Chapter 22 - Purple And Black
The winter frost melted.
The first few signs of spring made their way into Paris. The nights got a little shorter, the air got a little warmer, the birds became a little louder.
And Javert recovered.
The harsh grip of winter slowly relaxed its clutch on Paris. Prayers were said at Candlemas and the poor began to relax a little, knowing that they'd most likely put the worst of the cold weather behind them now.
Grace had kept a watchful eye on the papers. Snatching the obituary pages from out of Enjolras's hands and scanning the Mort Fuilles for anything that might have indicated at his death. But she found nothing.
Once or twice she'd even found herself going to the Pont au Double on the day when she and Javert were meant to meet. Maybe she had hoped that he would turn up, fully healed and upright. Even though her sensible mind told her that he wouldn't be on his feet for a good while. Still, she imagined him there: with his tall tophat, and his heavy leather coat, and his sage and gunpowder smell, and his October-sky eyes… and it made her feel a bit of the safety she felt when he was actually there. .
She would have walked out to the outskirts of town and paid Athalia a visit. But she respected her wishes and kept her distance. It still hurt, to think that whatever she'd done for Javert had killed their friendship dead in the water. It left a hole inside her. Like a cigarette stubbed out on her soul. Still, when she wasn't thinking about Javert, she was thinking about them. In the quiet hours before dawn, she'd sometimes lie in her bed and imagine what mischief Iosif was up to today, how much of the night Zaida had kept the family up for, and if Athalia had any hint of forgiveness yet in her heart for Grace…
If Enjolras was still asleep, she'd turn her phone on for a few minutes. And if she could be quiet enough, sometimes she'd get a picture of her Mum up on the screen and ask her the question that didn't let her sleep well at night:
"Am I doing the right thing, Mum?"
The battery had been at 44% the last time she'd switched it off.
The boys worked away on their plans and schemes. Cholera still stamped its dirty stain on the city. She walked with Eponine. She shot with Grantaire. She played for them all at night in the cafe.
Ever since she'd snuck away from the Headquarters of the Prèfecture, another tune had entered her head.
It hadn't happened for so long, she'd almost forgotten about it. But the next morning, gently waking her up from her slumber, was a new melody. An allegretto, plucked E chord and then the same rising and falling F sharp major. Rising and falling. Wrapping her in a blanket of enchanting safety.
She realised that it had slowly yet suddenly replaced the harsh and bombastic tune that sounded off in her mind when she thought of Javert.
Her hand itched until she could tap it out. She had to sit down at the piano and play it out of her head.
The tune spilled out, rolling and steady. It was a melody that reminded her of a lullaby. Something that was made to make her feel safe, ordered, but also soothed and soaring.
It had been a few hours and she'd laboured over the piano keys until that rising and falling… rising and falling… that beautiful melody was fully realised. Out in the open air. Born into reality.
And all that time, it seemed like she had been waiting for Javert's letter to come.
"Hmm… that's odd." Combeferre said, pausing in his shuffling of that day's mail.
Grace looked up from the piano to meet his confused frown. "What's odd?"
"There's a letter here addressed to a 'Grace Beaumont'..."
Grace's blood ran cold. She looked around the cafe to find Eponine also looking up from her seat next to Marius. She stared at her friend, eyes afraid and pleading for help.
"It's got the full address of the cafe, but…I don't know of anyone by that name here." Combeferre said.
"Perhaps it's one of…Courfeyrac's girls?" Eponine said with a shrug.
"Hmm, maybe." Combeferre said. "But then, why would she be receiving correspondence here?"
Grace shrugged, trying her best to look nonchalant and uninterested. She turned back to the piano, but snuck in a quick glance to Eponine, her eyes still pleading and desperate.
Combeferre slapped the letters down on a nearby table and went back to his business. If her gaze could light a spark, Grace would have had the pile of letters up in flames…
She looked to Eponine again, mouthing a 'Help me!' at her.
Eponine bit her lip and looked at the men in the cafe.
"I…I hear Enjolras is looking for a new rallying spot?" she began unsurely.
"Yes. That's right, 'Ponine." Marius said, looking up from his reading.
"Well, I might know somewhere…"
"Really? Where?"
"It's a few streets away… near the Rue Quixote. But… I don't know…"
"Don't know what?" Combeferre asked.
"If it's big enough… for the kinds of crowds you draw these days."
"Well, at our last rally Enjolras spoke in front of perhaps four hundred?"
