I apologize for the delay. This chapter has been giving me a rough time for awhile now, but I think I finally have it under control. Enjoy!
Also, for those of you who were here before the hiatus I took, I made some significant changes in the last two chapters, so you might want to read them before reading this one. Sorry for the inconvenience.
The first thing Javert saw when he awoke was the mottled planking of the ceiling. His keen eyes gathered that this was not the ceiling of the station, nor was it the ceiling of his own apartment. That it was the ceiling of the barricade was similarly implausible as was the ceiling of Rue de l' Homme Arme, No. 7. No, this was an entirely unfamiliar ceiling and thus an entirely unfamiliar place.
Having thoroughly studied the ceiling, he turned his head slightly to the left. Here, he was met with the sight of an entirely unfamiliar wall. Beginning to get more and more frustrated with this operation, he moved his head to the right. This yielded more favorable results. Now he could see a small bedside table, a window with brown rough spun curtains, and a small chest of what he presumed to be linens.
Moreover he could see a person. It was definitely female as the skirts and slight hillock in the fabric at her chest would indicate. However, her age was something more of a problem. She appeared to be no more than fourteen, but had the air and bearing to her of a woman three times that age. Dark brown hair plaited into a braid fell down her back and here and there attempted to escape its confines by means of a wisp. Her face would have been very round were it not for wan-ness of her cheeks and she had a nose that looked very much like those Javert had seen in illustrations of elves and fairies. Her height gave her a similarly elfish aspect as she appeared to be little more than five foot. Small, child-like hands busied themselves with some knitting that had apparently gone awry several times. This strange creature sat on a wicker chair that had been situated near the window and now looked back at him. She gave a slight smile of what might have been relief and returned to her knitting, muttering something under her breath.
Seeing that he was not alone, Javert tried to pull himself into a sitting position, only to find that his left arm was bound in a sling. Moreover, it stung fiercely whenever he tried to move it—a pain which our valiant inspector recognized from the various scuffles he had been in the midst of during his time on the force as a broken bone. Cursing his ill luck, he thrust himself against the headboard until his shoulders were resting fully against it. Considering himself now in a less vulnerable position, he felt he might address this stranger and find out how he came to be in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place with a broken arm and a woman-child watching over him as he slept.
"Mademoiselle," he began, not knowing what else to call her.
The woman-child chuckled slightly and looked up from her knitting. "I appreciate the complement," she said. "But I've been widowed and wed twice already, monsieur. 'Madame' may be more suitable."
"Madame," he said, blushing at his error. As he attempted to remember what he had been trying to say before this quibble over titles, the woman-child left the room and returned with a jug of water, a cup, and a small glass bottle. After putting a bit of the bottle's contents into the cup, she poured water from the jug into it and placed it by his bedside. "What is that?" he asked, unable to keep some of the snarl out of his voice.
The woman-child, apparently used to such treatment, placed the jug on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. "It's quinine water," she said simply- as if this were the most natural answer in the world. However, the thing seemed far from natural to Javert. He had never experienced any level of medical treatment higher than sleep and bandages. Consequently, he viewed medicine as an excuse for quack doctors to legally steal money. Thus, he looked at the glass of water and jug with disgust and some skepticism.
"Well, are you going to drink it or not?" the woman demanded, causing Javert's gaze to snap away from the glass of water and focus on her. She was now folding a basket of laundry she seemed to have brought up to the room with her. "If you're not, then I might as well take it away, but I figured you must be thirsty."
"I am, madame, but the quinine…"
The woman looked at him askance. "Don't tell me that a strong man like you is afraid of a little quinine," she said, arching an eyebrow.
Javert grit his teeth at her remark. In truth, he was slightly fearful of the drink. Given Mme. Galliard's reception and the general regard with which most people held him, the possibility of quinine being a euphemism for arsenic was not entirely out of the question. Even if the mixture were not actively made with the intent of killing him, who knew what sort of devilment this woman had purchased under the name of sound medicine? Furthermore, the cost of such a concoction was beyond his means. Like most dead men, he had not a penny to his name and thus was incapable of paying for even the slightest medical treatment. Despite all these fears and doubts, he managed to keep his composure and respond to her remark. "It is not fear, madame," he replied, trying to keep an even tone. "But rather… cost."
