Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, had some other things come up, but good news, here's a chapter! We're already 3/4ths done with the story already! I know i said that this was originally a simple fic, i wasn't even DREAMING that it would turn out like this! Thank you all for your support and reviews! Love to hear what you all think! Enjoy!
XXVIII: Paris
Nine Years Later…
The wood from the crate groaned in protest as the woman hauled down on the pry bar. Her jaw clenched in the effort and the scarf she wore over her head absorbed the little beads of sweat from her hairline.
"Hurry!" the child next to her urged, grubby faced with wide eyes.
"Don't tell me to hurry, Gavroche," she grunted back, hauling on the bar. The wood gave one final strain and splintered open. The sound cracked like lightning through the dark alley.
"Gavroche," the woman said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Go to the street, see if anyone's out there. "
"Got it!" the child said, scurrying away, the tails of his little coat flapping. She watched as the streetlamp shined on his head from his spot on the Parisian streets. Gavroche looked right, then left, and right again. Once he was content that the lookout was clear, he turned and hurried back.
"Coast is clear, Aimée," he said. "What's inside?"
"Help me with the lid."
Gavroche, a small boy of eleven, was strong despite his size. He pushed the end of the cover with Aimée and it fell to the ground with the muffled clatter of wood on stone. Inside the crate were large spools of thread nestled in straw. The spools were about a foot tall.
"Help me," Aimée instructed, leaning over in the crate and lifting each spool. Once she lifted the thread, a long, silver piece of metal slid from the center. Gavroche smiled and gave an excited laugh when Aimée held up the metal object.
In the center of each spool of yarn was a sharpened bayonet.
Aimée and Gavroche quickly removed ten bayonets and discarded the yarn in the corner of the alley. Wrapping the weapons up in a thick burlap cloth, she held it out and placed it in Gavroche's outstretched arms. He grunted a little from the weight and Aimée told her little friend to wait a moment. Bending over and digging through the crate, she uncovered two pistols, their barrels shining through the yellowed straw.
"Jackpot," Gavroche breathed, his face alight with mischievous excitement.
"Here, give me the bayonets," Aimée said, taking the bundle from the boy's hands. She set it down on the ground and opened up Gavroche's jacket. "Follow me closely, ok?" she instructed, tucking the two pistols in his waistband, one on each side. She buttoned up his coat and nodded approvingly when it was clear that the lumpiness was hardly noticeable. "Follow me."
Aimée took up the bundle and made sure that the metal bayonets were completely covered by the burlap. Cradling it in her arms, she edged her way to the edge of the alley, staying away from the questioning reach of the streetlights. Her hair was tucked underneath the cloth of her scarf and her stormy blue eyes cut through the darkness easily, trained in the gloom. There were no police officers out on the street tonight.
"Come on," Aimée said, reaching down and taking Gavroche's hand. The image was perfect, a woman carrying a bundle, probably of groceries, and walking with a child, no doubt her very own son.
They moved quickly, boldly walking underneath the streetlights to make an effort to seem casual. Aimée knew that sticking to the shadows wasn't the best way, moving in the darkness caused suspicion, which prompted questioning. It was easiest just to walk normally, no matter how hard it was not to break off at a sprint. Luckily, the night was clear with moonlight and the streets were deserted.
Rounding the corner, Aimée heaved a sigh as the twinkling lights of the ABC Café winked at her from the end of the street. Gavroche's hand tightened in hers and they hurried forward. When they neared enough, Gavroche let go of her hand and scampered for the door. He disappeared inside quickly and Aimée rolled her eyes.
Headstrong little pup, she thought as she approached the door. A young man with dark, shaggy hair and a blue vest over his dirty white shirt stepped towards her before she could feel the warmth inside the café.
"Can I help you?"
"Grantaire, you know it's me. I brought a delivery," Aimée explained, scowling a little as she looked at the young man, barely out of his baby clothes. They all looked so young to her now, even though she wasn't that old, only a few years past thirty. "If you don't want it, I could take my business somewhere else…"
"Wait, come in, you want something to drink?" Grantaire quickly said, grabbing her shoulder and steering her back inside.
