A/N: I somewhat have to apologize to frustratedstudent... some of the motives in here are similar to something she has been using before...
I hope it is not too close to home, though.
Also, thank you all for your patience and kind words.
This one again goes out to my uncle.
May you rest in peace...
Chapter 68: We didn't start the fire
" And I hear sounds. The sounds of billions of people calling your name." - "My followers?" - "Your victims."
The heart of Paris was beating faster.
Monsieur Ultime Fauchelevent, once Monsieur Madeleine, once Jean Valjean plain and simple, hurried through the streets of a city he thought he knew to find it changed.
When had this happened?
When had this unrest, this unease, akin to the boiling during the last months of the reign of Charles X, this general notion of anticipation, gripped the city again?
When had the city, numbed and satisfied by the partial success of the trois jours glorieuses, woken up again and remembered that they had, in the end, not achieved what they wanted?
It had happened when he had not been looking. It had happened, when he had hidden.
This had all been good and well as long as they had shared their own, small, private world, Cosette and him, a world where the influences of the city were unwanted. But that was when Cosette had been a child.
Be it the curse of Marius Pontmercy, the young man that had inevitably stolen his daughter's heart away, be it just the normal course of time passing, a girl becoming a woman - isolation was not an option any more. Cosette had broken the seals of her cage on her own, without any help, and was now soaring, a free little bird somewhere in this city full of cats.
With everything that was in him, Jean Valjean prayed for her safety.
She had left no directions as to where she would go, except that she wanted to try to find Pontmercy, but if she had been vague, Valjean had next to nothing to lead him on.
Naturally, he had started at the Jardin du Luxembourg, the one place he knew the student frequented, but not only had there been no trace for either of them, but the gardens had been deserted, almost frighteningly bereft of the life they usually harboured.
The few wanderers between hedges and lawns had seen no trace of Cosette or her beau, and so Valjean had then turned to the next best idea and, instead, directed his steps to the Latin quarter where so many students would be located.
And here, the excitement was more tangible then somewhere else. He was nearing its source, for certain, in the feverish activity that seemed to have gripped a huge part of the populace that was, ultimately, streaming towards a single place.
It was a young student who finally told him. The Cemetery of Montparnasse. The funeral of two students that had died during the previous days. Valjean did not learn of what, but this seemed to be of minor importance. What was important was that the blame was placed, justly or unjustly, on the government, and this was being seen as an action requiring a strong, firm answer.
The source of the brewing unrest.
Had he been free in his decision, he would have stayed as far as possible from this conundrum, would have tried to weather the storm the best he could, but this decision had been taken from him by the rash actions of the girl – no – woman, that he considered his protégé. His daughter, to the world at least, although he knew only too well that this bliss was only borrowed and that one day he would have outrun his use and slink back into the darkness of his life.
Cosette had forced him out of the solitude, out of hiding, and unlike him, she might not have the sense to stay away from the impending manifestation.
Quite to the contrary. She was looking for Marius, and if she had not found him yet, this would be where he would certainly be. And as rash as Cosette was, she still would have been able to figure this out.
And hence, Jean Valjean had no other choice but to walk to the cemetery as well. Unease was crawling under his skin, the urge to flee almost overwhelming.
But this was Cosette. He had no choice.
She was all he had.
They approached the cemetery, the crowd thickening until at last they found themselves in a dense group of people moving into the same general direction. Like a river flowing lazily, the mourners turned their steps towards the cemetery of Montparnasse. The slow, determined trot reminded Adelaide of the calm energy that she had known from the silent, sad determination of the assemblies on the plantations of her childhood, where slaves had grouped to celebrate or mourn one of their own. Like then, sadness and a strange kind of grim joy seemed to mix to form a peculiar kind of mood.
Looking around, she realized that the crowd mostly consisted of people their age, most of them fairly well dressed. Young men, students, presumably.
Not surprising, if one considered whom they were mourning today.
Adelaide threw a quick glance to her unbidden companion and found the blonde girl paler than what she suspected was usual, the rosy color of her cheeks drained as her eyes wandered around, worried and clearly uncomfortable. A small frown on her face, however, and the tight pressing of her lips as well as the fact that she had neither fallen back nor drawn closer to Adelaide showed her that the girl had not yet given in.
Sheltered, Adelaide concluded, slightly amused. But a girl with spirit. At least, Marius Pontmercy had not fallen for a mouse.
The show of courage made her turn her head fully to address Cosette briefly.
"Are you alright?"
The girl nodded, taking a deep, rallying breath.
