A/N: Still here. Still writing. Still having fun. Still being glad at norwegianalien who reviews. Still racing the city of glass towards revolution. A bit of plot, a bit of fluff (actually quite a lot. I gotta brush my teeth from the sweetness in here. This is about as fluffy as I get.), a bit of people not wanting to face who they really are. Just another day in the city of glass, as you say :-)
Chapter 79: Times of twilight
That's why my father taught me to live each second as though it were the last moment of my life. He said, "If you love, love without reservation. If you fight, fight without fear." He called it "the way of the warrior."
When Lamarin came back into the main room, he found it still in full operation, brightly lit and bustling with activity. He wanted to talk to Courfeyrac – and possibly Marius, were he to still drop by – about the state of affairs when it came to the defense of Madame de Cambout.
Although the funeral had been hours past, quite a lot of the revolutionaries had refused to leave or were coming back, the room filled with debates and considerations. Some left, to get some food, to exchange with associates or on private errands, but many came back, and so, still hours after the fact, the place felt like a beehive, busy, bustling, chaotic, but following its own, particular logic.
And the generals, Courfeyrac among them, had started planning the battle.
There was no denying – and the room was very well aware of it – that the events were coming to a close. Enjolras was dead set on using the funeral procession for Lamarque to light the spark to the powder keg of Paris, and the logic of his reasoning had fallen on fertile ground with the others.
This, in turn, meant, that all their lose plannings, the ideas thrown around and preparations made in secret, now finally needed to be put together and formed into a semblance of a was not a good time, Lamarin thought, to discuss the theoretical and practical difficulties of legal matters.
And so Sebastien and himself joined Enjolras, Bahorel and Courfeyrac, who stood with the Sellers, with Abati and Griolet, with Lafague and Reverre from the Barriere, with Lionel Sevret, who, after the loss of Coudin and Deleric, had agreed to speak for the group that had formed at the Sorbonne. And they started to discuss all the practicalities of a revolution. Places for assembly. Places to make a stand. Ammunition. Armory. Logistics. Methods of communication. The building of barricades.
But he had barely started to get into the discussion that had already flown back and forth for some time, when he was interrupted by a short placement of a hand on the back and a call of his name.
„Lamarin."
He turned around to find himself in front of Pierre Berat and an older man in a servants uniform, vaguely familiar, both of them radiating a sense of urgency that immediately had him set on the edge.
Courfeyrac and Bahorel turned to the newly arrived as well, a frown on the former's, an air of impatience on the latter's face.
„I apologize for the intrusion, Monsieur d...", he interrupted himself and reiterated, „Monsieur Courfeyrac, and Monsieur Lamarin."
Lamarin nodded, and Courfeyrac made a dismissive wave of his hand, pushing aside the concerns of the young man.
„Mourillon's the name", he introduced himself. „I come bearing a message of Monsieur Dufranc."
With a flash of intuition, dots connected, and Lamarin remembered that this was where he had seen the man – at the mansion of the Dufrancs, calmly going about his duties in the background.
Immediately, he was alert and nodded, and he could see the same for Courfeyrac.
„Please, tell us", he offered, stepping aside a bit from the commotion that was the planning of battles, and to the steep side of the roof that formed the side wall of the hideout.
Mourillon nodded. He was, as Lamarin realized, bearing himself politely but without being submissive, his almost-use of Courfeyracs despised „de" more a thing of habit then of fear.
„I am given to understand that you have supported in putting together a legal argument for the defense of Madame de Cambout, is that correct?" Courfeyrac nodded slowly. „That is correct", he said. „Pontmercy, myself, and Lamarin here, who probably has the most complete picture of us all."
Lamarin felt a slight sinking of his stomach at the sudden responsibility that he had not yet realized in full. Yet, it was true. The satchel he carried over his shoulder carried his notes, as well as the majority of things that the other two had contributed. Yet, he added his own nod to Courfeyracs. „That may well be", he admitted reluctantly.
