A/N: And there's me, back again. Most of that was written yesterday already, actually, but I decided to give it a proofread, since a fun night out doesn't really make up for reliability when it comes to the command of a foreign language... so I proofread and hope that now it's fine :-)

It's the longest yet, I think - I had considered cutting it, but really, the logic of the chapter dictated the content, and so it is the way it is, and that's all that there is to it.

Thanks for all the comments and reviews on the last chapter - it means a lot to me that there is someone out there reading this and having a bit of fun because of it.

In addition, it's kind of awesome to see all of these countries all over the world popping up in my traffic stats - feels weird, somehow, but somehow cool.

So, let's go to the next all the checking I'm doing I have a feeling I'm learning a lot about 19th century Paris... I'll certainly see the city with different eyes next time I'm there...

The good men, I'll give it away right away, are Javert and Enjolras. Both of them would consider themselves being good - with some right, wouldn't they?

I hope you have fun reading, I sure had fun writing! I'd be very happy if you leave a small comment for me, what you liked, what you didn't, or what you think of how the story progresses.

Thanks to judybear236 for corrections!

Cheerio!

Spirit

Chapter 12: A story of good men

"It does prove though how everything is a matter of perspective. You see what you think is daylight, and you assume it's morning. Take it away, you think it's night. Offer you a sandwich, if it's convenient, you'll think it's mid-day. The truth is fluid, the truth is subjective"

Inspector Javert had never liked the Necker hospital.

There was a certain trepidation to be found in the company of the sick, in the painful moans and despairing wails of those doomed to a slow, agonizing death, or even those chosen few, that were able to make it out of such a place alive.

But this was not what made him pause, as he stood at the entrance of the hospital, it's winged doors open to him without any hindrance, and not because he was an agent of the police, but simply because he was a man on an errand, that had brought him to these gates. Javert had always been, and was ever suspicious of charity.

His belief in the merit of a person was as absolute as his belief in the retribution of good deeds. Those, who were abiding by the law, by the rules of all that was good and true did not need… charity.

Of course, the hospital was not dedicated to charity alone. Even assuming the rich patrons that it was without a doubt having, there was a majority of patients, that did indeed pay for the services the hospital offered to them – as was their due. At least, that was a small grace.

His work, however, directed his steps to this place more often than he would have liked, had he been completely free in his decisions. He had seen enough sickness and pollution in his life to numb the impact of the impression it gave, and routine had softened both the wrath at the sloth of those under charity and the trepidation, that the presence of dying people brought.

It was all a matter of habit, after all.

The patient he was currently going to, at least, would probably be among those, who paid for their time in this place, at least.

Which, on the whole, did not improve much his personality in the eyes of the inspector.

Jacques Morier, like the Virille brothers he had found at the Barriere du Maine the day before, was a troublemaker of the highest order. Outspoken at university, insolent and proud in voicing his opinions, reckless and angry, charismatic and dangerous to a fault.

Still, he had been the victim of a crime to be resolved, and this was what brought him here.

He was directed to the west wing of the second floor of the hospital and a young woman in a simple dress and an apron obligingly showed him towards the room that Morier had been placed in. Here, in the west wing, the corridors were high and lit by the June sun in all its glory, and the room that he entered was spacious and bright, only two beds scattered over the room, one of which was empty.

In the second one, there was Morier, a man of twenty-three, with the dark locks and suntanned skin of the Provence fields and hills, a man, tall, when he was standing, and delicate in built, but strong in appearance.

And currently feverish enough to be hovering on the brink of consciousness.

A doctor, a seasoned man with graying temples and calm demeanor, looked up at Javert's entrance and took a few steps towards him, as if to ward him off, but a quick show of his badge of office convinced the man to rethink his actions. A frown appeared on the doctor's forehead, as he nodded slowly.

"I understand, inspector", he said without Javert having to explain anything. "I'll have you know that he is very weak, though." He threw a quick glance at the young man in the bed. "The night has been… difficult."

Javert followed his gaze and found himself being watched in turn, from tired, feverish, yet alert dark eyes.