"It is a bit overwhelming", she confessed. "But yes. I am alright."
Adelaide nodded, bringing her basket closer to her body. Unlike Cosette she had had her share of thick crowds, brawls and close situations, but she did not like it any more than the other woman apparently did. The crowd was closing in, and an assembly such as this usually attracted all sorts of characters, some of which would not be beneath trying to tear the basket out of her hands. To see that it contained only torn dresses would be a disappointment for a thief – but by then it would be too late for her as well.
But Adelaide had not lived in Paris for years for nothing and kept a watchful eye on the crowd.
"Stick with me then", she offered off-handedly, taking a step closer to Cosette, so that the assembling people would not be able to separate them again. "This will only get worse."
And it did.
Passing through the gates of the cemetery, Cosette and Adelaide saw that the gravel pathways spreading out between the graves were lined with people. The pattern was still emerging, but Adelaide realized that it was a guard of honor forming, people side by side, line after line, a grim, proud, angry crowd.
Here and there, further into the premises, she could hear voices and shouts, speeches being given, shouts tearing over the usually solemn grounds. There were cries raised to the skies, in anger, in despair, cries to assemble and fight, words of rage and words of fury.
"Let's go to the sidelines", Adelaide counseled and slipped between two students engaged in a heated debate, out of the corner of her eye seeing how Cosette followed her. "I know you're looking for Marius, but this here may end badly. Best to bring a bit of distance between us and the center of attention."
The task was easier spoken than accomplished, for the crowd had already thickened to a point where the opening of a pathway is no longer the decision of an individual alone, but Adelaide was quick an nimble, and as it turned out, so was Cosette. They pushed their way past leather jackets and sleeveshirts, through clouds of sweat and the stink of spirits, through the noise of heated words and angry shouts.
Finally, they reached the outskirts of the assembly, farther away from the main road on which the arrival of the coffins were to be expected. Breathing was easier here, and the threat of being crushed felt diminished, but now any possible view to what was happening in front was obscured by rows and rows of backs, pushing closer to get a better view.
Adelaide clicked her tongue in dissatisfaction an let her gaze wander in the futile hope of spying a well-known head; probably one of the taller Amis such as Combeferre or Enjolras, or Ruben Aloice, part time right hand to Charles Jeanne, but of course, none of them were easily spied from their vintage point.
"Adelaide?"
She turned around to her companion and found that Cosette had done some exploring on her own. She pointed to where, against the cemetery wall, a long row of mausoleums stood like silent watchmen, memories of the wealther citizens of Paris, that had gone to dirt and dust like the rest of them. A couple of students had seized the opportunity and climbed onto the roofs to get a better view, but unlike the places closer to the main road, there seemed to be some space left on these vintage points.
In the gap between two of the mausoleums, she even saw a ladder.
Adelaide felt a small smile creeping onto her features as she nodded towards Cosette.
"Good thinking", she praised, almost surprised.
Sheltered. But definitely not stupid.
"With all due respect, little lady…"
There was something to Bahorel's voice that Eponine distinctively did not like. She was not sure if it was the address itself or the tone in which it was delivered, somewhat parental, but as a whole she did not care.
"Are you sure you want to be here…?"
"Don't, Bahorel." Enjolras' voice was off-handed, and he was clearly concentrated on something else, using his supreme height to try and spy familiar faces in the crowd. Somehow he managed to sound just as reprimanding, and Eponine felt a quick, guilty flash of satisfaction. "I wouldn't try."
Bahorel shot a quick look, first to their leader, then over to Eponine, but apparently he was as aware as the others that this was probably neither the time nor the appropriate place to lead that kind of discussion, and so he simply shrugged.
"If you think so", he commented and Eponine decided to le the matter pass for piece's sake, if nothing else. That was certainly a quarrel for another day.
The cemetery had already been crowded and loud when they arrived, and the cacophony of voices had only increased since then. There was an excitement hanging in the air that fuelled her worry deeply.
Growing up in the streets of Paris as she had, Eponine had quickly learned to judge the mood of crowds, and this one was explosive enough to usually send her bolting. The old Eponine, at least.
Freedom, the company of the students, the hope for a better time, obviously came with a price and it was time she started paying.
"Not sure if you should give a speech here", she muttered to Enjolras under her breath, leaning over to him so that the advice would not reach any other ear. He nodded briefly.
"You may be right", he concurred, a little louder. "Goudin is already making the most of it, as you can see."
