Chapter Five

The Woman in the Alley

Paris, 1832

There was a little fall of rain the evening that Prouvaire met the old woman.

He was hurrying to one of the meetings at the Café Musain, turning the collar of his coat up against the rain. There was a harsh breeze ruffling his hair and chilling him to the bone. He kept one hand on the strap of his bag, wincing as rain flew into his face and eyes. The rain was definitely getting heavier, he decided, as a particularly nasty gust of wind knocked the hat from his head.

He groaned out loud as he began to chase his hat back down the street. A gaggle of gamins and gamines laughed at his rather silly run; he was running more or less in a crouch as the hat kept on evading his hands.

A shout escaped his lips as the hat swirled off down an alley. He paused at the mouth of the passageway, considering leaving the hat and carrying on his way. It hadn't been a cheap hat, though, and it was one of his favourites, a red cap.

With a sigh, he began to make his way down the alley.

The cap had come to a rest a few feet down the alley, sat in the middle of a puddle of dirty water. He hurried over to it, wrapping his hand over the sodden cloth. He wrung it out, recognising it was a futile gesture considering he was about to head out into the rain anyway.

He stared at the hat, uncertain of what to do with it now. He'd wash it when he got home later, he decided, and turned to leave the alleyway.

Prouvaire nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the woman who was stood right behind him.

She was tall, probably taller than him, but maybe not much older – it was hard to tell in the dim light of the alleyway. Her bright red hair was braided into a loose plait and hung in a heavy rope over one shoulder; her dress was grey, ragged around the hem which stopped just above her ankles. It revealed holey, battered boots on her feet. There was a pale blue shawl wrapped around her slender shoulders, and both of her hands clutched at it as if she was scared it might fly away.

What perturbed him the most was her eyes. They were a pale, piercing blue, staring right into his without blinking. He had thought Enjolras had a commanding stare, but his was nothing compared to this woman's.

"Jean Prouvaire," she said, leaning one shoulder against the wall beside her. Her legs crossed at the ankle, one knee rising upwards. "I've been wanting to see you, monsieur."

"Pardon?" He tucked the cap into his pocket, his mind whirling. "Sorry, mademoiselle – do I know you?"

"No," she said. "You don't. But you need to know me." She pushed off the wall, coming towards him. He took a step backwards, right into the puddle he had just rescued his hat from. She was indeed slightly taller than him, he observed, as she stopped only an inch away from him. He thought their shoes might be touching.

"Would you like to follow me?" she suggested.

Maybe she was a whore, he thought to himself. So he shook his head. "Sorry, mademoiselle, I don't wish to –"

"Please," she said, cocking her head to one side. One hand let go of the shawl to gesture towards a small, damaged door to their right. The door was made from wooden panels nailed together, but some of these panels had either been completely removed or were broken; it was also slightly crooked, hanging off its hinges, and wasn't completely shut.

The woman strode towards the door and yanked it open. It revealed a dark, cramped room – if you could even call it that. It was possibly too small to be considered an actual room. It was lit by one small lamp; he could see from where he was stood that there was one wooden crate in there, and not much else.

Despite his better judgement, Prouvaire found his feet moving towards the room. He ducked so he could step inside. Once the woman had joined him, he realised there was really very little room at all.

"Sit," she ordered.

He dropped down onto the wooden crate. It creaked ominously under his weight, the wood old and weak.

There was a rickety wooden chair tucked against the opposite wall, he noticed, and that was what the woman sat on after pulling the door shut behind them.

"I tell people's fortunes," the woman said, removing her shawl and gnawing on the nail of her thumb. "Can I have that book in your bag?"

"Sorry?" Prouvaire was confused by the whole situation, from the woman, the room she had shown him into, to her profession and her last question. "A book?"

"It's a book of that fellow's writing," she said, gesturing with her hand. He could see her thumb glistening from her saliva. "He wrote plays. Theatre."

He found himself fumbling in his satchel for his book of Aeschylus plays. It was the only one he had on his person that matched that
description, and he was dumbfounded that this woman knew he had it in his bag.

Wordlessly, Prouvaire handed the woman his book. She didn't even flick through it. She just held it in her slightly grubby palms. He hoped he wouldn't have to pay her considering she was probably leaving smudges on the cover right now.

"You're the right one," she said. "You've been having dreams, haven't you, Jean?"

"Sorry?" He didn't know how to answer that one. "Doesn't everybody have dreams?"

"Not like yours." The woman bared her teeth, revealing gaps where a couple of teeth had obviously once been. "You've been dreaming of a man and a woman, haven't you? Every night for a few months now. Clementine, her name is."

For a moment, it felt like his heart had stopped. "How do you know about that?"

The woman smirked. "I know lots of things," she said. "It's what I do, Jean. You're dreaming of Clementine already; she hasn't started dreaming of you yet."

He found himself leaning across the table, suddenly eager to hear more. "She exists?"

"Of course she exists." The woman rolled her eyes. "You shouldn't listen to that friend of yours. Bahorel's his name, yes?"

Prouvaire nodded. "But, Clementine…"

"Is very important," the woman said, handing the book back to him. "Oh, she is important to your life, Jean. Your life. Your very fate is entwined with hers. You need her, Jean. You need her so your verse doesn't end before its time."

"Where is she?" Prouvaire demanded, drumming his fingers on his book out of nervousness. "Where can I find her?"

"Not here, not in this time," the woman said. "Ask me no more, Jean, because I cannot tell you. It is Clementine's job from now on. Just be on your guard."

The next thing he knew, Prouvaire was back on the main street, wondering what on earth had just happened.