A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and follows and all that jazz. I tried to make this update extra-quick for you.
I still appreciate comments. Very much.
See you around!
PS: AnneValerie: I would write you a PM but you're not locked in. Glad you like it. Crackships for the win ;-)
Chapter 27: Like walking on broken glass
"What you just told me, is that the whole truth?"
"It's as close to the truth as you or anyone else will ever get."
The hammer finally fell when Marc and Stéphane had carefully maneuvered Jacques de Morier back into his own room, into his own bed.
The silence that had engulfed the Cougourde after the death of Armand de Ribéron was still holding, and their friends had left quietly, each of them giving their own goodbyes to their fallen comrade. There had been tears, and silent words, but in the end they had left in small groups, as they had decided to do the day before; to get a minimum of sleep.
Marc Lamarin had stayed behind with Jacques and Stéphane to give an account of yesterday's events, and especially the meeting in the Café Musain. The strain of the day was clearly showing on Jacques, whose skin had taken on a stronger hue of pallor again, but he was still listening attentively, the force of his eyes holding Lamarin in place.
The expression on his face was unreadable, and slightly warped by fever, yet, the tone of his voice could not be mistaken so easily for anything else than a mixture of spite and anger.
"Quite satisfied with yourself, are you?"
Lamarin blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected in response to the – actually encouraging – account of what had happened during the night; rejection had not been one of them.
"I'm sorry…?" He blurted out at the second odd commentary that Jacques had given him since the death of Armand that he could not make sense of.
Jacques eyes him unblinking.
"You heard me", he responded deadpan.
"I did", Lamarin confirmed, confusion rising again. "But… I am not sure I understand."
"Listen, Jacques…", Stéphane tried to intercept, but one glare from the man brought him to silence again, all words quashed by the burning anger in his eyes.
Lamarin realized he was on his own.
"Don't play stupid with me. Let me remind you, that you only joined us… what was it? Two months ago? If it's even that much. And next I know you are playing at representative in a general council of revolutionaries. Craftily played, Marc, indeed." Jacques snorted in something that was probably a mixture of anger and disgust and Lamarin for a moment was at loss of what to say.
"But…", he began and Jacques raised a dark eyebrow, almost to the line of locks plastered to his forehead by sweat.
"But…", he echoed with a nasty tone in his voice. "But what?"
"But you weren't there", Lamarin finally defended himself. "And neither was Joseph. Someone had to…"
"Joseph!" Jacques snapped. "That would have been most precious on top of everything." His eyes quickly went to Stéphane who narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but was spared another explosion for the time being.
"You weren't there", Lamarin responded, again. Jacques anger was a terror to behold, but he did not want to wither at the first sign of oppression. Also, he felt slightly shocked at the ferocity of an attack he hadn't seen coming. "Something needed to be done."
"There were how many of you exactly there? No one had the idea of sending someone here?"
"To do what, Jacques?" Lamarin shook his head in exasperation. "You can hardly walk from one room to the other."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Marc understood that they were a capital mistake, but words were not so easily taken back.
Jacques' eyes and face went completely still.
"Aha", he said. "Continue."
Lamarin shook his head. Looking at Jacques, again he had the recollection of a back room in a café, a group of friends moving amongst each other like limbs of a single body, a family, for lack of a better word for it, a family and a set of companions.
As opposed to Stéphane and himself, sitting here and getting yelled at by Jacques, when everything that Lamarin would have wanted was to share the news – both on the council and on Armand's dying words – but now that opportunity had passed and all things considered, Jacques was probably beyond caring at the moment.
Lamarin wondered, how the Cougourde that only a few days ago had seemed such an exciting and interesting place had at the turn of his head been warped into something that was eating itself up from its core.
"I don't have to listen to this, Jacques", he finally managed, feeling equally terrified at the stare the man was giving him and horrified at the fact that he was attacking him so. "I was trying to help. I was trying to make things better, which I thought was the whole purpose of this group!"
He retreated a step, then a second.
"I meant no harm. And I certainly did not mean to take what was yours. But we did cast a vote. I thought all of this was also about bringing about a republic. I did not ask for this. I didn't want to be elected but I took the responsibility on the account of my friends, of your friends. I only tried to help." He was rambling, he was repeating himself, but he was also beyond caring.
