Rougemont woke up feeling not too worse for wear, as such things go, but none the less half an hour later than usual. He pulled on his britches and an old brown coat, yelled goodbye to his mother (his aunt having long since left for the Conciergerie), stuffed his hat on his head and began automatically to walk in the direction of the Rue Pontoise.
Mentally reviewing the events of the night before he smiled at the students' incredulous reaction to the newspaper article (Vavasseur had had a fine time feeding that one to the journalist over several bottles of wine). His bet with Grantaire was, perhaps, not entirely sensible, but on the whole last night had been good. Last night had been a success. Last night had been . . . And with two street of the Rue Pontoise Rougemont stopped dead and smacked his palm against his forehead. Last night had been . . . not allowed! Now he remembered – the letter, Javert's orders, Vito Montenotte. He raced home, changed into his respectable blue coat, re-read the letter to check the address and sprinted off to the Rue de Rivoli as fast as total lack of physical fitness would allow him.
He arrived, hot and panting, and presented himself to the porter who dismissed him with a look that rendered words unnecessary. Annoyed, but admitting that he did not look like the most promising candidate for entry into a Count's drawing room, he presented the man with his police card.
"You were meant to come yesterday." The porter said with less warmth than a glacier; "Still, the Count may have time to see you now. Wait there."
Crossing his fingers and saying a silent prayer, Rougemont waited for the porter to return. Eventually, he did so, accompanied by a liveried manservant.
"Go with Bernadot – he'll show you upstairs."
Bernadot made a head gesture to indicate that Joseph was to follow him, and strode off. Just inside the entrance to the Count's apartments he said tersely: "Wait here" and abandoned Rougemont in the vestibule to stare at his feet and examine the pattered on the aubasson rug. He could hear Bernadot whispering in a tone that was both discreet and unimpressed. This was followed by a voluble burst of Italian from someone Rougemont took to be the Count.
"Si. Si, Si! Mostrilo dentro, idiota! In Italia non lasciarno nostri ospitis che si levane in piedi fuori sulla via!"
"Ma he's nel corridoio, signore." Replied Brnadot's sulky voice.
Rougemont heard what he thought was the sound of a cane being smacked into someone's shins.
"Fuori con di voi e mostrilo dentro! Rapidamente!"
The vestibule door opened. "Come through," said a very resentful looking Bernadot. Rougemont stepped into the salon, slightly overawed by the décor (ostentatious, Rococo) and came face to face with the Count. He was in his middle thirties, a head shorter than Rougemont and had the aspect of a bon viveur. He was extremely well dressed, but with a slight effeminacy that whispered to Rougemont (after two years with the morals brigade) 'third sex'. Although, perhaps, he was overreacting to the sight of someone who was clean, well groomed and fashionably dressed – having Courfeyrac as your model of sartorial perfection could do strange things to a man.
The Count addressed him in a noisily jovial and heavily accented voice.
"Come een, come een! Bienvenuto Sergeant. . .?"
"Rougemont, Monsieur le Comte."
"Rougemont? Monterossi! Splendid!" cried the little man, clapping his hands in delight. "A fine pair we are in this . . . enterprise. You should have come yesterday, no?"
Rougemont lowered his gaze.
"Ah, no matter. I had unexpected guests – see how the Signore works things out for the best."
"I have a letter for you Monsieur le Comte," said Rougemont, fishing in his pocket for the thing, "It's from Monsieur Gisquet."
Montenotte took the letter (a very thick one) and began to read it, chuckling to himself.
"Gisquet indeed! Heh heh! Most of this should really go to Signore Jospin."
Montenotte strode over to the piano stool, fanning out the skirts of his coat as he say and perused the rest of the letter through his lorgnettes.
"Seet down while I finish this, Monterossi."
Greatly surprised at this mark of condescension Rougemont backed into the nearest chair, knocking over a small lacquered card table in the process. Count Montenotte looked up, chuckled again and set the table back on its feet
"Well, I can see that Javert has taught you nothing at all! 'E normally does better weeth 'ees pupils."
Just then there came the sound of a very strident female voice from the vestibule in counterpoint with the protests of the unfortunate Bernadot.
"I don't care when I'm expected! I'm here now and I will be seen now! You insolent lump – do you think I'm some rag picker from Saint-Sulpice to be kept waiting?"
"But he has company, Mademoiselle."
"Well, bollocks to that! Company my foot! I'm not being kept here for some pretty little rent boy. Out of my way, Bernadot!"
The Count went slightly white.
"Signorina Olympia! She does not care to wait or to meet weeth 'er public. You, up!"
The Count grabbed Rougemont by the back of his coat and dragged him behind one of the ornately draped curtains.
"Now, stay 'ere until I tell you, Monterossi. An' don't make a sound unless you want to be able to sing like castrati! Capische?"
At that moment Olympia swept into the room (Bernadot remained outside it, groaning slightly).
"Mornin' Vito! Have you got my score for me?"'
"As yet, Signorina – "
"You haven't, have you? If you haven't got it then how am I meant to learn it? Rehearsals start in less than a week y'know."
"As yet, Signorina, I have what of the score is written."
"You haven't finishes it yet? But what am I saying? Of course you haven't finished it yet. Well, give me what you have then and 'on with the vaudeville!', as Nana would say."
Confused, Rougemont frowned slightly. 'On with the vaudeville' was also one of Javert's favourite expressions.
"Ah si, Nana – she left this for you."
Through a crack in the curtains Rougemont saw the Count hand the courtesan a piece of paper from the top of the piano. She read it, biting her lower lip in concentration.
"Does Gauthier know about this stuff?"
"I theenk Signore Javert will speak to 'im. Eet says there that Javert wants to speak weeth you too."
"Urgh no! I don't want to speak to him – vile, ridiculous man! I've had enough of him to last me a lifetime. Can't he send that very handsome boy instead? What was his name?"
"Auguste"
"Yes – trust you to remember! One at least wants something to look at when being bored to death. Still, these things must be endured – for Nana and against the wretched subversives. What is it these boys believe in? Robespierre? Bounaparte?"
Rougemont noted that Olympia, like his mother and Javert, pronounced the Napoleon's name contemptuously with a 'u'. Clearly Olympia, like many courtesans, was a monarchist.
"The young shouldn't believe in things." Declared the courtesan airily, "They should be wasting their youth on wine and festivities! They should have more important things to think about – like me! Plenty of time for ideas when they grow old and ugly! Oh. By the way, you've made the usual dedication on the piece?"
"To La Comtesse de Chagny, as ever."
In the end Olympia stayed for three hours – Vito taught her her first aria – and Rougemont nearly fainted with cramp. He endeavoured to keep himself sane and conscious three ways. Worrying how he would break the news to Javert that the opera was, as yet, unfinished, thinking of teasing Pontellier with the courtesan's comment about 'the handsome boy' and, principally, worrying how he would get proof of knowing Olympia now he knew how terrifying she could be.
Translates as " Yes, yes yes! Show him in! In Italy we don't leave our guests standing out on the strret" "But he's in the hall, sir" "Off with you and show him in! Quickly!"