Sorry about the wait. I've been preoccupied with other things.
Having recently gone to France, I will be updating some of the previous chapters based on information I had gathered there. Hopefully not much will change, apart from the flavor of some of the scenes, which I hope will be an enhancement rather than a detraction. Also, as you will note, Lebete's status has changed drastically (as is evidenced by his being in this next scene). If I've missed any pieces in the change, please let me know either through messaging or reviews.
About fifteen minutes later, the police had the man's critical information on file and a confession signed and dated.
In his office, Monsieur Lebete sat across from the inspector, his shoulder wrapped in a bandage that already looked like it needed to be changed. The pair were in a somewhat different attitude from when they first found themselves seated across from each other. Lebete was fully awake, for one, though how long he would stay that way was up for debate. Instead of scorn in his eyes a certain sense of curious awe was there. Our inspector was far from humiliated as he had been in the fiacre, instead taking on the attitude of one who was used to winning battles but still found something of a thrill in them.
Lebete stood up and stalked over to the fireplace, in what one would almost classify as an attempt to distance himself from the Inspector. Finally after a few moments he cleared his throat. "I don't know who you are, or where you came from…"
"You have my information on file," Javert interrupted. "In fact, I believe that was our first order of business."
Lebete pursed his lips and continued. "You seem to be good at police work. As there are as yet no charges being pressed against you, though naturally that may change..."
"Naturally," Javert repeated, folding his arms across his chest.
"…I see no problem in letting you help around the station, perhaps with something more than file-work, until those charges are pressed or the people who would press them express their contentment in the matter."
Javert adjusted himself in his chair, pressing his crossed arms more tightly against his body. The idea of working seriously under Lebete appalled him; and yet more appalling was the idea of returning to actual police work after so brief a reprieve. Jumping in the Seine had been his resignation form from police work just as it had been intended to release him from every other part of life. However, the natural course of things otherwise was to be a prisoner under this man's imbecilic care until charges were brought forth or he was released.
What was worse, he was beginning to get a headache. He had ignored all his body's signals for the past twelve hours and now his body was getting its revenge. His muscles were aching, worse than they had when he'd first emerged from the Seine, and his mouth felt as though he hadn't had any water in days—a feeling which was far from the truth. Furthermore, his mind had slowly become wrapped in a fog that he was fighting with all his strength to think through.
As Javert fought to sort out his current situation, the door to Lebete's office opened to reveal the woman from the street. Her eyes settled on Javert and widened to an almost impossible extent. She looked at Lebete with an expression of sheer horror. "Monsieur Lebete! What are you doing?"
"Madame Gallaird!" Lebete cried. He scrambled with a few papers on his desk. "I didn't expect you until later today."
"I came as soon as I could," she replied, her gaze once again on our inspector. "What is that man doing out of his cell?"
This was a good question. In the confusion and chaos of the previous night, Javert had not stopped to think about the strict legality of the situation he'd been placed in or the effect it might have on the civilian and his regard for the law.
As he brooded over this, M. Lebete turned to face Mme. Galliard. "Madame, there are no formal charges against him. I saw no harm in not confining him to a cell on such a basis."
"No charges!" the woman screeched. "What about my son?"
Javert cleared his throat and set his steely gaze upon the hysterical woman. "Madame," he began. "I never so much as touched the child, nor did I have any plans to. I fell asleep by the side of the road and he happened to see me when I awoke."
"Oh, and where had you come from? Some gypsy colony, that's where. I've heard of your type. Scouting out places to steal and kidnap before your band moves in." She turned to Lebete, who was staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear. "Monsieur Lebete, you must remove this scum from our village before the whole place becomes crawling with them."
Lebete looked helplessly from Mme. Gallaird to Javert. Finally, he spoke in voice almost like a squeak, "You accuse this man of having attempted to kidnap your child?"
"Attempted? He almost did!" Mme. Gallaird cried. "If I hadn't heard his cry, he would've been sold away. My poor boy!"
It was then that something inside Javert broke. He stood up and walked over to the window, crossing his arms in front of him almost in the attitude of Napoleon. "Let us get several points clear," he growled with all the ferocity of a tiger. "First, Madame, I came from Paris, not some caravan of gypsies. Secondly, I am an officer of the law, and have been so for thirty years. I am not a street thief nor a vagabond."
Lebete looked at him with surprise. A guard at Toulon is not quite the same as an officer of the law, though they both may cover the same ground in terms of people- as anyone who has followed the career of M. le Inspector certainly knows. Mme. Gallaird simply glared at him.
"Then what were you doing lying in the road?" she said. "Policemen don't just lie in the gutters." She turned to Lebete, entreating him. "That's where gypsies and thieves spend the night, Monsieur, not honest men."
Lebete set his gaze on Javert, waiting for an answer. The same question no doubt had occurred to him, if not earlier then at the prompting of Mme. Gallaird.
Javert merely snarled. The last thing he wanted to tell anyone, indeed the last thing he wanted to admit to himself, was that he had been fleeing Paris and collapsed by the roadside. However, it was a direct question, and after his conduct with the rebel, it was not likely that they would think he was being pert if he told them the truth. So, reluctantly, Javert turned to face his two questioners. "I was leaving Paris," he began. He did not add why. "Due to the riots, which Monsieur and Madame are no doubt aware of, I was in poor condition to travel, though I did not think it an issue at the time. I felt myself in trouble at about the spot where Mme. Galliard's son found me and soon fell asleep. When I awoke, the child saw me and began screaming." The pain in his head began to throb as if the child were once again screaming in his ears. "The rest you know," he added, gesturing to Mme. Galliard and Lebete.
The two looked at each other, then at the figure before them.
"But, Monsieur," Lebete began, already forming the dreaded question. "Why was it that you decided to travel from Paris in such a state? On foot no less!"
Javert grit his teeth, mentally calculating how much they would believe and how much he desired to tell them. It did not amount to much. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he was able to complete a single sentence, the fog enveloped him. The last thing he recalled was falling to the floor and the screams of Mme. Galliard.
Reviews are appreciated as always.