"Maybe you should come and look at it!" Eponine announced, suddenly jumping to her feet. "Both of you! And then you can tell Enjolras about it, and he'll surely be pleased that you've found a new meeting point for the cause…"
Grace had to cover her smile with her hand. The only thing these boys craved more than booze and women was Enjolras's approval. It was genius, really.
"Lead the way, 'Ponine!" Marius exclaimed, jumping to his feet and donning his coat.
Combeferre followed suit too, adjusting his spectacles and turning up his collar to the outside. As the two men exited the cafe, Eponine passed by the piano and bent in close to Grace.
"You owe me one." She whispered to her.
"Noted." Grace whispered back.
Her friend left the cafe too, and Grace waited patiently until she'd heard the door close gently behind her and their voices fade into the distance.
She jumped up off the stool.
Her stumbling feet flew over the cafe to the table of letters, and her shaking hands almost dropped them all on the floor.
Her letter, with her name written in a delicate and flowing script, stared up at her. And Grace noticed that she was smiling down at it.
She would have opened it right then, had her sharp ears not picked up on the sound of Bahorel and Joly approaching the cafe. Most likely coming back from the night before's revelry.
Grace pocketed it swiftly and made haste for the lodging rooms she and Enjolras shared above the cafe. It would probably be best to open it in private, after all. Good news or bad, she couldn't have any of the boys here seeing her reading a letter with her real name embossed on it…
The short flight of stairs to the floor above felt like a hike up Everest. With the letter right there in her hands, it felt like an age before she was alone in her bedchamber. She sat down on the bed, glad that she had decided to remove herself from the cafe below; she could hear Courfeyrac and Feuilly through the floorboards now too…
She tore it open, unsure why her fingers were trembling so much. But as her eyes scanned the words on the yellow parchment, no intervention from her mind would still her shaking hands.
'Mademoiselle,
I am recovered and well. All thanks to your intervention.
Explaining my strange prescription of treatment to Malloirave took some embellishments of the truth, but he did as he was bade: Dressed and reapplied my wound at least thrice a day.
By the time your mould was spent, all that remained was a small, hard scab.
I am not one that is humbled often. But I must extend my gratitude to you once more, for I feel sure that I would have exited this world if you had not done what you did.
I am in your debt.
Inspector Javert'
Grace could have cried with joy.
She pressed the letter close to her heart. Brief as it was, it told her all she had been craving to know.
However as she smiled and blinked back the tears of relief that had sprung up in her eyes, she noticed another piece of card lay behind Javert's note.
It was different to the paper he had used. It was more expensive, coloured with a delicate and decorous calligraphy, and it smelt of jasmine…
"What have you got there?"
Grace gasped and tucked the Inspector's letter behind her back. "Nothing!"
She furiously glanced around to see Enjolras standing behind the meagre purple curtain that cut the room in two. Grace cursed herself. She'd clearly been in such a rush to read Javert's letter that she hadn't noticed him on his side of the room…
"It's not a letter from Mama, is it?" He grumbled shortly. "Please tell me you haven't told her where were lodging?"
"No, no…It's just a… It's just a…"
She struggled to find any words. And Enjolras noticed her flustered state in an instant.
Just my luck. She thought bitterly. He notices me now, when I'm all over the place…
Enjolras lurched for her. It happened so quickly that she felt the paper being snatched out of her grasp before she'd even consciously registered what he'd done.
"No! That's my correspondence!" She cried, trying to snatch it back.
But Enjolras danced around the room, ducking and weaving as he read the Inspector's words for himself.
"Give it back at once! Where are your manners?!" Grace wailed. "Enjolras! Give it to me!"
"Who is this man?" Enjolras said, glancing up at her once he'd finished the letter. His voice was cold, like frost.
Grace could only stare into his face in utter silence. Enjolras glanced down again at the other piece of paper that had come with the letter.
"And why has he invited you to the Gala at the Opera?"
"Th-Wh-… He invited me to what?"
"The first of the season. Look. 'A night of celebration for the Civil Servants of Paris'…" he read from the invite, and then held it out to her with a serious frown.
Grace snatched it back with fear in her eyes.
"It's… nothing, Marcelin." She babbled, trying to fold it away.
"The letter is from… Inspector Javert. Inspector!"
"Marcelin…" Grace said softly. "Let me explain…"
"Have you been cavorting with the Préfecture?!"
"No! It's not like that!"
"Is that why you've been so keen to involve yourself in our activities?! Are you spying for them?!"
"No!"
"Then who is this man?! Answer me now!" Enjolras roared.
