A/N: I don't own Les Misérables in any of its forms, but I wish I could take out an option on the musical.
And once again I have to apologise for a long delay in posting, partly due to a difficult work situation plus voluntary work, partly because this is an important chapter and I wanted to get it right, and partly because I have been on holiday in Amsterdam, where I saw three magnificent performances of Les Misérables in Dutch, by a superb cast, in the Theater Carré, which was originally built as the winter home of the Circus Carré. The line "This is a factory, not a circus" can never have been more appropriate.
As it's been so long since I posted the last chapter, here's a quick reminder of the situation to date. The widowed Cosette langishes in jail, accused of poisoning Marius. The surviving Amis, led by Enjolras and Éponine, have joined forces with Javert and Monsieur Laincourt, Enjolras's former law teacher, to establish her innocence. They all suspect Marius's cousin Théodule, and Théodule's valet Mortaine, of being behind the murder, and have assembled a lot of compelling evidence. A scandal sheet, Le P'tit Oiseau, is publishing horrible slanders against Cosette, and although Javert has managed to shut down the printers and intercept copy, the editor, Francois Hervé, who appears to be in Théodule's pay, remains elusive. And as Mortaine and both the doctors who attended Marius have disappeared, and the police investigation is in the hands of an incompetent fool who hates Javert, things are looking bleak for Cosette.
A storyline starting in this chapter, which will feature in several future chapters, is my tribute to one of the greatest films ever made, Marcel Carné's Les Enfants du Paradis. If you haven't seen it, see it. If you've already seen it, see it again.
And thank you, as always, to Katie Duggan's Niece for your wonderful review of Chapter 14. Feedback is always welcome!
Enjolras arrived at Laincourt's office the following morning to find the old gentleman looking sombre.
"I'm sorry, but my application to have the Baroness lodged in the Palais du Luxembourg has been rejected. I was attending a hearing for it yesterday afternoon. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to get your hopes up."
Enjolras's heart sank. "Does that mean that she has to stay in the Conciergerie until they decide whether or not to charge her?"
"Fortunately, no. I've managed to have her transferred to the Prison de Saint-Lazare. It's the main womens' prison in Paris. Most of the inmates sleep in dormitories, but in consideration of the Baroness's rank she'll have a cell of her own. It won't be much, but she'll have her own bed, and the place is run by the Sisters of Marie-Joseph, who I'm told keep it spotlessly clean. At least it'll be better than the Conciergerie. She's being transferred this morning, and I have a letter of authorisation for myself, or a representative, to visit her. I'm afraid it doesn't look hopeful for my application for a trial before the Peers, but I'll keep trying."
"Thank God," Enjolras said fervently, "and thank you, Monsieur. I don't know how much longer she would have been able to survive in the Conciergerie."
"I know, and I'm sorry I couldn't allow you the time to visit her there yesterday, but I've never petitioned to have a prisoner moved to the Luxembourg before, and I needed all the case papers ready because I didn't know whether I would be asked to produce any additional information. It should be very appropriate for you to visit her today with her belongings."
"Thank you, Monsieur. I believe it to be very important that I do so, as there has been a significant development on which we will need information from her. We spoke yesterday to one of her maids who has heard a story from a fellow servant of a secret room in the house. It may simply be a tale that he invented to amuse the boy, but if it is true, it is just possible that Doctor Fortier may be being held there."
Laincourt's eyes lit up. "Good Heavens! This sounds like something out of a novel by Hugo."
"It does," Enjolras admitted. "The girl does not know the location of the room, if it exists, and I am hoping that the Baroness may be able to tell us more. If she knows nothing, I will ask the housekeeper whether it is possible for me to have a few words with Basque, the old servant who claims to know of the room. I want to leave that as a last resort, as I do not want to risk endangering the remaining servants if Théodule finds that they are communicating with me."
"As well as losing our contacts in the house. Quite understandable. Are there any developments on Hervé? I didn't see Le P'tit Oiseau on sale this morning."
Enjolras grinned. "You can thank Inspector Javert for that. He's traced and closed the print works and seized the copy for what was to have been today's edition, which is just as well, as he has admitted to me that it included seriously defamatory statements about both the Baroness and myself, which could only have come from Théodule. Hervé himself remains elusive, but Javert has a plan to pursue him today."
"Good man. It's amazing how useful the police can be when they're on your side."
"What about your plans to publish counter-attacks against Théodule, Monsieur?"
Laincourt pulled a face. "Stalled at present, I'm afraid. My journalist friend's editor has developed cold feet. But as Le P'tit Oiseau has to cease publication, at least for today, that matters less than it might have done. I suppose that if Hervé has another printer, he may be back in business soon, but he'll have lost today and probably tomorrow."
