A/N: Here's the next one.

Thanks to frustratedstudent for some notes on anxiety disorder - it was well needed in that chapter.

Some things are revealed in this chapter... I hope you enjoy it :-)

As always, I very much appreciate your comments - thanks to all of you who read and reviewed and whatever.

And now...

Chapter 50: Devil in disguise

"Let me pass on to you the one thing I've learned about this place: No one here is exactly what he appears."

"A gypsy?"

Xavier Chevroux retrieved a small helping from the snuff box and took a deep, noisy breath as he imbibed the tobacco. His otherwise white mustache was yellow around his nostrils, speaking of the fact that this was by no means his first dose of the day.

As if further proof of his habit was needed, the fingers, with which he wiped over his nose absent-mindedly, were yellowish as well, and gnarled with the passing of many years.

In the Préfécture, they said that Chevroux was ageless. He had seen régimes come and go and survived them all, served kings and emperors and parliaments, and had remained what he was – an investigator of crimes – simply because he was unrivaled in his competence.

And maybe, because he knew everyone's secrets and shortcomings, of course.

If there was seniority to be had amongst the experienced inspectors that served the Paris municipal authority directly, Chevroux would be it, and while the old man was sly as a fox, he was also loyal to the police and, on the whole, a reliable institution.

"There's hundreds of them in Paris", Chevroux continued when he had finished enjoying the snuff, voice slightly muffled behind his hand. "You will have to be more specific."

Javert took a deep breath.

"The one I am looking for is harder to find than the occasional gypsy family."

Chevroux snorted.

"I would have expected so. I didn't take you for a man who comes whining at the slightest difficulty."

The words were grating, but Javert knew there was little that he could do. Somewhere along the line of his work, Chevroux had discovered the secret of immortality, and if someone could find the mysterious Roussata family members, it was certainly Chevroux.

Or a gypsy.

Who would be much less cooperative.

Javert knew enough of the people of his mother to know how little threats could mean to them as long as they were protecting their own. And to most of them, however the Roussatas had overstepped the secret boundaries of the Roma society, they were still Roma, and hence still of their kind.

They might shun them amongst themselves, but against a common outer threat, there was no telling what would happen.

This was why Javert had ended up asking Chevroux instead.

"I don't", he answered to the older man's long gone teasing. "The man I am looking for has tried to leave behind what he was born as."

Chevroux raised both brows, as his yellowish fingers fiddled for a pipe that was hanging on a stand on his left and began to stuff it methodically.

"Look in the mirror", he advised mischievously, and, after a split second of confusion, Javert felt his blood go cold.

He knows; he realized, and the revelation came as a cold, cold shock. He knew who Javert was, that well-kept, dark secret in his heart. But of course he did.

Chevroux was the spider in the web. And he was still where he was, because many were caught, such as Javert obviously was. The older inspector was only very gently letting him know.

It would not come to that, Javert swore to himself. If pressed, he would not be threatened, not be bribed. If the world where to learn where he came from, what wickedness had shadowed his youth, then so be it.

He would not dangle like a puppet on another's string.

Chevroux cackled in amusement.

"But I guess that's not what you mean. So, son. How about some more specifics?"

Javert sighed.

"There's little more I know I am afraid. The man is supposed to be in Paris – presumably in the underworld – for quite a long while now, but denying his heritage. Apparently, his looks do not betray the gypsy."

Chevroux lit a match and began taking a deep breath from the pipe. A rich, musky scent began to fill the room with its heavy flavor. He watched the swirling smoke through half closed eyes, apparently lost in thought, and when he began to speak, it was abrupt.

"I guess this relates to the cases in Issy."

Javert did not respond, but he felt apprehension creeping in unbidden. The old man did not ask this question for nothing, and he was painfully aware that in pursuing this case, he was going against the explicit demands of his superior officer.

A world in shades of grey; again.

"Ah, don't answer", Chevroux continued, when Javert was not forthcoming. "I don't need it anyway. I'll give you a piece of advice on that." He turned towards Javert, watching him through the smoke of his pipe, large, watery, blue eyes under bushy white eyebrows. "That's a hornet's nest you are going into. Are you sure you want that?"

Javert, not in the habit of stepping back from decisions once taken gave a single, terse nod.

"You are right that something is strange about the way this is treated currently. But…"

He pointed with his pipe towards Javert.

"Here's the secret to peace of mind. Do know when to stop."

Javert shook his head slowly, but surely, stubborn, certain and set in his ways.

"Peace of mind, with all due respect, is irrelevant. How can I have peace of mind as long as there are criminals going free? As long as there is no justice given?"

Chevroux took another deep breath from his pipe.

