A/N: I don't own Les Misérables in any of its forms, but I wish I could take out an option on the musical.
Once again, apologies are in order for the delay in posting, I just hope that after the break, anyone who is still following this complex tale will remember/understand what is going on. The complexity is one reason for the delay: the story is reaching a stage where it's important that character x doesn't find out certain information before character y, and when I was making final checks on this chapter before posting, I realised that I had left a massive glitch in the timeline whereby crucial information was in the open for twenty-four hours without anyone spotting it! So I had to rewrite most of this chapter and parts of several future chapters as well. And here, at last, we are.
If anyone can forgive me for the hiatus, please review! And thank you yet again to Katie Duggan's Niece for your lovely review of Chapter 12.
Javert rounded up Merri, a junior Inspector, and six officers to act as backup, and briefly explained the situation to them. Their first task would be to find out whether Le P'tit Oiseau was still printed at the works in the Rue Meslay, and if it was, to question the printers about the publication and distribution of this sordid rag and how they received contributions from their editor.
Not surprisingly, the printer's premises on the Rue Meslay were shuttered and appeared closed, but Javert could hear the churning of a printing press within. He hammered at the door with his baton, and eventually a small, rheumy-eyed old man in a printer's cap opened the door a crack and peered around it.
"That you, Gensly? Oh - "
"Inspector Javert. Police." He displayed his card. "I must speak to the foreman."
"No." The man tried to close the door, but Javert shoved it with his shoulder and the man went sprawling. He stepped inside with his men at his heels and found himself confronting three other men. The press fell silent.
"Police. Which of you is the foreman?"
"I am, Monsieur." A tall, gangly, blond man stepped forward. "What is the reason for this intrusion?"
Javert produced his copy of Le P'tit Oiseau with a flourish. "Was this newspaper printed here?"
The foreman held his nerve. "No. That newspaper was printed here once, but not now."
Merri walked over to the press and picked up a newly printed sheet. "These are army gazettes, Inspector. Not newspapers."
"That's what we print, Monsieur," the foreman said calmly. "Gazettes, handbills, playbills. I can show you."
Merri looked disappointed, but Javert had already smelt a rat. "Then why did your man try to prevent our entry? I told him that we are police. Why would he seek to exclude us if you have nothing to fear?"
The foreman spared a contemptuous glance for the old man. "He scares easily, that's all. Look, Monsieur, we want no trouble with the police. We lost the contract for that paper over a month ago. You can look at all the stuff we print now."
At that moment, a boy rushed in through the open door. He clutched a bulky package.
"For you, Messieurs!"
One glance at the police uniforms and the lad turned to run, but Javert grabbed him and yanked the package from his hand while his officers held back the foreman and his fellows. Merri slammed the door and leaned against it to prevent anyone escaping, and Dallé, the nearest officer, seized the boy as he tried to make a break for it.
Slowly, awfully, Javert opened the package. He needed to look no further than the covering letter and the name at the foot of the page: Francois Hervé.
"Well?" He held the letter on high, and was pleased to see the foreman crumple.
"Don't know what that's doing here, Monsieur," the foreman muttered.
"In-deed?" Javert was at his most menacing. "Why should you receive copy from this - this purveyor of filth and lies, unless you are intending to print it?"
Silence.
Motioning to his men to keep hold of the printers and the boy, Javert took a leisurely glance around the room. It looked like a neat, orderly printing workshop, but instinct told him that something was not quite right.
Why was the room so shallow?
The side walls were plastered brick, but the back wall was formed of light timber panels. Perhaps a partition? He walked along beside it, tapping with his baton. Behind the press, which stood sideways along it, it sounded hollow, and his eye caught a vertical groove between two of the panels. He pushed, but nothing happened.
"There's nothing there, Monsieur," the foreman insisted, but there was desperation in his voice.
Javert took a knife from his pocket, inserted it between the grooves, and slid it upward. He felt a catch give way, and the panel swung inward.
He slid through the gap. Within was a smaller room with a second printing press, parallel to its fellow on the other side. If the visible press was kept working, it would mask the noise from the concealed press within. A connecting door on the far side of the room led to a yard behind, and was clearly the main point of egress. The concealed door which he had just found was fastened by a catch on the inside.