"I don't have to listen to this", he reiterated. "And I won't." He lifted his head to Stéphane, who stared at the unfolding scene in horror. "Stéphane, if you need to, you know where to find me."
And then, there was nothing else to say.
Marc Lamarin turned around on his heel and left the sickroom, terrified, angry and sad in roughly equal parts. He stepped out of the Necker into the streets, and, forgetting the advice given during the previous night, passed through Saint Michel on his own, towards the only place that he could imagine going now.
The Café Musain.
Silence settled in the Musain, after Marius had finished reading the letter to his friends, his voice unsteady but determined, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a silent look.
"Cheerful." With little surprise, it was Grantaire who first found his voice, lounging slightly aside the rest of the group, his smile going into the direction of Enjolras and Combeferre who had peered over Marius' shoulder on either side while the Baron's son was reading out loud.
Courfeyrac, who had learned about the words a second time now, took them easier this time, and still it was hard not to shiver at the images that they brought forth with ease.
"Hardly", commented Enjolras, but his retort towards Grantaire lacked the usual bite, and the frown on his face showed clearly that his thoughts were three steps ahead already, as they usually were and all the more that the times turned more hectic.
"At least", Combeferre added, much more softly, "now we know. That is never a bad thing."
"Who did you say this was coming from again, Marius?"
"I have no idea", Marius replied, shrugging slightly helplessly. "They said it was a gamin who delivered it, but from that description, there is no finding the boy."
Courfeyrac made a mental note to ask Gavroche about it none the less. There was no telling what sort of information the boy was capable of digging out.
With a frown, Combeferre took the letter from Marius, turned it with a predictable expression of both curiosity and worry in his eyes. Courfeyrac did not begrudge him that expression. The letter was indeed something that even he could not find a bright side to.
"The paper is good", Combeferre mused, squinting at the script. "A man of education, but none who attended university. Not too young I would say." He shrugged. "But apart from that, the origin of the letter is anyone's guess."
"The question remains", Courfeyrac concluded, "with all that is written in here, why is such a man out of prison?"
"Why is he even alive?" Marius added. "What's written in there – and apparently it has become known if he was arrested for it – is enough to put any man to the guillotine."
"I fear the answer is obvious", Enjolras answered, stepping away from Marius to reach a position where he could look all his friends in the eye in turn. "The suspicion we have had is all but confirmed true. This is not just a band of renegades. This…", and his hand went pointing to the letter that was still in Combeferre's hand, "is all but the proof that someone inside the administration itself is behind this."
"I would not call it proof yet", Combeferre contradicted, giving Marius back the letter. "At least not proof in the sense of the law – which is clear – but also probably not proof enough to go public with it. Especially now we should be cautious." His gaze, almost involuntarily, went to the pile of newspapers that was lying discarded on a table. Enjolras nodded.
"It's enough to carefully conduct investigations." Courfeyrac had been thinking about this already on their way here. "There is quite a lot of information to go on, actually. The names of the three women. The mention of the coast, and the fact that it happened in the north. Now I know that our links to the northern part of the country are feeble at best, but such a thing must have been remarked. There should be accounts on this, maybe newspapers. In the very least, people themselves should remember. So maybe if we can nose around here in the city, among those who have recently moved in from the northern provinces, we may be able to narrow this down."
"That is a good thought, Courfeyrac", Enjolras praised in his offhand manner. "And one of the things we shall put into action as soon as we can. I seem to remember…" he began, but he never got to finish the sentence, as quick steps from outside the Café drew their attention to the entrance.
The Café, due to yesterday's late hour, was not yet officially open for business, but the front door was not locked and the visitor didn't mind.
Pushing through the door, cheeks reddened by what obviously was a long and hasty trip through the city, was Marc Lamarin.
He was still in the same clothes he had worn the day before, now rumpled and at a few places stained with the traces of old blood. His slightly feverish gaze and the red lining under his eyes together with the distinctive pallor of his skin gave indication that he had not gotten an hour of rest since he had left the Musain in the wee hours of this morning, and both the fact that he had appeared alone and the state that he was in were no good sign.
Courfeyrac stood.