"Ah, but what is justice? What is the law? What if one law says one thing and another one says something different?"

Again, Javert felt the cold creeping up his back. Chevroux, with all the liberty of old age, gave voice to thoughts that he had barely allowed himself to think. It was disquieting to see that his intuition had been right. Something was very, very wrong with respect to the attacks on the students, and the last night – as much as he regretted having to concur with Enjolras on anything – had only made things worse.

The Préfecture was doing their best in trying not to investigate the incidents below the most obvious level. They had assigned the case to Vrere, who, according to Javert's personal opinion, did have the wit of a common wheat field, and nothing would come of it.

Yet, Javert had made a decision, and followed a path.

"Tell me what you know."

"About Issy nothing." Chevroux shook his head, white wisps of hair flying around his head. Unlike Javert, the much older man had not even begun yet to become bald. "Old age does not have the fervor and power that youth does. If you live to see as many days as I have, you will probably not find peace of mind quite as easily dismissed as today. I make it my business not to know anything about it."

"I see." Javert did not like the feeling of being patronized, but he was not certain that he was able to stop the man and in equal measures get the information that he was after. "The Roussata then."

"Hm", Chevroux said into his pipe, and his gaze went to the wisps of smoke again, following their path. "I seem to remember when their tribe first broke apart, long before the revolution." He grimaced. "It was ugly then, you know."

Javert tensed.

"What happened?"

Chevroux shrugged.

"How would I know? Gypsy squabbles. You're much better equipped to know that sort of thing, I tell you. But after the tribe broke, it was every man for himself." He grimaced. "Ah, bad times. Some of them tried to become respectable – some of them even succeeded, I would wager."

He shot another gaze to Javert, who returned it with as much stoicism as he could muster, refusing to be unsettled with sheer force of will.

"Some turned to crime naturally, some few seem to have found asylum within their community… parents in law and the like. Many are unaccounted for. Maybe dead. That time bred strange children."

He smoked for a while before they continued.

"There was a Roussata couple who tried to duck out of the squabbles of their family, if I remember correctly, and they didn't fare that badly for it. A seamstress and a copper smith, and they somehow managed to carve out quite the living, I have heard. Lived in the latin quarter and not badly at all. They had a son, you know? Clever lad, I've been told. Seems, as if that son was even sent to university at some point in time, married a girl about town. One would almost have thought him one of us."

He shrugged.

"But gypsies fight like little children, without sense and measure. I wouldn't know if we ever found out who killed his parents, but someone did, and that's when things began to go wrong."

"He turned to crime", Javert concluded, and Chevroux gave another shrug.

"He's a gypsy, what do you think?"

Javert gritted his teeth, but he knew that there was truth to that statement none the less.

"I see. So is he still in Paris?"

Chevroux nodded.

"Very much so."

Javert waited.

"Find Patron-Minette, and you will find him."

Now, he could not hide his surprise any more, and before he could stop it, he blurted out an exasperated and impolite "What?"

"I hear he goes by the name of Babet these days", Chevroux continued. "Maybe you know him."

And Javert nodded, thinking only of a cold prison building and a cell filled with criminals.

And the thought, how close to the source of the mystery he had been already, before it slipped through his fingers like water running down the Seine.

"A sou, Monsieur, for a starving family."

The same motions, the same familiarity. The same hard cobblestones, dusty and dirty, cool even in the heat that was lying on the city like a heavy blanket.

The same words. Again. And again. And again.

And in the void between the sounds, there was more than enough place for her thoughts and dreams.

The morning had been quiet and uneventful. She had woken to a moist, thick heat that crept into her bones, invited sloth and idleness and spoke of a storm brewing somewhere beyond the roofs and walls of this city.

Rain was not far away, Azelma knew with the certainty of one who had spent too much time outdoors, but for now the sky was blue, only veiled by a very thin curtain of white. The sun was burning on her shoulders, which were barely covered by the blouse she was wearing – a handdown from Éponine, of course, but her sister was taller than she was and the garment hung loose and baggy about her.

She had arrived here in the early morning. Her father, of course, had not thanked her for her behavior the day before, for her hectic flight and late return, and she had bruises to show for it.

Her shoulder hurt slightly, as she was bowing again at a passing bourgeois. Seeing the purple spot peeking through the collar of her blouse, her father had clapped her shoulder in almost appreciation.

"That'll bring some extra, I'd wager", he said, and it had improved his mood slightly, even though despite her promise, Éponine had not shown up for their meeting in the sewers.