„Good." Mourillon nodded and rubbed his hands together. „Monsieur Dufranc comes with two requests, one probably more easy to fulfill than the other." Courfeyrac raised a brow.
„Now that sounds ominous."
„It is", Pierre Berat admitted, not sounding overly enthusiastic.
„So." Mourillon was not deterred. „Monsieur asks if you, or at least one of you, probably Monsieur Lamarin", he nodded in Marc's direction, „would be willing to come to the Mansion. It seems, Messieurs Dufranc and LaManche have decided to try and achieve a temporary release of Madame for the funeral of her husband tomorrow. Their argument following something called... habeas corpus?"
Lamarin, being well familiar with the principle, nodded. It was not a bad plan, although habeas corpus was not the simplest legal argument, given it was usually weighed against others, such as the protection of the public or the ensuring of a fair trial. Still, given circumstances, maybe something was to be devised.
„Monsieur Dufranc was wondering if you might be willing to help with that."
Lamarin, exchanging a quick glance with Courfeyrac, who looked conflicted, nodded. „I can", he offered, without giving it a second thought.
„Glad to hear it, Lamarin", Courfeyrac added. „Because I, unfortunately, still have some other things to take care of tonight."
Of course, Lamarin remembered. They had just briefly mentionned it in passing in the war council. The discussion between Les Amis and Charles Jeanne, trying to mend the rift between the two fractions before it was too late.
„I can do it", he therefore reaffirmed, readjusting his satchel on his shoulder in an unconscious motion. „Let me warn Stephane, and then we can go."
„Whats the second point?" Bahorel asked. „The more ominous one?" He looked anything between curious, smug and playful. Courfeyrac frowned.
„Well", Mourillon sighed. „How can I say this. So. It seems that LaManche has already filed the petition, and the court will discuss it tomorrow. Now, if I understand correctly, there are two judges this would usually be brought before."
„Of course", Courfeyrac moaned, sounding slightly desperate. „De Ranchisse and Clairet."
Lamarin frowned. He knew neither, but there was obviously a story to be had there. He was about to ask, when Bahorel, all of a sudden, began to laugh loudly.
„Aah, I see where this is going." He chuckled. „Finally some way I can be useful. Fear not, that's something I can help with."
Courfeyrac eyed him suspiciously.
„Sure? How much trouble will that buy us?"
Bahorel waved a hand dismissively.
„Show some trust, dear friend, and never fear." He grinned, and then, realizing Lamarins confusion, explained for his benefit. „Both of them are judges, usually, among other things, dealing with earlier and temporary releases. Paroles, habeas corpus, and the like."
He grinned.
„Clairet's decent. De Ranchisse's an ass. Of course you want Madame before Clairet." He turned to Berat and Mourillion. „That about it?"
Berat squirmed a little, but the servant nodded.
„That covers it, pretty much, yes."
„Just a moment." Lamarin intercepted. „Is a legislator, a member of the assemble nationale, seriously asking to get a judge out of the way?"
„Monsieur Dufranc is not asking anything", Mourillon precised. „He merely requested me to... point out, that there are easier and harder ways that this can happen tomorrow. And he asked me to stress that we all have an interest to see Mademoiselle out."
Courfeyrac smiled slightly at the slip of the tongue. It was obvious that despite her marriage, and her being quite grown up – and a force to be reckoned with – Helene was still unconsciously 'Mademoiselle' to most of her parents' household."
Lamarin shook his head.
„I don't think we want to resort to that sort of methods", he intercepted, but Bahorel waved him off good-naturedly.
„Ah, boy, don't be a spoilsport. I have an idea. No harm done. Well. Only temporary harm done. And when all is going to hell anyhow in the next days, what does anything matter anyhow?"
Courfeyrac frowned.
„Bahorel", he said warningly, and his comrade rolled his eyes.
„Come on. Give me some credit. I can be creative. It will be fine."
„All right...", Courfeyrac said hesitatingly. „If you're sure..."
