Chapter 11 - Romans 13:1
It had been hard for Grace to bid goodbye to her room at the Chateau.
Hard for her to pack up the few things that did belong to her: all of the contents of her bag and the dress she had arrived in.
She took a steadying glance at her photos and memories on her phone before she packed it away, hoping that seeing her Mum's face would instil her with courage.
It had been at 65% when she'd stored it in her satchel.
It had been harder still to attend dinner that night with Jocelyn and Julius, enjoying their company and eating their food, without uttering a word of thanks or goodbye. Enjolras had not been there, and perhaps it was better that way. She didn't want her last evening with Julius and Jocelyn to be marred with arguing and tenseness.
But by the time she'd returned to her room, Enjolras had left a rather large pile of men's clothes on the bed for her, and a note to accompany.
"I assumed you wouldn't have any suitable attire for 'Romily'.
I took these from father's wardrobe. He shouldn't miss them, he has so many clothes from over the years.
I have arranged for a stagecoach to meet us in town at midnight."
Grace had scrunched up the scrap of paper and burnt it immediately. She hoped that Artemida hadn't found it and read it before she'd come back from her post-dinner entertainment. She stuffed the men's clothes in the closet too, hiding them from view, hoping that there's be no need for the maid to look in there that evening. However, when Artemida had helped her dress for bed, she had displayed no hint that she knew of their secret plan to abscond and the wardrobe door had stayed mercifully shut.
In the quiet hours before midnight, she had risen from her bed as silently as possible and dressed herself, for the first time, in her man's clothes.
Enjolras had given her quite the selection to choose from. The first thing Grace did, taking one of her old petticoats, was to shred it up into a long strip of material. The ripping noise was deafening in the quietness of the night, but no one came running up the tower steps, and all remained still. She wrapped it around her chest and tried to flatten her breasts as best she could. She had not been blessed with the heartiest of boobs, but they were still a solid C cup. So, even when she donned a simple linen shirt, there was still a slight rise on her chest. However, she grabbed a waistcoat and a large woollen frock-coat and donned them both. The coat, in particular, was huge on her and swamped her frame in material. Hopefully that would be enough to hide her feminine form…
Trousers and boots followed and she then set about trying to make her face seem more boyish. Enjolras had long hair. So she hoped that she could keep her hair the same length that it was now. Grace combed out the crimps and curls Artemida had styled it into and tied it in a simple ponytail at the nape of her neck. She scrubbed the rouge from her cheeks and the kohl from her eyelashes too, hoping that she'd done enough to make herself look a little bit 'rougher'.
Sighing at her reflection in the dresser's mirror, she admitted defeat; she looked about as convincing as a first-time drag performer… So, she grabbed a low-brimmed flatcap and pulled it down over her face.
It was about half an hour to midnight by the time she'd finished, and when she stood to leave, she couldn't help but acknowledge how much freer she felt. All those heavy skirts and voluminous sleeves gone. So, as she gathered up her supplies and clothes, eventually her trepidation and nervousness gave way to excitement.
Enjolras was waiting for her at the bottom of the tower steps. He looked up to greet her and did a double take.
"Goodness. You look…"
"More like a prepubescent boy than a man." She grumbled back.
"Well, you no longer look like a lady, and that's the important thing."
"Hmm. I guess."
"Shall we away, Cousin?" He asked with an eyebrow raise.
Grace sighed and took one last look around the Chateau. Despite the circumstances that had brought her here, her time here had been largely pleasant and happy. She was wading out into territories unknown, unprotected by its walls or the people within. She would miss Jocelyn and Julius. She'd miss the almost constant presence of Artemida or another servant. But when she nodded back to Enjolras, she was ready for whatever world was out there for her to greet.
They walked together in silence along the river bank. The babbling brook hummed pleasantly in the darkness and it filled the gap between them. Enjolras could tell that she was thinking on a great many things and he left her to her ruminations.
The carriage was , indeed, waiting for them when they walked into the centre of Provins. A coachman and two horses sat patiently just outside the Inn and Enjolras rushed up to greet them.
After a brief conversation, he turned back to Grace and made his way to the carriage door, holding it open for her.
