You can not say Jehan is a careful man. You can not even call him alert, usually; his poetic brains are nothing but a mush of words and flourishes and women and flowers, leaving little room for sense or savvy. Often, our dear little scarecrow of a poet is present in poorly-clothed body only, spirit and mind journeying together somewhere in the hereafter.
Still, Jehan does not often walk into walls.
It is safe to assume, then, that something more than rhymes and riddles is troubling our man this day. Is it love? Drink? Who knows? Who cares?
Murmers fill the little back room when Jehan sits down after his crash with the peeling paint. Some bother to hush their words.
Most don't.
Poets may be absent-minded, yes, but they are surprisingly alert whenever a chance arises to exercise over-sensitivity. Sensitive poet he was, Jehan would usually take severe offense at his comrades' callous remarks, and remember his wounds always.
But not today. He won't listen today. He won't let himself, because no matter how badly he has it, that wisp of a trodden down ghost girl has it far, far worse.
Does he love her? Does he pity her?
Maybe it was the latter. Maybe it was the former.
Maybe it was a little of both.
We will leave our poet now. He is sick of soul and needs to rest. Instead, let us visit the The Ogre in his decrepit den today, as he is planning something monumental.
He has been invited to a meeting of The Friends of the ABC, as Madame Hucheloup's Special Guest. She has even set a special date, weeks out, "to give the dear boys some warning."
"Some sodding teachers' group, no doubt" he sneers. But he is going anyway.
Why? He heard them whispering, all those days ago, behind the wall. Whispers mean something's afoot, and that means blackmail money to the money-fixated thief.
The weakening legs in his only chair are giving way to his weight as he leans back. This means he is thinking.
Azelma has been useless. This he knows. But she can be of use to him still. He knows that any group with a secret would guard it with their life. Too bad the stupid old woman will told them ahead of time that he is coming, and they will be extra careful and speak in code so as to guard against outsiders. Perhaps they will even change their meeting place, or cancel.
They are a clever bunch. But so is Thenardier. He will have a back-up plan, in case the secret-keepers are too smart, and he cannot get the information when he goes in person.
Azelma will "befriend" one of the members. They will tell anything to some stupid grisette "what's got feminine charms."
Thenardier's chair snaps beneath him, and he crashes to the floor.
It doesn't faze him. He will fix it later somehow. A broken chair means a plan well planned. In Thenardier's experience, a plan well planned always works in the end.
I know it's not my best, dears, but I really needed to get something up, and I'm anxious to get on with the story before my big essay on Of Mice and Men eats up all my time. Thank you for reading, and thanks for being patient with my sporadic posting!