Grace was frightened, but she managed to make herself stand tall in front of his anger.
"If you truly think I'm a spy, Marcelin, then you can put me out of here right now." She said, trying to make herself sound braver and stiller than she felt.
She waited for a moment, refusing to break eye contact with her golden-haired, serious-faced 'cousin'. After a silence that stretched on for what felt like an age, Enjolras sighed and shook his head.
"No?" Grace asked sardonically. "Well, now you've got that sorted, perhaps you can ask me again, without acting like a prick this time!"
Enjolras shuffled on his feet and coloured red in his cheeks. "Fine." He said through scrunched teeth. "Who is he?"
"We met back in Provins." Grace began. "He was one of the attendees at that soirée your mother threw on the night you came back."
"And he sought you out here?"
"Well… yes and no. I was told…I believe… Julius and Jocelyn asked him to find me."
Enjolras groaned and rolled his eyes.
"I thought the same as you originally!" Grace interjected quickly. "But your parents were nothing but kind to me, and they wanted nothing but to know we were safe!"
Enjolras's jaw flickered with tension, but he bit his tongue. He thought for a moment and swallowed down his argument. "And where do you meet him? Not here, I hope?"
"No. Not here. Somewhere else. Somewhere public."
Somehow, she knew that telling Enjolras about the Pont au Double would only cause more trouble. She didn't want anybody turning up to her and Javert's private meetings, which surprised her. Not long ago, she'd dragged her heels to those meetings. Now, she didn't want anybody else intruding upon them.
"And what about the words in his letter?" Enjolras asked "I remember what he said. 'All thanks to your intervention'? 'I must extend my gratitude to you'? 'I am in your debt'?"
Grace's cheeks burned hot. "Yes? And…?"
"And?" Enjolras scoffed. "You forget, Cousin, I was there that night in Provins. I saw the men trying to court you. You told me so yourself! One of them has clearly followed you here to Paris!"
"Don't be ridiculous..."
"The evidence is here, Cousin!" Enjolras exclaimed, pointing at the letter in her hands.
"It's not like that! He was ill… I just got him some medicine…"
"A letter full of tender words and praise? An invitation to the Opera? Are these the actions of a man who is rewarding his nurse-maid?"
Grace closed her mouth. Swallowing hard, she couldn't think of anything else to rebuttal Enjolras's assertion.
"Well…I'm not going to go." She said with a shrug.
"No?" Enjolras asked, eyebrow raised. "The way you came waltzing in here, so giddy you didn't even mark my presence. You truly mean to tell me that you aren't even entertaining his courtship?"
"He isn't courting me!"
"Grace, open your eyes!" Enjolras cried.
She shook her head, casting her eyes to the floor. Enjolras sighed with exasperation and paced up and down their tiny room. He thought for a moment, all whilst Grace kept a rigid and locked-jaw silence.
She glanced up just in time to see the flicker of something pass over his face.
"You should accept it." He said suddenly. "Accept his invitation."
"What? Why?" Grace asked in surprise. "Are you trying to get me married off too?"
"A Gala night, at which half of the city's Civil service will be attending? It's a perfect opportunity!"
"A perfect opportunity for what?"
"Courfeyrac, Combeferre and I, we could accompany you. Perhaps disguised as your footmen…"
"For what purpose?" She asked suspiciously.
"We would be fools to pass up the opportunity to speak to these men! They shall be a captive audience, if you will!" Enjolras laughed.
"What do you mean?"
"If we want our revolution to succeed, we shall need more than just the support of the oppressed. We will need support from higher places too!"
"A demonstration? No! Not like the dyers riot, Enjolras. Seventeen people died! Don't you remember?"
"Grace, we need rich and powerful people just as much as we need poor and hungry people! These people have influence! Sway! Don't you understand? If we can call people like that to our side, there might not be a need for violence. They will tell their troops to lay down their arms. They will whisper in the ears of others in parliament."
Grace stilled, slowly digesting what Enjolras had said. He was right. Important people could do important things. And that might mean that she never needed to pick up Grantaire's rifle again.
"But…even if I did go…" she said shakily. "What would I wear? I only bought the clothes you found for Degas, remember?"
Enjolras gave her a knowing smile and turned back to his side of the room. He bent low, searching the space beneath his mattress for a bit, and produced a box from underneath his bed.
"I thought that this might fetch a pretty price for us if the landlady ever raised the rent again, or we were in dire need of funds for the cause…"
He opened it up, and Grace saw the beautiful necklace of amethysts Jocelyn had let her wear the night of the soirée.
