"Here now," her imposing pimp pressed the matter further, blocking the door to the desired room with one hand. The other he stretched out as all pimps do. "Pay up, 'Sieur, and I'll make sure you're not disturbed."

Tournot eyed him down the long crook of his nose. Though he stood a good few centimeters above this guard dog, the man's impressive strength exuded from his hulking frame. While his knife was quick and precious, he chose his words carefully to cut all the more. Clearing his throat with a flick of his wrist, Tournot placed a single franc into the hand. "In all my years of fucking at this esteemed establishment, I have yet to meet so emboldened a pimp at Madame Rosette's." A cruel sneer traced his wan face. "You must be… new?"

The pimp just stuffed the coin in his greedy pocket. "I just must be more enterprising than my brothers," he grunted, jingling his purse filled to the brim with the fruits of his labors.

"Or you must just be very stupid," Tournot sneered all the more. This man agitated him, and the small dark, murderous whisper began at the back of his mind, compelling his hand to reach to his side for his curved blade.

The whore shifted anxiously next to him, stilling the murder beginning to bubble within him. "Si vous plait, Thibault," she whimpered at her master, "let me just get on with it so I can get my share."

The pimp said nothing else, but threw the door open. With nothing more than a less-than-reassuring glance with his green eyes, he turned away as the door shut. Tournot's dark whisper laughed within him, "Lots of time still to deal with that bastard's purse…" The whisper tested the blade in his hand, "besides, we both know something is off."

Tournot grunted, looking around the room. A room he had used for years. The familiar stink of sweat and bodies and cheap perfume filling his nostrils. The same tattered lace curtains around the bed. More heavy drapes around the walls and windows he noticed, thicker for warmth in the early spring chill, though it did dampen the noises drifting into the room from other pleased clients. That disappointed him.

"Don't disappoint me," his whisper rasped at him.

"Fuck off," he yelled out loud. And the whore spun to face him.

"What? Now?" she giggled. "I don't think that's how this works, 'Sieur."

Those eyes. He squinted at them, stepping towards her body. A body perhaps just a little too clean for a woman of her trade. "Getting warmer," his whisper jeered.

"Then tell me how this works, girl, and perhaps I won't leave you bleeding and broken at the end of it," his voice thin and pressed as he grabbed her shoulders. His right hand drew his blade, still sticky with blood.

At least she winced at that, her breath coming to her in gasps. She had the decency to be afraid.

"Careful, or I'll call Thibault in on you," she struggled unconvincingly, making it all the easier for him to spin her around. He trapped her in the strong crook of his left arm; the blade in his right slowly starting to cut through cheap fabric and rotting corset. With each rip opening in her clothing, she whimpered just a little more, feeding the malice that burned within. The whisper nodding at his actions.

"Your hulking brute of a guard dog doesn't scare me, girl." He bit at her with a laugh, returning his blade to his side, deciding to make this more pleasurable and use his bare hands to finish. "Must be new to Paris, if you don't know just who I am," he hissed. With a growl, he pushed her to the wall beside the bed, in one fluid motion, ripping her chemise in tatters and throwing her corset to the ground. "Now, let's get a look at just how used your goods are, shall we?" he said in chorus with his whisper, his voice rasping just a bit more.

Pushing her to the wall with one hand, his cold eyes swept over her body. Well beaten and bruised, red and marked. Her head turned to the side, trying ever so hard not to show the fear that heaved her milk white breasts with each gasping breath she took.

"Turn her over," his whisper commanded. But her back showed only more proof of her profession. Welts up and down her legs, ass and lower back. "Well," he sneered, "you certainly look well ridden recently." He released her, taking a step back to begin removing his his jacket and cravat.

The whore held back a sob, bending down to pick up her bodice, tapping into whatever dregs of modesty that remained. "Look, monsieur," she began with jagged breath, "I don't care who you are, but even whores have some sort of self…"

"Worth? Respect?" his voice grew higher pitched. "Look, girl, I'll play your game, if only because I want a taste of what you have to offer, but I know you are not a whore by trade."

"Who are you to say that?" she bellowed, a fierce light flaming behind her deep blue eyes.

He didn't answer, a smile toying over the thin part of his lips. "Thibault is an interesting name for a pimp," he mused, patting the bed beside him. "I've only known one other man by that name, extremely bourgeoisie in my experience."

"He's new," she defended. "Only met him three days ago."