"Well? Still want to come?"
Grace took in a deep breath, feeling hesitancy in her feet.
'Follow him, and you'll have your story' The Story Teller had told her.
Somehow, she found courage in those words, and without another backwards glance, she entered the carriage.
Javert stood outside on the street of the Place Louis Lépine.
The building was tall and magnificent, white and imposing. It was one of the grandest buildings he'd ever seen. Almost palatial. It stood as a shining edifice to the Law that it represented. Even amongst the stink and squalor of Paris.
It was not in his nature to feel nervous or apprehensive, especially when in service to the Law. But ever since he had left Provins, he had not felt like himself. Putting some distance between himself and the girl had helped, but there was still a touch of something small. Every so often his thoughts would snag on it, like a tiny splinter in his mind.
He would see a dash of purple, or a woman with tawny-brown hair, or perhaps the distant tinkle of a piano and he would be reminded of Grace. Despite his hardest efforts to stay focused, he found himself looking for her face in the crowds or listening for her voice in the hubbub.
The whole situation had him infuriated with himself. Still, he gathered his wits and summited the steps into the police headquarters.
Inside, there were dozens of lawmen milling about, shuffling over the pristine marble floor. He took off his tophat and glanced around for a hint of where to take himself. As well as being the administrative centre, the Place Louis Lépine was also the barracks for the Préfecture de Police. There were men, younger than he, wearing the navy-blue uniform and bearing their sabres at their side. Two of them dipped their bicorne hats to him and he nodded back politely in return. He stood, a little awkwardly in the atrium, watching as the lowliest Private and the highest Sergeants passed him by.
"Inspector Javert!" an excited voice called out to him.
From across the marble floor, Javert saw a familiar face.
"Malloirave." he said, trying to dampen the slight sound of relief that crept into his voice.
His Sergeant came running up to him with a broad smile on his face.
"We weren't expecting you for a few more days, Sir."
"The blacksmith returned sooner than expected. I rode through the night to be here."
"Goodness… Well, I suppose you'll want to be shown your living quarters so you can rest."
"Not at all, Sergeant. I wish to present myself to the Préfet right away."
"Right now, Sir?" Malloirave asked, a frown of concern on his face.
"Of course. The duty a man has to the Law takes no days off, no slack hours!"
"Yes, sir… Well…" He paused for a moment. "Right this way."
Malloirave gestured down another corridor and the two of them fell in tandem step with one another. Eventually, they happened upon a small training courtyard. Javert could see the new recruits practising drills in between the gaps of the marble pillars whilst the Sergeant-Major shouted orders at them.
"I trust all was well in Provins?" The Sergeant asked, by way of small-talk.
Again, that splinter in his mind snagged on something, and Javert was lost in memories of that soirée for the briefest of seconds. A purple dress, a look across a crowded room, a raucous piano tune.
"Uneventful. Nothing to report." He said dismissively. "I trust you and the other men made it here without issue?"
"Indeed, Sir. We were out on duty for the first time last night."
"Very good, Sergeant. I shall recommend your name to the Préfet for reward."
"Sir! Thank you…" Malloirave breathed.
"Not at all, Sergeant. You stepped up and led the men when needed. You show a natural proclivity for command."
Malloirave gave him a playful frown and chuckled. "Goodness, Sir. Whatever was in the water in Provins clearly agreed with you!"
Javert's face moulded into a stern frown in a split second. Whatever positive feeling had existed between him and Malloirave turned, like curdled milk, instantly.
"I'll uhh….I will go and alert the men that you're here." Malloirave said hurriedly. "It's this office, Sir."
Before he left, the Sergeant pointed towards a heavy oak door with two large lion-head brass knockers on it.
Again, it was not normally in Javert's nature to feel intimidated. He had survived one of the harshest jails in France, stared down the Malmuks in Egypt, looked criminals in the eye on the prison-galleys of Toulon and had been in countless other hair-raising situations. This door was nothing. And still he felt a pang of something inside him. Like his feet were placed on shifting sands.
He took a step towards the door, but was halted in his tracks when another navy-suited and bicorned man stepped out from between them. Judging by the colours he wore on his breast, he was a Lieutenant, and he gave Javert a suspicious look.
