A/N A) The song is by a French singer named Barbara (who I heartily recommend) and B)This story is part of a series of interrelated but possibly contradictory tales, something I really should have said at the beginning
Rougemont stood at the back of the stalls watching the lighting of the chandeliers. The crystal lustres had been polished and now two men with lamplighters' tapers were lighting the candles. H e inhaled deeply. There was a palpable tension in the air. A sharp, pungent aroma of expectancy and excitement. . and oranges. Rougemont had taken Bossuet's complaint seriously and consequently the theatre had been bustle with burly costermongers unloading crates of fruit throughout the afternoon.
"Alright, done here mate - bring 'er up now Jean!" yelled one of the lamplighters and the great central chandelier was winched back up to the ceiling, flashing like a ball of fireflies. Rougemont watched, rapt, until he felt a heavy hand lay on his shoulder.
Starting stupidly, he turned and saw Javert, who had appeared seemingly from no-where in that way he was so good at. Rougemont could never see how he managed it – the man had to be close to two metres tall and was a proper gaillard to boot.
Javert gave a canine grin and scratched under his eyebrow
"You doing anything, Rougemont?"
"Er, yes, Sir. I was just – "
"Well, carry on. As I said, I'm glad we found a use to you."
Rougemont naturally assumed that the inspector was being sarcastic and looked at his feet.
"No, really lad – I mean it. The Prefect is very pleased with you. With all of us."
He smiled a thin-lipped, enigmatic smile, crossed his arms over his burly chest and strode off.
"Twenty minutes 'till open!" called a voice from somewhere back in the wings
"Places, places," chuckled Joseph to himself.
It would be fair to say that the audience was as glittering as the chandelier. The theatre was packed with students and their mistresses – young, vibrant, sparkling with vivacity and witticisms. The boxes were full of aristocrats and courtesans, the rich, sleek ornaments of the Monde and Demi-monde too important to be refused a ticket (for, of course, most had been reserved for the use of 'Politically active students'). Even the poor in the cheapest seats seemed to have made a special effort on this night.
Rougemont, Grantaire and Courfeyrac amused themselves by looking around at the chattering, excitable crowd, remarking on the blushing, giggling lorettes and elegant society women. Grantaire was tipsily expounding his new theory of women to his friends.
"Now, there are two types of women – and, by extension, two types of men, since each man goes for either one or the other – "
"Oh, only two types?" laughed Courfeyrac. "So much for nature's infinite variety. What are they then?"
"Well, you can be either a racehorse or a rare orchid man. You, Joseph, are one of the latter since Mlle Olympia is the perfect example of the rare orchid."
"Very accurate so far. What's Armand?"
Grantaire considered briefly; "Hhhmmm . . . you, my friend, are a classic racehorse man."
"So who's my ideal woman if Olympia's not?"
Grantaire scanned the audience and then pointed to a woman in the left hand box nearest the stage. "Her"
Rougemont looked up to examine Grantaire's paragon. The woman was standing with her hands on the ledge of the box, looking down into the orchestra pit. Stately, proud and above average height, Rougemont could not deny that she was a striking presence; she had 'gueule' in the vulgar parlance. But . . Beautiful? Rougemont would not have called her that. Yes, she had fine, pale skin, well shaped eyes and mouth, and hair of that pretty reddish-brown which, on a spaniel, is unflatteringly known as liver. But the face was sharp, quick and fox-like, the eyes glittered and pierced and the mouth was beginning to develop ironical lines of amusement. She was dressed severely in a gown of dark grey silk and wore no jewellery save a diamond at her breast and another fixed in her hair. Frankly, Rougemont couldn't see the attraction.
Courfeyrac, however, was grinning; "Yes, yes – you've got me there! For once one of your stupid theories is – not so stupid after all."
"Who is she?"
"You don't know, Joseph? That's the Countess Chagny."
"The one that the show – all Montenotte's shows – are dedicated to?"
"Yes."
"Can't see why. She looks terrifying – bet she's a witch!"