"Meanwhile, the housekeeper has given me two important pieces of information. The first is that Mortaine has left the house and it is not known when, or if, he will return. Théodule claims that he has gone to visit his dying father."
"Do you believe that? I don't."
"No, I think it's more likely that they've split up for their own safety. Mortaine vanishes into the crowd, we lose a prime suspect, and Théodule hides someone who could be dangerous to him. And Inspector Javert has indicated that at present the police have no interest in arresting him, so they won't go looking for him."
"Damn. And no way for us to get him back."
"My wife and Inspector Javert both have contacts who may be able to track Mortaine down, but I'm afraid it's a forlorn hope."
"I'm afraid so. If he's known to the criminal fraternity, we'll have to hope that someone turns him in to the Inspector. Please excuse me for asking, but you say that your wife has contacts?"
"Ah, she was a street gamine before our marriage, and some of the people she knew then haven't been arrested yet."
"She must be a remarkable lady. I can't wait to meet her, but not yet in case I need her as a witness."
"Also, the housekeeper has obtained for me this piece of wallpaper from the Baron's room. My friend Monsieur Feuilly has identified it as a pattern he has painted using paint containing arsenic."
"Magnificent. I'll send a piece of this to a scientist friend for analysis. Now, I'll want to spend this morning reading up the papers you organised for me yesterday. You've done a splendid job on them. Lemarre will be getting jealous. You go and help the Baroness move into her new quarters."
-oO0Oo-
Éponine was in luck. About an hour after she had opened the shop and Enjolras had departed for Laincourt's office, she looked out of the window and saw Robert Mouffard jogging along the street with a basket of vegetables. Thankful that she had no customers at that moment, she ducked out from behind the counter, flung the shop door open, and whistled shrilly.
"Hey! Robert!"
He turned at the sound of her voice, and she waved her shawl at him.
" 'Ponine!" He ran up to her and hugged her.
"Please, do you have a minute? I need your help."
"You do? Fine lady like you?" He grinned engagingly, revealing his awful teeth. He was a big-boned fifteen-year-old who never seemed to have enough flesh to keep the bones decently clothed, but she was pleased to see that he was in good spirits.
"Yes. Please. Come in a moment." She led him into the shop and shut the door. He set his heavy basket down, stamped his feet and rubbed his arms, appreciating a few moments out of the winter chill.
He looked around the shop with inquisitive eyes. "What's all this stuff?"
"My husband's a stationer."
"What's that mean?"
"He and I sell things for people who write and draw. Pens, pencils, ink, paints, paper..."
"No good to me, then. I can't read or write."
"No, but you can look at pictures." She produced Feuilly's drawing of Mortaine. "We want this man found. A very dear friend of ours has been murdered and we think that this man had something to do with his death. He could be hiding out somewhere in Paris. He's called Jacques Mortaine, but he might be using another name. Can you show this picture around and ask all our friends to look for him?"
"Can do. What's in it for us?"
"We won't pay for unconfirmed sightings," Éponine said firmly, "because then everyone in Saint-Michel will claim to have seen him. We'll pay for any information that leads us to him."
"Cops after him?"
"Not yet, but we hope that they soon will be."
Robert looked at the drawing. "Looks a fancy sort to hide out in Saint-Michel, but I'll ask around. Who was it he killed?"
"Marius Pontmercy," Éponine said sadly.
"What, that swell that lived next door to you at the Gorbeau? Sorry, 'Ponine. He was a nice bloke. You were sweet on him, weren't you?"
She swallowed hard and nodded. "And before you ask, my husband knows. Marius was one of his best friends, too."
"He might have been a swell, but he lived among us and he was like one of us," Robert said with decision. "Always kind to us kids. Leave it to me, 'Ponine. I'll get Saint-Michel looking for this swine. Sorry, I'll have to go, or these vegetables won't get delivered, and then I won't get my fifty sous." He gave her a messy kiss, grabbed the basket and sprinted out of the door, leaving her feeling oddly comforted.
Would Gavroche have grown up like Robert, if he had survived the barricade?
-oO0Oo-
Enjolras went first to the Conciergerie, only to find that Cosette was already being taken to the Saint-Lazare. He headed there, presented Laincourt's letter of authorisation, and was ushered to her cell.
He was relieved to see that her new quarters were indeed better than her holding cell at the Conciergerie. There was an iron grating at the window, but she had light, a proper bed, a stool and a shelf. She sat on the bed, her head in her hands, trembling like a leaf. A young nun sat beside her with an arm around her, trying to comfort her. The door slammed shut behind him as he entered and Cosette looked up, blank-eyed with terror. He put down the bags he carried, strode over to them, and bowed.
"Sister. My name is Léon Enjolras. I am in the employ of Monsieur Emile Laincourt, the legal representative of Madame the Baroness. Here is my letter of authorisation to visit her, bring necessities, and speak with her regarding her case." He produced it, and the nun took it, read it, and returned it to him with a nod.