"You…you stole your mother's necklace?!"
"When it became clear my father wasn't going to help finance our cause, I had to… come by my own revenues…"
"Don't…don't you dare sell that, Marcelin!"
"Well it's a good thing I didn't, isn't it, Cousin!" Enjolras hissed, snapping the lid shut.
Grace flinched at the sudden sound of it.
"That purple dress, however, I will have to return to the pawnbroker and buy it back…"
"You stole my dress too?!"
Grace descended the steps of the cafe feeling like she'd stepped backwards in time a few months…
She was that girl in Provins again, being trussed up and paraded about for the amusement of others.
Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked up at her with open mouths. Grace rolled her eyes and tutted. She gathered up the skirts of the purple dress and tried to spot her feet beneath them.
"And you can get those looks off your faces right now." she grumbled at them when she'd conquered the last few steps.
"Sorry, Degas… It's just…" Combeferre said hesitantly.
"It's just that you look so… convincing." Courfeyrac finished for him.
With her boy's clothes abandoned for the night, her hair done up and curled, rouge on her cheeks and slippers on her feet, she was the lady that she had left behind in Provins once again. But to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, she was merely a castrati dressed up in drag…
Enjolras smirked from behind his hand and Grace shot him the most withering look she could muster. It looked like he'd won their argument.
Grace had bet that the boys would never believe that she was still a man when they saw her dressed up in her glorious purple dress. It was asking for her deception to be stretched too much. Surely it would be an insult to their intelligence if she literally paraded herself as a woman in front of them. Enjolras had bet on the contrary.
"It's amazing what a bit of makeup and padding can do, isn't it Degas." Enjolras said teasingly.
Grace gave him a sickly smile and tried very hard not to kick him in the shins…
She awkwardly pulled at the dress' neckline, already feeling too hot and bothered. "Jesus, I forgot how uncomfortable these things were."
"You… you've worn women's dresses before?" Courfeyrac asked with a confused frown.
"Uhh…" Grace mumbled.
"Well, it's common, is it not Degas, for castrati to play female roles on the stage…?"
"Yes! Yes, that's right…" Grace said quickly. "It's been a while since anyone has seen my 'Juliet'."
The boys laughed and fiddled with the lapels of their own clothes. They were dressed up too. Matching livery of a rich scarlet wool frock coat, embellished with deep blue velvet and bands of gold. They looked smart. Smarter than any of them had looked for months.
"Right, shall we away?" Enjolras prompted them all. He was dressed identically to the other boys and he pulled down his cuffs to his wrists as he gestured to the awaiting carriage outside.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac hurried to their positions, leaving Grace and Enjolras alone in the cafe for a brief moment.
"I don't like this." Grace grumbled to him.
"What isn't to like, Cousin?" Enjolras asked cheerily. "A night of good entertainment, even better champagne, and fine company..?"
Grace narrowed her eyes at him. She didn't want to tell Enjolras that she felt cheap, despite the wealth hanging around her neck and draping off her shoulders. Like she was somehow being whored out. Grace looked down at the invitation, clutched tight in her gloved hands. Javert would be there. And that thought alone made her stomach flip inside her.
It had been weeks since she'd seen him last. Longer still since she'd dressed up like this infront of him. And Grace couldn't help but feel that it was a deception to have accepted his invitation for tonight. Whatever his motives behind inviting her to the Gala, he clearly wasn't expecting Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre to be there right along with her. How would he react when he realised that they were using the event as an opportunity to spread awareness for their cause? How would he feel when he finally understood that they had used Grace's invitation as a means to gain entry?
Still, there was no going back now. And maybe she could make Javert understand that this all was to try and avoid violence in the future. It was for the greater good….
Grace made for the cafe's bar and grabbed a bottle of brandy Grantaire had left behind. She unstoppered it and took a hearty swig for one last bit of courage. Placing it back down on the counter, she turned to Enjolras with a grimace on her face.
"Right, let's go." she said, striding past him.
Grace approached the carriage, trying to compose herself back into a lady of refinement and poise as she walked. Combeferre bowed to her, and she bowed back. Reaching for the door handle, he opened up the carriage for her.
Grace peered into the gloom of the carriage interior to find a stack of papers already sitting on one of the cushions.
"Wh-What's all this?!" she asked, turning back to Enjolras, a gloved finger extended towards the papers
"Well, Joly's been working on them for months. It would be an utterly wasted opportunity if we didn't distribute some of his leaflets whilst we're there!"