By his accounts, Marc Lamarin was a decent fellow, a trifle young still but a good man in the making. And it was clear that he had come here for some kind of support – a support that would, of course, be willingly granted.
"Lamarin", he offered, tempering his voice for calm and friendliness instead of the worry he felt. "Good lord, you look as if you have run half across the city!"
The boy gulped for breath, as Courfeyrac gently steered him towards a table, discreetly monitoring to Bahorel to organize a glass of wine for the boy so that he might calm down.
"I have", Lamarin answered between gasps, but offered nothing more, and Courfeyrac waited until the wine had arrived and the boy had caught his breath before any questions would be issued. He had placed Lamarin at one of the larger tables though, and his other friends crowded around it as well, so there would be no long stalling of whatever had brought them here.
"Were you alone?" Of course it was Enjolras who finally lost patience first, and of course he went straight to the fact that the advice they had given in the assembly of always moving in at least twos or threes was sorely unheeded at the moment.
Lamarin nodded though, and took a large gulp of wine.
"I….", he broke off again, and Courfeyrac could sense something conflicting coming from the man, as his gaze went to the glass, uncertain.
But finally, he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes again, now clearer and less torn, as if he had come to a decision.
"All right", he said, uneasily. "I am not even sure if I should come to you with this, but I don't know how to proceed with what happened, and I am not sure I can trust my own friends any more. Which is why I come to you."
That statement captured everyone's attention. Courfeyrac could see Combeferre subtly tensing, while Enjolras shifted his stance from one of almost absent-minded detachment to alertness, placing a finger against his bottom lip as he fixed Lamarin with a cool, blue stare.
"How so?" he asked.
Lamarin took a deep breath.
"How much do you know about the Cougourde? About the Paris section, anyhow?"
Bahorel, having brought his own wineglass with that of Lamarin's, snorted.
"I guess what you mean is Jacques and Joseph, right?"
Marc Lamarin sighed.
"Yes. They… carry on a certain rivalry. I have noticed it before, but it became apparent to me only recently how strong that rivalry is." Now that he started, words began to flow as if on their own accord. "It is almost as if there are two groups, not one, only using the same name. I never thought much about it, until…" he broke off for a second and looked around the room, the intent faces of those he was talking to, and Courfeyrac did his best to give him an encouraging nod so that he would continue. "… well, until I was here actually. I've thought about it since then, and I've realized, that actually everyone, everyone in the Cougourde has at some point in time taken sides with one of them."
Courfeyrac felt a brow rising. The feeling had crept upon him during the meeting of yesterday that the Cougourde was a curiously quiet crowd, but he had attributed that to the fact that the blood toll on their side had been heavy – although in injuries, not in death – and not necessarily to the fact that a rift was going through the group.
A quick gaze at Bahorel told him that he, at least, had known about this, and it was also him who asked the obvious question.
"What about you?"
"That's the point", Lamarin continued. "Well, actually one of the points. I haven't yet. I didn't even realize it in full yet. Although now, in retrospective, there have been conversations… with Jacques mostly. I didn't think much of it then but reconsidering now, I guess that Jacques counts me among his. Which would actually explain quite a lot…"
He blinked quickly, and for a moment Courfeyrac felt reminded of Jehan in the manner of the young man, whom he had as of now thought a bit careful and shy. Now that he seemed to have come to a decision of sorts, words were spilling forth without apparent effort.
"One thing at a time, Lamarin", Combeferre reminded him gently, and the young man nodded, pushing fingers through his hair and taking a deep breath collecting his thoughts.
"Like I said, there is a rift going through the Cougourde between Joseph Sicar and Jacques de Morier. For all I knew, Joseph Sicar has left for Aix less than a week ago, called home on family matters, I believe. Jacques was wounded in the attacks in Issy, but he is still alive. Armand de Ribéron, however, is not."
The words were delivered in strange sobriety, but as soon as they were out Lamarin seemed to remember himself what he had said and what he had witnessed, and tears were threatening to find their way into his eyes. He blinked hastily, shaking them away, but there was a slight tremble in his voice as he continued: "He passed away this morning."
Bahorel let out a swear but checked himself quickly, only outward sign of his exasperation the vehemence with which he downed his wine.
"Far too many good people going down in this story", he growled. "About time we stopped this."