He swooped for the metal typeset printing block within the press and drew it forth. It was smeared with ink, but he wiped it clean using a cloth which hung from a peg on the wall. Emerging into the workshop, he needed no mirror to read the headline.
THE MURDERING BARONESS: A SECRET LOVER?
"Well?" He held the block under the foreman's nose. "A secret press in a concealed room. Set up to print this morning's edition of a newspaper for which you claim that you no longer have the contract. And you have just received today's copy."
The foreman paled. "I can explain, Monsieur - "
"Are you aware that by printing this scandal sheet, the owner of this establishment faces a charge of attempting to pervert the course of justice?"
The foreman gulped. "Don't know about that, Monsieur."
"You do now!" Javert snapped. "Where is the editor of this tissue of lies?"
"N-not here, Monsieur!"
"I can see that. So, where is he?"
"D-don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" Javert could cheerfully have shaken the man like a rat.
"We get the handwritten copy and instructions for page layouts every day by messenger!" the foremen gabbled. "Like the stuff you've got there! You can see, there's no address! None of us knows where he is!"
"We know that this is one of six print works owned by Henri Colbout, whose office is in the Rue Chantereine. Is he here?"
"No, Monsieur! He owns it but doesn't come here, he leaves everything to me..."
"So does he know what you are printing?"
"No! Yes!"
"No matter," Javert said grimly. "I will question him and learn the truth. So will he, if you are printing this material without his knowledge."
The foreman's horrified face told him that he had hit the nail on the head.
"Oh, no, Monsieur, please don't tell him, he knows we do print runs for papers but not this one..."
Javert's lip curled. "Paid well to do so, no doubt."
"We've got to, Monsieur!" the foreman groaned. "That bastard Colbout's cut our wages. He's all over the news for his donations to charity, but it comes out of our pockets. I've a wife and two daughters. We all have to make enough to live."
"So?"
The foreman hung his head. "It was last summer, when our wages had just been cut. We got a letter one day, just dropped in here, from Monsieur Hervé, offering us the job of printing his paper if we kept it secret. We talked about it between us and agreed to do it. We left a letter at the Poste as his letter told us to, and he wrote back advancing us the money to set up the partition and hide our spare press in there. He sends us the copy every day, we don't know where it comes from. We deduct the cost of the ink and paper and our pay, and leave the profits for him at the Poste every week." He looked piteous. "We don't steal anything from Colbout. We keep accounts of the ink and paper we use and add it back to his profits. All we get out of it is the pay from Hervé."
"And the knowledge that in abetting the publication of this vileness, you assist him in ruining lives and perverting the course of justice," Javert said grimly. "How is this seditious rag distributed after you print it?"
The foreman sagged. "The newsboys come in and buy what they're going to sell."
"Does anyone else come to this establishment in connection with this obscenity?"
"No, Monsieur, nobody. We just get the copy and the money, I swear."
"That's true, Monsieur," one of the other printers chimed in. Javert froze him with a glare and turned to the boy. "You. I have some questions for you."
"Don't know nothing!" the boy spat.
"Oh, but I think you do. You know who gave you this package to bring here, and you will tell me."
"Don't, Monsieur! I brought it here from the Café Nogent in the Rue de Surenne! Don't know how it got there!"
"Good. Then you will take us there." Javert turned to his officers. "Jacob. Dupont. Lassalle. Take these four men back to the Préfecture and keep them there until I return."
"Yes, Monsieur Inspector," Dupont said promptly. "Should we lock up the works and set a guard on the door?"
"Merri and Samuel will see to that. Take them. Merri, get the keys."
Merri held his hand out to the foreman, who reached into his pocket and bitterly handed the keys over, and the officers hauled the printers out. Except for the old man, who was plainly terrified, they had the sense to realise that fighting back would only make things worse for them.
Javert watched them go without compunction. There was no question that the printers were culpable. They had typeset and printed Hervé's copy, and they knew its nature. He had sufficient evidence to keep them while he investigated further, and he wanted to ensure that they had no opportunity to warn Hervé. While the standard practice in such cases would be to keep a premises containing evidence locked and under guard, he had another quarry in his sights. If the foreman was lying, and anyone connected with Le P'tit Oiseau did visit the works, the sight of a policeman on the door would warn them off at once.
He jerked his head to Merri and the other three officers, and they walked out of the print works. Signing to two of the officers to wait, he nodded to Merri and the other officer, Samuel, to walk a few paces ahead with him until they were out of earshot of the boy, whom Dallé was still holding with a grip of iron.