"You have to wait to be summoned by the Préfet." He said shortly, pointing to a stone bench in-between a dual pair of columns.
Javert frowned at the bench, wondering how the Préfet knew how anyone had come to see him if they weren't allowed to knock.
"The Prefét knows everything that goes on in here." The Lieutenant said, seemingly reading his mind.
Javert raised an incredulous eyebrow and the Lieutenant went in his way.
As he took a seat, Javert relinquished that a man did not become the head of the Préfecture de Police without having a knack for intelligence.
He sighed deeply and settled in for a substantial wait.
He listened to the sound of the Sergeant-Major barking his orders for a little while.
"First position! Second position! Third position!"
As he looked around the courtyard, his mind began wandering. It was dangerous, he knew, having a quiet moment. But try as he might, he just couldn't stay in the here and now.
It was the colour of the marble columns. The courtyard.
It reminded him so much of Camille's father's house.
And the hours he and her would spend in secret behind those columns…
...
Her legs wrapped around him.
Skirts lifted about her waist.
His pounding groin pressed hard against her sex. Her back pressed up against the marble pillars in the faux Greek ruins in her father's grounds. Hot, clumsy kisses pressed against her mouth.
"When am I getting a ring from you, my love?" Camille asked breathily.
"Soon. Soon. As soon as I've saved up my allowance from Froid."
The kisses did not stop. Her red lip-pomade smeared itself all across her face. And she laughed. He remembered Camille's laugh. Low and rumbling. Like a bow drawn across a cello's strings.
It had been some eight months since the party of the red-ribbons. What had started off as a fiery glance and a spilled glass of champagne had spiralled into a fierce and heated love-affair. He loved Camille in the way that only the young can love: clumsily, blindly.
Where she had lead, he had followed like a blindfolded man to the gallows. Camille was the first woman, the only woman, to look his way, and to her he felt nothing less than total obedience.
It began with the letters. A secret correspondence that had him promising and professing things that he hadn't believed he had the capacity to say. Then it had progressed into the demands, the 'need' Camille had told him, to see him. Her words had been like honey to his affection-starved soul:
'I must behold you'.
'I hunger for your presence'.
'I die without you'.
And soon they had been rendezvousing in her father's gardens, behind the stables, in the ice-shed… Anywhere that was quiet and deserted where they could be left alone.
And soon all pretence of prudishness and etiquette had gone out of the window. It didn't stand a chance. Not in the face of two raging eighteen-year-olds with all of the pent-up sexuality of a moralistic, puritanical, God-fearing society.
"Is Froid still dead-set against me?" Camille asked in a low voice, eyes closed as he covered her neck in kisses.
"Ugh, the old skeleton thinks I stopped seeing you months ago." He groaned into her neck. "But I wouldn't worry. He'll be dead soon."
Camille laughed again, squeezing her thighs tighter around him.
Javert's loins pounded with desire. Camille always had a way of asking her most provicational questions when she was wrapped around him like this. Always her most dangerous queries.
"And when I have your ring, we won't have to court in secret anymore."
"Do you call this courting?" Camille asked with a wicked smile.
"Would you prefer I stopped?" He asked earnestly, looking at her with longing eyes.
This wasn't the first time their meetings had become carnal. Much to his surprise, Camille had been the first of the two of them to kiss, to touch, to stroke, to fumble. It had completely upturned everything Javert had expected for a lady of good-breeding and high society, as she was. But he had followed diligently down whatever path she led him and had rarely taken much convincing.
"Don't be ridiculous." She growled playfully. "I won't tell anybody if you won't."
He smiled at her and resumed his string of hot and breathless kisses.
"Besides, my father will look much more favourably upon your intention to marry me when you have your own fortune."
"When I have my own fortune?" He asked, a quiver of uncertainty in his voice.
Camille knew that he had come from very humble beginnings. He couldn't help but pour his heart out to her about his mother, his heritage, his early life with Froid. But all that seemed not to matter to her.
"Don't be coy, my love. Froid is childless. You are his ward. Who else is he going to leave his money to?"