„I am", Bahorel said, grinning. „Run along Lamarin, be a good law student, and let me be what I am, and it will all turn out alright."
„And what are you?" Courfeyrac was still not convinced, but he had obviously given up argueing and was fighting in retreat.
Bahorel grinned broadly.
„Magnificent."
She was not quite sure what had woken her.
She emerged from the nothingness in a manner that reminded her of emerging from being underwater, of coming up from a world of silence and subdued colors to brightness and sound, the feeling overwhelming at first, before her senses slowly adapted.
She was surrounded by quietness and soft, faraway sounds. Steps, far beyound doors and walls, going neither towards nor from her, just telling of the passage of someone on their own errand, completely unconnected to her.
She was surrounded by light, which was, on closer inspection, probably what had finally called her from the void of deep, dreamless sleep that had surrounded her like a blanket. She was not used to long sleep, much less an undisturbed one, but she usually slept in dim and dark places.
Slowly the sense of awareness of her body returned, and with it, the memory of the last days. The fever, she realized, had subsided. She felt sweaty, like after a battle, but better on the whole, and as she cautiously shifted shoulders and hips, the wound at her side reacted with an angry burn, but it was bearable, and did not carry the telltale thickness and hot swelling that would have indicated infection.
„Azelma?"
The voice was soft, careful, but still raced through her like a physical shock, and she opened her eyes before having had the possibility to even think about her reaction. If she had, then maybe she would have feigned sleep. Because, in all honesty, she had no idea how to face him. She half remembered him being there after the attack by the monk, half remembered him being there as fevers shook her body. Half remembered words in a strange tongue (die Rose... die Taube... die Sonne...). His hands on her side, trying to keep her blood, her life inside her body. Whispered pleas as she was half sleeping (don't go... don't leave...). A soft caress running along the side of her face. The bed shifting as some additional weight was placed on it at her side.
It was difficult to say which of those images were real, and which imagined, for all of them seemed surreal in the light of day as it was now.
Azelma had little experience in this manner. Unlike Eponine, who, at some point in time had thrown herself into Montparnasse's arms, she had stayed away from romantic relationships of any kind. She had dreamed, of course, oh, how she had dreamed, but the reality had seemed so different from what she wished, what she desired, that it had seemed wiser, safer, to retreat to the realm of imagination.
And yet, somehow these two worlds had started to mix.
Azelma had the finely honed senses of a gamine roaming the streets of Paris. She had gotten used to the game of hiding and avoidance that secured her safety. She had become so very good at being invisible.
And yet, the way the young man smiled at her as she opened her eyes and turned towards him, she realized that at this moment, to him, he was anything but.
That was a terrifying thought. Hiding was all she had to ensure her survival. But now he saw her, a young man, rich, standing so very much in sunlight. And not only did he see her, but he had slowly, carefully, started to beckon her out of the darkness she used to crawl in, and, to her surprise, she had taken a few cautious steps in his direction.
For the life of her she could not explain why. But she could not find it in herself to regret it.
There was nothing threatening about him. Her fearful reaction was out of habit alone. As he sat there, elbows on his knees, bowed into her direction, yet keeping some distance, a careful smile on his face, half hidden by the fingers of one hand, that were placed on his lip, something within her was sure, oh so sure, that he meant her no harm. He was fully dressed, coat placed on the back rest of his chair. Ready to go out.
„Hello there", he said, watching her carefully. „How are you feeling?"
Azelma gingerly probed her wound with her fingers. It was thickly bandaged, and hurt at the touch. But all her experiences with ailments great and small told her that she was healing.
„Better", she answered. „I think."
His smile broadened.
„Thank god." He sounded so relieved that she could not completely keep a smile off her face as well. She tried to sit up carefully – a bit uncertainly as the unfamiliar matress and bedding reacted to her movements – to feel less vulnerable. Jehan moved as if to help her but seemed to think better of it and tried to hide it unsuccessfully behind a shift in stance.
