A/N: I was out of internet for a week. But I used it for writing, at least.
I fear this one is a little of a filler chapter. Setting up the board for the next day. Well. Until it isnt. I feel I should apologize. But I probably won't. Well. You know me. Nothing's ever safe in the city of glass...
Chapter 81: The turn of the wheel
Physics tells us that for every action there must be an equal and opposite reaction. They hate us, we hate them, they hate us back. And so, here we are: victims of mathematics.
After Jehan had left, her heart calming down again from the frenzy that their exchange had thrown it into, Azelma, left to her own devices, started to ponder her situation and wondered where she should go from here.
How much her world had turned in the last days.
She had gone from a gamine with nowhere to turn to... well. To what? To someone who would run into a convent and throw herself into a battle? Who would go as far as attack a very dangerous man without even thinking because...
She could not even grasp the reason for the „because".
It had something to do with Jehan, with the pure, sheer terror of thinking she might lose the brightness that was him. But that was not all. There was something cathartic about realizing that one had something to lose again in the real world.
It had changed her, and she did not quite know yet, what to.
His offer had been clear enough. He had offered her – no begged her – to come to him, to leave her family behind. To leave the circumstances she was in.
But could she?
She wondered if she was what he saw in her. The spark of connection was there, and she had realized that there was a lot that they shared, but she was not sure she dared that step yet. She was not sure whether she was ready.
Unbidden her thought turned back to the discussion she had overheard about the letter. About Cosette.
And that thought was more persistent than she would have expected.
Azelma had been young when they had lost the inn. But she remembered. For a long time, she had remembered the inn like a dream that had turned unattainable, and when time and growing knowledge had caused that image to crack, she had accepted that the times she remembered was a fantasy world that had never been real.
It did not make much of a difference, given how far these times were gone these days.
And it had been a long time since she had even thought about Cosette.
But she remembered she was there, a pale wisp of a girl.
She had been a servant to her parents, of sorts, sent out on all manner of errands, set to all sorts of chores. Azelma had never questioned it back then. She was just there, just like the inn was there, just like her parents or the girl that served the drinks was there. She had been nearer to Eponine's age than hers, but Azelma had never questioned why she had been put to work, while Eponine had not.
It had just been a reality of life. Cosette, her younger self thought, was just a person of a different kind, not akin to Eponine and her, a servant, nothing more.
Grown-up Azelma, however, realized how cruel they had been.
She was not even sure where that thought had come from. Maybe it had been Jehan, with his kind words, touching something inside her that she thought not even real and carefully prying it to the surface. Maybe it was the deed she had done, for once acting instead of retreating. Or maybe just the mention of the name, and the revisit of old happenings with new eyes. The Azelma, who had been downtrod and abused, had scrambled for bread and living and fought for her life every day, understood, that she, like her parents, had been the abuser of Cosette. And Cosette had seen the side of her parents that Azelma herself had only learned about once they reached Paris – and that seemed to be all that was left now.
This, she understood, was what was keeping her. There was Azelma, who was begging on the gates of Picpus. But there was also still the Azelma who had sneered at Cosette, and watched her plight without pity.
And she could not let go of the one without the other.
Dusk had already fallen when finally, her solitude was disturbed again. The door to the little chamber she had been placed in opened to let in a nun, who, as she spoke the first words, identified her as Sister Mechtilde, the nun that had spoken with the reverent mother at her bedside, and whose conversation she had overheard in her half sleep.
Mechtilde was a woman probably in her thirties. Her habit hid the color of her hair, but by the freckles covering most of her face, it was likely she was either blonde or a redhead. She was not pretty, but a kind sort of agreeable, with a nice smile and unobtrusive, elegant movements.
„I am glad to see you awake", she said and placed the tray she brought with her on the bedside table. A heavenly smell was rising from it and Azelma's stomach grumbled in response. She had not realized that she was hungry.
Mechtilde stopped briefly, before she turned, her smile broadening.