"Thank you, Monsieur. You have ten minutes. I will remain here while you speak to the prisoner."
Enjolras had expected no less. The nuns running Saint-Lazare would have a higher regard for their charges' moral safety than the coarse jailers at the Conciergerie.
"Thank you, Sister. I must ask that my discussions with my client regarding her case are not repeated outside this cell."
"Only to my confessor," she said gravely, took the stool, and retreated to sit in the farthest corner of the cell.
Cosette looked up at Enjolras, who took her hands and kissed them.
"Why am I here?" she gasped.
He smiled reassuringly. "Has no-one told you? You've been moved here to give you better quarters. Monsieur Laincourt, the lawyer to whom I introduced you, promised that he'd try to get you out of that awful cell in the Conciergerie."
She shook her head. "Nobody told me anything. The guards marched me out of there, put me in a carriage and brought me here, they kept me standing there while men with papers argued and wrote things - I thought they had brought me here to be executed!" She dissolved into tears while he held her.
"No," he said gently, kneeling before her. "It's only to make things better for you while your case is being investigated." Not for worlds would he tell her of Javert's fears about the mishandling of the police investigation. "I'm so sorry I couldn't come to see you yesterday. I wanted to, but Monsieur Laincourt and I were working on getting you transferred here. I wish I had come, now. I never thought that they would bring you here without any explanation. No wonder you were afraid. But look, I've brought you the things you asked for." He was conscious that he was speaking to her as though she were a child. But that's what she is, a terrified, uncomprehending child. "Shall I help you to put them away and make this room more comfortable for you?"
She nodded, and he busied himself with unpacking the bags and asking her where she wanted everything to be placed. She was still shaking and was barely able to concentrate on his simple questions. Discreetly assisted by the nun, he moved about, putting things away, talking quietly and soothingly as he did so, trying to give her the illusion that this room was a home to her. When they had finished, he sat on the bed and took Cosette's hand in his, while the nun retreated to her corner.
"Listen, dear Baroness. I only have a few more minutes, and there are things I have to tell you and ask you." He lowered his voice. "The first is that Bahorel visited me yesterday, and he told me that Jean is well and safe."
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Second, I want to tell you again that we're all working for you, all the Amis and Monsieur Laincourt and I, and we won't rest until you're cleared and released. But there is one very important thing with which I hope you can help us."
"Yes?"
He lowered his voice again. "Théodule has dismissed Rose and Marianne. Nicolette told me that they were destitute. Éponine and Bahorel found them in the Gorbeau hovel, and he's taken them to the inn and given them work. We were talking to them yesterday, and Marianne said that Basque once told her and Jean about a secret room in the house. Do you know if it's true, or just a story he made up to amuse Jean?"
"Oh, yes, it's true!" she said emphatically. "M-Marius once told me all about it." She had to stop to wipe her eyes and swallow a sob at the mention of her lost love. "It was built over a hundred years ago, to house a Gillenormand who had gone mad. He was kept secretly in the house because the family didn't want the disgrace of sending him to an asylum. Why do you ask?"
"Because we think that someone may be hiding or imprisoned there now," he said darkly. "Do you know where in the house it is?"
"Yes, it's on the third floor."
"One of the floors where you and Marius lived?"
"We didn't use the third floor very much, we lived mostly on the second. But yes, it's there."
Enjolras produced his notebook and a pencil. "Can you draw a plan to show me exactly where it is?"
Her hands were still shaking so much that she could scarcely draw, but she managed to sketch out a rough rectangle and draw in boxes for each room and the corridor.
"Here." She drew a cross between the two left hand rooms on the rear of the house. "The room on the end is the library, the one next to it is the blue drawing room. The secret room is between them. The entrance is hidden behind a bookcase in the library. The room's full of thick padding so that nobody outside the room can hear anything inside it."
"Basque said that a Gillenormand hid there in '89."
"Maybe. I don't know. It's horrible to think of the poor madman in there. Jean wanted to explore it, but I wouldn't let him."
"And where's the door?"
"There's a catch in the bookcase, right next to the window. The third or fourth shelf down, I think. Take out the book closest to the window and you see it. Press the catch and the bookcase swings out. There's a door behind. It's always locked, I don't know who has the key."
We can use a skeleton key if necessary. "Thank you. This could be very important."
"A policeman came to see me last night," she said suddenly. "He was the young one who came before and took notes. He said that he was concerned about the way the other man had spoken to me and he asked me to tell him what had happened when Marius died. So I told him, just as I told you and Éponine, and as I told the Amis."
There should be no harm in that, Enjolras thought, so long as nobody tries to twist what she said. "That's good to know. Thank you for telling me. Did he give you his name?"