Javert thought for a moment, or as long as his throbbing nethers would allow him to. Camille was right in asserting that Javert was the only thing Froid had approaching a family. In the over ten years he had spent in service to him, not once had he met a relative of Froid's. Nor had Froid received any correspondence from anyone who he described as a relative.
And Froid was ill. His health had taken a sharp decline in recent months and the doctor suspected consumption. He'd seen consumption before, in the pest-houses and the poorest neighbourhoods of Caen. It would only be a matter of time.
"If we wanted to be one before then, we could always run away." He said, nestling even closer to her. "You and I, we could elope to Rouen or Rennes, maybe even Paris itself. Then your father and Froid would have no choice but to accept us."
"And where would we run to? A two-bit tavern on the side of the road? A flea-ridden guesthouse?"
He sighed, nodding sadly to himself. "You're right, my love." He groaned. "A soldier in Napoleon's armies earns more than the allowance Froid gives me each month. Perhaps if I joined a campaign for a year or so…"
"You expect me to wait a year, my love?" Camille asked, something vicious igniting in her eyes. "With all of these other suitors visiting my father's house so often?"
"Don't, Camille." He said pitifully. "Please, don't make me jealous. You know I can't stand to think of other men with you."
"Then kiss me." She said hungrily. "Kiss me and hope that Froid is not long for this world."
He did so, letting her seize him by the face and drag him deeper into her.
It had taken him years of privation, self-denial, isolation and chastity to drive the sounds of Camille's moans from his mind.
Even after what she had done to him. How she had betrayed him…
...
"Inspector Javert, the Préfet will see you now." A young clerk suddenly said.
Javert was wrenched out of his rememberings, bolting upright with a speed that was somewhat unbefitting for a man his age.
How long had he been waiting? How long had he been lost in the past?
He cleared his throat and smoothed down the hem of his coat, gathering himself back together and shoving Camille down into that hollow place deep inside his heart again.
"Thank you." He replied with a small bow and the clerk stepped aside to let him through the large oak door.
Whatever was going on with him privately, he had to pull himself together, and do it fast. First that ridiculous infatuation with that girl in Provins, and now he was opening up old wounds and old memories about Camille. It was a weakness he needed to get under control. Especially if he was going to stand before his new commanding officer.
The Préfet was seated behind a large wooden desk when Javert made his way into the office. He took off his top hat and held it reverently in his hands as he stood to attention before his commander.
"Inspector Javert, reporting for duty, Sir!" He exclaimed, saluting firmly and clipping his heels.
For a long moment, the Préfet did not look up from the paperwork at his desk. Javert listened to the sound of his strat hing quill nub rubbing against the paper.
"Javert. We expected you yesterday." The Préfet said.
He placed his quill in the inkwell and finally looked up to greet him. He was a round man, old and wizened, with a bespectacled face and chubby cheeks. The purple hue of gout was on his face and his uniform stretched precariously over his barrel-like chest. It looked like he'd been sat behind that desk since Napoleon abdicated…
"Apologies, Sir. There was trouble with my horse, so I sent my men on before me. Sergeant Malloirave led them well."
"Malloirave? I knew his father. Liveryman for the De Vogues family?"
"Uhh…I believe so, Sir." He answered unsurely.
Javert tended to tune out when his men offered him personal details of their lives. But, as he'd theorised before, the Préfet apparently had a knack for intelligence and memory.
"You, on the other hand, I know very little of, Inspector." The Préfet said curiously. "And I make it my business to know something about everyone…"
He shuffled with a few papers on his desk and produced something of a list that he began reading from.
"An orphan foundling… in the service of the Inspector of Caen for over ten years…part of the Armee D'Orient in Egypt and Syria… Waterloo too?"
"Yes, Sir." Javert confirmed with a nod.
"Hmm." He returned back to Javert's record with a nod, scanning further through the list of his life. "Joined the police force in Toulon…promoted to regional Inspector for Montreil-Sur-Mer…and now you are here. In the very heart of our nation."
"Sir." Javert said, unsure of what else he could say.
"This is an impressive record, Inspector. It's why I promoted you."