"I agree", Enjolras answered without straying in his gaze from Lamarin. "My condolences, Lamarin."
The boy nodded, fighting for composure, and Courfeyrac decided that it would probably be best to bring him back on the track of his tale.
"But that was not why you came here, was it?"
Lamarin shook his head.
"I…", he began again, "I was able to catch his dying words. And in his last hour, Armand told me that he had actually seen Joseph at the fair in Issy where the attacks occurred."
"And you believe him", Enjolras phrased a question in form of a statement, and despite having Enjolras' gaze on him slight annoyance crept into Lamarin's voice.
"They were his dying words", he reiterated. "Of course I believe them!"
If Enjolras caught the young man's anger he did not show it. A nod was his only response to Lamarin's words.
"A traitor!" None of them had been sure if Grantaire had even been following the discussion, ill-tempered and hung-over as he was, but they had, quite apparently, been wrong, for he clapped his hands onto the table now in something that could be easily mistaken for glee. "Isn't that priceless? The most dedicated among the dedicated, and then they squabble and betray one another like children in the garden. So that's what you have?"
Enjolras' gaze whipped around to Grantaire, blue eyes piercing.
"If you have nothing helpful to say on the subject", he bit out, "I would rather you stay silent."
Grantaire answered with a smirk.
"Scared your paper house is on fire?"
Enjolras gave a minuscule shake of his head.
"I do not expect you to understand any of this."
"Bah", Grantaire waved an impatient hand. "Evasion, fearless one. Evasion and negation. What a laugh I am having. Look at you. Have you ever asked yourself why all of this happened? Have you? It's because man is bad. Deal with it. Man is a lousy, dreary, selfish thing, but that is what you fail to see. You have a traitor in your rows. Maybe more than one. So now, where are you, with all your talk of liberty? You have the snake, and it is resting right at your chest. Joseph Sicar and who else, we can only guess."
Enjolras' lips were pressed together, and his eyes were seething, showering Grantaire in cold fire and flame.
"Be silent, drunkard", he said, coldly, no scorn in his voice, just a dark, icy whisper, "if you have nothing except spite in your words. I have not…"
"Enjolras, that leads us nowhere. Grantaire – same words. But with more vehemence." Courfeyrac kept his voice light, but the attempt to stop the escalation before it went too far was actually quite desperate. Unfortunately it was the best opportunity he had. Predictably, Enjolras' head whipped around to him and Courfeyrac found himself subject to the same angry glare that had just been directed at Grantaire, yet, while this was no easy feat, he withstood the gaze with the experience of years. Grantaire, snorting in anger, fell mercifully silent. "I'm not sure", he continued, "that this is the place and time to have that discussion. Actually we have no idea yet what is going on with Joseph Sicar – although if Armand was correct, it's certainly worth a question – and we shouldn't jump to conclusions."
"Neither of us", Combeferre added, with a warning look in Grantaire's direction, but the drunkard only snorted and averted his gaze. "Which is why – again – we have to find out more."
"One question remains, though." Enjolras had demonstratively turned his back to Grantaire while the man was reaching for a bottle – the first of the morning – and was now focusing Lamarin again, the anger suppressed, but not vanished. "Why are you coming to us and not to Jacques? He should enjoy hearing this about his rival."
"Possibly", Marc Lamarin answered with a shrug, and for a moment, he looked like a young boy again, holding a grudge. "But he's too occupied with being angry at me."
Courfeyrac frowned. "At you!" he exclaimed, exasperated. It was indeed difficult to imagine fury being directed to the agreeable being that was Marc Lamarin. "Whatever for?"
Another shrug was the answer before Lamarin continued.
"I wish I knew. What he was implying was that I had tried to acquire a position of authority inside the Cougourde, exploiting his current weakness." He shook his head at the thought, but before he could continue, Enjolras exploded.
"He can't be serious about that!"
The fact only that he had taken up Lamarin's suspicion immediately told Courfeyrac, that he indeed thought this possible, despite his disbelieving words.
Courfeyrac knew little of the Cougourde; his dealings with them had been few and far between, but Enjolras had spent some time with them, and if he thought Jacques de Morier's reaction within the realm of the possible, Courfeyrac was inclined to believe him.
And that did not exactly paint a pretty picture.