She thought for a moment. "He did, but I'm sorry, I can't remember. But he said that he knows Pau - Inspector Javert. That's why I trusted him."
Enjolras guessed that this could be Javert's unnamed contact who was working on the case. He resolved to seek confirmation from Javert later.
"Good. Maybe that means that the police investigation is turning the corner at last." Although it could also mean that Javert's contact is acting on his own account because he's dissatisfied with the way things are going.
"And you wanted a list. A list of all the valuables in the house."
"Yes, we did. I'd forgotten that."
"I left it behind when I was taken here. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry. Can you write it again?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll ask them give you writing materials, or I can bring some for you from the shop. I can collect it when I come another day. I hope to visit you again tomorrow, if they let me." Seeing her fragile and terrified state, he was determined not to let another day go by leaving her unvisited. "And I can reassure you on one thing. When I visited the house to collect your belongings, I saw the silver candlesticks on the mantlepiece in Théodule's salon. It doesn't look as though he intends to sell them."
"Thank you." She dabbed at her eyes again. "That means so much."
"Good." He squeezed her hand. "What else can I do for you?"
"Tell everyone I'm innocent. Please."
"I will. Try to keep your courage up. I know it's hard, but remember your friends are fighting for you, and we all love you."
She nodded drearily as the nun rose from her place.
"Monsieur, your time is up."
"Thank you, Sister. I am ready to leave."
The nun nodded, produced her keys, and unlocked the door.
-oO0Oo-
Javert rose early, strode into Saint-Michel, collared one of his contacts, gave him Feuilly's drawing, and detailed him to look out for Mortaine and spread the word. The sheer terror that Javert's name and presence inspired were guarantees that every police informant on the Left Bank would soon be on Mortaine's trail.
On arriving at the Préfecture, he disposed his troops for a two-pronged operation against Hervé and Le P'tit Oiseau. Unless Hervé had by some means been alerted that the previous day's copy had been intercepted, the copy for the following day's edition of Le P'tit Oiseau would be delivered to the Café Nogent at around ten o'clock. The messenger would have to be apprehended and made to divulge his pickup point. But when would Hervé realise that nothing had been published that morning, and approach the printers to find out what was amiss? Unless the man was insanely foolhardy, he would not visit the place himself, but would send a messenger.
Javert decided to take two officers, don disguises, and lie in wait at the café. As previously arranged, he deputed Merri and Samuel to join the new staff at the print works in the Rue Meslay and keep a lookout for anyone who could be an emissary from Hervé.
The proprietor of the Café Nogent looked terrified at seeing Javert again, but Javert ordered coffee for himself and his colleagues, and they sat in a corner, apparently engrossed in a card game, while watching out for anyone entering. Their patience was rewarded at ten o'clock, when a shabbily dressed man walked in and placed a familiar-looking bulky envelope on the counter.
"Delivery for you, Monsieur." He took a handful of coins from his pocket. "And ten francs to send it on."
Javert approached the counter in leisurely fashion, apparently seeking a refill of coffee, and grabbed the man's collar as he turned to go.
"Hey, what - ?"
"Inspector Javert, Paris Police. Where did you get that package?" He jerked his head towards the envelope, which one of his men quickly retrieved from the counter.
"F-f-from the Café Croix-Rouge in the Rue du Cherche-Midi," the man quavered.
"And who gave it to you there?"
"I g-g-got paid f-five francs to deliver it here," the man gabbled. "I w-was there this morning and M-Monsieur Veron, the proprietor, asked me if I wanted to earn five francs! Just deliver a package, he said! And I n-needed the money! So he gave it to me and I b-brought it here! That's all, Monsieur!"
"Were you aware that it contains illegal and subversive material?" Javert snarled.
"What? No! Before God I didn't, Monsieur! You have to believe me, I just took five francs to run an errand!"
There was no point in trying to get any more out of this worm. Javert had to accept that the man was a casual messenger, hired for the morning. Just as the café proprietor had said.
"Then you will earn your five francs by taking us to the place where you collected it," he pronounced grimly.
It was a repeat of the previous day, he reflected bitterly. They were walking another terrified messenger through the city to another café which was just one more pickup point.
The Café Croix-Rouge was another small, unexceptional establishment. Monsieur Véron bustled forward to meet the four of them as Javert kicked the door open and shoved the messenger inside ahead of himself and his colleagues.
"Messieurs, what can I get you? Good God, Michel, what's wrong with you?"
"Did this man collect this package from you this morning?" Javert thundered.
Véron eyed it. "Yes, Monsieur, that's the one. Why, who are you to ask?"
"Inspector Javert. Investigating the transmission of subversive literature. From whom did you receive this abomination?"