"Hmm." Grace grumbled.
She glanced back to the pile of leaflets that she was going to be sharing the ride with, and sighing heavily, she stepped inside.
Combeferre closed the door behind her once she'd finished arranging and smoothing down her skirts. She listened attentively as the others took their positions on top of the carriage and cracked the horses' reins.
Off they rolled, leaving the Cafe d'ABC behind them. It felt strange to be trotting through these same streets in her fancy carriage and her fancy dress, watching as the poor of Paris looked on at them. Grace tucked herself behind the curtains for a good while, just in case anyone recognised her as they rode by. But as the smell and the taste of Montmartre rolled away from them, she eventually felt brave enough to peer out the window…
They were clearly in a much richer part of the city now. She could see the trot of other horses and other carriages passing them by. Tall, burning gas lamps lit the avenue in a rich yellow light, touching the neat little lines of trees and bathing their leaves in gold. Instead of hungry babies crying and rats chittering in the gutters, she could hear the titter of polite laughter and civilised conversation.
And as they made their way down the Rue Auber, she could finally see the Opera House.
Grace gasped and leaned her head outside the carriage window as the horses trotted closer.
It was a huge and resplendent building. From the outside, she could see the multi-colored marble facade, topped by golden statues and the names of opera's legends: Mozart, Beethoven, Handel… all of them looked down upon her. Two winged statues peered down from the roof, Harmony and Poetry, with musical Apollo watching over them both in turn. A grey-green copper dome completed the crowning from above.
And as they approached the delicate white steps at the front of the building, Grace felt her heart start to beat faster.
She didn't know why the well-dressed ladies and the men in their opera capes made her feel nervous. If anything, she should have felt more at ease with these folk than the thieves and vagabonds in Montmartre. But there was something about their poise, their grace, their half-smiles and veiled insults… Tonight would be a different kind of battlefield altogether.
The carriage halted and Grace waited for her 'footmen' to spring to attention. A few seconds later, Enjolras was stood at the open door, hand extended out to her. There was nothing for it now other than to take a deep breath and let him help her down.
Her feet touched the white steps with a gentle patter. She looked up at the building with an ever tightening feeling of anxiety inside her, but nevertheless, she gathered her skirts and began to climb.
"Grace, wait…!" Enjolras called after her.
She abruptly halted and turned around to face him.
"We're 'servant class'. We won't be permitted to enter through the main entrance with you."
"Oh…Oh, I see." She muttered.
"We will have to take the carriage around to the Opera stables. You'll be on your own… for now."
Grace ground her jaw together and sighed. She nodded her head solemnly and looked at the ground. "Will I see you inside?"
"We'll try and make contact once the performance is due to start."
"And your…plan?" She asked, pointing at the pile of leafless inside the carriage. "When will I know you're going to begin?"
"Trust me, you'll know when it's begun." Enjolras said in a hushed voice.
"Wait, what does that mean?!" Grace asked, but Enjolras was already back upon the carriage and prompting the horses onwards.
Grace watched them roll away with a frown on her face.
The night air was cold, and she wished that Enjolras had bought her some sort of coat or something furry to drape over her shoulders…
Without another second of loitering, she turned and hurried inside.
There were more tittering and giggling lords and ladies inside, their voices filling the golden atrium with noise. Grace looked around with open-mouthed wonder. The richness of this room would have made King Midas blush.
There were more nymphs and Greek goddesses, holding aloft the softly glowing lamplight, tightly wound around each other, all willowy limbs and bare breasts. They stood as the guardians of a resplendent golden foyer. Columns and archways and rafters…all of it dripping in gold. And a huge, grand staircase spread out before her. The kind of stairs that she expected to see a God or an Emperor descending. There were several groups of loitering ladies, dotted here and there up the stairs. All of them fanning themselves with their lace fans and whispering to one another. Every so often, she'd catch one of them looking at her from over the rim of her fan, and then leaning in to the lady next to her, no doubt to ask who the strange woman in the purple dress was. To them, she was a newcomer, an outsider, a threat even. She wasn't part of this kind of society. She was a stranger. And they were going to make sure that Grace knew it…
A server passed her by, carrying a tray of sparkling champagne.
"Uhh… excuse me?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?" The server said politely.
"Are those…free?"
"Complementary, Mademoiselle? Indeed."
"Good."
Grace grabbed two from off the server's tray. He began to walk away from her but she called after him.