"Sir." He said again, growing a little more concerned now.
"But I have yet to hear of Javert, the man. Not just merely Javert, the lawman."
"Merely, sir?"
"Reports of your character describe you as a man of 'strict moral foundation, built exclusively on legalism'. " he quoted, peering at the words on the page through his round spectacles. "I believe we need a man of your calibre: strict - rectitudinous - incorruptible. Because Paris is on fire out there, Inspector."
Javert hadn't noticed any flames on his ride into the city, but he guessed that the Préfet was being metaphorical. Still, he cast a cautious glance to the window.
"You and your unit will be stationed in Montmartre. You will have the usual run-ins with the likes of whores, brothel Madame's, thieves, vagabonds. But there is something else brewing in that stinking, festering district."
"What's that, Sir?"
"Revolution." The Préfet said chillingly.
Javert stared at him for a shocked moment. He felt the ice-cold chill of the guillotine blade on the back of his neck and the angry, flaming torches of the people lining the streets burning against his skin. It was not a word one used lightly in France. Especially after 1789.
"A schoolboy's endeavour, currently. But one that might blossom into something dangerous if it is not squashed properly."
"I see."
"Are you a Royalist, Inspector?" The Préfet asked pointedly.
"I am a Legalist, Sir." He replied firmly. "I serve the Law, not the man who makes them."
The Préfet smiled to himself. "I like your thinking, Inspector. I've seen many a head-of-state during my time in service. Many questioned how I could serve under Republic, Emperor and King. But I've come to the conclusion that the only eternal thing throughout all of them is the infallibility of God's constitution. Do you understand me, Inspector?"
"Murder is murder, theft is theft, assault is assault, no matter the man in charge." He said with a shrug. "We were given morality by God himself and if we do not follow God's laws, we stray from the light."
"Romans 13:1. Do you know it, Inspector?"
"Every man must submit himself to the governing authority, for there is no authority apart that which comes from God. And the authority that exists has been appointed by God." He quoted dutifully.
He knew the quote well. Every lawman did. He had read it many a time over the years and quoted it to many more who tried to rant and rave against the current establishment. Saying it out loud made him feel a little more like his old self again.
"Indeed." The Préfet said with a pleased nod. "I think you will do very well here, Inspector."
"Grace…Grace, we're almost there…" Enjolras whispered, shaking her gently awake.
Grace pried her forehead off the carriage's glass window and blinked a few times. She'd managed to doze off for a few hours once the initial excitement and dread of leaving Provins had subsided and Enjolras had given her a run-down of their operations. And he'd gone into quite a lot of detail about the operatives too:
"Combeferre is sensible, empathetic, nurturing…He was in training as a doctor before he joined us. He's often the one mothering Joly when he's made up some headache or putting Grantaire to bed after too many drinks."
"Right…"
"Bahorel is a… man who prefers action to theory. Always ready to smash up a window pane or tear up the pavement and debate utilitarian ethics later. Never enter into an arm-wrestling wager with him. He'll take all your money."
"Okay…"
"Feuilly has had a hard life. His parents died when he was eight, and he taught himself to read and write. He's a fan-maker. As gentle as a sparrow. But a firecracker of a speaker when he warms up! Oh, but don't get drawn into a conversation with him about the Partition of Poland. You'll waste hours."
"Fine, fine…"
"Joly, or 'Jolly' as we nickname him. Always one for a joke, always ready to make you laugh. But goodness, I've lost count of the amount of times he's had scarlet fever, or whooping cough, or rickets…"
Grace laughed.
"Grantaire…" he grumbled. "I have no clue why Grantaire joined the movement. He seems to be more concerned with where the next round of booze is coming from than the welfare of the poor and downtrodden."
"Umm… okay."
"Courfeyrac is loyal and warm…he really shouldn't be a lawyer. He's too personable and kind for that profession. He's a good friend. He's bought many a recruit into the fold with his golden smile and his aptitude for advantage. In fact, I think he's the reason why our last member joined. Marius will be pleased that he's no longer the 'new recruit'."
Somewhere in that bombardment of names, she'd half-expected it to happen. Another bombardment of music had followed that last name Enjolras had mentioned.