„Now that is a good sign indeed", she commented her stomach's praise to the promise of a meal. „But let me examine the wound first."
Azelma nodded and let the sister open the bandage, avoiding to look at the damage done herself. She felt the nun carefully prick and prod at the wound and winced, and, on one particularly painful spot, whimpered, before something cool and soothing was placed on the wound again and the bandage replaced.
The spot was still sore and angrily throbbing.
„God has truly smiled upon you, girl", Mechtilde finally said and Azelma dared to turn back to her. „You have lost a lot of blood, but it seems that nothing vital was damaged, which is rare in wounds such as yours. I suspect you will still feel weak for a while, and there will be pain. But it is an extremely good sign that your fever has dropped again, and there is only very little heat in the wound. I have hopes that if we keep it clean you will heal."
She turned back and brought the tray, carefully placed it into Azelma's lap. It was a strong soup with meat, carrots and potatoes, and a loaf of bread to go with. It smelled heavenly and the gamine dug in. A caraffe filled with tea and a mug were standing next to it.
„There is more, if you want more", Mechtilde offered, and that was a sentence she had not heard in a long while. For a moment, she concentrated on nothing else but the food and drink, spooning down the wonderful warm broth and felt it tingingly revive her every limb. But when she had reached the bottom of the bowl, she found that she was so full she could not imagine eating any more, and so she declined the nun's offer with a shake of her head.
„You're a quiet thing, are you not?", Mechtilde asked, her voice warm, as she took a seat next to Azelma's bed. „That is all right, do not worry. I understand things have not been easy. But from what Father Coudrin told Mother Innocente, you have done Petit Picpus a great service, you and that young man."
She placed her hands in her lap and gave her a friendly smile.
„I just wanted to thank you for it. I'm not sure someone else has. They have sung the praises of the young man, for sure, but I think you and I know that the deeds of women sometimes get forgotten in these matters." There was a twinkle in her eye, and a strange moment of companionship that she had not expected.
„He has", Azelma heard herself saying without really thinking about it, and Mechtilde laughed.
„That at least", she said appreciatively. „That makes two of us."
She had a way of setting Azelma at ease, she found. She had an open air about her, easily building a connection, while somehow keeping her distance.
And so Azelma simply asked.
„Who's Cosette?"
Mechtilde raised her brows at the question.
„You heard that, did you?" she asked. „I was not aware you were awake. I'm sorry we disturbed you."
Azelma shook her head.
„That's not what I mean", she said. „I.. I knew someone by that name once. I'm wondering if it's her."
„She was a poor little soul that lived in a convent with her father for a while. Fauchelevent their family name was. The father worked as a gardener here with his brother, and little Cosette went to school here."
Mechtilde smiled.
„She was a curious little thing, reclusive and quiet, but with a lovely singing voice. She was blond and quite pretty and...", she frowned recounting the years, „She must be about eighteen years of age by now. My, how time flies..."
Azelma nodded, more to herself than anything else.
„What happened to her?" she asked.
„They left the convent, five, six years ago", Mechtilde said, „and I have not heard of her since. However, we have gotten a curious letter from her two days ago."
She frowned.
„I'm wondering, mademoiselle. Does that really sound like the acquaintance of yours? Because, in that case, I may need to request your help."
„Will you finally tell me where you are going?"
Bahorel turned to Elodie on his arm and grinned. She was a splendid creature most days, and today even more so, that she had actually made an effort. It was surprising what she could do even on short notice, and he was quite sure that he would be the talk – end envy – of the evening.
It was not that, if one looked at numbers and figures, Elodie was a beauty like Katya, Marius' lady friend Cosette whom he had just met in Rue de la Chanvrerie, or even Adelaide's exotic grace. She was tiny, barely reaching up to his shoulder, her red curls always just a bit unkempt, locks escaping at every turn, and her skin showed freckles that, if one were to believe the pamphlets, was supposed to be quite unfashionable.