"Brandy," Aimée called, nodding at the bartender, an older gentleman that always recognized her when these young schoolboys didn't. She let Grantaire lead her upstairs, her arms full of metal bayonets.
"Aimée! Nice to see you again!" a boy with shaggy blonde hair exclaimed, standing up from a beaten, cluttered table. He came forward and gave her two kisses, one on each cheek, easily taking the burlap from her arms. She smiled at him and noticed that there were more men there than last week.
"New recruits?" she asked, leaning back on the bannister and crossing her arms. Her eyes flitted from man to man, each looking younger than the last. They watched her uncertainly as the blonde one, Enjolras, dropped the bundle on the table. Aimée approached and opened the flap of burlap with a flourish. The shining new bayonets glinted dangerously up at them.
"Where's Gavroche?" she called, looking around.
"Here, Miss Aimée!" he called, his voice muffled as he squeezed past some legs to get back to the table. He had chocolate on his face already. She gave him a smile and knelt, unbuttoning his jacket. She pulled out the two pistols and set them down on the table next to the bayonets.
"The rifles will be coming in at the end of the week," Aimée said, turning to Enjolras and crossing her arms again. She was nothing but business.
"How much?" he asked, his eyes excited as he picked up a pistol and turned it over in his hands.
"Two hundred francs," Aimée demanded, "I won't take any less."
Enjolras nodded, "Marius, can you pay her?"
A young man with an angelic face and freckles stepped forward and opened up a leather wallet. "It would be my pleasure. Anything for the people."
Such a bold young man with his money, Aimée thought a little skeptically as he placed the money in her hand. She pocketed it with a smile.
"Pleasure doing business with you all," she joked, giving them a little curtsey. Aimée grinned when the schoolboys chuckled after her before they all neared the table, turning the bayonets carefully in their hands, muttering excitedly to one another.
After she made her way downstairs, she headed over to the counter.
"Have my brandy ready?" she asked the barkeep. The man was a good acquaintance, but she could never remember his name.
"Of course, mademoiselle," he said, turning and filling the glass with her favorite brown alcohol. She sipped and the alcohol rushed through her nostrils and down her throat, searing warmth down into her belly. "I never knew you were a Schoolboy Supporter," he joked, scratching his mustache. The adults of the café were fond of using the joke-name for the young revolutionaries.
"Ha! No, can't say I'm against their cause, but I'm not much of a supporter. I'm more of a supporter of business," she said, taking another sip.
The bartender laughed and she followed suit. Once her drink was finished, she placed a couple coins on the bar and made her way home. The brandy settled heavily and warmly in her stomach and she dared a smile in the darkness of Paris. Money sat in her pocket and she would make a nice profit soon when the rifles came in.
The door of her apartment unlocked with a quiet click and she hurried inside, turning the deadbolt across the door behind her. The apartment was large, but not ridiculously so, and comfortable, paid for from the profits of her popular flower shop down below and the smuggling she did for the Schoolboys on the side. Aimée had never wanted to be a criminal, far from it. She liked to respect the law, staying faithful to it due to her own personal convictions. But, like any human, the idea of money was hard to resist.
Ignoring the bread that sat on her table, Aimée headed to her room. Tall windows lined the walls, three of them that looked out over the Parisian streets, the stars twinkling in ink above. Gazing through the window, she removed her headscarf and tipped her head to the side, allowing her dusty blonde hair to tumble lazily over her shoulder. Too tired to grab her hairbrush, she started to trail her fingers through the strands, scrunching her face whenever she had to give a tug at a tangle. She undid the lace of her dress, a gray one that caused no suspicion at all when she walked down the street, and let it slide to the floor. Leaving the dress in a heap on the floorboards, she padded over to her bed, the fabric of her bloomers whispering with every step. They had started as an American fashion, quick to flow overseas to France, always starving for new ideas. Flopping into her bed, she huffed a sigh and buried her face down into the pillow. Her father's words swam around in her head.