"Oh that!" she said as if the entire issue of payment had slipped her mind. "I wouldn't worry about that, monsieur. We have a small bit of money given to us by the parish for people who can't pay. It's not much, but it's enough to have quinine water on the house."
At this, Javert turned a rusty shade of red. To him, this was humiliation upon humiliation. Being a vagabond or a prisoner was one thing, but becoming a charity case was something simply intolerable to his disposition. To accept charity, to him, was not only a show of weakness and a most pathetic spirit, but also a way to get oneself bound up in a web of obligations without a thought to honor or lawfulness. Thus, unable to keep the venom out of his voice, he hissed, "Madame, while I appreciate your goodwill, I will not accept charity."
The widow scoffed and tucked away another shirt. "Well, monsieur, as much as I appreciate your independence, you'd better learn to accept charity because that is what you're going to get."
Javert glowered at the woman. Had he been in a better position physically, he would have gotten up from the bed, pulled on his boots, and left without another word, proving to this pathetic little woman that she could not force anything on Inspector Javert.
Unfortunately, he was not in such a position. His head still ached so fiercely that he could scarcely focus, whether from fatigue or his fall he could not tell, and having one arm bound in a sling would doubtlessly impede any sort of exit he might attempt to make. So, rather than leave, our inspector was forced to make himself content with simply bristling at this woman as she went about the room arranging things here and there and occasionally going back to her knitting.
This silence lasted for a good ten minutes with neither party seemingly intent on addressing the other ever again. However, the game was rigged to the widow's advantage. She presumably knew where she was and what position she currently occupied in life. Javert did not. He did not even know if he was a free man or not. He had been in the midst of clearing his name when he fainted and his case could easily have gone badly for him once he was no longer available to come to his own defense. Thus, it seemed the only way to discover his position, both spatially and in life, was to break the silence and ask this strange woman for the answers.
"Madame," he said as she started another row of her knitting. "Might I ask where I am?"
"Hopital d' St. Thomas*," she replied. "Anything else?"
"How did I get here?" he asked, already dreading the answer.
"M. Lebete was able to drag you part of the way here with the help of one of the other officers. It was a valiant effort on his part. You are no small man, monsieur."
"And the rest of the way?"
"A fiacre was engaged. Dr. Georges took over for M. Lebete once he saw you and was able to get you here."
"How long have I been asleep?"
The woman smiled sadly. "I didn't think you'd remember. You've been here three days. You kept passing in and out of consciousness. Said some queer things too. Something about a number and catching it, however you do that. And how the stars had abandoned you." She shrugged and set down her knitting. "I expect you were delirious."
Javert gave a little sigh and sunk his chin against his chest. He was glad that she had come up with a rational explanation for these ravings, for he could think of none that would not involve revealing painful aspects of his past. Still, he bitterly resented the thought that he had no control over what he had said in the past three days. Had the woman heard more than 24601 and the stars and was simply not telling him? How much detail had he gone into? And, worst of all, would his unconscious words have any bearing on the accusations that were being levied against him? He felt himself grow cold at the thought. If he had murmured in his half-conscious state a memory of any arrest, it could have easily been misconstrued as evidence that he was a kidnapper. Such things do when they are taken out of context. Thus, it was with some amount of trepidation that he thought of how to ask his next question.
It was not an easy question to formulate. The less this woman knew about him and his precarious legal state the better; yet she was the only one so far from whom he might get any information about it. As he was about to speak those fateful words 'Am I a prisoner?', the woman spoke up. "Also, you've been let off. When Mme. Galliard saw you faint…" Javert flinched at the word, but said nothing, at the moment merely thankful that he was not under arrest. "She revoked all charges. I suppose she knows that no one, not even a gypsy, would break their own head on purpose, and that you truly were ill."
"I am released from all charges then?" Javert asked tentatively.
The woman looked at him for a second before resuming her folding. "Unless you have more than Mme. Galliard on your conscience, you're a free man."
"Then I demand to be released at once," Javert growled.