But there was something about her that made her shine and sparke unlike another. Her smile and laughter was infectious, almost like a magic spell, being able to whisk away every worry and concern. She had a mischievous, mercurial air to her if the fancy took her. She was a seamstress, but could have been an actress, or a singer, with all the capriciousness of a Musichetta, but all in jest only, and never in seriousness, never with the complications that usually went with such a nature.
She was good fun, wherever she was, and whatever she was doing, and, in all honesty, this was part of why he had taken her with him. Which was a shame, if one looked at it that way. It seemed, that the last months had presented him with less opportunity to take Elodie out, and while she seemed to take it in good graces, being her sparkly, shining self whenever he went to her, he did feel a pang of regret about that.
Yet, it was not to be helped, and while he intended to thoroughly enjoy himself, that would be only a means to an end.
There would be other days, for sure.
„It's been a while since we have been out for some fun, my sweet", he answered with a grin.
„And in Faubourg St. Gervais no less?" she asked, a brow raised, but she could not hide her pleasure. Not from him. „That's an awfully far way off. We could have gone in the Quartier Latin, all things considered. That would also be closer to home, just in case."
She twinkled, and Bahorel answered her grin with one of his own. True. She was good at that, just like at everything else that concerned fun, laughter and distraction. So very, very good.
„Yeah", he admitted, „we could have. Except..." his smile turned slightly rueful as he lifted his shoulders a bit in a mock anticipation of a blow. „... there may be some strings attached tonight."
For just a split second he saw that her face fell a little, her eyes lost the trademark sparke, but it was gone in a heartbeat, washed away, and she was all brilliance again.
„I should have guessed", she scolded him lightly, swatting his arm, sighing theatrically and shaking her curls. „What do you need me to do?"
„I need us", he emphasized the pronoun, „to have a real good time. And maybe I need to make a good impression on a professor of mine. I need him to have a real good time. The time of his life."
Elodie's brows rose again in silent questioning and Bahorel shrugged.
„Well", he said. „No one would be sad if he overslept tomorrow."
„Something tells me this is not about skipping classes", Elodie said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.
„Aren't you the smart one?" He gave her a quick kiss on her hand, followed by a peck on the cheek. „If it were about that, we would be doing this every night."
„Why arent we then?" Elodie retorted, giving him another of her twinkles, shoving into his side gently, and he laughed.
„Good point", he said. „Maybe we really should.
They had just passed the church of St Sulpice and were now turning right on the Place de Croix Rouge into the Rue du Dragon, which, unlike the residential area they had just passed through, where people had started to turn in for the night, was featuring a whole row of brightly lit windows. Music and laughter was heard from it, dimly, but unmistakeably, and the sign over the entry completed the picture.
„La maison des hirondelles", it said, and Bahorel knew it was an establishment with just the right mixture between class and seediness.
And he also know, that it was frequented by de Ranchisse.
There was, of course, the chance that he was not there tonight and their whole plan turned out to nothing. Then he would have to think of something else.
But there were enough stories about de Ranchisse and this particular etablissement that he was, in fact, quite optimistic.
Gavroche had no idea what time it was when he finally came back to the elephant, but to his surprise, Jean and Sylvain were still up, sitting in the darkness of the decaying statue on their makeshift beds of stolen blankets and coats, deeply in discussion.
He was somewhat relieved to see them so – the mood could be tense between them if left to their own devices, but at the moment everything was peaceful and they were talking quietly, as to not wake the third of their group, little Pucet, who had curled up in his own corner, wrapped up in the signature national guard coat that served as his matress and blanket. Gavroche smiled slightly, rememering how proud the little lad had been when he had nicked the garment from a laundry line, one of the first things of value he had stolen, and he was guarding it fiercely. It had been a good choice – the experience of Napoleon's ill-fated russian adventure had taught the armed forces of France the value of a good, warm, wollen coat, and he guessed that during cold winter nights, Pucets was probably warmer than the rest of them.
