It is a dark and stormy night. Rain lashes down upon the streets of Paris and lightning flashes wickedly in the sky overhead. The wind wuthers eerily about the towers and turrets of the Prefecture of Police.
Perhaps I over-exaggerate slightly. The Prefecture has neither towers nor turrets, but to say that "The wind wuthered eerily about the third floor offices" would, I think ruin the effect. And, admittedly, I've gone to town on the weather a bit too, but . . You really think it'll be ok if I do it the realistic way? Bon, merde! Here goes nothing:

It was a mildly drizzly Thursday afternoon and the wind wuthered eerily about the third floor offices of the Prefecture of Police . .

What did I tell you? That's crap!

Anyway, all manner of pathetic fallacy and dramatic meteorological conditions set our scene, and in one particular third floor office there sits a man in a high backed leather armchair, staring into the fire and stroking a large white Persian cat. A particularly violent flash of lightening illuminates the sky and the man laughs like the very embodiment of evil (he is, in fact, remembering arather funny lawyer joke that his brother told him the week before)
With a fine sense of drama, the bells of the nearby church ominously toll six. Henri-Joseph Gisquet sighs and draws a black envelope from his waistcoat pocket. He just wants to check it's contents one more time, to make sure he's remembered everything:

" To irregular agents 5, 47 and 101 . ."

Addressed to the correct people, always a good start

" . . To find and ensure the return to Paris of Sieurs H Javert and M Pont mercy . . .utmost secrecy . . "

Good, he had been afraid he'd forgotten to mention the utmost secrecy bit

" . . All expenses paid . . . "

He rather wishes he had forgotten to put that bit in

" . . This message will self-destruct when read"

Gisquet realises rather too late that he shouldn't actually have read that bit. Unfortunately, by the time he is fully aware of quite what a stupid thing this was to do, the letter is exploding into pretty orange flames in his hand. Cursing, he leaps up, sending a very indignant cat flying, and begins to beat out the smouldering patch on his britches

"Curse those infernal messages!" he roars, "Am I fated to never, ever get the hang of them?! And it's too bloody late to do them another one - they'll be here in two minutes. I'll just have to read them my notes."

Someone up in special effects is clearly angling for an Oscar since there is another hideously overdramatic burst of thunder and lightening and the door of the office flies open to reveal the silhouette of three female forms. One of them is cackling loudly and another carries a broom. M Gisquet shivers in despite of himself.

"Er, come in," he says trying, and failing, to sound both authoritative and welcoming..

"Sorry we're late Henri - Pascale here had a bit of a spillage down in the canteen to deal with - whence the broom."

Gisquet wishes agent 5 wouldn't call him by his first name. It is just the sort of patrician familiarity he loathes - being very much a new man himself - and he feels that it undermines his professional credibility. He thinks of saying something, examines agent 5's large umbrella and thinks better of it. Instead he says: "Come in Mathilde-Esme! Sit down, please"

"Don't mind if I do" she says, sitting herself down on his chair by the fire and fanning out her skirts. Once again he thinks of saying something, but the cat jumps up into her lap and starts purring wildly so he gives up and retreats behind his desk.

"You two can come in as well, you know," he says, beckoning to the other women, who remain by the door

Number 101, a round, middle aged woman, sits on the one remaining, rather uncomfortable, chair. Number 47 sits herself down on the floor without any ceremony at all and begins scratching her head.

"Disgusting street rats," thinks Gisquet, " I'll be bound she has fleas!" Shaking off these unpleasant thoughts, he begins to read their instructions. Somewhere in the middle of the first paragraph, Mathilde-Esme interrupts him; "With all due respect, why send us? Why send three women? Why not send one of Vidocq's lot?"

"Because" replies Gisquet, scanning his notes for a suitable answer, "Because, because . ."

"Oh, I see," says Mathilde-Esme, nodding sagely, "Because. So, who are we meant to be looking fort then?""

"Inspector Hervé Javert - "

Numbers 47 and 101 register vague interest and Mathilde-Esme snorts.

" - And the Baron Marius Pontmercy."

Mathilde-Esme now looks very surprised and slightly worried but all she remarks is, "My, that's a curious combination!"

The rest of the interview passes without incident until Gisquet gets to the end of his notes, which he has been reading, word for word with out really thinking so that he finishes by saying: " - this message will self destruct when read"

"You what?" enquires Mathilde-Esme, "Pardon?"

"This message will self destruct when read," Gisquet repeats lamely, wishing that Javert were there. These sorts of things never seemed to happen when the Inspector was present.

"It's a verbal message - how on earth is it meant to self destruct?" Mathilde-Esme continues acidly The infernal fleabag on the floor snickers

"Yes well, you know what I mean!" he snaps irritably, "And just because you're an irregular doesn't men you can backchat me! Now, there are still some things that need to be arranged before your departure so I shall contact you all in writing when I next want you. Dismissed."

Mathilde-Esme rises and leads the other two women from the room. looking much like the leader of a coven. Gisquet notices with displeasure that his cat follows her.