Grantaire laughed so hard at this remark that he spat out a mouthful of orange. A pretty grisette in the seat in front tuned and glared at him.
"Oooh, I think she like you!" mocked Rougemont. It was going to be a good evening, he reflected. Curtain up in two minutes and what could possibly go wrong? He looked around. Joly smiled, Bahorel waved, Jehan read his program oblivious. And there was no Enjolras. It suddenly hit him that an evening organised exclusively to monitor subversive student was missing the leader of one of the most active groups of subversives in Paris! It had all been going so well, too. Rougemont had been so pleased. Javert, Simonet and the Prefect had been so pleased with him. He should have know that it couldn't last, that things would go wrong, that it was a fundamentally stupid idea in the first place.
Joseph scarcely watched the play and remained in a gloomy mood when he assembled in the green room with the other agents in order to debrief. The rest of the men chattered amongst themselves, compared notes and cracked jokes
"Did you see.. ."
"I can die happy!"
"Incredible"
Finally Javert and Commissaire Simonet stepped into the centre of the room and looked around meaningfully. Gradually hush descended.
Both men must have said something, presumably about the evening. Rougemont was too miserable to concentrate. Them, because clearly the Fates felt he was not mortified enough, Javert gestured to him and said
"And I think congratulations are in order for young Rougemont here. For once I'm glad to have been proved wrong. Well done!"
Rougemont gave a blush of shame that his peers took for modesty and returned to studying his fingernails. He noticed, without particular interest, that a small party of waiters had been ushered into the room by a balding man with the physiognomy typical of Normandy.
"With the compliments of M Jospin and Mlle Olympia" said the Norman to Simonet as the waiters set down their platters.
"Well, well, well," said Javert with his mouth full, "it seems that virtue is rewarded in this life!"
A couple of the men snorted at this, but most were too busy eating.
Joseph closed his eyes in the hope that it might help him think better. He heard Jean-Marie laugh loudly, someone drop a glass and the swish of a silk skirt, decided that the clarity of his thought had not improved but that he could not be bothered to open his eyes, so stayed as he was. Then he heard a woman singing, accompanied lightly on the rather clapped out piano in the corner. He did not recognise the song (something in English) but he did recognise the voice. He remembered the first time he had heard it – he had gone to the theatre with his aunt Claudette when he was fourteen. And, although he had never been a fan, it was still one of the most distinctive voices in Paris.
He looked up, but instead of the piquant splendour of the courtesan Gloriana, he saw the woman in the grey dress, Grantaire's racehorse, La Comtesse de Chagny. It took a little while for Rougemont to put two and two together. He had know that Gloriana had left the stage to wed someone upper-crust, but he had been sure that the lucky man was the banker Chateauneuf.
Diverted from his brooding, he moved slightly closer. The Countess had been joined by Minot.
"Does Madame la Comtesse not have a piano at home?" Minot said in voice that showed he was nervous of his joke.
"There's no need to 'Countess' me, Chretien. Any requests?"
"I am sure that Madame does not remember my favourite."
"Indeed Madame does." She said, beginning to play. It was one of Montenotte's songs – a very successful one.
"Attendons que ma joie reviens
Et que se meurt le souvenir
De cet amour de tant de peine
Qui n'en finit pas de mourir.
Avant de me dire 'je t'aime'
Avant que je puisse te le dire
Attondons que ma joie reviens
Qu'un matin je puisse sourire."
Rougemont noticed the Inspector approach the piano. Although he came from behind, the Countess stopped playing and turned while he was still at least four paces away. Minot tipped his hat to the lady and left them, coming to stand by Rougemont.
Javert bowed deeply and respectfully.
"Madame la Comtesse."
"Monsieur L'Inspecteur" replied the Countess with a slight curtsy. For a moment she looked as if she was going to shake his hand, but instead she sat down and began to play again.
"Before you can say 'come' and 'go'
And breath twice, ad cry 'so, so'
Each on tripping on his toe
Will be here with mop and mow
Do you love me, master? – "
"No" interrupted Javert dryly
"Ah, well! How very tragic for me! All the same, I hope I find you well?"