Véron visibly shrivelled. "I-it's delivered every day at eight. With twenty francs, five for me, five to pay a messenger to take it with the other ten to the Café Nogent. I don't know what's inside, Monsieur, I swear I don't! It's always sealed! I wouldn't get the money if it was opened! Please, you have to believe me!"
"Who delivers it here?"
Veron slumped to his knees. "A different man every day," he moaned. "I never know them. I just pay someone who comes in here to take it on."
"And when does it arrive?"
"At eight o'clock, every day."
"Then we will be here to intercept tomorrow's delivery. And if you dare attempt to notify the sender, you will face charges of attempting to pervert the course of justice."
Without waiting for an answer, he swept out with his minions in his wake. For all his bravado, he felt an overpowering sense of failure. All he had been able to track was one more link in the delivery chain. And he did not know how many more links there were.
He doubted whether there would be a delivery on the morrow. By that time, the non-appearance of that day's paper and the loss of his copy for the next day's edition would surely have alerted Hervé that his delivery route was compromised, as well as his printer. Once he had arranged for a new printer, the following day's delivery would take a different route. But nonetheless Javert would set one of his men to watch the café, just in case.
-oO0Oo-
Having left Cosette, Enjolras returned to Laincourt's office to report that she was in her new quarters. Laincourt looked edgy.
"I'm glad you're back. I've just had a letter from my friend in Aubervilliers. The mayor has had the police conduct enquiries at every single household in the commune. Doctor Fortier is staying there."
"He is?" That was the very last thing Enjolras had expected. "Good Lord. So much for our theory about the secret room, then. The Baroness has just told me that it does exist, its location in the house, and how to access it."
"Maybe Mortaine's hiding out in there, then. If he is, he'll have to keep while we get a statement from Doctor Fortier. I've been given his address, he's staying at an inn."
"Not with his patient? His letters say that he's attending an urgent case."
"I know, that does sound odd. Maybe his patient doesn't have enough space for him to stay with them. We need his statement, but I can't talk to him because we'll almost certainly need to call him as a witness, so this one's for you. Take the next coach to Aubervilliers, go straight to the Mairie and identify yourself. Here's your fare, the address of the inn, a letter of introduction and the letter from my friend, Henri Clément. He's guaranteed that the Mayor will afford you every assistance and will insist that Doctor Fortier speaks to you. Try to get back this evening if you can."
Enjolras took the money and papers and stowed them in his pocket-book. "I'm on my way, Monsieur!"
-oO0Oo-
By dint of running like a madman for a coach which was on the point of leaving, Enjolras contrived to be in Aubervilliers just as the town hall clock struck two. He lost no time in seeking a word with the Mayor, and on presentation of Laincourt's letter was ushered into the presence of Monsieur Ambroise Léonard, a big, red-faced man who was decidedly too self-important but nonetheless radiated authority and capability.
"Happy to meet you, Monsieur," he boomed, shaking Enjolras's hand. "Yes, Monsieur Clément told me that Monsieur Laincourt, or his emissary, might want my assistance in this. Please take a seat. How may I best help you?"
"Thank you, Monsieur," Enjolras said politely, taking the chair indicated to him opposite Léonard's desk. "Monsieur Laincourt is the legal representative for the Baroness Pontmercy, who is under suspicion of killing her husband."
"Yes, I've read about the case in the papers."
"Doctor Marcel Fortier, whom Monsieur Clément has informed us is staying at the Fontaine du Cristal inn, attended the late Baron in his last illness up to his final hours, and any testimony he can give could be crucial to the Baroness's defence. He has sent letters to his housekeeper to say that he is attending an urgent case here in Aubervilliers."
Léonard frowned. "I don't see how. After Monsieur Clément mentioned the matter to me, I had the Prefect of Police make discreet inquiries at the inn. According to the innkeeper, Doctor Fortier is keeping to his room, has his meals sent in, and refuses to see anyone."
"In that case, Monsieur, it would be immensely helpful if you could use your influence to induce him to see me as soon as possible," Enjolras said decisively. "Monsieur Laincourt and I have not entirely discounted the possibility that Doctor Fortier may be concealing himself to evade questioning over the Baron's death."
"I'll gladly help you. This all sounds suspicious, and I'd like to get to the bottom of it. A doctor claiming to be attending an urgent case doesn't keep to his room. Please come with me, Monsieur."
They walked together to the Préfecture, where Léonard introduced Enjolras to the Prefect, Monsieur Grévin, a greying ex-soldier, and the three of them, together with two of Grévin's subordinates, walked to the inn.
The innkeeper clearly knew Léonard and Grévin, and was on good terms with them. Enjolras mentally marked him as closer to Bahorel than Thénardier. Unlikely to be in league with Fortier. He has an inn to run and doesn't want trouble.
"Yes, Messieurs, Doctor Fortier's still in his room on the second floor. Hasn't left it since he first arrived. He has his meals left outside his door and leaves the trays of crockery outside when he's done. If he wants anything else, he leaves a note on the tray."