Silence settled for a moment. She wondered, what he was expecting of her, what one did in a situation such as this. She was completely and utterly outside her realm of experience here. If she was honest to herself, she had left familiar pathways latest when she raced behind him into the monastery. Maybe, she thought, even already when they had spoken at the banks of the Seine.
But she could not bring herself to regret it. For what it was worth, there had been a magic in every moment they had shared. There was magic in this moment now. And this was much too precious to discard.
She nodded in response to his long gone statement. „And you?"
He spread out his arms, as if subjecting to her inspection.
„I'm almost my old self again", he admitted. „And I have you to thank for that."
Her first reflex was to deny, but on second thought she realized that he was probably right. She had not intended it, but the fight in the chapel probably would have ended badly for her, had she not reacted the way she had. Yet, she did not know what to say to this. She had never saved someone's life.
She averted her gaze, trying to come up with something to say, and saw only out of the corner of her eye that he leaned forward, coming closer to her again.
„I mean it, Azelma." His voice gained in intensity. She turned back to him and found him facing her intently, holding out his open hands to her in an invitation. „That was a deed I will not forget. You saved my life in that chapel." An shy, incredulous smile wandered over his face. „I'm still here because of you."
Slowly, reluctantly, she placed her hands in his, and even though it was just a gesture, and the situation still surreal, it felt like a decision. A mixture of fear and exhiliration ran through her, and she looked down on their hands, unable to meet his gaze, only in that motion seeing that he did the same. For a moment, they stayed silent in the brightly lit, quiet chamber. It would have been unbearable, she realized, if he had died. She was not sure what that meant, but the fact was undeniable.
„Thank you", he whispered, hands still in hers, and she felt her fingers reacting on their own accord, her thumb almost unconsciously running along the back of his hand. He nearly froze and fell silent at the gesture. She dared a quick glance and realized he had closed his eyes.
„What is happening to us...?" The answer was there, hanging in the room, but somehow she would not voice it for fear of breaking the spell, and, as it turned out, neither would he.
„Ssssh", he shushed her softly. „Just let it happen."
And so, for a moment, she did.
Dusk was already settling over the city when he finally returned to his office, weary, worn and tired. Nothing sounded more attractive right now than to retreat back to his modest lodgings for a good night's sleep that promised to be so much more invigorating than the last night spent at his desk.
But duty called first, and he was not quite done with his work yet. And thus, with a sigh, he dropped down at his desk again, placing in front of himself the notes of the interrogation he had just held with the elusive, mysterious Jean Valjean.
He had gotten no less than a full confession, from the first deeds of stealing food to the numerous acts of evasion, several names and manifold places, He had chased the man for so long, and yet, at the moment, the story felt strangely mundane.
Somehow a life of petty crime paled in the face of the murders the city had seen during the last days, and the satisfaction of catching a criminal the likes of Valjean did not live up to the darkness of the thoughts that his conclusions yesterday night had called forth.
He should feel a lot more closure than he actually did.
For all that it was worth, Valjean had been forthcoming, telling his tale with the air of a man broken, toneless, almost emotionless. It was hard to believe that this was the man that had given him such a long run, that had escaped capture so often. Something must have happened to him, Javert decided. Something monumental.
But all things considered, this was irrelevant. The man was captured and would face justice – again. That was all that there was to be said. One file closed. Moving to the next.
Javert took a blank piece of paper and synthesized the conversation he had had with Valjean, copied the key points of the interrogation and his conclusions and recommendations, included the current location of the man and left the sheet on Giubet's desk to write a copy of it in the morning for the Prefect's office. Then he filed the notes of Valjean's interrogation for further reference into one of his folders and moved on the the rest of the correspondence still awaiting his attention.
As was his habit, Giubet had cleaned up his desk, sorted his papers and left the matters for his attention in the lower right corner of the desk, ready for him to take it and sort through.