"Wait, wait, wait…"
In one gulp, she downed the first glass and placed it back on his tray. The server watched her in silent horror as she did the same to the second glass. She smacked her lips and handed the glass back to him.
"Nerves." She said concisely.
The server merely nodded and walked off with his tray before she could take any more champagne from him.
But when she glanced up the grand staircase again, past a trio of ladies in their blush pink dresses, the champagne in her stomach broiled inside her.
There he stood.
Javert.
Poised at the top of the stairs and staring down at her like an ominous omen from an Edgar Allen Poe poem.
But this time, his presence didn't feel sinister, as it might have once when she'd first dragged her feet to those meetings on the Pont au Double.
Instead, it felt like she'd finally glimpsed her guiding star on a cloudy night. A feeling of warm security flooding into her bones. A dark and silent sentinel watching over her…
He was utterly still. And even with the distance between them, she could see those beautifully clear October-sky eyes fixed on her hot face.
In a room full of golden splendour, his black tophat and heavy leather coat outlined him in shadow.
She might have felt afraid of his looming, dark frame, as clearly most of the other attendees that night were steering well clear of him, had her heart not instantly filled with joy.
She smiled up at him. Pleased beyond words that he was here, standing upright, present and whole. His face was a little thinner than it had been before, and the faintest of dark circles still lingered under his eyes, but that was the only telltale signs of his recent illness. Had she not known, she would never have guessed how close he had been to death only a month or so ago.
Grace gathered her skirts and began closing the gap between them. Summiting the staircase took more poise and elegance than she thought she was capable of, but she didn't trip over her dress or stumble over her own feet. The other lords and ladies on the steps watched her approach him, doing nothing to hide the surprise on their faces that she was daring to approach the black, lonely figure that haunted the top of the staircase. The strange woman in purple and the black reaper.
Without incident, she climbed the grand staircase, feeling Javert's eyes on her every step she took.
Grace stood before him, staring up into his face with a heavy silence pulling at her stomach.
"I…I didn't expect…" he began, his voice halting and unsure.
"To see this old thing?" Grace chimed in, a little too quickly not to be nervous. She looked down at her dress and tutted. "Trust me, I was just as surprised as you to see it again."
"No, I… I was going to say… I didn't expect you to come."
Grace blinked in surprise, suddenly feeling like the air had been pushed out of her chest. She opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish, desperately trying to form words and force them out loud.
"Oh…I…Well, I…"
Javert's face cracked into a tiny, but oddly triumphant smirk. He looked down his crooked nose at her with mirth lighting his eyes.
Grace stopped her blabbing and fixed Javert with a frown. "What?"
"I don't believe I've ever seen you lost for words, Mademoiselle." He said boldly.
A blush crept all the way up Grace's bare neck. Suddenly she felt hyper-aware of all of her bare skin, how her hair was falling, if her rouge was too strong. She could sense every spot on her where The Inspector's eyes fell too. Travelling along the curve of her collarbone, lingering on the corner of her smirking mouth… Even when he looked her directly in the eye, she felt a spark of exhilaration ignite inside her.
She caught herself smiling and blushing. Athalia's words echoed in her head again. Enjolras's adding to the mix too:
'Are you sweet on him?'
'Is that the action of a man who is rewarding his nurse-maid?'
'One of your courtiers has clearly followed you to Paris.'
It seemed silly to try and deny the tenderness in his face at that moment. Not when it was quite literally right in front of her. Had it always been there, or was she just noticing it now? She supposed that it didn't really matter.
What surprised her, however, was how much she enjoyed him looking at her like that.
"It's…good to see you, Inspector." She said shyly. She couldn't look at him for more than a few seconds at a time. Her cheeks got too hot. Her heart beat too fast. "I was…really worried about you…for a moment."
He shuffled his feet awkwardly, clasping his hands behind his back and grumbling to clear his throat of the lump that had risen in it.
"It…uhh.. was not my intention to worry you, Mademoiselle." He said bashfully.
"Come on…" she sighed. "After everything that's happened now between us, don't you think you can call me Grace?" She asked, smirking slightly up at him.
"Mademoiselle, you have met me several times alone and unchaperoned, seen my private bedchamber, and even forced me into a state of undress before you… Let me hold on to this one little formality."
Grace laughed and rolled her eyes.
Javert smiled too, the sound of her happiness making his head swim.
"Fine. If you must." She said warmly. "And…you're healed?"
"Mostly. Yes." He said, patting his hip where that ugly, weeping wound had been.
"And there's no more sickness or shaking or dizziness?"