"Will he live?" he asked, and the doctor shrugged, his response soft as not for the patient to hear. "That is in god's hands alone", he answered. "All I would implore you is to keep your questions and presence to the minimum. I understand the need of a questioning, but please remember that he is a man who made a narrow escape from death."

"I am aware", Javert answered, slightly impatient. "Which is why I need his answers now."

The doctor seemed to be on the brink of a reply, but decided against it and nodded.

"I understand", he said again, sorrowful. "I will leave you to it, then. I will leave Marie in the room, in case his condition worsens."

Javert was indeed not joyful about this, but he would not meddle needlessly with the doctor's domain and nodded absent-mindedly, as the young woman that had led him here settled unobtrusively into a chair at the door.

The doctor bid him farewell and left. And then, it was just Morier and himself.

Javert stepped closer to the bed and was met with the courageous, yet futile remnants of a glare. Of course, Morier knew him. He would have been disappointed, if things were otherwise.

"Inspector." His voice was rough and feeble, a slightly breathy quality to it, and Javert nodded.

"Monsieur." The boy was the son of a wealthy merchant, after all.

"To what", Morier began, doing his best to give his words a cold bite, "do I owe the pleasure?"

Javert refrained from rolling his eyes in annoyance with some effort. He had no time for childish games.

"What happened in Issy?"

To his credit, Morier closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. And when he met Javert's gaze again, the attitude was gone, chased away, replaced by a dull, quiet look that did not suit him at all. With his dark locks plastered to his sweaty forehead, and his breath going in labored gasps, he had lost a lot of his imposing manners.

"There was a fair", he began, with visible difficulty. "At the outskirts, near the old Ducreuil carrière…"

He swallowed, with difficulty, and gathered strength for his next words.

"A band of gypsies…", he continued, "some musicians. A few stands."

Javert nodded quickly. He was aware of that sort of merriment, sprouting here and there, loved by the simpler folk and ignored by the law. Disgusting…

"I met there… with some friends."

Students, however, were not quite the usual crowd at these gatherings. Unless…

Javert snorted in disgust.

"Of course", he said, coolly, but Morier was beyond being baited, as if his small stand at the beginning of their conversation had used up whatever force he had.

"There was a juggler." Morier was forcing out the words with a sort of desperate determination now. "He was good. Five balls. And then knives." He closed his eyes, gathering his strength. "He started throwing them at us… so quick…"

Javert frowned softly. That, at least, was a fairly innovative way of murder, he had to admit. Also highly ineffective, since there had been three students, that had been brought to the Necker, and none of them dead yet.

"What did he look like?"

Morier shrugged and his face contorted in pain.

"Pain… ted face", he managed, and raised a trembling hand to his own features, almost like in demonstration. "White… red lips… black eyes… a jester." He blinked. "I probably would… not recognize him."

Javert nodded, if only to himself. There was a surprising anonymity in a remarkable outfit, he knew. It was a rarely exploited feat, but none the less effective for it.

"Middle height", Morier continued. "Slender. Wearing… a cap."

His face had taken on a more sickly pallor, but he pressed on. "Everyone ran. Saw him… take for the city… then… black."

He closed his eyes and fought for breath, sweat on his forehead and his frame slightly trembling in exertion.

Javert heard the rustling of cloth and turned to find Marie standing next to him, looking at the patient with worried eyes.

"I think that would be enough, Monsieur L'Inspecteur", she said, her voice soft, even if her words were insolent. Javert raised his brows, but she stepped towards the young man and took a careful look at him, hand on his pulse first, then raising one of his lids. "He lost consciousness, Monsieur L'Inspecteur. He cannot answer your questions now." Her words were very sober, without reprimand or anger, just stating the facts and that was something that Javert could accept.

"Very well", he said. "Then later, maybe."

"Maybe", she concurred, drawing the blankets around the trembling frame of the young man. "Let us hope for this."

But Javert, unfamiliar with the concept of something as fickle as hope, turned to leave with only the most absentminded of greetings to the young nurse.

One down.

Two to go.