Javert took the results of yesterdays musings – his notes, and the larger paper containing his spiderweb of conclusions, and placed them into the drawer. His correspondence included a few routine comebacks for information requests and a notice to appear in court three days from now to give testimony on a case he had closed two weeks back.
And at the bottom of the pile there was, as he had requested, the report from Giubet on what he had found on the man that called himself Babet.
Two pages of closely written text in clean, immaculate handwriting. Even in his tired state, they were easy to read and follow. Yet, Javert decided, the only pressing matters at hand being those of his own decision, that enough was enough.
He folded the papers, donned his jackets and placed the notes in one of the pockets. He could read them home as well as here, he decided, and left the Prefecture for friendlier pastures.
It was a balm after the past two days to reach his home, which, for all that it was modest and deserted, had always been a sanctuary to him. Javert had seen enough of the rough side of life to not take a comfortable shelter for granted, well-deserved as it was.
He lit an oil lamp, methodically placed is jacket on a hanger and opened the buttons at his sleeves, taking a breath of relief at a bit of coolness after the heat of the day. Splashing water into his face helped some more to restore his spirits and then he turned to the main room. He poured himself a very modest glass of wine as he would sometimes allow himself – only one, mind you, but he thought that the capture of a fugitive like Jean Valjean might, circumstances nonwithstanding, at least merit some sort of celebration – and sat down in his armchair to read the notes Giubet had left him.
The first page showed little new to him. He was aware that Patron-Minette consisted of the characters Jondrette, Brujon, Montparnasse, Claquesous and Babet.
The page gave a list of their usual haunts, which, Javert suspected, were useless at the moment since it seemed that the gang was at the moment more or less disbanded, spread off into the different corners of the earth.
A few of the crimes connected to them had been listed – several robberies and housebreaks, a particularly interesting stunt involving a street theater and two of them – apparently Babet and Jondrette – acting very aptly as pickpockets – but again this brought him no further to having a chance at finding the man.
The second page, however, contained more interesting information. It listed an incident of a woman going by the name of Marie Lefaivre complaining about the disappearance of her husband, the provider of a family. What had started out as a case of disappearance had never led anywhere, but Giubet had noted that apparently the inspector in question had suspected that the vanished man was indeed the same as the one that called himself Babet.
Javert took a moment to silently congratulate Giubet on the amount of information he had been able to dig out at short notice and made a mental note to convey the praise in person once he saw him again. Even if the suspicion the inspector had harboured turned out wrong, it was some feat to even get hands on this information in the haphazard bookkeeping of the Prefecture.
He turned towards the page again and continued to read.
Apparently, after some time, the case of the man's dissappearance had been closed and the woman had been deferred to charity for the support of herself and her – then – infant child. An afternote seemed to have suggested, however, that she had turned to her parents in law instead and given their home as a potential point of contact, should her husband still show up.
Through tired eyes, Javert looked at the address provided and immediately felt his blood run cold.
Monsieur and Madame Erable.
Do you see this my boy? An errand leaf having been blown into the cell that was their home, finding its way through the bars that had always been the corner of his existence. „Adillarania."
There was a smile on her mother's face, a tiny sparkle in her eyes that he did not see often these days, as she showed the leaf to him. „Acorn, the gadjo call it, erable... But we Roussata know it's secrets..."
She smelled the leaf, probably inhaling more of an imaginary scent then a real one, and still it seemed to give her some joy, like most memories of her past did.
She bowed to him then, as if telling him a great mystery.
„It's precious to us, my little one, the adillarania, as its bloom brings spring, and fruit, and new life."
He stared at the page blindly.
Wondering if he had found what he was looking for. Or whether, finally, he was about to be found.
„I don't want to leave", he whispered, after a long while during which time had passed, uncounted except for the measuring of breaths and thoughts, his voice only carefully breaking the spell they had woven between them.
Azelma looked up to find his gaze. There was sadness there, but also a kind of determination underneath, steel under silk.
„You have to go back to your friends", she answered, already understanding what he was preparing himself to say. Jehan, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.