He made a quick motion towards where two students had lifted a third one – a pale, whispy fellow that Eponine had seen at the assemblies as the comrade of Ramon Deleric – who was speaking to anyone who would hear. The wind carried only snippets of his words to them over the noise, not enough to make out the connection between them, but his voice, at least, was strong. A group had assembled around him, listening, interrupting him with angry shouts every now and then.
"Goudin is preaching", Bahorel snorted, almost derisively. "Practising for the pulpit. Learning the good shepherd ways of lulling his sheep."
"I'm not sure that I would describe what he does as "lulling"", Enjolras answered. "Also, I am not sure that the crowd needs any more peppering up."
"If you ask me, it's high time that someone starts paying for Corinthe", Bahorel growled. "And now's as good a time as any. If worst comes to worst, I'm ready."
Enjolras briefly closed his eyes, and in the minuscule turn toward Eponine, she realized that he was remembering her words.
"You may be, Bahorel, I don't doubt that. But as a whole, I think we are not. What we see here are students. Not the everyday workingman. Not the bourgeoisie. To win this battle, we need all of them, and I am not sure they will come. We cannot rely on them yet."
Bahorel shook his head, an angry frown appearing on his forehead.
"You're not making much sense to me, Enjolras. Have it your way, fine enough, who am I to doubt. But if someone hits me, I promise, I'll hit back. And that you can rely on." He turned on his heel and steered further down into the cemetery, disappearing in the swirling mass with angry, wide steps.
Enjolras' gaze followed him, a grim line set on his lips and Eponine felt a sinking in her stomach.
This was, indeed, not going well.
"What are you doing here, for heaven's sake?"
Hélène stared at Olinde Rodrigues, who stood stiffly in the entry to the small meeting room she had been led to again, almost incredulously. She had hardly been able to believe her ears when a guard had come to her – disgruntled – reporting that another visitor had reached the prison. With the funeral of Galois and Deleric and all its implications, she had not expected to see any of her friends or relatives today after her mother had left two hours ago.
Hélène, bored and nervous after the warnings of the previous night, had of course followed the guard. Too much had happened in the last days, and too little of it good. Expecting darker or sadder tidings, she had found instead the familiar shape of the mathematician, looking his usual stiff, serene self.
At her greeting he raised a brow.
"A good day to you as well, Madame de Cambout", he answered in all politeness and stepped closer, his walking cane clicking maddeningly on the floor. Hélène shook her head.
"Yes, of course, a good day, Monsieur. My apologies." She impatiently waved away the rules of politeness with a wink of her hand. "Is something the matter?"
"That depends", Olinde answered, and his eyes strayed to the door behind which – that much was certain – a guard would be keeping a watchful ear. From what Hélène had heard the privacy that was given to her by allowing her into a separate room with her visitor, with guards only on both doors, was a privilege attributed to her high status. But she would not be fooled into thinking that she was unwatched here, and neither, it seemed, was Olinde. "I thought it would be worthwile of paying you a visit."
"Much appreciated", Hélène answered, impatience rising by the second. "But – dare I ask – why are you not on the Montparnasse cemetery?"
Olinde gave a small, grim smile.
"Should I be?"
"It will be the news of the day", Hélène answered. "Of course you should. More eyes deliver a better account, of course. What, if not an account of whatever will happen at the funeral of Deleric and Galois should make up the front page of tomorrow's paper?"
"What indeed." Olinde stepped closer to her, and in the dim light of the cell she realized that while his tone was somewhat playful, his eyes were distinctively not.
Something was afoot. Hélène felt a cold shiver running down her back. She buried herself in thoughts of her paper because it was the best distraction from where she was, what she was facing and what had happened during the previous night. But the veneer was thin enough, and a simple statement would easily enough shatter her peace of mind.
"Combeferre, Marius and Chevalier are at Montparnasse", Olinde explained calmly, although Hélène's thoughts had already raised from one subject to another and the concern for the paper had diminished again in the light of her overall situation. "I expect a literaric account, an enthusiastic and a clear one."
Hélène uttered a small huff of a laugh despite herself. Olinde had a gift of setting people at ease – a trait he shared with his nowadays estranged friend Berthélemy Enfantin – that did not fail him even in the situation she found herself in.
"In the mean time, if all of these accounts do not satisfy, I would have a different proposal for tomorrow's headline and would like your opinion on it."
He produced a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her, withdrew likewise a pencil and handed it over to Hélène.
"I am sure you have comments", he remarked and an inviting gesture of his hand offered for Hélène to sit.
She unfolded the paper and found it filled with two paragraphs, a shorter one on the top and a longer one filling the bottom of the page, both in Enfantin's clear, regular writing.