The walk from Joly's apartment, where they had stopped by to check on their friends and relay to them on the events of the night, to La Force was a relatively short one, however, one that Enjolras intended to put to good use.

The day and night past had opened up a lot of questions, and while he was hoping that he might find some answers in questioning who Hélène and Eponine had called "the dwarf", there were a couple of things he would have clarified before.

Enjolras did not like situations that were left to the vague.

"Mademoiselle, one moment please."

She was one step ahead of him, moving through the morning crowds and merging with them showing a skill that eluded him, but she heard him and stopped to turn on her heel. She watched him warily, dark eyes wavering between curiosity and suspicion.

"Before we enter La Force, I will have to ask you one thing", he began, and could see her retreating without even a single step. She was a skittish creature – he surely had realized that – careful in her dealings, and probably rightfully so.

Another of those fetters that had no right to be in this world.

"I need to know why you were at the Cambouts' house yesterday."

The answer was swift, fairly impolite and determined.

"None of your business."

Which, in a way, explained everything.

Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment. There was no use in showing her his annoyance that threatened to overwhelm him in an instant of weakness, quickly realized and quickly dispelled.

"Mademoiselle", he rephrased, out of habit, forgetting that she had made clear that she despised this address and why. The reason had been an understandable one, and thus one that Enjolras was inclined to respect, but the reflexes of society, his own personal set of fetters, were engrained too deep to ignore. "I bear you no ill will."

The reasons, why she could have been at the Cambouts' house, in the middle of the night, were preciously few, but this was not the point.

Her face was closed, icy, and her posture belied tension. Enjolras sighed, soundlessly. This was not what he had intended. It may be understandable – it was difficult to judge what he knew of her from the bits and pieces that Marius had conveyed, but it was certain to know that her life had not been an easy one. Disrespect led to dejection, which in turn led to distrust of everything that may be of good intent.

A vicious circle happening too often. More fetters, indeed.

"We will be going into a place that is dangerous – for me, certainly, but I suspect, for you as well."

She frowned, her face softening just the slightest fraction. Good. She was not stupid. And beginning to understand. There was hope yet. He chose to continue. "I mean you no harm", he continued again. Somewhere, in the back recesses of his mind, there was a memory of Combeferre saying 'it's obvious to you, my friend, I know, but that does not extend to everyone'… and Combeferre's words were usually worth paying attention to. He carefully phrased his next sentences, having no intention to chase her away. "I have said it before – I do feel indebted to you for your deeds of yesterday and this night, and I stand by my word. However, to enter this particular lion's den, we must be certain, that we will be walking the same road, I am afraid. I will not pass judgment – not now, not on you – but I need to know."

She hesitated for a moment. Cocking her head, she mustered him, as if uttering a silent question he did not know how to answer. But whatever she found in his gaze – which was slightly confused and hence not as steady as he would have it – it seemed to suffice.

"We were trying to rob her, them, alright? So what now?"

A challenge, clearly placed before him. She dared him to despise her. Yet, he would not do her this favor. In fact, Enjolras was neither surprised nor shocked. He knew very little of this friend of Marius, but he knew more of the trials and tribulations of their times.

Even Gavroche, loved by all of them, stole to make his living.

And apart from the knowledge, that circumstances drove people to do desperate things, he also had a goal in mind. He had not seen the attacker, but Eponine had, which would make her a valuable asset at what he intended to do. And there was something in the determination of the girl, in her fierce resourceful fighting, rather like a tomcat clawing its way to freedom that could be put to better use than robbery or petty crimes.

"Who's we?"

For a moment, she stared at him in surprise.

"What?"

Carefully, he repeated.

"Who is we?"
She blinked, obviously trying to regain her footing. Thoughts were chasing one another across her face; anger, curiosity, and a sort of defiance that made her raise her chin proudly to counter his gaze.

"Some friends of mine."

"Who are now in jail", he concluded what he had in fact been aiming at. She shrugged and nodded.

"Guess so", she replied. "So what now?"
Enjolras took a moment to collect his thoughts. While he had had no confirmation, this was certainly not fully unexpected.