"Does he have any visitors?" Grévin asked.
"No, Monsieur le Préfet, he says he doesn't want to be disturbed."
"Letters?"
"He hasn't received any. He sends one every day, to the same address in Paris. He leaves it on his breakfast tray."
"Can you remember the address?" Enjolras asked.
"Not all of it, but it's in the Rue Vielle du Temple."
The letters to his housekeeper.
"Time for us to disturb him," Léonard decided. "Arnaud, you knock at his door with a polite request to speak to Monsieur Enjolras, and if he refuses, unlock the door."
The landlord produced a key. "Certainly, Monsieur le Maire."
"Is there a bolt on the inside?" Grévin asked.
"No, Monsieur le Préfet, but I suppose he could use a chair to wedge the door shut."
Grévin turned to the larger of his two subordinates. "If that happens, Cervaux, break the door down. Arnaud, the commune will pay for the damage."
The innkeeper did not look at all happy, but clearly knew when he was outranked. "Yes, Monsieur le Préfet."
The innkeeper led the way to a room at the end of a corridor on the second floor. He and Enjolras approached the door while the others remained at a slight distance, ready to pounce when the door was opened.
"Monsieur le Docteur!" The innkeeper rapped sharply at the door. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a gentleman here who's very insistent that he has a few words with you."
"I've told you, I'm seeing no-one!" an agitated voice called out from within.
"Monsieur." Enjolras used his most authoritative tones. "I must ask you to speak with me on a matter of life and death."
"No! Go away!"
"I am here on behalf of the legal representative of the Baroness Pontmercy, whose husband you attended prior to his recent death. She stands accused of his murder. Your testimony could be vital to her defence. Monsieur, you might save her life. I implore you to grant me a few words."
Silence.
Enjolras was about to speak again, but the landlord raised his hand for silence. They all heard a slight creak.
"That's the window opening!" the landlord cried.
Without a second's hesitation, he unlocked the door, and they all charged in. A rope made of sheets was tied to the bedpost and extended out of the open window. They raced for the window, to see a white-haired man, clinging to the rope and trying to climb down the side of the building.
Grévin drew his pistol and aimed it at the fugitive. "Climb back in here at once, Monsieur, or I fire."
"Can't - " the man groaned. The sheets were not long enough, and there was a fifteen-foot drop to the ground. Already the sheets were starting to give, and the bed began to shift towards the window. Enjolras threw his full weight against it, but it continued to move.
"Brace your feet against the wall and hold on, Monsieur!" the landlord yelled. "GILLES! HUGHES! OUTSIDE NOW!"
Two large men, clearly servants at the inn, rushed out of the taproom directly below, looked up, and took in the situation at a glance. Brushing past Enjolras, the landlord dragged a blanket off the bed and threw it down to them. They held it taut between them.
"All right, Monsieur, you can jump now, they'll catch you in the blanket!"
"Nooooooo!"
He had little choice. The sorely-tried sheet came away from the bedpost and he fell, screaming, to land in the blanket. As the men lowered it to the ground, he tried to stand and run, but the larger of the two men grabbed him and held him down, and the smaller bellyflopped on top of the pair of them. All the fight went out of him.
The men in the room looked at each other and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.
"Arnaud, well done, you and your servants," Grévin pronounced. "Lock this room when we leave it and keep the key. Now let us go and see why Doctor Fortier was so eager to escape us that it nearly cost him his life."
They hastened down the stairs and out into the garden, where the two servants still held their quarry down. They handed him over to Grévin's men, were rewarded with a handsome tip, and returned to the taproom, while Léonard, Grévin, Enjolras and the policemen escorted the shaken captive to the Préfecture.
During the short journey, he appeared too shocked by his narrow escape to offer any resistance, but as soon as they got him into an office and deposited him onto a chair, he came back fighting.
"I don't know what all this is about!" he blustered. "I'm here in Aubervilliers in a private capacity! Why am I being harassed in this way?"
Grévin glared. "Because you have sent daily letters claiming to be in urgent attendance upon a patient, when you have not stirred from your room since you arrived. Because you risked your life to flee from your room rather than answer a perfectly reasonable request from a legal representative."
"Because you are not Doctor Marcel Fortier," Enjolras added coolly.
"What?!" Léonard and Grévin both stared at him.
"Of course I'm Marcel Fortier!" the man raged. "How dare you? Who are you to accuse me, Monsieur?"
Enjolras produced his pocketbook and extracted Feuilly's sheet of drawings.
"Messieurs, I have here a portrait of Doctor Marcel Fortier, drawn from a description given to the artist by the Baroness Pontmercy, who knows the Doctor well, having seen him every day for three months during her husband's final illness. She accounts this to be a good likeness."