"Lock the door, disguise yourselves as printers, return here and wait inside the building. Some clients may call for legitimate orders, such as the gazettes. If they do, explain that the establishment is closed for the afternoon due to a mechanical fault and say that you are temporary staff whose only task is to distribute goods printed before the fault occurred. If anyone comes without a good reason, or is so foolhardy as to inquire after Le P'tit Oiseau, follow them."
"Yes, Monsieur," Merri said meekly.
With the sullen boy as their prisoner, Javert, Dallé and Joseph, the other remaining officer, marched across Paris to the Rue de Surenne, close to the mighty church of La Madeleine. The café was small and clean, and the proprietor did not look unduly worried when Javert and his men walked through the door. A couple of men at a table looked up and then went back to their card game.
"Good day, Messieurs. What can I do for you? Back already, Jacques?"
"Inspector Javert, Paris police." He pointed his baton to the boy. "Did he collect a package from you this morning?"
"Yes, Monsieur, just as someone does every morning."
"This package?" Javert produced it.
"That's the one."
"Who sent it?"
"Ah, that I don't know, Monsieur."
"I said, who sent it?"
For the first time, the proprietor looked afraid. "I tell you, I don't know, Monsieur! If I did, I'd tell you! I don't want trouble with the police! A messenger comes in every morning and leaves it with me with ten francs, five for me and five for the messenger. I'm to hire a different person each day to take it on to its destination. Jacques took it today. He's my kitchen boy."
"Do you know this messenger?"
"That I don't, Monsieur. It's a different man every day. Must be hired by the sender."
One of the men at the table spoke up. "That's right, Monsieur. I work here. There's a different man every day. Sometimes it's a boy, no older than Jacques there."
"At what time of day does the messenger come?" Javert demanded.
"Around ten o'clock, most days. Sometimes a bit later."
"We will be here at that time tomorrow. If you communicate with the sender in any way, you will be arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice."
"WHAT?" The proprietor was clearly terrified. "But Monsieur, I tell you, I can't, I don't know who sends it - "
"Good afternoon." Javert swept out of the café with his men behind him.
Dallé still had the struggling boy by the scruff of his grubby jacket. "Er, Monsieur Inspector, what do we do with this one?"
Javert glared down at the boy from his immense height. "Do you want to work for the police or be arrested?"
"Neither, Monsieur," the boy snarled. How like Gavroche, Javert thought sadly.
"Nonetheless. You will be on the look-out for the messenger who delivered the package to the café this morning. If you see him, you will follow him, find out where he lives and works, and bring the information to me, Inspector Javert, at the Préfecture. After tomorrow, the route of delivery will probably change. However, if any further such packages do arrive at this café, you will bring them to me. Do either and you will receive five francs. Do you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Clear out." The boy vanished as though he had never been.
Javert jerked his head at his expectant officers. "Rue Chantereine."
Henri Colbout's office and largest printing works shared the same site. A foreman, rather more authoritative than the one in the Rue Meslay, ushered Javert into Colbout's office while the other two officers waited outside.
"Good afternoon." Colbout rose from his desk and offered his hand to shake. Javert declined. "Please take a seat. How may I help you, Monsieur?"
"I am Inspector Javert. You are Henri Colbout, proprietor of this company?"
"I am, Monsieur." Colbout was plainly surprised by Javert's hostile attitude.
"And of the Colbout print works in the Rue Meslay?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is the smallest of the six sites in Paris owned by this company."
"What does it print?"
Colbout looked more mystified than ever. "Playbills for the theatres in the Boulevard Saint-Martin and the Boulevard du Temple, handbills and advertising material for local tradesmen, army gazettes. On occasion it prints newspapers when my other print works are busy. Why do you ask, Monsieur?"
"Which newspapers?"
"The weekly illustrated publications, Paris-Semaine and Paris-Illustré."
"Are you aware that it is also printing this?" Javert cast his copy of Le P'tit Oiseau onto Colbout's desk like a knight throwing down a gage. "Or that the contents of this paper attempt to pervert the course of justice?"
Colbout picked it up, scanned the front page, and almost dropped it in his horror and disgust. "No! I run a business of repute! I would never permit any printer in my company to produce such material!"