Enjolras meanwhile had pushed back his chair and gotten up, taken to furiously pacing in the room.
"This is preposterous", he murmured, "and comes at the most inconvenient time. Ambition, greed, as if we had time for these foolish notions right now."
He hesitated in his stride, thought for a moment, and then turned back again to the assembly before him.
"All right", he said. "That settles it then." And he galvanized into action and planning, from one second to the next without apparent transition.
"Combeferre, Marius. You are of us those who have most been in contact with Le Globe. Go to their headquarters and try to calm down the uproar that must be going on there if that latest newspaper edition is any inclination. Be sure that they stay out of the direct line of fire at least until everything has settled a bit. Courfeyrac, Lamarin. You're coming with me."
"Gladly", Courfeyrac replied with grandeur. "Where are we going?"
"To the Necker. We will talk some sense into Jacques de Morier. This cannot be allowed to continue. It's jeopardizing everything we are currently planning and fighting for. It needs to be stopped. Now. Bahorel, can I ask you to stay here and remain a point of contact for those that are not there yet?"
The dandy made a face.
"And miss out on your discussion with Jacques?" He barked a laugh. "That will not happen. Luison can stay point of contact just as well, don't you think? We're coming with you to see that, eh Grantaire?"
"It is certainly not the purpose to have a spectacle, Bahorel." Enjolras' voice was biting, but Grantaire laughed at his words.
"Ah yeah, that will be glorious", he chuckled. "Apollo and Thanatos. It will be a sight to see."
The discussion was rapidly spiraling downwards, and Courfeyrac exchanged a quick glance, slightly helpless, with Combeferre, who shrugged and ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to clear his thoughts.
"The valid point of Bahorel's proposal may be", Combeferre finally intercepted before Enjolras could again flare up at any of the two, "that this goes, as you correctly pointed out, beyond a discussion between you and Jacques de Morier. Apart from the fact, that Jacques may have been slightly incautious in his statements towards Marc Lamarin, there is also the matter of Joseph Sicar. If what Lamarin tells us it is true, we may be looking at more than just an outburst of personal interests there, Enjolras. If supporters of Joseph are there, and our worst suspicions come true, we may be looking at the face of the enemy. I would really feel calmer in going to Le Globe – where I will be among friends; incautious friends maybe, but friends – if I knew you were going to meet Jacques in greater numbers."
Courfeyrac would have cheered for Combeferre's words, had that not spoiled the effect of them. He was not certain how much of them were said to ease the tension that had sprung up in the room, and how much because he believed in them, but normally, with Combeferre, one went with the other, and so Courfeyrac just nodded.
"He's actually right, Enjolras", he added more weight to the statement, and the fact, that Enjolras was pressing his lips together in anger made clear, that he saw both the reason behind Combeferre's words and the second intention. However, he did not argue. The warning look he gave to both Bahorel and Grantaire on the other hand was unambiguous.
Before things could take a turn for the worse again, Courfeyrac pushed himself to his feet with vehemence.
"All right", he said, seeing that most of those that had assembled around the table, followed suit. "Let's go then."
Over the course of the last year, Joly had become an expert in the judgment of the small signs and portents that heralded the shifts and glitters of the moods that were so intrinsic to the elusive being that was Musichetta.
Her voice, being the opera singer she was, was a tool of a special kind, reflecting and illustrating her moods like her face never did. It reached into the warm, soothing lows of content, a vibration that was almost a purr, a tone reserved for lazy mornings and rare moments of calm. The breathtaking heights were for the reprimands, the sudden flashes of anger that would wash over him unexpectedly, irritation called forth by a wrong word, a wrong movement, a wrong flash of light.
She was in the middle ranges, though, as she opened the door to them in the beginning of the afternoon, with only the slightest hint of a pitch, and that was as good a sign as he would probably get.
She was not prepared for the evening yet, wearing a reddish dress of simple cut and good fabric, her dark hair curled and pinned up, not in the elaborate style she would apply on stage, but in a rather simple bun. Her dark eyes under long lashes were sparkling already.
"My two favorite men in the world." She was capable of saying such things without a second thought, Joly mused, not knowing what it did, and the smile accompanying it was a weapon in itself. "An honor, as always."