He handed the sheet to Léonard and Grévin, who pored over it and then looked at the prisoner, whose wide brow, hooked nose, full mouth, clean-shaven jaw and deep-set eyes were all completely different to the bearded man in the drawing.
Léonard flourished the drawing at him. "Do you still claim to be this man, Monsieur?"
"I've shaved my beard off! There's no law against that!"
"Make it easier for yourself. Tell us who you really are."
"I'm Marcel Fortier! This is outrageous!"
"There's one way to find out." Grévin turned to the smaller officer. "Auvray, bring Husson here at once."
The officer saluted and left the room. The prisoner watched him go with wary eyes. Grévin remained silent, glaring at him relentlessly, until the officer returned with a smaller man in police uniform who approached the prisoner with the utmost cordiality and seized his hand.
"Doctor Fortier! I am so very glad that you are here. Allow me to present myself. My name is Husson, and I am the police surgeon for the commune of Aubervilliers. The doctors at the hospital have just begged for my assistance with regard to a chronic case of diptheria in a five-year-old girl. The only way to save her life is undertake a tracheotomy without delay. Well, judge of my despair. I have never performed a tracheotomy in my life. But I know that you are famous for having performed this operation three times, and that your patients made full recoveries. God has sent you here when you are needed, Monsieur. Come at once, time presses. You cannot refuse when there is a life to save."
The prisoner looked like a trapped animal. "I - I can't."
"Please, Monsieur! To save a child!"
"I don't have my instruments with me."
"Fear not, the hospital has everything you will require. Come, Monsieur, now. I know you have nothing to fear. I have read of your skill in drawing the subtle poison from the throats of your patients at no risk to yourself. This girl will owe you her life."
The prisoner uttered a groan and crumpled like a discarded sheet of paper. "I can't! I've lost my nerve for operations! That's why I'm on holiday here! Please go away and leave me alone!"
"So why won't you talk to the Baroness Pontmercy's legal representative here?" Grévin demanded. "Or have you lost your nerve for that as well?"
"Are you hiding here because you're afraid of being accused of the Baron's murder?" Léonard added.
Trembling, the prisoner looked around the semicircle of accusing faces and hid his face in his hands with a whimper.
"I'm - I'm not Marcel Fortier. I'm not a doctor at all."
"Well, I'd guessed that," Husson said drily. "A good thing that there isn't a child in the hospital needing a tracheotomy."
"Who are you, then?" Grévin demanded. "And where is Doctor Fortier?"
The prisoner looked up at them. "My name's Thierry Champhon. I'm an actor. I was out of work, and I received a letter offering me a job if I waited on a bench in the Jardins des Tulieries at a specified time. A man whose face I didn't see, he was all muffled up, sat there with me and offered me a job impersonating Doctor Fortier. He - he told me Fortier was having an affair with a married woman and wanted time alone with her. I was given money and a pile of letters was and told to come here, say I'm Fortier, send the letters to his home, one a day, and stay here until I received a letter telling me to leave." His face was piteous. "I didn't think I'd be doing any harm..."
"God grant that you haven't," Enjolras said darkly. "Doctor Fortier has not been seen since the night of the Baron's death. We must all pray that your masquerade has not given the Baron's murderer the opportunity to dispose of the Doctor as well."
"Oh, God..." Champhon bowed his head and broke down completely.
Enjolras took Grévin and Léonard aside. "Messieurs, I thank you for all your help. I must return to Paris with all speed to inform my employer of this development."
"By all means," Léonard said affably. "The Commune of Aubervilliers is happy to have assisted you. Is there anything else that we can do for you?"
"Yes, if you please. We have reason to fear that Doctor Fortier may be being detained against his will by the Baron's murderer, in which case any news of the discovery of Champhon's imposture may place him in grave danger. Might I ask that you do not make this arrest public yet, while I return to Monsieur Laincourt and we take counsel with the police in Paris?"
"Certainly, Monsieur. We'll get a full confession from Champhon and charge him, and we'll tell Arnaud and his staff to keep it quiet." Grévin said briskly. "If anyone asks what all the fuss at the inn was about, they can say that a guest tried to abscond without paying his bill, and Arnaud called the police. We'll hold Champhon because his offence of impersonating a doctor took place in this commune, but he can be taken to Paris for questioning if the police there want him."
"They may well want to do so," Enjolras agreed. "Again I thank you, and au revoir."