It seemed, there were a number of layers to Eponine, the woman whom he, due to strange and unfathomable circumstances, owed his life.

Yet, Enjolras had rarely been disappointed by his own estimate of people. And when it came to this particular friend of Marius, there were many confusing things about her. But he had no reason at all to regard her as an enemy.

"That depends", he therefore answered. "While certainly going against the law, your intention of robbing the Cambouts has been remedied by the fact, that you saved Madame de Cambout's life. I think we can agree on that." He let some wryness slip into his voice in an attempt to set her more at ease, to remove the tension from her posture. It was not working.

"Aha", she replied, and he pressed on.

"The question is – will they reveal us if we appear in La Force? I have no intention of overstaying my welcome in this place, and I would not appreciate it happen to you as well."
She squinted her eyes, suspicious.

"What's it to you?"

He wondered, why he had to come back to the same thing. It was, on the whole, not that difficult to grasp after all.

"Eponine." He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. This was needless. Things were clear, and she should see it. "You have done me and the cause that I am dedicated to, a great service. I have said it before, and I am prepared to reiterate it. I mean you no ill. Let me be blunt."

She crossed her arms before her in a defensive gesture and glared at him. Despite her haggard appearance, he had to admit that there was a certain force in her gaze.

She was a being freeborn. She just did not know it yet.

Combeferre and Feuilly would love this, he thought not a little wryly.

"What I want is to find out what is going on, to be able to make out a clear path on where we are going and what we are facing. Preferably with your help, because you have seen who killed Monsieur Cambout and I have not. What I do not want is to discover, that I have led you to a place I cannot bring you out of again."

She hesitated. Searched his face for something he could not fathom.

And finally nodded.

"They ain't stupid", she then said. "They see me coming with someone like you, they'll keep quiet. You don't survive doing stupid things and ruining people's plans."

Enjolras sensed, that this was all that he would get.

It might be enough, though.

"Very well", he responded. "Let us go then, Mademoiselle. We have work to do."

As the doors of La Force closed behind them, Enjolras, for all his confidence could not shake the nagging feeling of being trapped in the lion's den. Policemen and national guards crowded the corridor, and even though they were being left alone for the moment – there were relatives of the criminals entrapped here to be watched and a law student, gaining access with a recommendation from Pierre La Manche, professeur des droits criminels de la Sorbonne, was probably not high on their list of suspects to organize an outbreak.

It was laughably predictable and outrageous in its injustice as well.

Upon passing inside, he had seen a grisette, in tears as she pleaded with the officer on duty to let her see her betrothed, who had been imprisoned for a minor offense not even yet proven, had the harsh words of the watchman still rang in his ears.

His letter and his determined words had remedied that as well; but even though he had been successful in deed, the necessity to even intervene into the scenery had stirred his anger again.

Another of the manifold signs of why they were taking the only road still open to all good men in this world – to overthrow the oppression that was lying on city and country like a blanket of death.

The grisette had thanked him, tears still on her cheeks, and Eponine had given him a curious look that he neither could place nor sought to, and they had gone their separate ways; Eponine and himself towards those who were charged with a capital offense, the young woman to the cells of those, that were likely to be released sometime soon.

"You sure know your way around", Eponine said appraisingly, when they were relatively unwatched, in the middle of the court that separated the wings of the prison and that was crowded with visitors and watchmen alike. He smiled a grim smile, thinking of the last – and only – time he had been forced to resort to his letter out of more than academic interest; when Bahorel, Joly and Bousset had been caught as the initiators of a particularly loud and vicious brawl, that had taken place on easter Sunday at Place Notre Dame, where they had called God's mercy upon this city to relieve it of its suffering and pain. The situation had been solved with money then.

Another of the things, that should not have been; even though it had worked in his favor. He had not liked it, but Courfeyrac had been adamant that using the faults of the regime to their own advantage was a valid course of action.

"I have reckless friends", he told the story in few words, which elicited a snort and a slight laugh from her.

"So do I", she said in an unexpected attempt at humor, and despite himself he felt a smile find its way to his face.