"Very. And Madame la Comtesse? She is certainly no more sensible than when last we met."
"She is well – and grown used to charming men over the last two years, Inspector. Eugene sends his regards, by the way."
"How is Eugene?"
"He's – he's Eugene, as infuriating as ever! How's his successor?
"Coco-Lacour? He's as much of a rogue as ever."
"Well, I think you'll be seeing a bit less of him soon, and a bit more of Eugene. On that note, very well done!"
"On tonight?"
"Yes, but that wasn't what I meant. Commissaire Javert! I'm very, very pleased for you. Has a nice ring to it 'Commissaire Javert'. When does Simonet step down?"
"He's going to live with a nephew in Antibes, for the good of his health, in July. I take up the post in August."
"They get on well," Rougemont remarked to Minot in a surprised tone.
"Hhhmm, after a fashion. Try one of these," said the older man, gesturing to a half empty platter.
"What do you mean by that, Chretien?"
"Well, listen to them now."
"No it wasn't!" the Inspector could be heard saying in an exasperated voice.
"Yes, it was."
"I tell you it wasn't"
Clearly Nana and Javert, in the manner of long married couples or siblings, expressed their regard for each other by quarrelling.
"You're wrong, you know – Ah, Good Evening Auguste!"
They had been joined by Pontellier, who was looking at Javert in the manner that a possessive child looks at a parent audacious enough to make a fuss of a visiting cousin. The Countess, feeling the look and with the tact of an ambassador, laid her hand on Pontellier's arm and said;
"Come with me, Auguste. I've been wanting to talk with you all night.
They walked off and Rougemont, now eavesdropping shamelessly, followed them.
"Two years, Nana, and you're still every inch a courtesan!" Pontellier remarked in a tone that may or may not have been waspish.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"That diamond – a beauty patch if ever I saw one! I can hardly keep my eyes from looking down your dress!"
"Well if you can hardly help it then it must be working! How's your little gypsy?"
"Well."
"I'm very envious, you know."
"Of him?"
"Of you. How you managed to find the only man in Paris more beautiful than you is quite beyond me. Those eyes . . "
"And how is your husband, Madame?" said Pontellier with a laugh.
"Fine. Though I've had a ghastly night. Some people who own land next to out estate in the Midi were in town and, of course, Marc insisted on inviting them. Quite dull! I've been entertaining the son – insufferable pup but very handsome."
"You've not changed a bit!"
"That's what our dear Commissaire-in-waiting said earlier. Now, if you'll excuse me my dear, there's still one person I'd like to speak to before I go tonight."
Rougemont noticed with surprise the she was heading towards him, but assumed that she had come to speak to Minot again until he felt a grey gloved hand alight on his arm.
"Joseph Rougemont – am I right?"
He nodded. Close to, her resemblance to a fox was even more striking.
"I've heard a lot about you – most of it good. How long have you been working for the Dab?"
Rougemont looked a little taken aback and the woman continued; "What's up lad? You can tell Nana. Actually, on second thoughts, don't – let me guess! A young man named Enjolras – am I right?"
He nodded stupidly as if he had just seen her perform a rather impressive card trick.
"Well, I would worry about that if I were you. Look at his."
She handed him a programme. A blank back page was covered with notes headed 'Report on one Honore Enjolras"' in the same light and decisive hand as the two letters.
"I got you this too," she said, flicking to another page where it said, in hesitant script 'To dear Joseph, kisses, Olympie Satre'
Joseph grinned the grin of Grantaire in a wine cellar.
"Now," said Nana, closing his hand around the programme, "best not tell the Dab about this – he wouldn't like it if I were still 'in practise' so to speak. Thinks I'm respectable. Anyway, he'd probably confiscate it as evidence! Now run along with you, child!"
She smiled and, just for a moment, Joseph thought he could see what Courfeyrac and Pontellier had been getting at. But maybe this was only because everything was suddenly looking so rosy. He had something to celebrate now – and he was going to do it with claret.