For a moment, Gavroche felt a rush of affection, watching his own little familiy – quite different to the one made up by Courfeyrac and his friends, but also quite different to the hellhole the Thenardier apartment had been – and a point of pride. He had found them, and he had brought them together, and even though Jean and Sylvain quarreled, even though Pucet was still small and sometimes slowed them down, they were the best on the streets and he loved them for it.
„Oi, lads", he said and heaved himself up into the top chamber that served as their living and bed room, with some difficulty pulling behind him the clonking satchel full of the spoils of the evening. The boys turned towards him, and Jean chuckled.
„Did you raid a wine shop?" he asked, amused. Gavroche shook his head.
„An Apothecary. And the way things are going I figured we's get some of these things for ourselves."
In fact, it was Eponine who had figured that, and it had been her who had tried to make sense of the writings on the Apothecary's shelves.
The break-in had been surprisingly straightforward. The shop was in a relatively quiet street, the locks nothing that could withstand a few determined gamines, and the inside quite chaotic and upside down, but Eponine, with the aid of a candle and Gueulemer's list, had quickly found the things that Toureille had asked for.
And once she was done with that she had proposed to Gavroche to take some things that might come in handy in the upcoming days. Bandages. Salves. Painkillers.
And since she had claimed to have another errand to run, she had given him the spoils and sent him home. He had protested, but her argument that he might be less helpful in a discussion with Cortez – of all people – had some sense to it. Gavroche was not afraid of the man – cautious was probably the better expression – but it was true that whatever leverage she had gained with him, this was more due to her acquaintance with Enjolras, and she would do better to exploit that route.
He wished her godspeed and went back to his elephant.
„Guess you may be right", Jean admitted, tossing him an apple that they had probably saved for him. He caught it quickly, sat on his own bedding and took a hearty bite.
„So", he asked, „what have you been up to?"
„The twins sent us on an errand", Jean explained. The twins was their private description of the inseparable Joly and Bossuet – not to their face, of course. „They are trying to find that Joseph guy of the Cougourde. Seems he's still in town, and they have a lead on where he might be."
Gavroche nodded.
„Any luck?"
„Some", Sylvain chipped in. „We didn't meet him, but we heard he frequents the saltpan." The saltpan was one of the more seedier taverns near the river, popular with the sailors of the ships that brought the cargo up from Le Havre to the city. „He wasn't there tonight, though."
„You were in the saltpan?" Gavroche asked. „With the little one?" It was not that they could shelter Pucet from everything, but they felt they should train him like masters trained an apprentice, and he wasn't quite sure that Pucet was ready for that sort of thing yet.
„I was in the Saltpan", Sylvain precised. „Jean and Pucet waited outside." Gavroche frowned briefly – that was not the usual workshare, where bolder Jean would usually do more of the footwork. „But again. He wasn't there. But the patron told me he's there almost every other day, and he's definitely in town."
„So it's just a question of time."
„If they have time", Gavroche answered. „I don't know why the twins are so hellbent on finding that guy, but more or less everything they do these days is a bit short on time."
„He seems to be a bit of a jack of all trades", Jean mused. „He is on good terms with the dockers, and probably cuts a bit on the side here and there. Pretty well known there, actually, bit of a reputation, but not too bad. A trickster, nothing worse than that for all I heard. Ladies man."
Gavroche nodded.
„Good job. Knowing the twins, well paid, I figure."
Jean nodded.
„They're usually honest", he admitted. „For all the trouble they are."
„Speaking of trouble..."
Gavroche tossed the remains of his apple down between the cracks of the floor and listened to the rats squabbling about it.
„Gotta tell you a bit or two about 'Parnasse."
„If this is how you spend your evenings, Monsieur Bahorel, it is no surprise that we do not see you in class very often."
The tone was scolding, but lightly so. It did not seem that Monsieur de Ranchisse was really up for a fight on this particular day.
„Oh come on", Bahorel said genially, tipping his glass at the judge lightly. „All work and no play makes life terribly dull, you will have to admit that. Also, I remind you it is a saturday. There are no classes tomorrow."