"We're in Paris now. We make our own luck. We make our own money."
Gérard Lamenté died three years after he traveled with the Thénardiers to Paris. He had caught some sort of disease down by the docks, something that made his mind go slowly. His last days were spent muttering away at the gutters below his feet. Aimée had found him the next morning, stiff and cold underneath his blanket, the snowflakes not melting when they danced over his skin. She didn't cry.
Madame Thénardier had sorted through Gérard's pockets that same morning. Took out
ten francs, a pocket watch, and a silver pen. The filthy woman quickly shoved the belongings in her dress and sent for a wagon for the body. Aimée stood over the man until it arrived. She didn't know how to feel. She wasn't relieved the man was dead…he was still her father, no matter how horrible he had been to her. However, Aimée wasn't about to deny the small bit of relief that flowed through her when she looked at his bluing lips. His fingers were stiff and his eyes were open, seeing some hallucination that wasn't there, that was never there. Aimée knelt over him and outstretched her fingers, reaching to cover his eyes, at least in some sort of respect. But, before her fingertips could touch his cold, dead skin, fire burned behind her eyes. She felt Javert's mouth against hers, still searing after three long years. She felt his arms around her, his breath warm against her skin. She felt the hope that had filled her, the hope that she had obsessed over as days turned into months, and months turned into years.
Aimée drew her hand away from her father after she remembered. The hope dripped away from her that day, quieted into something that she could barely feel.
When the men with the wagon came, she tossed them a coin and said, "Bury him if you like, or cast him away into the river. He'll make it to the sea in time."
After that, Aimée had never been quite the same. She wasn't a cruel woman, just independent and wary in this big new city. She quickly learned how to fend for herself, making money and saving it away from the Thénardiers prying eyes and tapping fingers. Little Éponine was forced to grow quickly. The little girl had a knack for thievery, her little hands able to flutter in and out of pockets without so much as a hint of her intentions. By the time her victim realized that their francs were missing, Éponine was already gone, disappeared in the crowd.
On Aimée's twenty-ninth birthday, she had saved enough money to buy a dusty little shop with a spacious apartment nestled above. As she spoke with potential suppliers and investors and soon had a growing floral business of her very own.
Just like in Montreuil, she couldn't stop herself from thinking as she polished the little bell at her door. The thought was soon pushed away. Aimée had learned that in Paris, one could not be vulnerable. She had pushed herself to harden, turn to stone and deflect any kind of harm or heartache.
Back in the present of her bedroom, Aimée Lamenté, all alone in the world around her, turned onto her side so she could gaze out her windows. The stars kept her company, told her stories of ancient gods and horrific creatures. Once, she had read a book on astronomy. When Aimée had heard of the shapes hidden in the stars, she had been mesmerized ever since. Sometimes, she could find them, like mighty Orion or Leo. Other times, she would dream and pick out her own.
Sleep claimed her quickly.
"Chief Inspector, news from Paris," the officer said, approaching Javert without much hesitation. Javert actually thought the man was a good officer, his name was Hoight, and was about as stern and serious as a stone wall.
Unfortunately…he looks like he ran in to one, Javert thought, taking the letter from Hoight and ignoring the man's broken nose. It was an old wound, probably inflicted when he was a boy, but had never quite healed just right, leaving his face looking squashed and cracked. A frightening man, no doubt about it.
Javert neared the fire in the hearth and broke the red seal. The loopy, unnecessary elegance of a Parisian clerk's handwriting was hard to read in the gloom.
Chief Inspector Javert,
Paris writes to you to request your presence back in Paris. Your work has been exemplary over these last few years keeping the smugglers out of the Parisian walls, but, unfortunately, we're having our own smuggling issues inside the city. Talks of rebellion have risen and we need you and your excellent authority to whip the city police back into shape.
We request you whenever you can quickly arrive.
Javert's eyebrows furrowed and looked to Hoight. "There may be rebellion in Paris."
Hoight looked unconcerned. "Fools, they don't have the stomachs to go through with it, and if they do, they'll be squashed in a day."