"So you say," Javert said coldly. "Most editions of this scandal sheet do not give a printer's address. However, there is on file at the Préfecture a copy, slightly over two months old, which states the printer's address to be 24, Rue Meslay. This illegal practice has therefore been going on at the premises for at least that length of time. When my officers and I visited there this morning, we found behind a partition a concealed press set up to print the front page of today's edition, and while we were there a messenger arrived with the editor's copy for tomorrow. What have you to say for yourself?"
Colbout was almost in tears. "Monsieur, you must believe me, I did not know! I will shut down this vile trade at once and dismiss all the workers on the site. I will hire new workers and I will ensure that they never traffic in such disgusting material again! My company's good reputation is its life blood. Never before has so much as a hint of scandal ever come to our doors. If this becomes public, I am finished. All my workers look to me. If I am arrested, what will become of them?"
Did Javert remember how his arrest of Jean Valjean had caused the jet bead industry in Montreuil-sur-Mer to collapse? How hundreds of workers had been driven to poverty by his single-minded pursuit of justice? How many hopeless Fantines had his action created then?
But was Colbout entirely free of culpability? The foreman at the Rue Meslay had accused the man of deducting his charitable donations from his workers' wages. Unfair though that was, unfortunately there was nothing in the law to stop him doing it. But might the donations be a front to enable him to launder and embezzle the money taken from his employees? Javert decided that an examination of Colbout's accounts would be worthwhile.
But not right now. If he panics and runs, it could frighten Hervé, and then we might never find him. Colbout will keep, so long as he doesn't think that I suspect him. With that thought in mind, he decided against asking Colbout to accompany him to the Préfecture.
"I will take your sworn statement," he said with ominous quietness. "You will make yourself available to appear at the Préfecture whenever required to provide further information. You will monitor all your print works to ensure that none of them produce illegal material again."
"I will, Monsieur," Colbout groaned. "I swear it."
"When do you intend to reopen the works in the Rue Meslay?"
"Tomorrow. I must, to avoid losing orders and goodwill. Much of the work undertaken there is time specific, daily requirements for playbills and gazettes. I will transfer trustworthy staff from my other establishments."
"Good. Two of my men will join them, under cover as print workers, and will watch for anyone who enquires after this seditious rag." Javert gestured disdainfully to the copy of Le P'tit Oiseau on Colbout's desk. "Your staff will afford them every assistance."
"Willingly, Monsieur."
Having taken Colbout's statement, Javert returned with Dallé and Joseph to the Préfecture, where the four printers from the Rue Meslay were being held pending their interviews. The wait for Javert to return had told on their nerves, and all four were practically falling over themselves to divulge all the information they had. Sadly, nothing added substantially to the statement which the foreman had given that morning. It was clear that none of them knew anything about Hervé's identity or whereabouts.
Nonetheless, Javert decided that as a precaution, they should be detained in custody overnight. He had not ruled out the possibility that they had some undivulged means of alerting Hervé in the event of trouble. But if they did not, the flaw in Hervé's elaborate arrangements for delivering copy was that the man appeared to have no way of knowing that the works had been closed and the copy seized. If that were so, then the first he would know of it, would be when no paper appeared on the morrow. He would surely send someone to the print works to find out what had happened. And Javert's men would be waiting.
Returning to his office, Javert sat at his desk and considered how best to report on the day's failure. For a failure it had been. He had succeeded in preventing the paper from being published until Hervé could find a new printer, but he was as far as ever from tracing the fellow.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had not yet looked at the editorial copy that he had intercepted at the Rue Meslay. Hervé would never be so incautious as to include his address, but there might be some scrap of information that could aid the search.
He took the sheets from the package and examined them. The covering letter, with Hervé's name, was an impersonal note to the printers detailing the number of copies to be produced and the financial terms for the day's work. It was written in a neat script, without even a signature to aid identification. A bundle of handwritten sheets was wrapped inside a larger sheet which gave indications of page layouts. He removed it, and the intended headline for the following day's edition swam before his eyes.
IDENTITY OF THE POISON BARONESS'S LOVER?