The entrance into the building was closed by another gate, watched by another set of guards, where again Enjolras pulled out the letter and requested to be brought to the prisoners taken in Rue d'Olivel the night before.

The guard gave him a suspicious look, that he was unable to place, but complied, and a few minutes later, they were walking through the corridors of the prison, past cells after cell, until they arrived at one, that was occupied by a number of men lounging on various cots, all of them looking up when they arrived at their gates.

The guard used his bayonet to rattle at the bars of the cell, as if the prisoners had not been roused already.

"Visitors", he said, in a bored manner, and retreated a few steps to leave them to their conversation.

"You know the rules", he said, to both Enjolras and Eponine, his face wavering between boredom and sternness. "No touching. Speak nice and loud, so I can hear you."

Enjolras nodded briefly in acknowledgement and turned back to assess the people present. He indeed knew the rules.

Four men had now massed around the gates, throwing questioning glances at Eponine and curious ones at him. Foremost was a middle-aged man in a faded jacket that had once been of not altogether bad cut, but was significantly worse for the wear now. His hair was in disarray, and his face showed the telltale signs of hard living – the deep-ingrained lines of hunger, the sharp, bitter expression around the mouth that spoke of cruelty or dejection.

At his side, there was a brute of a man, towering over the other three, and their visitors as well, his shoulders wide and imposing. The third was a tall, spindly guy of middle age, spidery fingers wound around the bars that separated them from Enjolras and Eponine, while the fourth was remarkably ordinary, a man that may have been bourgeois or servant, in relatively well-tended clothes. It was only his eyes, that were always on the move, and clever.

He threw a gaze at Eponine, on whose face a slight frown had appeared, which was curious and put him slightly on edge.

"Which of those?" he mouthed, and she gave a minuscule shake of her head.

"None."

The oldest of the group clearly strained to understand the exchange between Eponine and Enjolras, but apparently was unsuccessful, given the expression of dissatisfaction on his face. However, Enjolras had to play out the charade that had let him here, lest arise suspicion. He schooled his expression to one of professional interest and stepped closer to the quartet, watching each of them in turn.

"What is the charge you are being accused of, citizens?"

For a moment, they exchanged glances, and it was clear that they were not sure how to place him. That, indeed, was not surprising. Finally, Eponine seemed to settle the problem with a nod of her own and a few quick gestures of her hand, hidden from the watchman in their back. Whatever she did, it seemed to work and the unremarkable one took it upon himself to answer.

"Burglary and murder", he said, defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Of Alexandre de Cambout", Enjolras added, making it a statement rather than a question, but careful to leave any anger he felt out of his voice, and there was a snort from the older man.

"That wasn't us", he drawled. "That was that wretched dwarf. No reason for us to kill'im off."

Enjolras believed him, of course; but he wondered why the man brought this forth. Of course, the charges for murder were much graver than for mere robbery, and if they were caught in the act as they were, the offense of robbery was hard to deny.

"What happened, exactly?" Enjolras pressed on, and the older man shrugged.

"Damned if I knew. We may have been around that house, yeah. Sort of." A quick flash of gaze to Eponine before he continued. "But when we were there, there was that scream in the upper part of the house. Next I know, there's police all over us, and there's a brawl, and we find ourselves here with that misshapen bunch of misery. Seems he killed off that noble, damned if I know how or why."

"Did he tell you anything?" Enjolras continued his questioning, and again, there was this curious exchange between the man and Eponine, before he answered.

"Not much, anyway. Seemed awfully smug, if you ask me. Was fairly well dressed, as well. Oh. And had a huge lump on the top of his head. Complaining about some fury hitting him. Was probably why the police caught him at all; he was awfully quick when they bound him in irons, took three men to take him down." The man smacked his lips. "If I were that fury", he continued, "I'd watch my back in case he's seen her. Could turn out nasty."

That was a statement that was open enough. Enjolras threw a quick glance to Eponine, but her face was completely stony and revealed nothing.

"He said something about a good day's work done", the spindly one added, shrugging. "And about this being futile."