"Not for a long time now. My strength returns to me a little more every day."
"Well, you certainly seem strong enough to me." Grace said, looking him up and down. His feet were planted firmly on the steps, his hands were clasped behind his rigid back, his chin was turned up high and proud. "Yes. Very strong."
Javert's face turned scarlet. Grace laughed again and took him by the arm. She slid herself into the warm spot just next to his ribs so effortlessly- like she'd always been there - that it took him a while to realise he should be shocked. The feel of her wrist, her fingers, brushing against his coat was intoxicating. He almost had to drag his mind off of that feeling and force himself to concentrate on walking in a straight line.
"So, where are our seats?" She asked. "Are we in the Stalls or the Grand Circle?"
"Uhh… Well, neither."
"Neither?" Grace asked. "Ahh, no matter, I've been to plenty of shows where we've been sitting up in the nose-bleeds. Ooh, perhaps I can get a pair of those tiny little binoculars that people have at the opera!"
"I made arrangements to occupy a Box, Mademoiselle."
Grace went quiet for a long moment. "A…a Box?"
"Well, I wasn't sure if my invitation would be answered. So, I supposed that a vacant seat beside me would be less noticeable in a Box than it would be out in the rows."
Grace's heart constricted. He'd genuinely thought that she wouldn't come. And after all, if Enjolras hadn't encouraged her to do so, would she have?
"But, a Box…They must be extortionately expensive!"
"I do not spend my wage on frivolities, Mademoiselle. I never have. It was…a small part of my savings."
"Oh, Javert! You shouldn't have spent your savings on this!"
"On you, Mademoiselle. This was all for you."
The heat crept up her neck again as he cast his eyes sideways at her.
"Do you know, I hate it when people fuss over me." She grumbled to him as they walked. "My Mum used to do it all the time."
Javert raised an eyebrow in surprise. That was the first time she'd ever volunteered information about herself to him. It was a small peek through the curtain, a tiny crack in the barrier between her now and her then.
"But even still, if I could tell her now that I'm sitting in Box seats in the Paris Opera…!" Grace said with a far-away smile. "I think her eyes would pop out of her head."
"Did she enjoy this sort of entertainment also?" Javert asked, bravely pushing on the little bit of her that had seemed to give way.
"We went to the ballet when we could afford to. Saw a few singers that we both liked. We even talked about going to Glastonbury together one day…"
"Glastonbury?" Javert asked with a frown. "I am not familiar with this place."
Grace clamped her mouth shut and swallowed hard. She'd been so at ease with The Inspector, so comfortable with her hand threaded through his, that she'd almost forgotten who he was… When he was…
"Oh, it's a…" she said, clearing her tight throat. "It's a village in Somerset…that holds a folk music festival… Nice, quiet event. Lots of tea and crumpets on the lawn…"
"Hmm."
Javert studied her carefully for a moment. He could sense that she was lying. Or at least, that wall between her then and now had been firmly re-erected.
They walked on in silence for a while, down a plush red corridor where other tittering lords and ladies were waiting for the performance to begin. The doors to the Boxes passed Grace by, and she got a tantalising glimpse of the auditorium each time she peered through the window.
"This is ours." The Inspector announced, coming to a stop outside of a heavy black door.
Grace scoffed and laughed as she read the brass plaque in front of her. "No way…You've got to be messing with me."
"Is there a problem, Mademoiselle?" Javert asked, concerned that he had somehow offended her.
"Box Five?!" She exclaimed, the smile on her face huge and sprawling.
"Was I not supposed to choose Box Fi-"
Grace squealed with delight, making the heads of the other well-to-do's in the corridor turn and glare at her. Javert nodded his apologies to them as Grace surged forwards into the Box.
"Javert! Come and look! I need your Inspector's eye to hunt out the Opera Ghost for me!" She called back to him.
He gave one last bashful smile to the lords and ladies down the corridor and, removing his top hat, he entered.
He found her poised on the edge of the Box, gazing around the auditorium and up at the bedazzling chandelier in the roof. The slope of her back and her naked shoulders made his breath catch in his throat.
The orchestra were already beginning to tune up and he could hear the scrape of the violins and the flourishes of the flutes. Intermingled with the sounds of the instruments was more hushed chatter and laughter. The auditorium thrummed with life and excitement, and Javert felt the same roiling expectation in his guts.
"God, if Allana could see me now!" He heard Grace breathe quietly.
"Allana?" He asked.