But this time, it did not take her breath away with how stirring or bombastic it was. It was sad. So, so sad.
It almost made Grace want to cry.
A, A, B, A, G, F, F, E…
She got a feeling of emptiness. Of loss. Of grief so profound that it left her feeling cored out and hollow.
"M-marius?" She asked, blinking back the tears in her eyes. "You haven't mentioned him before. What's he like?"
"Young. Green. He is a boy. Not a day over nineteen. Gentle as a lamb. I think his Grandparents raised him. And…I'm afraid I don't know much more than that."
"Hmm."
Grace leant her head against the carriage window and let that heart-wrenchingly sad melody play in her mind. Perhaps it was the gentle rocking or perhaps it was the music, but she was asleep by the time dawn was just breaking over the horizon.
And now, as she blinked herself awake, she looked out the window at another world.
The Paris that she had imagined was non-existent. 'The City of Light' was a pipe dream of the distant As twentieth century. The world outside the carriage window was 'The City of Squalor'.
The streets were covered in filth, straw and horse-shit coating the cobbles beneath, a variety of dead and half-rotten garbage in the gutters. Rats, discarded animal bones, fish guts, ash, human excrement.
"Oh my God, the smell…" Grace uttered.
"Yes, we're close to Les Halles here. I'd cover your nose…"
"Les Halles?" Grace asked, feeling sick from the strong smell of putrefaction in the air.
"The food market. Fish, pork, cattle, poultry, vegetables... All of it, slaughtered, sold and left to rot there. Locals call it 'the belly of Paris', but, if you ask me, it smells more like the arseho-"
"Yes, I get your meaning." She cut in quickly.
Grace swallowed down her bile and turned back to the window. It wasn't just the smell that made her feel nauseous. Everywhere she looked, it felt like she was seeing someone who could have presented themselves at the Chateau for charity: Old women with no teeth left in their heads, filthy children running about with no shoes on their feet, young girls poised provocatively in their doorways with the smear of their last client's kiss all over their face. The houses were little more than crumbling ruins. The most wretched and dilapidated rookeries rose on both sides of the street, like rows upon rows of crooked teeth. Everywhere she looked, there was poverty that she only ever could have imagined in the most desperate of places. She'd thought Provins had been bad, but this was hellish.
And it stretched out in all directions, as far as she could see. She shrank back from the window when a man bearing what looked like a tree of dead rats over his shoulder walked past the carriage.
"It's hard not to be moved by it, isn't it." Enjolras said in a low voice.
"How can…how can they be allowed to exist like this?" She said, her voice thick with emotion.
"They are little better than the sweepings of the street, according to the King and his government." Enjolras said gravely. "Abandoned. Ignored by the very people that claim to serve them. It always shocks me when I've been away for a while. Returning to Paris is always…"
"Upsetting?"
Enjolras nodded silently.
They rode on in stunned silence for a short while. There was little else to say. Each street was full of the same scenes of misery with little to distinguish them from the last.
"The Rue Saint-Hyacinthe!" The coach driver announced, and the carriage juddered to a halt.
"We're here." Enjolras said.
He grabbed the door and before Grace could even blink, he was up and out. He set about fetching their bags from off the roof of the carriage whilst Grace stared at the empty street. If she listened closely, she could hear the sounds of a distant tavern and many hearty voices.
Before, the idea of coming to Paris and joining an underground revolution had felt a bit like a pipe dream. Even when Enjolras had taken her away from Provins, it still hadn't felt real.
Now, with Paris out there and the men of the ABC Cafe close by, she felt afraid.
Enjolras' face appeared in the carriage doorway again, both his and her bag under his arms.
"Well? Are you coming?" He asked, a brow raised. "I think it's time Monsieur Degas met the others."
She swallowed hard and gathered her courage. The rest of the story was out there. She wouldn't find it in the interior of this carriage.
Grace looked over Enjolras' shoulder and there it was. The Cafe d'ABC. Golden light warming the inside. The smell of hops and tobacco smoke heavy in the air. The distant sound of a drinking song cutting through the night.
"Do you know…" She replied with a smile. "I think he is."