Since the publication of yesterday's edition, it has come to the notice of your Editor that the Baroness Pontmercy, who remains in the Conciergerie awaiting charges for the murder of her late husband and son, has in recent months been in receipt of prolonged and affectionate attentions from the late Baron's close friend Monsieur Léon Enjolras, the noted former revolutionary who distinguished himself on the barricades in 1832. He is estranged from his noble family and is at present working as assistant to the Baroness's defence lawyer, Monsieur Emile Laincourt. It is not yet known to your Editor whether the Baroness was providing this dashing young gentleman with financial support prior to her arrest, or whether the late Baron was aware of his wife's intimacy with his friend...
Javert felt sick. Once again a red mist descended, and he had to sit still for several minutes, breathing deeply, before he could calm himself enough to start thinking clearly.
He thanked God that he had been able to prevent the publication of these latest allegations, which could have done irreversible damage to Cosette's reputation, and could have compromised Enjolras to the extent that he would have been unable to continue to work on her legal team. Which must have been Hervé's intention.
There could no longer be any doubt that Théodule was behind Hervé's allegations. Only the previous day, he had threatened Enjolras with the release of further unsavoury details that could damage his reputation, and he had made good on his threat. Javert had half a mind to head straight to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, confront Théodule, and demand Hervé's true identity and location, but he stopped himself. To do so would betray his knowledge of Théodule's threats to Enjolras, which he could only know from Enjolras himself. That in turn would betray to Théodule that he was in contact with Cosette's lawyers. Théodule could retaliate by passing that knowledge to Devolle, who would seize upon it as an opportunity to discredit him, and then his own reputation, and with it his ability to help Cosette, would be at risk.
He would make a written report to Delessert on what he had achieved, and failed to achieve, that day. He would watch for the messenger at the Café Nogent on the morrow in the hope of tracing the copy back to Hervé. And he would discuss his findings with the Amis, although he would have to tread carefully. If Enjolras were to learn about Hervé's insinuations, he would be furious, and Éponine would be terribly upset.
In the meantime, he checked the register of businesses again and made a list of all the printing companies operating within Paris, apart from those owned by Colbout. He had not discounted the possibility that Hervé might have another printer ready to swing into action if the premises in the Rue Meslay was raided. If Le P'tit Oiseau resumed publication, he would have to check the lot.
While he was writing his report, Merri and Samuel returned from the print works.
"Did you have any visitors?" he demanded of them.
"One each from the Théâtre Saint-Martin, the Théâtre de la Gaité and the Théâtre Lyrique, all for playbills for tonight's performances," Merri reported. "They'd been printed before we raided the place, so we handed them over. One man from the barracks in the Rue Plumet wanting army gazettes, the printers had done about half the order when we arrested them. He took what had been done and will return for the rest tomorrow. One tailor's apprentice from Grétry, 85 Rue Saint-Martin, one bookseller from 10 Rue des Vertus, and one fan maker, Barbier, 11 Rue Meslay, all wanting handbills, they haven't been printed. They'll come back. And forty-seven newsboys wanting Le P'tit Oiseau," he added drily. "They seemed disappointed. It must have a good sale. We couldn't follow them all, so we took their names and addresses and promised to let them know when the paper is up and running again."
"Hopefully never," Javert said grimly. "But no need to tell that to anyone yet. Not until we have Hervé in the net. Well done. Merri, write up your report. Samuel, take the keys to Colbout in the Rue Chantereine. He has undertaken to reopen the works with new staff. You will both join the workers there tomorrow and keep watch in case Hervé sends a messenger."
Merri and Samuel saluted and withdrew, leaving Javert to finish writing his report and submit it on file to Delessert, after which he repaired to the Taverne Athenée for his nightly meeting with Rouet, who arrived looking very disgruntled.
"Good evening, Inspector. I fear there is little new to report today. Inspector Devolle has been writing his report on the case, and has kept me busy collating the statements and other case papers."
"Writing his report?" Javert said sharply. "He has reached his conclusions already?"
Rouet looked very unhappy. "As I told you two days ago, he regards this as an open and shut case and dismisses any evidence that does not suit his theory. I had been hoping that while he was working on the report today, I would have some time to carry out my own investigations, as we had discussed yesterday, but Inspector Devolle insisted upon using me as his secretary. However, I have learned today why no date has been fixed for the inquest. Because poisoning has been alleged, the coroner ordered an autopsy, which has been undertaken, but now the police surgeon who carried it out is unwell. His completed report awaits his return to health, and until it is to hand, the coroner will not announce a date for the inquest. I have also learned that the Baron's funeral has taken place."