"That may be true, but regardless, we have to return to Paris," Javert said, taking a drink from his wineglass before he tossed the dregs into the fireplace. The wine sizzled against the log and Javert turned, feeling the heat against his back. Hoight followed suit, swigging down and finishing his drink with a large gulp.
The common room of Traveler's Pride, a dumpy inn on the edge of a small village about five hours from the Paris gate, was crawling with police officers. Javert had set out two years ago on a fierce anti-smuggling campaign with about fifteen men. Altogether, the posse had captured and arrested over a hundred people. Men, mostly, dirty and grungy and thin from hunger. Crates had been overturned, rifles, pistols, and bayonets spilling from inside. Javert had ripped up floorboards, shattered windows, and even set fire to a few barns. Ferocity flowed through his veins, replacing the blood inside him. Officers below him often whispered if he even had a soul in his body.
During a few instances, Javert had actually started to question the state of his soul himself. But as he saddled his massive black horse, the thoughts of souls or humanity was the last thing on his mind. Javert had gone through two horses in the last nine years. Ombre had grown old, weary from the intensity that Javert had demanded from the animal. Afterwards, Javert had been issued a chestnut mare, but demanded another when the horse proved too timid. The poor animal had bolted when the fire of Javert's pistol cracked in its ears. Now, Javert rode a jet black Frisian, much larger than the standard horses the other men rode, but calmer and harder working. The shot of a gun didn't even make the Frisian blink.
"So we're headed back then?" Hoight asked, watching as Javert pulled on his riding gloves and put on his hat. The night was cool and heavily dewed, the dirt road damp beneath the hooves of their horses.
Javert nodded as he tightened a strap on his horse's saddlebags. "You'll be riding with me. The others can follow along in the morning. Let them get some rest for the night."
Hoight nodded as he turned and disappeared back into the inn. Javert pulled himself into his saddle, still fit, but eliciting a groan from his age. The man was fifty-two, yet he worked harder and fought more fiercely than the young men below his command. His face hadn't aged much, a little more peppering in his beard and hair, maybe a couple more wrinkles that stretched from the corners of his eyes, yet he still looked the same.
As he waited, Javert transferred the reigns into his left hand and reached into his pocket with his right. Beneath the moonlight, Javert looked at the white satin square that sat in the darkness of his glove. The handkerchief glowed in the night and he could see the two dark streaks slashed across the front. If Chief Inspector Mattheiu Javert indeed possessed a human soul, it was woven into the fabric of that satin. Wrapping it around his finger, the man watched the door of the inn as his horse shifted its weight below him. When Hoight came back outside, Javert quickly stuffed the fabric back into his pocket. He heard whispers of memories in his ears, but he did his best to ignore them.
"To Paris then," Hoight grunted as he pulled himself back into the saddle. Javert nodded and spurred the large black horse into an easy canter. It would be a long ride, and he had learned his lesson about pushing horses too hard. He actually felt some sadness whenever he thought of his old, faithful horse. When Ombre grew sick and old, Javert had actually shed a few tears in the privacy of the stables, running his hand over the weary horse's tired shoulder and drooping neck.
The two men rode in silence, neither of them comfortable with the ability of small talk. Javert's shoulders began to slump forward as he rode. The Inspector hadn't slept much the night before and he knew it would be a long time before he would get to sleep again. No doubt he'd be crawling into bed only a few hours before the sun rose. Javert tried to mentally prepare himself for Paris. It had been a while. He'd been away from the hustle and bustle for quite some time, nearly two years. The countryside had treated him well, wide and open, with few rules to contain his ego. However, rules and order in Paris were unheard of. Javert wasn't exactly unknown on the city streets either. He wasn't popular in the eyes of the common folk, all filthy and starving.
Rebellion seems to be all the rage these last few decades, Javert mused. The people chomped at the bit when faced with the opportunity for violence. They thought it was an honorable thing, overthrowing the rich to spread the wealth to scum and criminals. Each young boy fancied himself as Robin Hood, trying to overthrow the pompous king. Javert wrinkled his nose as he thought. The French no doubt had idolized the Americans over the ocean, the way they overthrew the Brits and gave the country to the "people."