For a second, the woman stared at him disbelievingly, then her face took on an impassive look. "Of course, monsieur, you can leave whenever you like," she said, her tone as impassive as her gaze.
Something seemed off about this. Having cultivated an impassive mask himself, Javert was able to see a little bit of mischief glitter in her eyes.
"I may simply go then?" he asked, a bit warily.
"Of course," she said. "I certainly wouldn't keep someone here against their will. I have plenty of patients to care for already."
Again, there was a faint twinkle in her eyes. Javert frowned and began shifting to the side of the bed.
"Of course," she said as his feet hit the floor. "There is one rather obvious condition. You must be able to walk out."
Javert looked at her curiously. Taking his gaze for a question, she added, "Well, I'm afraid I haven't the strength to carry you out. Besides, I'm not sure what good it would do you if I were able to manage it."
"I have no intention of having anyone carry me anywhere," Javert replied with a sneer. At that, he got to his feet, somewhat dizzily, and began to walk towards the door. He had just about made it to the threshold when the world seemed to twist around him. He staggered, his right hand grabbing hold of the doorframe for support.
"You have a fever*, Monsieur Javert," the woman said, her tone now softened. He could just see her face out of the corner of his eye. An expression vaguely resembling pity had replaced the mask that it wore only moments ago. "As you can no doubt see it's a rather strong one."
Javert growled and let go of the doorframe. If he kept his breathing even and ignored the pounding in his head he might be able to make it downstairs. But what then? He crossed into the hallway, preferring the unknown and oblivion to that woman-child's weary expression of goodwill.
Unfortunately, fate seemed to have it in her plans that he stay there, for no sooner had he exited the room than he came face to face with M. Lebete.
"Ah, you're doing better?" Lebete asked. "I had just come to see you, if you were awake. I'm glad to see that you are."
"He's not better, M. Lebete," the woman said, having come into the hallway after her charge.
"Mme. Chenille." Lebete bowed, a gesture which the woman returned with a slight curtsey. This action done, Lebete looked from Javert to Mme. Chenille with confusion. "Why then is he out of bed, madame?"
The woman sighed and placed a light hand on Javert's arm—a hand which he quickly shook off. "It seems nothing short of arrest will keep him here," she said wearily. "Not even a fever."
"You are trying to leave?" Lebete exclaimed with surprise. "That is most inadvisable, especially in your state!"
Javert bit back a comment about what he thought of M. Lebete's advice. Were we to speculate on such a subject, we suspect that it might have involved some strong language and a not very formally worded statement about the man's competency. Rather than voicing such a remark, though, Javert tried to walk past M. Lebete towards the staircase he could see just beyond him.
Mme. Chenille was ahead of him though. No sooner had he passed the policeman than she was standing in front of him a firm hand on his chest. "Monsieur, you are not going anywhere in your state," she said. "I must insist that you go back to your room and lie down."
"I will do no such thing," Javert growled. "I am a free man and as such I am permitted to leave this establishment as soon as I am able to do so."
Mme. Chenille looked to M. Lebete with a harried expression then back to Javert. "Monsieur," she said. "Look down."
Javert knit his brow and reluctantly obeyed. His face turned a bright red. He returned his gaze to Mme. Chenille. "I see," he said. He swallowed hard and attempted to cross his legs. "Where are they?"
"They are currently being laundered," Mme. Chenille replied. "They were rather dirty when you came to us and it is standard procedure when someone has a fever to remove…"
"When will they be returned to me?" Javert said before she could utter another word.
"I cannot say. I would have to ask Jeanette when she's done washing the sheets and…"
"Then, if you don't mind, I shall return to bed," Javert cut in. He turned around and gave Lebete a curt nod.
"Good day, monsieur," he murmured, and with that he retreated back to his room.
*I've done my best to use some actual places in this narrative. This is not one of them. L'hopital de Saint Thomas is an entirely fictional hospital.
*The term "fever" was used to describe all sorts of diseases in the 1800s. It could be anything from what we commonly refer to as a fever today to the dreaded influenza which took people's lives more often than not. Given Javert's weakened immune system from his dip in the Seine, I have decided to place him on the more serious side of the term and make it a case of the flu.
Reviews appreciated as always!