The echoing bang of a gunshot was heard before Javert could get through the crowd. Scowling in frustration at the gaggle of people who were all too eager to loiter directly in his path, Javert thrust his way in front of a flower- seller and a baker.
He was met with a strange sight. A burly man, with a strong resemblance to the stained glass portrait of Goliath in the Cathedral, lay sprawled on the ancient cobblestones. A gunshot wound to the shoulder stained the white linen of his shirt to match the bonnet rouge that had fallen to his side. Beside him crouched a blond man, who looked every inch the avenging angel, save for a red vest, partially hidden under a white overcoat; a bloody and vibrant tie between him and the fallen figure of Goliath. In the few seconds of stunned silence as people regarded this sight, Javert scanned the small, close circle around the crime with an attitude of decided whimsy (brought on by the proximity of the crime to the church, no doubt.)
A young girl and her elderly father stood to the right of Javert. They looked lost, as if they had ended up in the circle by accident. The girl stood partially turned towards Javert with her gloved hands to her lips, her wide eyes a shocking blue against her paled complexion. Her wide bonnet blocked Javert's view of her father, though Javert could still see strands of very white hair blowing in the slight breeze, and a black top hat held out to the center of the circle, as if the man wanted to help the wounded Goliath up. They stood as still and silent as the statues of the saints near Notre- Dame.
On his left was a drunken man of a slovenly aspect: his cravat was loose, his vest unbuttoned, his overcoat and jacket misplaced, and his stained breeches reeked of cheap brandy. His face was twisted, and he stooped forward, either concerned over the shooting or unable to balance himself upright. Javert was unpleasantly reminded of the gargoyles that leered at the crowd from their high perch on the cathedral.
Directly in front of Javert was a group of street urchins, clad in the dull brown tatters that marked every child of the streets. They twittered amongst themselves at the drama that unfolded before them. Javert distinctly heard one exclaim, delighted, "Foutre! This is better than the theatre! The blood never looks half so real, there!" They resembled the sparrows playing irreverently on the cathedral steps, devoid, as they were, of any concern for the wounded man.
Next to the urchins stood some of his police force, looking stunned, and staring at one another as if unsure of what to do. One had lost his cap, and the outrageous red curls that adorned his head (and that Javert secretly hated) were tousled by the wind. Ah, Javert thought in slight amusement and slight annoyance, here we have the women, shocked at the absence of Christ from the tomb, as portrayed in a tapestry for posterity.
To the left of the urchins stood a student, books clasped loosely in his arms. His linen was clean and pressed (it looked particularly so when he stood next to the urchins) but his black suit was fraying. It still held the air of respectability about it, and the student looked as gravely formal and solemn as any abbé. With narrowed eyes, Javert recognized him as that dolt of a lawyer who had forgotten to fire the pistols, and had run away.
Next to the idiot lawyer was another student, whose hair and glasses seemed at war over his gray eyes. He was shocked, a quill pen having dropped from his hand and fluttered to the ground. Javert was strongly reminded of his (repressed) childhood days, when his intoxicated cousin Carmen had waltzed up to the village priest, wrapped her arms about his waist, kissed him passionately and declared she was married to a chicken and a goat named Lucifer. The priest had that same shocked, appalled expression.
Montparnasse, who Javert had been chasing for months, was stealthily picking the pocket of the gray- eyed. Ah, the devil joins the circle.
These observations were completed in the space of a few seconds. He had also noted that though his officers stood directly in front of the toppled Goliath and the cold, avenging angel, none of them had a gun out. In fact, there was not a gun in sight, not even on Montparnasse.
"Please, monsieur," the girl in the bonnet asked tremulously, clasping her hands to her chest in an attitude of prayer. "Can you do something?" Javert noted that the hem of her gown (it was some color of white- it wasn't really white, but Javert didn't know enough about color to know its name) hung half- loose, there was a tear in her skirt, and her entire outfit had been recently muddied. She was very pale, and Javert noted (in the back of his mind) that she was a rather distinctive beauty- a witness he could certainly find again. Her bonnet was askew, further blocking Javert's view of her father.
Interesting.
"Foutre, it's Maitre Javert!" cried one of the little sparrows, pointing a grimy hand.
This caused an immediate stir. Half the people fled, including Montparnasse and the student's wallet. His officers busied themselves, shouting pompously. Their only effect was to add to the general chaos, as workers ran, startled women scampered off, remembering propriety, and the urchins appeared to perform a disjointed version of the carmagnole. This would not do.
Javert scowled and once more shoved his way through the crowd.