Author's Note: Just a quickie, before I have to relinquish the computer.
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It didn't hurt. At least he hadn't lied about that.
Javert must've felt her sigh, because his fingers momentarily stopped tapping out their queer march on her back.
"Be patient. I'm almost done," he said, then moved his right hand a couple of inches lower and started up tapping with his left hand again.
The low, hoarse murmur resounded through Fantine in shallow waves and settled warmly in her stomach, like honeyed pipe-smoke from the officers' cafe. A mesmerist would pay a fortune for a voice like that, mused Fantine as hard two-finger taps continued to echo inside her frail chest. He could put people to sleep better than opium. My God, but that bed is looking good... whether or not the crazy bugger is planning to share it.
Then again, she thought bitterly, when was the last time any of them stayed for the night after playing? Where's the pleasure in cuddling up with a bag of bones that occasionally tries to cough up a lung on you?
The warm hands were gone from her skin. "Now put your arms down and turn around to face me again."
Her back tingling and itching, Fantine complied.
Without his huge overcoat on, Javert looked like an entirely different person. The air of authority vanished along with the illusion of bulk; all that was now left of "Inspector Javert" was a very tall, swarthy, reedy fellow, with a long queue of prematurely greying hair and mobile eyes that grasped and released as firmly and abruptly as a pair of pincers. The rolled up sleeves of his crisply starched undershirt glowed a pretty orange in the stove-light. Long, thin arms folded on his chest, Javert scrutinized Fantine's body with the vexed look of a sculptor disappointed in his new model.
"What's the matter, Chief, you don't like them?" Fantine said acridly. It was probably unwise to take such a tone with the man who was at the moment in full control of her life, but she was too tired and too angry to care.
"Not at all, to be frank," said Javert dryly. His deep, rumbling voice was the only thing that reminded Fantine of the man who arrested her just a short hour ago.
"Then perhaps you should have arrested some other whore, one more pleasing to the eye," retorted Fantine.
Javert opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, exhaling a dejected sigh instead of words.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, after a quiet moment, picked up his coat from the chair, and threw it on over his shoulders, without bothering with the sleeves. "Don't get dressed yet."
"Whatever you say, Chief," said Fantine bitterly, sitting down onto the bed heavily.
"And don't call me 'Chief!'" said Javert, pushing the door open with an irate kick and stepping out to fiddle with the outside bolt. "Every time I arrest someone, it's 'Chief' this, 'Chief' that... What am I, Ali Baba? When I find out the author of this sobriquet, I'll show him where..."
He had left the door only half-shut; his voice and the sound of his steps echoed farther and farther down the stone hallway, until his words became an indiscernible murmur, drowned by the rhythmic clicking of his boots. Fantine sat up on the bed all the way, hugged her knees to her chest, and let her burning forehead rest on her arms.
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It didn't hurt. At least he hadn't lied about that.
Javert must've felt her sigh, because his fingers momentarily stopped tapping out their queer march on her back.
"Be patient. I'm almost done," he said, then moved his right hand a couple of inches lower and started up tapping with his left hand again.
The low, hoarse murmur resounded through Fantine in shallow waves and settled warmly in her stomach, like honeyed pipe-smoke from the officers' cafe. A mesmerist would pay a fortune for a voice like that, mused Fantine as hard two-finger taps continued to echo inside her frail chest. He could put people to sleep better than opium. My God, but that bed is looking good... whether or not the crazy bugger is planning to share it.
Then again, she thought bitterly, when was the last time any of them stayed for the night after playing? Where's the pleasure in cuddling up with a bag of bones that occasionally tries to cough up a lung on you?
The warm hands were gone from her skin. "Now put your arms down and turn around to face me again."
Her back tingling and itching, Fantine complied.
Without his huge overcoat on, Javert looked like an entirely different person. The air of authority vanished along with the illusion of bulk; all that was now left of "Inspector Javert" was a very tall, swarthy, reedy fellow, with a long queue of prematurely greying hair and mobile eyes that grasped and released as firmly and abruptly as a pair of pincers. The rolled up sleeves of his crisply starched undershirt glowed a pretty orange in the stove-light. Long, thin arms folded on his chest, Javert scrutinized Fantine's body with the vexed look of a sculptor disappointed in his new model.
"What's the matter, Chief, you don't like them?" Fantine said acridly. It was probably unwise to take such a tone with the man who was at the moment in full control of her life, but she was too tired and too angry to care.
"Not at all, to be frank," said Javert dryly. His deep, rumbling voice was the only thing that reminded Fantine of the man who arrested her just a short hour ago.
"Then perhaps you should have arrested some other whore, one more pleasing to the eye," retorted Fantine.
Javert opened his mouth to say something but then shut it again, exhaling a dejected sigh instead of words.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, after a quiet moment, picked up his coat from the chair, and threw it on over his shoulders, without bothering with the sleeves. "Don't get dressed yet."
"Whatever you say, Chief," said Fantine bitterly, sitting down onto the bed heavily.
"And don't call me 'Chief!'" said Javert, pushing the door open with an irate kick and stepping out to fiddle with the outside bolt. "Every time I arrest someone, it's 'Chief' this, 'Chief' that... What am I, Ali Baba? When I find out the author of this sobriquet, I'll show him where..."
He had left the door only half-shut; his voice and the sound of his steps echoed farther and farther down the stone hallway, until his words became an indiscernible murmur, drowned by the rhythmic clicking of his boots. Fantine sat up on the bed all the way, hugged her knees to her chest, and let her burning forehead rest on her arms.