"What, already?"
"Yes, as soon as the autopsy was completed, Théodule Gillenormand claimed his cousin's body and had him interred right away, in the family plot in Père Lachaise. Inspector Devolle authorised the release of the body to spare Gillenormand's feelings. Before you ask, yes, I find the extreme haste to inter the Baron suspicious. As though Gillenormand was anxious that nobody should be given the chance to re-examine the body if the inquest throws up any questions."
"If that happens, the coroner can order an exhumation," Javert said dully. He dared not imagine what additional grief this news would cause Cosette. It was bad enough that she had had to flee Marius's deathbed, but to learn that she had not been able to attend him to the grave would devastate her. And if an exhumation was called for, she would be shattered. Everything's being done to hurt her as much as possible.
"However," Rouet was saying, "I am therefore hoping that the delay in holding the inquest will ensure that even after Inspector Devolle has finished his report, there will be time for me to investigate before he files it and moves for the Baroness to be charged. "
"Thank you. That is useful to know."
And the longer the inquest is delayed, the longer we have to prove Cosette's innocence. Please God.
"I will also make efforts to pursue my own investigations," Rouet continued. "My shift is only just over, and at this time of night I have no pretext for entering the house. However, after I leave here I will try to seek an interview with the Baroness at the Conciergerie. My fear is that, having seen me with Inspector Devolle, she may be too afraid to speak to me, but I will try." He hesitated. "Inspector, you have told me that you owe your life to her late father. Does that mean that she knows of you?"
"She does." An unbidden memory of those long-ago moonlit evenings with her at the garden gate in the Rue Plumet caught at his heart. He struggled to concentrate.
"In that case, would you object if I were to tell her that I am acquainted with you? It may assist me in winning her confidence."
"By all means."
"Thank you, Inspector. In that case, I will set out there at once. I will see you tomorrow evening, unless I need to communicate any developments on the case to you in the meantime."
"Good evening, Inspector. Until tomorrow."
Rouet departed, leaving Javert troubled. He knew that Cosette would not betray the extent of their former relationship, but if Rouet were to guess anything, how might that affect his willingness to continue to work with him? But if Rouet's findings were to have any validity, it was essential that they should include her account of the events leading up to Marius's death. And, as she had seen Rouet with Devolle, it was unlikely that she would trust him unless she knew that he was also working with Javert.
-oO0Oo-
Cosette was saying her evening prayers before retiring for the night when the key grated in the lock of her cell door and the jailor bellowed that she had a visitor. She sprang to her feet, hoping it might be Enjolras. To her disappointment, it was a young police officer. Instinctively, she backed away.
"Madame." The young man bowed, almost shyly. "I am Inspector Rouet. It was my unhappy duty to be in attendance when you were interviewed here yesterday evening."
She began to tremble. "Yes. I remember you."
"Madame, I am deeply concerned over my superior officer's actions on that occasion. I am here without his knowledge because I believe that to ensure a fair investigation of your late husband's death, it is essential to have your account of events. I must ask you to trust me."
"Then - then you are not here to take me away?" Her eyes were huge with fear. Remembering how Devolle had threatened and intimidated her in his presence, Rouet could not blame her.
"No, Madame, I assure you, I am here only to ask you to give me your statement. If it enables you to trust me, I am at liberty to tell you that I have discussed your case with a colleague who has advised me to speak to you, and with whom I believe you are acquainted. Inspector Javert."
"Oh, yes!" Her eyes lit up with joy. "Yes, I know him. He is a good man. Did he send you?"
Rouet knew that he should not jump to conclusions, but he found it hard to believe that any criminal would describe his hard-bitten colleague in such terms. He was slightly surprised by the warmth of her reaction to Javert's name, but he reasoned to himself that as her father had once saved Javert's life, it was likely that the two men had been friends of long standing.
"No, Madame, he did not send me, because he is not involved in this investigation, but he and I have spoken about it."
He saw some of her tension lessen, although she remained wary.
"If you know him, then, yes, Monsieur, I will trust you." She silently prayed that he was not lying. "What do you wish to ask me?" Already her mind was going over the account she had given to Enjolras and Éponine, and later to the Amis.
Rouet produced a notepad and pencil, and crouched beside her only candle. "You begin, Madame."
TBC