"Oh," he hissed, a hit of a whisper in his voice, "I bet you did." He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down beside him, angered by her distance. "You keep asking me, who I am, but I think you know that answer already…"

She held her breath.

"...Comptesse…"

The anger in her scowl, the fire in her eyes was validation enough; his whisper sharpened its knife, suggesting unspeakable things even to him. "Finally," he crowed, "I can finish what I started with your husband." He watched as she clutched to that tattered corset all the more, trying to hide her body from his burning gaze. He loved it. Her fingers danced over it in desperation as he moved the smallest fraction closer. "You can finally join him in depravity, though it seems as though you already have, Céceile. That man at the door, I'll bet he knows your… well our… history," he chuckled.

"So what if he does," she defied, a strength returning to her voice. Yes, this was the scorned wife, the strong victim he remembered Thibault complaining about. "You've spent your life making others afraid," she sneered, "perhaps it's time you shared in your victims' sentiments."

"Why you little…"

"Ah, ah, ah," she tsked him. He felt the sharp point of a knife in a most delicate place. He looked down at his lap, stopping at the gleaming point of a blade pressing through his pants into his manhood. "One more move and you won't be able to fuck again," she laughed, "though I would certainly be serving justice if I were to move my wrist just a little closer…"

Heavy footfalls came closer from across the room. "No need for that Officer Rénauld," Javert boasted, allowing the shackles in his hands to jingle. His pistol clicking as he aimed barrel to stare down at Tournot; only his beady eyes moved, following Cécelie as she removed the offending blade to stand beside the police inspector. Though he externally looked the part of a pimp, his bearing, authority and anger could only be contained in one person.

"We meet at last, Inspector Javert," Tournot crooned. "Pity it was not sooner," he sneered, "or the streets of Paris would have been a much safer place."

Javert scowled, handing Cécelie the shackles to bind his hands and feet. He trained the pistol even closer, pressing its cold metal against Tournot's forehead. "Needless to say, Jacques Tournot, you are under arrest."

"You are going to use the evidence of a woman who wants to kill me?" he hissed. "Even I know judges who can be convinced of innocence with that.

"I have my own testimony to use,"Javert's voice trilled with pride. "You see, the traps of Inspector Javert are never slipshot. I've been planning this for some time," he crowed, grinning more and more after each click of iron around his prisoner's wrists and ankles. "You see after accosting you at the door, I entered the room through a recently constructed passage, taking my place behind my strategically placed curtains." He gestured for a moment to the wall. "Oh, and no need to attempt to warn your gang," Javert continued, "They have been in my care since they entered the building."

Tournot's eyes gleamed with suppressed violence. "It would seem you've thought of everything, Inspector." He bowed his head. "My congratulations," his sneer crept across his face. "Even though you now have to share your glory with a woman."

Javert did not remove his glare from Tournot for a second. "Officer Rénauld," he ordered, "go and make yourself presentable again. One room to the right. Send Tanville in to transfer the prisoner."

Cécelie saluted with a glowing grin to Tournot. "See you at the guillotine, bastard," she gloated before spinning on her heel and walking through the door. "A pity I did not get to you sooner."

Waiting for the door to click shut, Javert adjusted the pistol to rest just behind Tournot's ear. "Make no mistake," he hissed, "this plan, this execution is all mine. Justice always wins in the end, and you criminals always get what you deserve."

Tournot tutted at the Inspector. "Poor Javert, holding so hard and fast to his morals." His wide eyes gleamed with a brooding darkness. "No wonder you've fallen for the Comptesse. So wild and free and victimized. She is everything you are not and everything you cannot be." His grin twisted with lewdness. "I can only imagine that perhaps those bruises and welts and bites that ravaged her noble flesh are from you, Inspector."

"Quiet," Javert hissed.

But Tournot laughed in his face, feeling the slightest shake of the barrel against his brain. "Too bad the ironclad Inspector has become a prisoner to love after all." He sneered, "Tell me, what is it like to realize you are no better than the next mortal?"

Javert's hand flew to grip Tournot's gullet, squeezing to shut him up.

The door's handle released, and Tanville strode in. "Inspector!" he yelled, hurrying to relieve Javert of his weapon, forcing him to let go of Tournot with what was considerable effort on his part. He leaned in to whisper to his superior. "Careful Inspector. I'll take it from here. Those were my orders from you after all."

Javert nodded, his nostrils flaring with each breath. Without so much as another word he grit his teeth, spun on his heel and left the room.