***chapter 13***
***King***
Once more the summer was hot and humid and once more drought blighted the crops of France. For some, the stifling heat acted like a powder keg as the uprisings spread over the whole country; for others, life went on as it had always done. Day and night, crowds thronged the narrow streets of Paris, wealthy and poor, men, women, children, hawkers, beggars, thieves, merchants, bourgeois, jugglers, dancers, acrobats...Carriages wheels rattled and horse hooves clip-clopped amid a cacophony of shouts, hurdy-gurdies, barking dogs, cock fights and drunken laughter...The pungent smells of fetid drains, unwashed bodies and animal carcasses being taken to market hung heavy on the air, while the flower and perfume sellers, the occasional soft tones of a flute or, now and then, perhaps the lark-like voice of some starving beggar, skeletal arm outstretched, pale hand cupped, pouring heart and soul into some carefree ditty about lords and ladies and lovers, offered but tiny pockets of salvation among the madness.
Little Javert wandered alone through the masses, a part of them and yet not of them. King of all.
The brim of his hat was titled downwards, casting a shadow over his dark features (for it was, and always would be, his own secret that he was half gypsy) but his head was held high, his back ramrod straight, his pace certain. Some, seeing his expensive attire, took him to be the son of a gentleman and begged alms, and sometimes he would unclasp his hands from his back to toss them a sou, for M. Laurent, busy now with police matters and unable to devote as much time to his protege's lessons, had begun giving him a little cash to spend on his visits to the city. It entertained the gypsy boy greatly to see how the mendicants scrambled in gratitude to retrieve a small coin. Such sweet revenge to see the white man brought low as the gypsy!
Little Javert was careful however to avoid the gypsies. He scorned his own kind and everything that his parents would have brought him down to be. Moreover, he was anxious not to be recognised as one of their race. Ah, but he was far more than that now and he fully intended to follow in M. Laurent's footsteps. He had long dreamed of being a police inspector, but deep down wondered if it was perhaps an impossible dream. The best a gypsy could hope for, it was said, was to become a soldier, for a gypsy was welcome to lay down his life for a country though the country despised him. And what if Inspector Laurent's son should take exception to his ambition? Surely Paul Laurent would wish to emulate his father and Jacques Laurent be justifiably proud of his own flesh and blood? But it was Paul himself who finally decided him.
The Laurent boy had called on him again just before he returned to school for the new term. It was almost six months since they had last spoken and he, too, had grown. Unlike Little Javert, however, Paul's growth was in height alone, and though he had lost the baby roundness of his face, still he carried no muscle, but instead resembled one of the many students who could often be seen scurrying anxiously about Paris, thin, pale and grave-faced, their books their only defence in a world that was changing rapidly. He had about him, too, a new air of confidence and he scoffed at his own earlier belief in magic though his eyes flickered briefly, as if uncertain exactly how much magic a gypsy might be capable of. Little Javert mentioned him becoming an inspector like his father before him and was astonished when the boy snorted. "Pah! I have no desire to be a policeman! The other boys mock Papa. They say it is not respectable and policemen are nothing but thief takers. No, I will be a priest and preach the word of the Lord."
Pondering on this conversation, Little Javert had stopped by the bridge to eat a sweet pastry purchased from a street vendor and to better feel the refreshing breeze of the Seine fanning his face, when a flurry of bright colours suddenly caught his eye. Across the way, outside the tavern, four or five streetwalkers paraded like peacocks, while a smaller, fatter, older woman fussed around them, fixing a ribbon here, whispering an instruction there, and none caring about their trade being plied by day, a solitary policeman seemingly ignorant of their presence, and instead trying to disperse an ever-growing cluster of people gathered about a group of youths spreading news of yet more peasant rebellions. Being young and more curious about the ways of the world than politics, Little Javert crossed the bridge, to where a finely-dressed gentleman lounged smoking, and some foul-mouthed, drunken sailors lately arrived in port shouted obscenities at the procession, while other Parisians merely passed on by, most taking little interest, engrossed in their own small concerns.
The toothless hag was busy arguing with a seafarer who haggled over price, and a fast-paced dialogue, at which she grew more angry and red-faced and he, fuelled by his friends' laughter, grew more insolent, was taking place, and Little Javert ate his pie slowly, watching in amusement.
And suddenly he saw her.
Emaciated, filthy and ragged, face painted gaudily, bonnet strings tied loosely at the side of her chin in the jaunty manner that marked out those of her profession for any who would seek them. One of the seamen made to approach her and like a clockwork doll, she smiled a wide smile, her eyes dull. And Little Javert could bear it no longer. He dropped the pastry and sprang forward to press his hand on her arm. "Come with me, Louise." It was said neither as a plea nor an instruction.
She stared at him, startled, then her eyes widened in recognition.
"You must!" His voice grew more urgent now, and he tugged on the sleeve of her gown when she made no move to follow.
"Leave me be." The former serving maid whispered, brushing him away. "I must eat."
"Come with me!" He said again. "I can help..."
"No!" Still she resisted. "Go, go! Thou hast done enough damage already!"
Little Javert, stung by the accusation, faltered for a moment before he drew the thin, undernourished girl towards him, only to feel strong hands clamp down on his own shoulders and pull him back.
"Well, well, whatever is this?" The seaman roared with laughter. "A boy pretending to be a man and seeking kisses! Old woman, I'll warrant he has a penny or two, what can you give him?"
At once, the toothless crone, keen to end the altercation with the thickset sailor and using the disturbance to her advantage, shuffled across. She pulled a rag from her pocket, kissed it and rubbed it roughly along Little Javert's lips. "There! That must do till thou is grown," she mocked. "Now run along home to Mama and nursemaid!"
