The young woman gasped and shot out of the unfamiliar bed, crying out in pain as the sudden movement jarred her broken ribs. Slowly, she lowered herself back into the soft sheets and tried to remember where she was and how she got here. Pierre and his friend had found her, she remembered that much, and apparently had left her with a small token of their gratitude. She laughed harshly, thinking on a time when she still had feelings for Pierre, the man who now terrorized her life.
She didn't realize that she was not alone.
"Ah, she wakes," came a gruff voice from the doorway. The woman tried to maneuver herself into a sitting position, but gasped again as her sides burned in pain. The man hurried over to the bed.
"Do not move, mademoiselle. I did not intend to frighten you, only to comment on your remarkable ability to sleep until the early hours of the afternoon," he said, this time more gently.
"Well, from how I'm feeling, monsieur, I believe that any action last night more than warrants a restful and prolonged sleep today," she responded snidely, not fully trusting this man.
He laughed softly. "Very well, mademoiselle. Do you remember anything of last night?"
She stopped, and thought hard. There was Pierre, and the alleyway, and she could recall a taller man, dressed in blue, leaning over her…
"Did you find me?" she asked. "Did you take me from the alley?"
The man said nothing, then exited the room, returning a few moments later with a tray of food, two glasses, and a tumbler of whisky. He placed the bread and cheese beside the woman, poured the glasses, and dragged a chair to her bedside. Sitting down, he downed his glass in a single motion, refilled, and sat silently with the glass dangling from his fingertips, arms resting on the railing of the chair.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "I am Inspector Javert of the Paris Police Force. Last night, I found you beaten nearly unconscious in an alleyway, and noticed two men fleeing the scene. I would like to know their names and locations, and bring them to face justice." Javert finished, drank his glass of whisky, and poured another.
The woman sat quietly, not touching the breakfast laid before her, only running a single finger around the rim of the glass. "Monsieur Javert," she responded, "I cannot tell you their names or locations. Know that they are good men in bad situations."
"That is not good enough, mademoiselle," he responded, the whisky emboldening him and allowing his thinly veiled temper to peek through his calm façade. "They committed a crime, and may do so again. If you refuse to help me, you endanger the lives of others."
"Monsieur, please!" she begged. "Please, don't make me tell you. They are family to me, all that I have left. If they go to prison, I just…" she trailed off, looking into the distance before snapping back to reality and looking Javert in the eyes, her confidence restored. "I will not help you, Inspector Javert. I appreciate all that you have done for me, but I will not tell you their names. I am sorry."
Javert stared at the fearless woman, downed his whisky, and slammed the glass on the bedside table. He stood abruptly, and leaned down so that his face was nearly touching the woman's.
"Well, mademoiselle, you won't be going anywhere until your ribs have fully healed. Perhaps we can continue this conversation tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next. It's entirely your decision," he sneered, refusing to give into the likes of this woman.
She blanched, but returned his gaze steadily. "Very well, Inspector. I look forward to our conversation tomorrow," she replied evenly. The inspector remained in his position for a few more seconds, then wrenched himself away and stalked out of the room, stopping only when the woman called out his name.
"By the way, Inspector," she shouted, "my name is Arianne, not mademoiselle, if you please."
Javert considered responding, but only continued walking away from the woman, muttering under his breath.
"Until tomorrow, Arianne."