Where her father had been angry, Azelma was worried, and coming here she had briefly considered if she should stop by the Bastille, where, according to Éponine, her little brother had taken up lodging in the tattered remains of the wooden elephant statue. Éponine would not be there, but maybe Gavroche would have been able to tell her of her whereabouts.

But daylight was bright, and she had not dared, in the end. Instead, she had moved to her usual spot in front of the Picpus gates and placed her voice with that of the others.

She had not gotten a space as good as a few days before, when she first had met… Jehan, but she hoped that he would find her none the less, when – no if – he came looking for her today.

That was the other reason for her early arrival at this place. Nothing about the hovel that her father had found for them – a half-burnt down house in the outskirts of Saint Germain – was even remotely homely, and the dull passivity of her mother and her father's rages were not welcoming either. But more than that, she had come here because she was afraid to miss him.

He had asked her where she could find him.

He had said he'd come.

So since the seven o'clock bell, Azelma had been sitting here, but very few visitors had entered the cemetery of Picpus yet. A few sisters from the hospital had passed her, giving the assembled beggars sorrowful looks, distributing a few coins here and there, but of course they were too many and Azelma was quickly shoved aside.

Hours went by, and while some part of her fled to dreams, and her body went through the motions, every now and then she looked around quickly, her gaze wandering over the place in search for the familiar figure, slightly unruly, dark hair, dark eyes, and that kind smile that had haunted her since the very first day.

He had seemed so sincere when they had sat on the banks of the Seine, talking, and Azelma could not remember someone being concerned, truly concerned about her since she left Montfermeil.

Of course, her sister had warned her to be wary of that sort of things. She was a girl, and she was no fool. Things happened to young girls on the streets of Paris, especially if they were too trusting.

But there was a sincerity about him that had her believe he meant what he said.

"A sou, for a starving girl", she cried again, hands stretched out in front of her, and then, it was as if she were back to the last time in the blinking of an eye.

She felt a coin being pressed into her fingers, not cold, but warm this time, and the fingers that closed hers around the precious booty did not move away immediately but lingered for the slightest of moments. A scent invaded her nostrils, clean, clear and full of summer, and from the corner of her eye she saw a dark green coat, lapels almost grazing the floor as he cowered in front of her.

"A franc for a moment of your time, mademoiselle", she heard his voice and could not help a smile of relief creeping onto her features. "And this against the hunger."

She lifted her gaze and was offered a clean linen cloth that upon closer inspection contained a brioche, warm, soft bread, still warm from the oven.

Her eyes widened for a moment. They had left all their supplies in the Gorbeau house and she had not had any breakfast yet, and it had been a while that she had had such fine food, even despite the treat she had bought from part of the five franks that Jehan had given to her the other day.

She quickly looked at him to discern if the bread was really all for her and found a worrying frown on his face that spoke of concern. Quickly, Azelma took the offer and got up, murmuring a thanks. She tried not to wolf down the brioche, but instead to take dainty fine bites as a lady would.

The bread almost melted on her tongue and she closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the taste.

"Are you well?"

Jehan had cocked his head slightly, those dark eyes of his intent on her, and she nodded quickly, tearing off another small piece of bread.

"It is very good", she said carefully.

That brought the smile back onto his face, and for a moment, he seemed almost self-conscious.

"I'm glad", he said and meant it. "Shall we?"

His inviting motion of hand was so very telling of his rich upbringing, and yet he offered the noble gesture to her without mockery or falseness. Azelma, surprised, nodded and followed him, as he led her to a more secluded part along the cemetery wall, where they would be able to talk without their words being overshadowed by the cries and wails of the beggars at the entry.

Releasing her as they reached their destination, he gave her a careful, but intent look, measuring her small form with a frown and, finally, stopping at the purple welt that was decorating her collar bone.

He pressed his lips together in anger, dark eyes suddenly burning, and Azelma, following a reflex, reached up to her shoulder to bring her blouse to cover the mark. But he shook his head, softly, and something within his face lost some of the tension it had retained.

"Not for me", he said softly and stilled her hand with a brief touch. "Need I ask?"

Azelma, knowing what he meant, shook her head. He had seen enough in the sewers to guess the rest of the story, and this would save her the pain of retelling the tale. He nodded in response, almost pensive, and mustered the welt again, in concern. He sounded somewhat stricken when he continued, his eyes narrowed as he followed his own thoughts.

"Was it because of me?"

Azelma hesitated. Yes, she thought, and then: No. Rather her father was how he was, and she was his daughter. This was enough of an explanation for the both of them, but Jehan misinterpreted her silence and took a deep, almost pained breath. He turned, abruptly, placing his forearms against the wall and his head upon them, dark hair falling over his closed lids as he pressed them together. His hands curled into fists and helplessly shook briefly, almost beating against the wall.