"Unpleasant fellow", the unremarkable man added from the sidelines. He had slunk back to the wall to lean against it in a carefully studied gesture. "But then – we're not exactly prince charming, either." He smiled and showed a few missing teeth.

"And you have never seen him before?" Enjolras continued, and the man shook his head.

"Would remember that sort of guy, for sure", he confirmed and snorted in some sort of disgust. "Too smug for his own good, and certainly for a dwarf, that one was."

"Parnasse seemed to know him, though", the brute supplied, all of a sudden, which earned him a dangerous look from the oldest man, and a shove in the rib from the spindly fellow.

"Where is 'Parnasse anyway?"

It was the first time since they arrived here, that Eponine had spoken, dropping all pretense of whatever role she had thought to play here. She had crossed her arms in a defensive gesture and looked squarely at the oldest of the group.

For a quick moment, Enjolras wondered, that they had a very similar way of glaring at one another – but he put the thought aside for further reference and later deductions.

"Damned, if I know", the man answered again, shrugging. "We woke up this morning, and he and the dwarf were both gone."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure", he answered, aping her tone. There was something unpleasant in the way he responded, as if he were quickly losing patience.

Probably, they had outstayed their welcome, as it were. Enjolras was not sure that there was much more information to be gained from them. Time to break the scenery before anything ugly could happen.

"I understand Messieurs", he cut in, "and I am sure, that I will be able to find this… dwarf with the help of the good soldiers inside this fortress. As to your offense…"

He took a deep breath. The line between pretense and reality was thin. The men before him seemed to him at least a dangerous sort – certainly not the morally pure creatures that so often fell between the wide and unmerciful cracks of what passed for the legal system of France.

They were charged with false offense, however. And he had a nagging feeling that they may yet hang for a crime they had not committed, despite all of those that they had indeed done.

Unjust… yet again.

And then there was the matter of Eponine…

"… I promise nothing", he ventured finally. "But I believe you. And I will see what is to be done."

He could feel their glares on him, distrustful, hostile, careful, like caged predators yearning for another kind of freedom.

But before any of them could answer, he could hear steps approaching, another soldier, another visitor.

And Enjolras found himself face to face with Inspector Javert, police agent and investigator of the murders and crimes committed last night.

A man of middle height with graying hair, dressed well, but modestly, with a posture that belied both confidence and calm, hands linked behind his back as he surveyed the scene.

"Well", he began, not commanding, not strong, but rather musing and thoughtful. "What a surprise. I would not have expected these petty thieves and murderers to attract that amount of interest."

"Not yet convicted", Enjolras reminded him. Not, that he was not convinced that they were indeed criminals, and there was no telling what offenses they had committed. But there was an order to things.

The man opposite him smiled a quick mirthless smile.

"Of course", he responded. "Accurately put, Monsieur…"

Enjolras straightened himself to full height. He was slightly taller than the man before him, but for some reason, he did not feel like it.

Not something that happened to him often, he had to admit.

"Enjolras", he said. "Sebastien Enjolras."

"Ah…", the man said, "A pleasure. A student of the law… I presume… with academic interest in the case?"

Enjolras nodded, wondering for a moment how the man would have guessed. Maybe he had been told at the entrance.

"We strive for the same thing then, Monsieur", he continued, and that eerie smile found its way back onto his features. "The beauty of justice and law given its due. Do we not?"

He knew, Enjolras understood, then. Whoever he was, however he knew, Enjolras was pretty sure that the man before him had a good idea on who he actually was, and what he was striving for. In these narrow corridors of La Force, law and justice had met, if only in a moment in time.

Carefully he made sure that none of this showed on his face.

"Indeed", he said, knowing what his opponent meant was not justice, and that laws could be changed. "Of a fashion."

The man nodded, as in confirmation.

"I am Inspector Javert", he said and extended a hand in greeting, and Enjolras responded.

Javert's fingers were icy, but his grip was firm.

"I expect to hear from you soon then", Javert supplied. "A young man of promise, such as yourself…"

Enjolras smiled a grim smile. If he were to play this charade, he intended to play it fully.

"You will", he therefore said. "You will."