Author's Note on argot... To be shorter than M. Hugo's version... Putain literally translates to "whore," but is used more as the Anglophone world uses any other "four letter word."

Hurry, she told herself, grabbing her clothes, hastily throwing them over her head and around her waist. Loose-fitting and free-moving, the chemise and skirt were certainly ideal for whoring, she laughed, recalling just how easily they proved to remove last night. After years of tailored corsets and petticoats, after only a couple days in that starched tight, uniform-like dress, these felt light as air, and as course as straw. They felt naked on her skin, even the loosely-laced and blindingly-scarlet corset that clung about her body. She only spared a second to examine her reflection in the mirror. No time for that! You're not fast enough, the Inspector's growling voice admonished her, flinging a slur of orders in her mind.

"Move out!" his voice echoed through her upper room, drifting from the ally way below her small, open window. For a second, Cécelie spun in place, thinking him at her door, screaming the order for her, and not just in her head. The clattering of firearms and clopping of hooves on cobblestone startled her. With a deep breath, she realized she was alone. Alone. Her eyes opened wide at her next thought.

Horses... firearms... marching... They were leaving. Without her.

"Putain," she cursed, grabbing the shabby red shall and scuffed brown clogs from her bed. If she ran, she could probably catch them. How hard could it be to follow in the wake of a platoon of gendarmes? Biting her lip, she flew to the door with one clog on, the other in her hand, trying to catch her bare foot midstride. With an exasperated cry, she tripped over her chair, which toppled and clattered to the floor. She flung herself on the handle, yanking its panels wide open and diving headlong into the hallway.

Into the hallway and crashing immediately into a body. Grabbing the banister, she muttered a reply as she pushed past the strange man, hardly bothering to notice him at all.

Suddenly, the man's fingers gripped around her wrist like a vice, snatching her from the rush of her haste. "Where do you think you're going?" a familiarly graveled voice demanded.

Arrested in his hard and fast grip, Cécelie scanned the stranger over. She barely recognized him apart from his brawny, sinewy size. The uniform, starched and pressed, had vanished. In its place, a sullied chemise and a tattered tweed coat hung over his frame. Around his neck, a wrinkled black silk tie circled awkwardly, its knot uneven and unkempt. His trousers were baggy and his boots cumbersome and thick. Dark hair flowed loose down his back, held at bay only by the common billed cap on his head. Through his disheveled disguise, only the piercing green of his eyes indicated the meticulous nature buried underneath. "Javert?" she quietly inquired, half unsure of herself.

"Inspector, still," he corrected harshly with a sneer, "We're not at the brothel yet, Rénauld." He began pulling her down the stairs after him, dragging her unceremoniously down each flight. "So, where were you hurrying off to?" he snarled over his shoulder, turning halfway around as they reached the ground, pausing just within the ally door.

Cécelie sniffed derision. "From my window, it sounded like you dismissed the officers." A sneer crept over her face in retaliation. "I did not want to offend you, Monsieur, by being left behind."

"How thoughtful of you," his steady reply caught her off guard, and so did his smile. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the key to the outer door. "Of course, I am clever enough not to transport my bait so heavily and conspicuously guarded through the polluted streets of Paris." He let out a single bark of a laugh, "Just how every whore goes to work, armed by a dozen police gendarmes."

With the metallic snap of the lock, the door opened, flooding and blinding Cécelie's eyes with bright daylight. She stumbled along her unseeing way, led mercilessly by Javert along the solitary ally to the Rue St. Martin. The horde of humanity walking every-which way down its cobblestone path soon swallowed them up, and Cécelie quickly remembered what it was like to move about outside of the prison cell, outside of the Préfecture. She hesitated but a second, overwhelmed by the flood of community, the parade of strange faces.

Javert's thick arm gripped tightly around her waist pulling her down the pavement and towards the gently sloping bridge arching over the Seine. His whiskers scratched against her cheek as he leaned into her ear. "Come on, girl," he spoke harshly for her ears alone, "Whores don't have time to gape at the world." He pinned her uncomfortably against the course fabric of his jacket, the tweed irritating, the facial hair abrading.

Grunting in discomfort, she struggled against him, to no success. She huffed, "Certainly no time what with over-amorous clients like you, Monsieur."

"Oh, I'm not your client," he laughed harshly, jerking her against his side again. "I prefer overseer... your manager even."

Cécelie groaned, burying her face into the palm of her hand. "My pimp," she sneered back at the only too satisfied smirk on his face.

Javert shrugged, a humored callousness in his voice, "Well, if you wish to use the argot for it... then yes."

For minutes, they walked along the Rue on in silence, untouched, unbothered by the mass of Parisians. This was a class Cécelie was all too familiar with, that she had been raised in, that she had been married into. The up-turned noses, the prim lips, the turned out toes, the swirling skirts... Even the scornful stares of the upper class were nothing shocking to her anymore. Not one of lace-covered, clean-shaven lot spoke a word to them, giving the obvious whore and her master a wide berth.

Passing street corner after street corner, the amount of silks and corsets diminished, and with them their isolation.

Turning around a corner, Javert began leading her through a tightly packed market square, the fruits and meats overly ripe and overly pungent. Strange men and women jostled her about, this way and that, but Javert's grip never once slipped. At least, for once, his relentlessness reassured her. With a final push, they passed from the crowd, making their way down a dim, decrepit street. Filth clung to every stone of the pavement; other scantily dressed women passed them by, staring and cackling at her innocent face; and from behind a pile of trash, an ominous, barking dog growled and snapped at her, tethered to what remained of a lamppost.

Waves of tension passed from Javert's large frame into hers. Any woman who threw them a scrutinizing glance immediately shied away, intimidated by the green rigidity in her protector's eyes. The men, however, were not so easily held off. Their hungry glints and piercing whistles tailed behind them, but the glower on Javert's face was enough to keep them at a distance. Except for one burly man, his head nothing but skin and scars where hair once covered. He stumbled out a tavern door, hollering his approval.

Just as Javert directed her around another corner, his loud hoot followed close on their heels. "Dis-moi! I want a piece o' that," this low voice, thick with drink, called too close for Cécelie's comfort.

"Come on," the Inspector said, rushing her down the street, his every sense alert, his every muscle straining with caution. "Putain, not fast enough," she heard him curse under his breath, and then she heard the cause. Heavy footfalls lumbered after them, already rounding the corner after them. He pressed his mouth against her ear again. "Stay close," he whispered, "and whatever you do, don't get in my way."

Cécelie released the disbelieving laugh from within, however inappropriate it was to the moment. "I'll try not, Monsieur."