As soon as the funeral draws all the attention, the first paragraph read, they will move against you, for all we know. However far the squabble will spread into the city, it will be sure it spreads to Saint Lazare. Something will happen to you during the chaos that will ensue; you may vanish, you may be hurt. Therefore I suggest we discuss the following article – at length, at true long length – for my presence may provide some protection not available to you before. Enfantin will come when everything is over.
She had never realized how silent the room was when no one spoke, how effectively the walls were sheltering her from all noise, be it from in- or outside. Her breathing cut the silence like a knife, and so did his.
Hélène swallowed hard, forcing down terror as she stared unseeingly at the second paragraph. She had made a number of enemies indeed, and now, at their mercy, she felt the terror of powerlessness acutely. She was thankful, of course, for the support of her colleagues, given for Alexandre's or even her own sake, but the news also brought into sharper relief how precarious her overall situation was.
She slowly raised her head to look at Olinde and he quickly pressed his lips together, eyes briefly darting to the door.
The message was clear.
The walls have eyes.
Hélène cleared her throat and tried to find her usual tone and wording again.
"This certainly needs some work", she answered with a fine, brave smile that she forced on her lips despite her pounding heart. "A raw diamond, if you will forgive me for saying so. I wonder the guards did let you even pass with wordings so incautious as these."
A careful, veiled question, but she would not need to worry. Olinde understood. He shrugged with an amused smile.
"People seem to have realized that it is commonplace for your friends to bring pages and pages of bad prose for you to polish. I suspect they will just wait for the final text in the paper."
"Then let's get to work then, shall we?" Hélène answered, trying to sound heartening and practical when all she wanted for a brief, selfish moment was to curl up in Alexandre's arms and be lost to the world.
Alexandre, though, was dead. And she was alone.
Olinde, understanding, nodded.
"Well then, Madame. Do your worst."
Calm and firm.
Gisquet's words stil rang through his mind as he reached the cemetery, the comforting steps of his men behind him. The message had been clear.
Determined and strong. The first bullet will not be ours.
That was said easily enough. But as they neared the cemetery, Javert could clearly discern the riot, the ruckus called forward by creatures without morals and restraints. A generation of golden boys, and yet, there was no honor in the noble heritage of their parents, all of them seemed all too ready to throw it away on a whim.
"What a waste", he muttered grimly, and Aviolet next to him nodded grimly. The Captain of the National Guard was formally in charge of the squadron they were leading towards the cemetery, but Gisquet had made it clear that Javert was his personal charge d'affaires, and hence somewhat inofficially in control.
It was a mixed blessing, of course, but Javert had never shied away from responsibility and did not do so now.
They had waited at the hospital where a crowd of mourners already had assembled to receive the dead with great exclamations of sorrow and anger, and accompanied the funeral cortege just up to the cemetery.
Javert had mixed feelings about the dead.
Evariste Galois was, without doubt, a young troublemaker without any inclination of what was good for him, and the manner of his death far less mysterious than his avid followers would make it.
A young man with a blood too hot for his own good, a woman, an insult, quickly spoken words, a duel at dawn, a quick shot and a quick death. That was all there was to it. No conspiracy, no fault to be found except in the fact that youth bred the stupidest of follies and he was just another example of it.
With Ramon Deleric, the situation was not quite as clear cut.
A rebel. A troublemaker.
But the explosion in the Corinthe had not been done by the revolutionaries' hand, and yet it had been a crime in its own right.
Javert would have gladly seen Ramon Deleric tried and beheaded for treason, but this coward's way of disposing of the students was no less despicable than their original deed.
And yet, it only served to fuel the fire.
Enjolras' remorse at the sight of the crime had been honest – Javert knew enough of the man to be certain that he would have received at least a brand of honesty if he had known of the attack. And if the leader had not known, how could it have been a ploy as Gisquet had said when Javert had mentioned the issue to him?
Yet, there was no time for such thoughts. He was on a mission, tasked with keeping the peace if it could be kept, and giving a sign if it couldn't. The squadron of the National Guard at his side was fully armed and well commanded; they would not hesitate to do what was necessary.
And that was a comforting thing after all.
The reception they encountered at the cemetery of Montparnasse was a mixed one. Remorse at the sight of the coffins, laden on two wagons covered in black linen, went through the crowd like a wave. He saw tears in more than a few eyes, most prominently in that of a young woman, who, standing at the entry of the cemetery, broke out into a great wailing as soon as the coffins arrived. She took a few steps towards it but found herself chased away by who Javert knew to be the parents of Ramon Deleric, with angry words and even a curse.