„And I am sure you will spend the whole morning in church."
„Of course I will. Devout christian, and all that." Bahorel drained his glass and handed it over to Elodie with an off-handed smile. „Dear,est would you be so kind to get me another – and one for my revered teacher as well?"
„Oh, I could not", de Ranchisse answered politely, but Bahorel would have none of it, no more than he had the first time. Or the second. „Please, Monsieur, believe me, it is my pleasure."
Elodie nodded, answered to his smile, curtsied to the judge and turned around to the bar where a middle aged man was handing out the drinks. She knew it was all a game, but the off-handed way that Bahorel had treated her hurt none the less. It was the dynamic they agreed on, and she knew why he acted this way – but she also knew that there was a truth to it that reached beyound the make-believe that they were staging in here.
And that was sometimes hard to bear.
She shook her head to clear away the dark thought that had come unbidden and continued on her path with surer step. They had been lucky for once, and the Maison des Hirondelles had indeed hosted a party that de Ranchisse attended, and a few quick words from Bahorel and a few of Elodies smiles and flirtations had gained them access. It was not the first time they had done this, and their dynamic was well thought out and fuelled by experience. The man at the entry did not stand a chance.
They had spent the better part of an hour flittering about the place, a dance or two, a conversation, a jest, until Bahorel had finally gravitated towards their actual aim, and captured him in conversation, first about the surprise of meeting him here, then drifting to the study of law and a flitter from one casual topic to another. He had offered him a cup of very heavy provencial red – a wine he knew from his home pastures and that had been proven suitable on similar occasions before, and fortunately de Ranchisse had found it to his liking.
Elodie got another three mugs from the barman, and two shots of strong liquor to go with it. And she needed only a quick moment of inattendance to dump both shots into one of the mugs, casually placing the empty glasses among some others on the bar before she went back on her way.
She found Bahorel and de Ranchisse deeply in conversation, the judge clearly amused despite his better judgment. Elodie stepped towards them and flashed a smile, first at the judge as she offered him the mug with a curtsy just a little too deep to be meant for real, and then one for Bahorel, who answered her with a broad grin. He offered his arm to her and she clung to it, reveling in his closeness as she watched him work his magic.
It was not so easy to follow the discussion between student and master, which was a mixture of clever legal puns and amusement on cases, but she gave a comment here and there when it seemed appropriate and befitting. Occasionally, the judge spoke to other acquaintances – but his manners were polished enough to always at least introduce the two of them, and Bahorel, typically obstinant, simply refused to leave and butted himself even into those conversations. And so, when the third round of wine came, and de Ranchisse insisted on paying, it was Elodie again, who offered to take up the the role of the serving girl.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but still at the end agreed – probably partly due to the fact that his step had already become slightly unsteady and his gaze glazed.
And this time, she ordered three glasses of liquor to mix with the wine. And de Ranchisse's speech began to be slurred for real.
Bahorel pressed a kiss to her temple and continued the conversation.
„You know", de Ranchisse said a little later, looking somewhat mournfully into his mug which was, from Elodie's estimate, at least two thirds empty, „I guess I shouldnt."
„Shouldnt what?" Bahorel asked genially, clinking his mug against de Ranchisse's in a friendly gesture. „Shouldnt enjoy a nice evening in good company? We are good company, are we not?"
„Charming, perhaps even a little too much so", the judge said, and Elodie felt herself measured with a somewhat disconcerting gaze. She was unfazed – this was not the first time, she was a grisette of Paris and knew how to hold her own against a leering drunk – and cocked her head, flashing him her best smile.
„Why, a compliment from such a high place is always welcome", she said, extracting her arm from Bahorel's to give another of her mock curtseys – and appear a little less connected to her beau than she was to be sure to keep his attention on the conversation.
„And well deserved", de Ranchisse said, nodding towards her with a answering smile. „But, honestly. There is still a chance I need to get up in the morning."
