I must admit to a few misgivings about this chapter, but I will hold all self-criticism until I get some feedback.
In regards to length... I think there may be only one or two more chapters to this story, but it could easily expand into a series of some sort. Comments? Opinions? Angry gremlins?
A light, misty rain began falling as Javert crossed Pont d'Orleans into Rouen proper. It was just enough to cast a haze over the spires of le Cathedral Notre-Dame de Rouen, which towered above the city like stoic watchmen. The streets were familiar to him, in the same way that the Gypsy lullaby was familiar--he remembered walking the streets themselves, but without any understanding of where they led and how they connected. So he wandered, reading shop and street signs and peering down narrow alleyways. The rain fell off and on, and eventually he'd had enough of being perpetually damp. He came to a cafe along one of the side streets branching from Rue de la Republique and ducked in to dry off.
Inside the cafe, Javert found himself surrounded by a smoky din, the room already close to full despite it being early afternoon. He picked his way through the full tables to the bar, where the barkeep bustled around, shoving full mugs of ale and bowls of onion-rich stew to the men and women lined up at the counter. It took him a few minutes, but he finally got to Javert.
"What for you, then?" His voice was gruff and harried.
"The stew," Javert said. The man behind the counter turned to the large pot on the fire behind him and dug into it with a copper ladle, dishing the brown, pungent concoction into a crockery bowl.
"Three sou," he responded, holding out his hand.
Javert reached into his pocket and pulled out the Napoleon. The barkeeper squinted at him. "Mighty big coin for a man of little means." He leaned over the counter, still not setting down the bowl. "What'cha do to earn that, m'sieur?"
Javert bristled at the sneering accusation in the man's voice, even as a tight knot of trepidation settled in his stomach. His shirt and pants were obviously ragged and recently mended, his boots were another man's cast-offs, his silver-streaked hair was damp and stringy from the rain--small wonder that the man behind the counter would question the gold coin in his hand.
Nevertheless, Javert drew himself up to his full height and forced himself to recall the dignity of Monsieur l'Inspecteur. "It is two week's wages, for my work with a tinsmith."
The barkeeper's gaze went hard and cold, and he set the bowl on the counter as he snatched up the coin with his other hand, holding it in his palm to examine. Javert stood still, waiting. The man closed his hand around the coin before bending to put it in his cash box. When he stood up, he placed a small handful of change on the counter. Too small.
"I gave you a 20 franc coin," Javert said evenly. The fear was subsiding and he was beginning to get angry.
"Price went up," the barkeeper snorted.
"Do you mean to say that you are charging me five francs for a bowl of soup? Perhaps I should have ordered bread as well."
"What are you going to do about it, Gypsy?"
"I'm no--"
"Only tinsmiths 'round here are Gypsies. So either you're a Gypsy or a liar. Which is it gonna be?" The barman leaned over the counter, and for the first time Javert took careful stock of him. The barkeeper was massive, ruddy, and irritated. Javert was quite tall, and still this man had a good six inches on him, and a hundred pounds to boot--a physical confrontation would get ugly very fast.
"Look," Javert started, ignoring the question, "all I want is a meal at a fair price. You are obviously incapable of giving me that, so return my money and I will leave."
"You ain't getting your money back, so eat your damn soup and go. Or take it up with the gendarmes. You'll see what sort of welcome a Gypsy troublemaker gets around here." And with that, the barman turned away and began to wait on other customers.
Javert seethed as he gathered up the coins. Fifteen francs of Tobar's kindness remained.
He ate the stew only after convincing himself that there was nothing more that he could do, and that not to do so would be a complete waste of five francs. Protesting farther would likely mean taking the man on in a fight, and he was certain that the barman would win handily. Going to the police was an option as well, but that meant questions, and the word of an unkempt stranger against that of a business owner. Javert did not want to answer questions. Or go to jail, for that matter. Still, his anger was such that he left half the bowl uneaten.
- - - -
Gadjo to the Gypsies, Gypsy to the gadjo...
Javert mused as he walked in the dying light, hungry, tired, and growing increasingly cold as the wind and rain began to pick up. He'd been walking since he left the cafe, and he was far calmer now, but the twinge in his ankle warned that it could not go much farther.
As the sky grew dark, he found himself walking along Rue Jeanne d'Arc. All the shops were closed or closing, but one place remained open: Eglise Saint-Vincent-sur-Rive. The church. He paused before the door, drinking in the colors of the stained glass windows, glowing from the candle-lit interior. It was a church, yes, and Javert had little time for churches, or religion, or sometimes even God. But it was a warm church, and Javert reckoned that he could stand a bit of preaching in exchange for the time he needed to dry off and warm up.
A sermon is the price of a warm fire. Funny, that. I always thought the sermons were supposed to save one from the warm fire.
He was too tired to resist showing a small grin as he opened the door.