"A student of mine. I used to give her voice lessons back home in Oxford. She always begged me to let her sing songs about…this place. Dreadful soprano. Not a musical bone in her body."
Javert let out a low, grumbling laugh as his brows lifted. Two voluntary bits of information about her past! If he'd have know that the Opera made her so agreeable, he would have invited her weeks ago.
"So, you weren't always a ward of the upper classes then?" He said, taking a seat behind her. "You earned your living?"
"Did you just assume that I was always a 'kept woman', Inspector?" Grace said, turning playfully towards him.
"Well, you certainly don't behave like any other woman of nobility and good-breeding I've met before…"
"I shall take that as a compliment!" Grace exclaimed.
"You should."
Their eyes locked for a moment, and a taut sort of sensation vibrated in the air between them. Like one of the violinists in the orchestra, tuning his instrument, slowly drawing his bow over the tight strings. Not quite a song yet, but also not nothing…
There was a sudden knock at their Box's door.
Grace flinched suddenly as the taut bond between them was suddenly severed. Her eyes flicked to the small glass window, but it was too dark to see who was on the other side.
She moved to answer it, but Javert was up and out of his seat before she could get there.
"No, no, take your seat Mademoiselle." he said softly. "I shall see to this."
Grace watched The Inspector approach the door as she lowered herself into a vacant chair. But as it swung open, she jumped right back up to her feet again…
It was Courfeyrac.
Still dressed in his footman's attire.
He was paused, with one hand up in the air in the midst of another knock. Eyes rigidly fixed on Javert's face, as if The Phantom himself had suddenly appeared before him.
Grace waited for the jig to be up. Javert might recognise him from all of the riots and demonstrations the boys had been at recently. However, Grace hoped that he wasn't as well-known to the Police as Enjolras was.
"Yes?" The Inspector asked shortly.
"Uhh…"
Courfeyrac's eyes darted to Grace, who stared back at him with an equally large stare.
"Well what is it?" Javert asked again. "Make it quick, the performance is due to start shortly!"
Grace let out a small puff of the breath she'd been holding.
Well, at least he doesn't recognise him…
"Begging your pardon, Sir…" Courfeyrac began hesitantly. "But the Lady…"
Courfeyrac went quiet, pointing at Grace and silently pleading with her for some help.
"Th-This is my footman." Grace said hurriedly. "I asked him to come and find me when he'd…parked the coach?"
She cringed at herself. 'Parked' surely wasn't the right word to use, but she couldn't think of anything else.
"Yes, Mademoiselle. The horses are all well and tended for, and the… other footmen are also set to their evening's work." Courfeyrac said, hoping that his true meaning was getting across to her.
"Goodness." Javert said, looking back to Grace with a raised brow. "I have never known such attentive footmen."
"Well, it's amazing what tipping well will do for you…" Grace grumbled.
"Hmm…" Javert said thoughtfully. "So, you are at this woman's services this evening?" he asked Courfeyrac.
"Y-yes, sir." Courfeyrac stuttered.
"Then be a good man and bring us back a bottle of Veuve Clicquot." Javert said, tucking what looked like a bank note into Courfeyrac's pocket. "The Lady seemed to be greatly enjoying the aperitifs available in the foyer..."
Grace felt her cheeks turn hot with embarrassment again. Javert glanced back at her and gave her a disarming smirk. Those two glasses she'd downed a few minutes ago were still fizzing in her stomach and they churned uncomfortably inside her.
Without another word, Javert closed the door in Courfeyrac's face, and Grace wished desperately that she'd got to the door first…
Still, as The Inspector sat down beside her, she tried to re-compose herself, smoothing down the skirts of her purple dress and breathing in deeply.
"Well…" she said, trying to sound calmer than she was. "Tickets to the Opera, a private Box, and now champagne… I've got to say, this is one of the more impressive first dates I've been on."
"Date?" Javert asked quizzically. "Is this another one of your English parlances?"
"Uhh…Yes. Yes, I suppose it is."
"What does it mean?"
"It means…" she began, thinking carefully. "It means…to have a very nice time indeed."
And as the lights of the theatre dimmed and the curtain rose, Grace gave Javert a genuine smile of happiness. Even when the music began, and the first of the evening's performers started to sing, Javert found it hard to take his eyes off her and fix them on the stage. He had one of the most expensive views in the Opera that night, but it was utterly wasted on him. Every so often, when he was sure that Grace was immersed in the performance, he would sneak another glance her way and watch her face as it brightened with wonder and awe.
To see that alone was worth all the money he'd spent.