The two stopped on the road twice or three times, drinking from canteens and allowing their horses to rest. Finally, after long, sore hours of travel, the lights of Paris shone down the road. Javert and Hoight approached the gate, his jaw set and mouth in a frown. The city smelled disgusting, even though the two men were sitting on the other side of the gate. Muck, filth, piss, soured wine, smoke, and decay all hung like a haze over the city, so thick Javert brought a hand up to his nose. He breathed through the cloth of his gloves for a few moments before he grew used to the smell.
Three guards handed the gate. Two of them were seated on stools, bent over the top of a barrel. Two dice were sitting amongst a small pile of coins and the third man was leaning up against the wall of Paris, a pipe sticking out from between his lips. Two oil lamps hung at the gate, casting a weak yellow light over them.
"Papers," the guard with the pipe drawled, ignoring the Inspector's uniform. Javert handed the guard the letter he had received hours ago. From the light of his lamp, the guard read the words.
"Pleasure to see you back in our city, Chief Inspector Javert," the guard said, his dark moustache wiggling with his words. He looked up and handed the paper back to the Inspector. "How long has it been?"
"Two years," Javert grunted, hoping that the guard would just open the gate and let them through.
"Paris could surely use you," the guard said, clapping his hands at his two comrades. They quickly stood and went to unlock the gates. "Best of luck," he said, standing aside and letting Javert and Hoight to pass through.
Even though it was late at night, the whispers of dawn creeping in behind Javert's horse, people were still standing in the streets. Some looked up at him as he passed, eyes glazed over and unseeing.
Probably drunk or hazed in opium, Javert thought, his judgmental gaze boring into the people as he wound his way to the Palais de Justice, a massive building whose doorway was barred by four stone pillars. Pulling the great black horse to a stop, Javert dismounted and hurried up the steps, Hoight puffing behind him. Hoight had never been much for moving quickly.
The Palais de Justice would normally have been closed at this time of night, but a few judges were still inside, awaiting Javert's arrival. A clerk answered his booming knock and quietly led him to a massive, ornate marble hall. Behind an elevated bench sat two older gentlemen, their black hats sitting bulbously atop their heads, almost making them look like chess pawns. Javert approached the bench, back straight and fists closed.
"Chief Inspector Javert, reporting," Javert said, giving them a bow.
"Ah, nice to see you, Inspector," one of the pawns said, wire rimmed spectacles perched too far down on his nose. "We've stayed up for you."
Javert didn't like the way the judge had spoken, but he held his tongue.
"I trust you can start work in the morning?" the judge said, "Or, the afternoon if you need more rest."
"I shall start patrol in the morning."
"Good," the judge said, looking up and removing his glasses. He rubbed a skinny finger in the corner of his eye. "Pay close attention to the young people in the city. Young men have been the worst threat of revolution. Also keep a look for smugglers. We've heard speculation that someone keeps supplying these revolutionaries with weapons. No doubt they're stockpiling them."
"Any thought of when this will explode?" Javert asked.
"General Lamarque has grown very sick. The people rally for him. The sicker he gets, the more hostile these revolutionaries grow. I shudder to think what would happen if the man dies."
"Understood, Your Honor," Javert said, giving him a bow and turning to leave. Hoight did the same and followed him out.
"General Lamarque?" the ugly man asked, doing his best to stay instep next to his commanding officer.
"A war hero," Javert said, unimpressed, "Supposedly he stood up for the people. The common folk."
"I see."
"Paris is a tinderbox, Hoight," Javert admitted once they made it through the heavy, filigreed doors of the Palais de Justice. The night was still cool and Javert wanted to return to his old apartment. He had locked it up before his crusade and was anxious to see if it had stayed secure. "It's only a matter of time before the flames break. We have to rally before they do."
"What are your plans, Inspector?"
"Smother them with water before they have a chance to spark."