„I have no news of what happened during the day. And given the amount of things that have occured in the last days, I fear for all the catastrophes that may have befallen uns in the mean time."
He gave her a slightly rueful smile, and Azelma felt something within her gut twitching. Solitude had always been refuge and friend to her, but for some reason the thought of him leaving was more painful than she had expected.
She did not know how to react to this; to his words, or even to her reaction. He was a bourgeois, one of Marius Pontmercy's friends, and worlds away from the gamine she was. The strange turns of fate had thrown them in each other's path a few times, and she felt herself to be in a situation that she had no compass for, no experience in. Was this goodbye in the way that men said goodbye to a woman that they had allowed at their side for a while? - Eponine had warned her about that, although, until the last days, the mere thought had been ridiculous to her. Was he working up the courage – for she had realized that there was a shyness about him that set her at ease, so familiar, so unthreatening, so endearing it was – to turn his back to her?
She did not know and thus, she did what she always did if she was unsure about what to do – she stayed silent and lowered her gaze.
And then, all of a sudden, she felt his hand under her chin, softly lifting her face to look at him again.
„Don't...", he said softly.
„Don't what?" It was hard to hold her gaze, hard, because she did not understand the situation she was in and had no idea how to go forward from here.
„Don't retreat back to the shadows. Not from me."
So to the point that it was almost painful. And yet, a phrase like a soothing touch.
„I belong to the shadows", she answered, very simply, because it was true.
He smiled and shook his head.
„To the night, maybe, and places of magic. But no, I do not think even that." He watched her carefully. „You're a bit of this world, and a bit of another, Azelma. Not fully here, not fully there."
He hesitated for a moment, and she held her breath. He had so easily captured and put into words something she had always felt, but never been able to voice.
And then, just like that, he took her breath away.
„I know how that feels."
And suddenly she understood that this was true. She began to understand the nature of the strange thing that was hanging between them, spidery and silver. Because she understood that, stripped bare of layers and layers of education and deprivation, of poverty and money, at the core, there was something that they shared. The pull of images, words, feelings, connecting the mundane to the magic. Like her, she suddenly understood, he knew the majesty of a bird in full flight. The sparkle of light in the water of the Seine. The strange, serene beauty of the moon reflected in a gutter. He knew there was a world beyound the visible, seen only by the specters of the mind, and he knew all about the comfort it could bring.
„You do", she said, and it was not a question. He nodded.
And then, all of a sudden, an outburst, words pouring out that obviously had been bottled up inside for a long time, changing completely the mood of the conversation:
„Please, for the love of god, I beg you, don't just go back. Don't go back to where they beat you and exploit you and have no idea how precious you are."
She stared at him and blinked as she processed what he had said. The utter lunacy of it. The world-changing, ground-shaking lunacy of it.
'They're all I have', her mind suggested as an answer, repeating, unwittingly, the words her sister had spoken to another man a few hours earlier, but she realized that same moment that these were the words of Eponine. Not hers.
So she decided to use her own instead.
„I don't know how", she answered, more honestly, and Jehan sensed the opening immediately and went for it. He was so much more experienced in that than she was, building connection effortlessly where she was still trembling, shying away to even fully acknowledge it.
„Not yet", he answered, „but let us find it out, you and I. We can. Let us not lose this... whatever it is." He shook his head. „These days are mad, and I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but let's try and hold on as much as we can."
His desperation rang true, and Azelma reeled for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She was so far from any conversation, even any dream that she had harboured that she felt adrift. But he had laid his feelings bare so effortlessly that she could do no different.
„Unchartered waters", she said, a phrase from a story, and yet so true and telling. „But it's true. There's a twilight that we share, Monsieur, I think." She smiled. „And maybe we can meet there, for now."
For a moment he looked as if he would hug her, but ultimately he decided against it and simply nodded.
„I will tell you where to find me", he said. „On the condition that you do."
She heard herself say 'yes' before she could think better of it.