But Little Javert was not to be so easily defeated though in the grip of three seafarers now, their drunken laughter ringing in his ears. "Louise, come with me! Thou was kind to me once and tended my wounds and I would return the kindness." He twisted and turned and fought fiercely against his captors, and in the fray his hat was knocked to the dusty ground.
"Why, 'tis naught but a dirty gypsy!" The sailor who'd knocked it down spat disgustedly. "Here, lads, we'll make short work of this dog!"
"Wait!" The finely-dressed gentleman spoke. "It would be just reward if the black devil were to be dealt with by the ladies." He waved a purse tantalizingly in the air. " A tidy sum of money to whosoever can give the cur the heaviest beating. All except the gypsy lover." He looked in abhorrence at Louise as he addressed the whore-keeper. "Madam, I am most surprised you allow the girl to continue to work for you when it must surely harm your business."
"Yes, yes." The wrinkled woman eyed the purse greedily, dismissing Louise with a wave of her hand.
The maid opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it again. She looked at Little Javert strangely before turning away. It was the last thing the boy remembered.
XXXXX
When finally Little Javert woke, he discovered he had been tossed down the banks of the Seine, left bloody, bruised and for dead. He rolled himself over though the effort exhausted him. The aching of his body was nothing compared to the aching in his heart. Even his clothes and education could not take away his gypsy birth. He thought again of the mocking words of the old hag, of the cackling of the whores determined to win the money, of the pretty, pinched face of Louise as she turned from him. Every fibre of his being burned with shame. It was a weak man – Little Javert thought himself a man - who allowed women to inflict such damage. And scornful, painted women at that, harlots who laughed and joked as they scratched and tore at his clothes, his face, hair, his skin. Their kicks and punches carried less weight than a man's, yet the pain of humiliation ran much deeper. It would never happen again. Never. He would be a policeman and treat harlots with the same contempt.
For a while, the angry boy sat in the sunlight, gathering his strength, listening to the faraway tramp of footsteps and galloping hooves on the bridge above. As evening lit the sky with its fiery red glow, prompted by hunger and thirst, at last he picked himself up, fixed his torn clothes as best he could, and began to limp homewards. Two bridges further, a crowd had formed and here he paused on the fringe of the curious onlookers to look down at the white object being fished out of the water amid the screams and shouts.
The bloated body was that of a young girl. Her ragged gown was muddied, her gaudy face paint smeared, her long, dark hair tangled with river weeds, her eyes staring and lifeless. Someone remarked they had seen a well known prostitute who worked by the tavern leaning over the bridge of the Seine, gazing for hours into the swirling waters below. Others said they had seen her there too: that she called herself Louise.
And as over the years the Seine had claimed many a victim among the starving, destitute poor, and this corpse was just another streetwalker to be buried in unconsecrated ground, no more was thought of the matter.
XXXXX
Little Javert alone mourned her demise but determined no-one should ever know. For this reason, he took a longer journey on his return. From an early age, he had been familiar with little frequented alleyways and secret, hidden paths in and around the sprawling city of Paris, and he took these quieter routes now, burning with shame and anger at his treatment, and yet angry too for his softer emotions. And so his tears, as he planned them to be, were almost done when he reached the farmyard.
He crept on, silent as a shadow, fearful of being seen in such disarray. He had earned the respect of the servants through their fear and none would respect him if they saw him torn, bleeding, weeping. The gypsy boy wiped his fist roughly over his eyes. It was a long time since he'd cried for anyone and he swore to never do so again. He would never give love, whether to friend or sweetheart or family, bring no children into this world tainted with his dirty gypsy blood. Marriage was for other men. He would follow only the path of righteousness. There would be no deviation. Louise had fallen from grace and paid a heavy price.
He washed the dirt and blood from himself in the horse trough and was about to take his rest when he heard the trotting of hooves and slow, rolling wheels of an obviously heavily-laden wagon that, curiously, came to a sudden halt in the yard. It was Monday. The day the meats were delivered. But why should the meat wagon stop here and not continue on to the great house to deliver the meat? Though his body ached from the beating he took, the boy was ever vigilant. Dripping wet, he slipped quickly behind a tree, making no sound, drawing no attention. To his surprise, his old enemy Tomas came out to greet the coach driver and they spoke in low murmurs for a while.
"All well, my friend." Tomas said, his voice growing louder as he grew bolder. "Be here tomorrow at 6.30 sharp under pretext of having forgotten a box. The window will be left unlocked, the Laurents at dinner and the parlour empty. But warn the men be cautious. Await my signal."
"But he is an inspector of police." The coachman glanced round nervously. "If he were to..."
Tomas laughed derisively. "Jacques Laurent is a lunatic and a fool. His own officers hold him in contempt and take bribes from any who will pay them. Half have already left the force and joined our cause, and why not? The rich take what is earned from the sweat of our labour and rightfully ours. We will be long out of Paris before the Laurents even notice their jewellery has gone."
"Tomorrow then?"
"Tomorrow." Tomas confirmed, shaking the proffered hand.
Though the sun blazed relentlessly, Little Javert shivered. Tomorrow the ex-convict Inspector Laurent had given a home and work to would betray him. The wicked stayed wicked just as his mother and father had done. Tomas, the man who had so cruelly taken his food, dealt sly blows and kicks when he was too weak to defend himself would always be wicked. But Little Javert had bided his time. And so tomorrow. Tuesday. The boy forgot his humiliation and smiled. Tomorrow he would avenge himself on Tomas. Tomorrow Little Javert would be king...