"I am… infinitely sorry, Azelma", he pressed out, opening his hands to place them flat against the wall. "I should not have left you there."

"No." The word was out before she could decide otherwise, pure impulse pushing it out. "It… it was not you. It was me."

He hesitated and slowly turned his head around to her, opening his eyes with a frown again.

"How on earth could this have been your fault?" he asked incredulously.

Azelma shrugged.

"I ran."

He turned away from the wall again to face her fully, but he did not continue to ask. Instead, he measured her again, wordlessly, waiting for her to continue.

"I…", she began again, searching for words that would clarify the matter to him. "I disobeyed."

"He had you scavenging corpses", Jehan gave back flatly. "In this case, disobedience is, at the very least, understandable. Or even necessary."

Azelma hesitated, moving her gaze to the cemetery wall. It was overgrown with moss and the stone showed rifts and signs of age, as if it had been constructed in a hurry, half a century back.

"That was not why I ran", she replied softly, feeling as if she had just left solid ground and was left with nothing but swirling water under her feet.

He answered with a sad smile.

"I know", was all that he said.

Silence settled in, and Azelma wondered if she should just hope that he had forgotten about the bruise, but there was something in her that enjoyed the concern, despite the shame, despite everything. For the brief moment that she thought about it, she wondered why this was. Upkeep of pretense had been one of the key goals of her, as well as of her sister, but something within Jean Prouvaire stripped her bare of all of these pretenses, layer by layer, to find what was lying underneath.

If anything was still there.

At least, she thought, he had not run yet.

"It does not hurt much", she said carefully. "It's not bad. I've had much worse."

"And that is supposed to calm me?" he asked softly, shaking his head in almost exasperation. His hand was worrying with the crumbling stone, and Azelma found the question jumping to her lips why he cared.

And yet, she was not sure whether she would bear the answer yet, and so she kept back the words, and Jehan continued to speak.

"Listen, Azelma." His dark eyes caught hers, and he was radiating sincerity at an almost frightening level. Azelma placed a hand against the wall to steady herself. "I… don't want to intrude on you but…", he shook his head and restarted, "I want you to know that, even…", but that beginning was likewise pushed away by an impatient, worrying wave of his hand, "I want you to know that you have a place to run to, if you need it."

She stared at him, barely blinking, but he did not avoid her gaze.

"Why?" she asked, and Jehan shook his head.

"Because…", he began, and then continued with an almost self-conscious smile. "Because I want to, Azelma."

But she was not so easily deflected.

"Why?" she asked again.

He hesitated for a moment, and Azelma saw – of all things – a blush creep onto his features, pale and delicate.

"Because I cannot forget you", he finally confided, almost against himself. "Because I would hate to see you in pain."

Azelma, not knowing what to respond, finished the rest of her brioche and gave back the cloth to Jehan instead of an answer.

"Thank you again", she offered, and he smiled in return, shyly, the smile she had already come to know of him.

It was a smile from another world, a world where it was not a deadly crime to be timid, and where dreams were pastimes and not something that would earn you a beating from a hard father's hand.

A smile from a world in which she would have found easier means of survival.

But she was who she was. Éponine and she had given up running years ago.

"They were killed by all sorts of things", Azelma changed the subject almost abruptly, for remembering who she was had reminded her that usefulness was one of the keys of survival. And she had promised him some information.

He seemed surprised at first, almost puzzled, but then he remembered what she had promised him and nodded.

"Such as…?" he carefully asked, obviously loathing the question, but Azelma was not squeamish when it came to the dead. None of them had ever hurt anyone, as far as she knew.

"Two with a pistol", she began. "Straight to the heart, so someone must have known what he did. The shirts smelled of powder, so the shots were really close."

She had looked at all the bodies diligently. Fulfilling her promise to him had almost brought her back to his side in dreams, while she was in the dark recesses of the sewers and the thought had been comforting indeed.

"A few with knifes. Usually the throat was cut, but there were two who had knife wounds all over."

Jehan had paled slightly, but he held his ground and nodded.

"The first was quick, at least", he said, his voice slightly rough. Azelma nodded in confirmation.

"Four have been strangled with a garotte", she continued, her fingers involuntarily mimicking the ring around the throat that such a device would form to steal the breath of a victim. Jehan, something indiscernible flashing through his eyes, pried her hands away carefully.

"Of a few of them I don't know how they died", she concluded with a shrug. The bodies had been either too decomposed or just not hurt in any way she could discern without attracting attention.

Jehan nodded slowly.

"I am infinitely thankful for this", he responded, his hand reaching out to her until, mid-movement, he decided otherwise. "I… should have never asked this of you."