-oO0Oo-
An art dealer who was one of Feuilly's regular buyers had suggested to him that a series of watercolours on theatrical subjects might find a ready sale. That suited Feuilly fine, as he had an 'in' with the management of the small but renowned Théâtre des Funambules in the Boulevard du Temple, known to Parisians as the Boulevard du Crime on account of the lurid melodramas performed at the other theatres in the street. In happier times, Feuilly had made special fans as props for the acrobats and tightrope walkers at the Funambules. He understood, as other fan makers apparently did not, the need for these fans to be lightweight, flexible, durable, and eye-catching. His handiwork had always been popular with the performers, so he now took advantage of his connection with the theatre to obtain permission from the management, which had been readily granted, for him to sit in at a rehearsal to make sketches which he could work up into paintings back at his lodging.
Accordingly, that morning he loaded a large satchel with his small drawing board, sketchpads, pencils and charcoal, strolled to the theatre, presented his letter of authorisation from the management, and was admitted to the auditorium, where a rehearsal had just begun. As a matter of course, the auditorium was not illuminated while there was no audience. He took up his post at the end of the front row of the stalls, where he could tilt his drawing board to get light from the footlights and from the candles on the music stands in the orchestra pit. The light was still poor, but he was not planning to draw anything too detailed. All he would be able to capture now was an impression of movement, the weight of an acrobat's body as he soared through the air, the lightness and grace of a tightrope dancer as she balanced on the high wire, the stresses and strains of muscle as the acrobats formed a human pyramid, the trajectory of a juggler's clubs. He saw with pleasure that some of the fans he had made were still in use.
After the acrobats and jugglers had finished their run-through, there was a brief hiatus, with the curtain up, while the sweating stagehands set the scene for the next act. Feuilly took the opportunity to make a couple of quick sketches of scene-shifters carrying painted flats and slotting them into place. As a working man himself, he appreciated the hard labour that went into creating the illusions presented to the paying audience.
There had been a time when the acrobats and rope-dancers had been the theatre's meat and drink, but now they were merely the hors d'oeuvres to the main attraction. As the music for the next act welled up and Baptiste Deburau, the incomparable Pierrot, took the stage with his troupe, Feuilly gave a sigh of pure pleasure and allowed himself a few moments to relax in the knowledge that he was privileged to be watching one of the greatest stage performers of this or any age. But almost at once his artist's instincts seized him and he embarked on a flurry of drawings, striving to capture for all time the mobile face, the graceful movement of a foot, the drape of a wide white sleeve, a turn of the head which could convey a whole world of emotion, the delicate hands telling a story in gestures so expressive that they made words redundant. He could scarcely see what he was doing, and feared that many of his sketches would turn out to be scribble when examined in better light, but if he could salvage enough to create one or even two good drawings or watercolours, he would be content.
Deburau and his colleagues left the stage and there was a hiatus while the conductor harangued his musicians. Feuilly stowed his pencil behind his ear, flexed his fingers, and turned to a new sheet on his drawing board.
"Hey, aren't you the fan man?"
He looked up to see a tall, willowy girl standing beside him, a bundle of gaudy costumes over her arm. Her hair was so fair that it was almost silver-gilt, and she had the fine-drawn look of one who had never eaten quite enough.
"I was," he said, surprised. "How on earth did you know?"
"I used to be in Props. Now I'm Wardrobe, but you never forget a good prop-maker. The tightrope dancers love your fans, they still use them when they can."
"I know, I saw."
"Why did you stop making them, then?"
"I lost all my equipment and stock when my landlord threw me out and left everything in the rain. Now I'm a struggling artist."
"Can I see?"
"Surely." He handed her his drawing board and she flipped back to the previous sheet.
"God, it's Deburau! You've got him here! That's just how he moves. That one, his arm... I love watching him from the wings when I can."
"Thank you! I'm glad you like it." She returned the board to him. "So you must have worked here since at least '32? That's when I stopped making fans."
"Since 1830. My father got me the job. He used to make shoes for the company. He was killed on the barricade at Saint-Merri in '32. Thank God, the Funambules kept me on then. They don't pay much, but it's work."
"I was in the Rue de la Chanvrerie," Feuilly said softly. A glance of deep kinship passed between two children of the barricade.
"But I heard they died to a man in the Rue de la Chanvrerie," she said, puzzled.
"A friend and I climbed onto a roof."
"Good. I'm glad to have met you. Annette Buvard."
He rose from his seat, took her hand, and bowed formally over it. "Richard Feuilly." In looking up, his glance went over her shoulder and took in the brightly lit orchestra pit for the first time.
And surely, surely, there at the piano was a face he had drawn from description so many times over the past few days that he could draw it in his sleep.
Mortaine?
I must be dreaming.
He blinked and looked again. The man was still there, fortunately too intent upon the conductor to notice Feuilly's scrutiny. He dropped back into his seat as though struck by a thunderbolt.
"Are you all right?" Annette asked, bending over him.
"That man at the piano - do you know him? What's his name?"
She glanced over the pit rail. "That's Gensly. Should be André, but it might be Georges for all I know."
"Pardon?"
"There's two of them."
TBC