Pierre had not been gentle when he caught him, then pushed him aside.
"Here, let me tend thee," she said, with a tremulous smile, her breath visible on the icy air, her hand shaking as she washed with snow the injury and the blood darkening on his arm. He stared in silent astonishment as the bright flash of tears pooled again in her eyes. Surely not tears for Little Javert? Nobody ever cried for Little Javert. And all the while her sweetheart pacing, with his hands clasped behind his head, glancing anxiously at the great house lest they were disturbed, muttering, "I'll have no part of it! Come away, come away! No good will come of touching the blood of a a gypsy!"
She smiled uncertainly again, a solitary tear trickling slowly down her cheek, her dark locks, sparkling with frost, falling over a face white as the snow and moon, her lips, so recently kissed, blue with cold, her thin shoulders shivering.
"Dost thou talk?" she asked, seeking to reassure both herself and the boy. He nodded in answer, watching as with the torn shawl she began to tightly bind his injury and stem the flow of blood.
"Well, then. I am Louise. You, I know, are Javert. Wilt thou talk with me?" She had never spoken to him before, except to warn him to keep his distance, when it was her turn to bring his meal. Then she would set the plate and cup down, make the sign of the cross, and back quickly out of the stable where he lived, as though he were a wild beast.
Pierre had stopped pacing and was pulling on his thick fingers in agitation, his knuckles making loud cracks as he did so. "Tell me then, why was he creeping about if not listening for the devil? Come away, or be tainted by his dirty gypsy blood forever!" He urged.
And the words left Little Javert's lips before he could stop them. Words he never dared ask before. Though he had often wondered.
"Why are gypsies hated so?" His voice sounded strangely hoarse, as if it hadn't been used for years, and yet he had used it only that very morning to recite his lessons to M. Laurent. But this voice surely wasn't his? It was a sound from long, long ago, when he was still with hope. But Louise gave him no answer save for more tears, then wrapped her arms around him and rocked him against her.
Pierre gave a startled yell as the dogs began barking furiously and jumping frantically at the fence of the pound. But his warning shout was already too late. M. Laurent held a lantern aloft, its hushed light casting its glow on all three.
Marie waited nearby, watching events unfold with grim satisfaction. She had suspected Louise and Pierre's relationship for a while but bided her time until tonight. Despite what the church taught, the old servant was not as scandalized as society might have expected her to be. She was not so naïve as to imagine sermons from the pulpit or even the threat of disgrace would ever stop romances, particularly between young folk. But this...this other outrage she had not expected! And it was not to be tolerated.
The wind carried a sudden icy chill and she pulled her soft, warm cloak tighter around her. It had been a Christmas gift from Mme Laurent, after Marie informed her of the faults of a new parlourmaid the old servant took an instant dislike to, embellishing her tale with false claims of insults against her employers. Of course Ada lost her position. Being in Sophie Laurent's employ since her mistress was a child, Marie carried a great deal of influence and, though the other servants resented the favouritism, they were careful not to step out of line. And, although Mme Laurent did not reward her with gifts every time, she was quite sure she would thank her handsomely for drawing her attention to what she would perceive to be shocking behavior. Until this moment, however, she had no quarrel with the malleable scullery maid nor the slow-witted stable boy, and would have been content for them to be reprimanded. But now, to find the girl consoling a dirty gypsy...!
Marie agreed with her mistress's view that the master was too lenient with his servants, and so it was by no means certain Louise and Pierre would be dismissed. But she would easily sway the spoilt, immature Sophie Laurent, who had the final say on the hiring and firing of staff. Marie also agreed, though she was too shrewd to speak of it to anyone, with the opinion of many that Jacques Laurent was of unsound mind. There had long been, she knew, murmurs of discontent among Inspector Laurent's own officers.
For the old woman, too, listened as closely as Little Javert did.
She heard the gentlefolk tell each other Jacques Laurent was a madman, that no other man of his rank and wealth would do what he had done, follow a profession of ill repute, take in a convict and a gypsy half-breed! She heard the poor say crops had failed again in the harsh winter, that starving peasants were plotting to take arms against their rulers. These were greatly changing times for all. But whether or not France rose or fell, Marie would do what she had always done and look only to her own wishes.
Louise must be banished. As must the gypsy...