She allowed them to enter, in such a different gesture than the morning before, when she had quickly cut them off at the door – complying with the request of lending a dress of hers to Madame de Cambout, but openly showing her discontent with high trills.
Her apartment was a tidy affair, slightly shabby, but carefully arranged, with delicate, beautiful furniture that had – as Joly knew – been gifts of some of her patrons.
Of which she had many. Alas.
This day, however, she was on her own, and offered them a seat at the table in the middle of the room, placed on a carpet of bright colors, while she rummaged through the contents of the two baskets. Joly recognized Le mariage de Figaro in her voice and could not help smiling.
Musichetta in a good mood was a beautiful thing.
Bossuet, sitting at the head of the table, and within his peripheral vision, gave him an encouraging twinkle, and Joly felt some of the tension of the last days drop away in a moment's breath.
"So, I hope I could be of use to that good lady of yours?"
"Madame de Cambout?" Bossuet sighed. "Ah yes, as much as can be expected for the moment, I am afraid. She is holding up admirably, but the circumstances are dire, I can imagine."
Something crossed Musichetta's face that Joly found hard to place. Sympathy? Sadness?
"It's never easy, is it?" she said, her voice slightly subdued, high pitches exchanged for the warmer tones of a mezzo. A frown had found its way on her face, as if some deep thought were bothering her thoroughly. "Not if she is on her own now."
"She has her family", Joly, said as calmly as possible, as Musichetta found her way back to the table to have a seat and distribute the cut Kougelhoupf, that Madame de Cambout had supplied. He wondered what they were actually talking about. There was never just a single line of thought with Musichetta. "And she is not friendless."
"Well, there's that…"
She appeared thoughtful as she picked at her slice of the cake with nimble fingers, and he wondered what was going through her mind, when she shook it off with a shrug and the smile shone again on her features as she looked to the cake. "Good to know then. If this is the result of me being of assistance, she is welcome to my wardrobe any time."
Bossuet laughed.
"We will tell her that", he replied. "I'm sure she will appreciate it."
"I hope so", Musichetta answered and began to eat the piece of cake in earnest, while following her train of thought. "So, tell me, what is behind this whole story?"
Joly told her of the main events – smoothing over the more sordid and dangerous parts, of course, that she had no business or inclination knowing. Like this, he absently remarked, it almost sounded like an adventurous tale, exciting and heady. Romantic, Jehan would have said, but only as long as one did not remember the dead look in Madame de Cambout's eyes, the almost catatonic fear of Marc Lamarin or the feeling of dread that now gripped them every time they turned around a darker corner, as much as they had tried to fight it.
Joly had always known that battles would come. The knife in the dark, however, was a much more difficult enemy to stomach.
Musichetta, being who she was, took up both what he said and what he did not say and made a face, looking at Bossuet and Joly in turns.
"You will promise me to watch out for those knifes, will you?" she asked and Joly was warmed by the concern in her voice and gaze. Low tones. Almost like in the mornings.
He barely refrained from closing his eyes.
"We will do our best, Mademoiselle", Bossuet stepped in with ease and grandeur, with a smile and a twinkle, and a casual wave of his hand. "Knowing my luck, though…"
She laughed.
"Knowing your luck, you will be the man to find one of those assassins, and likewise knowing your luck someone would step in and take him out for you, so you would not even get the praise for it."
"Ah yes", Bossuet replied, with a heavy sigh. "That would be gruesome indeed."
"I have a feeling you would live", Musichetta gave back again, her piece of cake vanished now while Bossuet was still holding his in his hands and Joly's lay untouched before him.
"That's encouraging, then", Bossuet answered with a bow, that looked slightly ridiculous, given the fact that he was sitting. "Your faith in me is inspiring."
She answered with a laugh, but as it faded she placed her chin on her folded hands and looked at the two in turn.
"You will watch out a bit on yourselves for me, will you?"
Her tone was light – mezzo again, no heights, no lows, the middle ground of an even mood. But something in her eyes put Joly on edge, and he reached for his cane, unconsciously, turning it in his hands under her scrutiny.
"We will as far as we can, Musichetta." And then, with a smile, he dared a step further. "I will."
"Good", she answered, and held his gaze for a second, before she turned away again. "Anything else would be really a shame."