Cries to god, to the sky, to the deceased filled the air, the usual cacophony of a funeral, remorse and despair forming a living, breathing body of a kind.
No one liked the memory of an end.
But there was more to it than just friends mourning a friend, of course. Below all the sadness and all the tears, there was fury. And it was vividly expressed as well.
Javert found himself showered in the usual derision, peppered with a few insults, but he was a stronger man than that and could not be touched by those words. He kept his stride and moved on, following the priest who had read the funeral mass and would now conclude by speaking the final benediction onto the grave of the deceased. The man found his way through the cemetery steadily, familiar grounds seemingly made him oblivious to the witches' cauldron that he had just stepped in.
Javert, on the other hand, walking through the guard of honor that the students had formed, acutely felt the hostile gazes upon him. The dynamics of a crowd was dangerous, a powder keg waiting for the final spark.
He doubted the day would end as peaceful as it had begun.
"Two thousand, at least", Aviolet at his side murmured, and looking towards him out of the corner of his eye, Javert could see that the Captain was slightly pale himself, his hands curling into fists at his side, belying the man's tension. He was old enough to be experienced, yet Javert could understand the unease all too well.
"Steady", he answered. "Few of them will be armed, and fewer still willing to carry their violence beyond the scope of angry words."
"Your word in god's ear." Aviolet's gaze wandered around the place wakefully, the military man estimating the situation. "I've fought during the Glorieuses, albeit on the other side. This is eerily familiar."
Javert decided not to comment that Gisquet had apparently decided to pair him up with a former revolutionary and restricted his comment to a small snort and a shake of his head. There was a certain sense in Gisquet's appointment. Aviolet seemed to understand the situation only too well.
"What do you suggest?" he asked and Aviolet shrugged.
"That depends on what we intend to achieve. With all due respect, I would appreciate to know the directive you have been given by the Prefect. Do we want this to be a quiet assembly that will disband after the corpses have been laid to rest, or do we intend to open this like a blister, to be able to let the pus flow?"
"What sort of prefect would wish fighting in his city, no matter what the cause?" Javert gave back sharply, and all the more sharply since his words lacked some conviction. Aviolet nodded.
"All right", he answered. "So we keep our hands off our weapons and try not to provoke."
Javert nodded, and in silence they continued down the gravel path deeper into the cemetery.
Even if the priest had not known his way so well it would have been impossible to miss. For one, the cemetery of Montparnasse was lined in orderly checkers, which eased orientation considerably. And second, the honor guard that had been formed extended quite up until where two holes had been dug in the ground, not side by side, but not far away from each other either.
Looking back, Javert realized that the people they had passed had dissolved their guard of honor and followed the coffin to the grave, and he was acutely aware of how little route to escape they would have in case of emergency.
Not a comfortable situation on the whole.
The crowd grew silent as finally the coffins were placed next to the grave of Ramon Deleric, and the priest began his speech of ashes and dust, his voice carrying wide into the suddenly emerging silence.
The angry shouts gone, for a moment he could hear the sniffling of the mourners, quiet whispers as one turned to the other in search of comfort or support.
And then he heard it. A word, wandering through the crowd like a wind would whisper through the wind. It took a few voices only to start it, but the whisper grew, not necessary in volume, but certainly in intensity, until everywhere around him, it could be heard, like a ghost wandering from here to there.
Murderers…
Murderers…
Unrest gripped the crowd again, as some tried to silence the whisperers, others took up the shouts to add accusations on their own, discussions emerged and the mood caught fire. Javert stepped back involuntarily, and immediately chastised himself silently for it. He must stay firm and not waver, and so he squared his back and stood his ground.
"Ashes to ashes…", continued the priest, intent on his ritual,oblivious to everything else, as he stepped aside to allow the first coffin to be laid to rest, and this was when a voice from deeper within the crowd took up the chant in a mockery of the original prayer.
"Dust to dust", the voice cried, and then there was the clear, brutal, merciless ringing of a shot. Javert wasted no time to see who had been hit – it had not been him and that was enough for the moment – but instead frantically searched for the source of voice and shot and caught a glimpse of a young, pale man with dark hair and a black jacket, but he was gone, vanished from his sight before he could discern anything more.
For at the same time, almost at least, two other shots rang, and now he did turn to realize who had been hit and saw that the Captain at his side was no longer standing.
Aviolet had sunken down, blood pooling at his feet.
So had a student, close to the coffin, with pale, white, whispy hair.
And the mother of Ramon Deleric.
And then, all hell broke loose.