Azelma shrugged in response.

"Why not?" she asked sincerely. "I was there. I could not avoid being there. I have eyes, Monsieur."

"Jehan." The answer came quick, and almost as a plea. "Please. Not Monsieur. Jehan."

Azelma hesitated for a moment, but there was a notion almost of a child in the way he held himself, not quite close to her, but as much turned towards her as he could.

"I have eyes, Jehan", she reiterated softly, and he smiled again, averting his gaze.

"I know."

He fell silent and Azelma studied him, a young, rich man, sure in his manners but timid all the same, beautiful and friendly and still here. She wondered what he saw in her and why he had followed her, first in the sewers, and now to here, and wondered why he had stayed after she had given him the answers she was looking for.

"What will you do now?" she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She was, to her own surprise, getting used to his presence in big steps. He was so very safe and easy to talk to.

He almost flinched and smiled ashamedly.

"Ah… well." He slipped his fingers into the pocket of his green coat and produced a sheet of paper, folded a few times, but the drawn lines on it were still very visible. "I'm here with a friend actually." He stepped up to her and pointed past her. "See that man who's talking to the grisette over there?"

Azelma followed his directions and saw another young man, well dressed, a black braid peeking out under a top-hat, and he was in heavy discussions with a young woman of lower birth, showing her a piece of paper that was similar to the one Jehan himself was carrying with him. He, unlike her companion, did not seem stricken with timidity. Quite to the contrary, his laugh could be heard even over the squabble of the beggars, and the grisette's eyes lit up as she laughed with him.

Azelma felt immediately scared.

"This is Bahorel", Jehan explained. "He's….", he seemed to fumble for words for a moment, before, with a smile, he settled for "… bold."

Azelma felt herself smiling again, almost laughing. The man in the distance had taken the grisette by her arm and together they strolled a bit further down the road, apparently lost in their conversation.

"And as always", Jehan continued with humor in her voice, "he strives to interrogate the most comely girls he can find. Today, however, I have stolen the best prize from him, it seems."

Azelma felt uneasiness creep upon her.

"You mock me", she answered softly, and could not fully keep the plea out of her voice.

"I don't", he gave back, carefully, as if he feared that she would bolt at his words. But after a moment's consideration – for retreat was indeed the first urge that gripped her – she decided to let his remark slip unresponded.

His presence was a beam of sunlight. She would not spoil it.

"What is the paper that you show around?" she asked instead, hoping to deflect his attention.

Jehan shuffled a bit uncertainly, but then he stepped closer to her and unfolded the paper.

"It is the portrait of a man who has tried to kill friends of ours. An associate has drawn him from descriptions, and we are showing the image around, hoping that someone knows him."

Azelma took the paper and examined it.

The face was distinctive, haggard, with deep, clear lines and a sharp nose, deep lying eyes. A man who could be thirty or fifty, the kind that hardly ages over a long, long span of time. Lean and slender, with hair close-cropped to his head.

A good drawing of an interesting face.

"I know him", she said, marveling at her ability to speak in his presence without fully thinking it through. Jehan, at her side, tensed immediately.

"You do? Who is it?"

Azelma verified the image again, but she was certain. The face was not remarkable in itself, but characteristic enough for recognition, and she had seen the man more than once.

"I don't know. But I have seen him often. Here. In Picpus."

Jehan involuntarily took a look around.

"Does he live here? Do you know where we can find him?"

Azelma shook her head.

"I don't know where he lives, but I think he'd come more often if he did. I've seen him probably once a week, sometimes less often. He seems to be friends with one of the Picpus brothers."

Jehan raised a brow.

"With a brother?"

"Yes", Azelma confirmed. "White beard, white hair. A very friendly man. He sometimes gives me money. He looks a bit like a good grandfather."

For a moment, Jehan fell silent. His gaze was burning her, and he clenched his fingers at his side.

"Frater Antoine?!"

Azelma shrugged. The name meant nothing to her.

"I don't know."

"Clear blue eyes, a slightly chubby nose? High cheekbones and a full beard, not just a mustache?"

Azelma nodded.

"I think that's him."

Jehan ran his fingers through his hair. His face had gone almost white, and Azelma frowned with worry.

"Oh my god", he whispered. "Of course. That makes sense. This… this is devious."

"What?" Azelma asked, now with growing concern, but he shook his head.

"No time now. I need to find out something. You wait here until I come back. Don't speak to them if they come by."

"But…", she began, yet he had already turned on his heel and headed off for the entry of the cemetery in full sprint, coat lapels flying behind him.

And she was left standing in the midday heat, wondering what had just happened…