„On a sunday?" Bahorel feigned surprise. „What sort of hearings could there be on a sunday?"
„The ones that aren't supposed to attract too much attention, of course", de Ranchisse said, twinkling to Bahorel in a conspirative gesture. „As you well know, Monsieur. It is usually the likes of you that we try there."
Elodie, from the corner of her eye, could see how he tensed. Of course, de Ranchisse was not completely oblivious to his affiliations. That much had even been obvious in the conversation before. It had just been Bahorel's talent of insolently staying just on this side of the line between jest and insult, of feigning ignorance and innocence, that had kept the conversation friendly. And the fact that they were in a very public place and Bahorel knew very well how to behave himself if he had to.
„The likes of me?" He managed to sound offended, amused and at the same time just a little insolent. „Why, I can hardly believe that. I am a simple student, interested in the exchange of many ideas. A philantropist. I just like to listen to people. To her", he nodded, „to Courfeyrac, to you... it's all about interesting conversation. Let's not spoil the night with real dissent, it's been too amusing so far."
De Ranchisse hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and raised his glass to Bahorel again.
„Well said, Monsieur. Why not. Chances are, that there will be no hearing in the morning anyway."
Now she almost saw Bahorel flinch, although he hid it well. He drained his cup in one single gulp, looking into it in feigned remorse and turned to her again.
„Dearest...", he said, „would you...? And one for my friend here as well..?"
Elodie rolled her eyes and took his mug and the coin he pressed into her hands. She was not sure how much of her annoyance was real – she had somehow hoped to spend some time with him, not only play the servant to him as he carried out his ploy against the judge, but she should have known better. These days she always came second. If she was lucky, that was.
„Sure", she said, forcing a smile back on her face, and made her way back to the bar, another two mugs of wine, another three shots.
He received it and took her into his arms briefly, and kissed her, completely unexpectedly and deeply, and for a moment, everything was forgotten, forgiven, and she barely remembered where and why she was.
Until he spoke again.
„I think there is no use waiting up for me, though. I figure we will be here for a while and there will be less time for... more." He pulled her towards her and let his lips briefly ghost along her earlobe in a strange sort of parting gift, and she felt her knees go weak. Despite everything. He always had had that effect on her.
And yet, again, he turned the tender situation into a terrible one as a whisper melted with the caress, for her ears only, making it clear that the gesture, again, had been nothing but a guise.
„Run to Dufranc. They are moving against Madame."
And yet, some part of her could not even fault him for that. Because if he was right, she had to run.
She was not sure what had woken her.
The large dormitory housed at the very least thirty women, so, if one was used to sleeping in better quarters like Helene was, rest was a difficult thing anyhow. There was always a snore, a sneeze, an unfamiliar movement that would keep awake, but the last nights in these premises had left her exhausted enough that that should not have been a problem.
By all intents and purposes she should have been sleeping like a log.
And yet something had roused her from slumber and she found herself lying on the narrow cot, listening to the snores and wheezes and the slow, quiet steps of the night sister.
There was always one of them walking the corridors of the dormitory, trying to be silent enough to allow sleep, but watching over the women and making sure that nothing untoward would happen during the night. She was a shadow, moving unobtrusively, a dark crow in her habit, almost like a ghost.
Helene's eyes followed her through the room. It was a different one than last night, she realized. She moved differently. She was taller, her steps were wider than the one from last night. From time to time she stopped her shuffling, looking into this face, or over that figure, maybe on the lookout for any signs of wakefulness or activity, maybe just to wonder what sort of fate had brought her here, into this room, that was a world of in between, the sort sentences, and the people waiting for their conviction.
There was something about the atmosphere at night that sent a shiver down her spine. She had not forgotten the warning words of the grisette, nor the alarmed faces of her friends from Le Globe, who had kept her in the visitation room until Pierre Berat had come with the news that the funeral they had attended had ended un uproar, but the situation had stabilized again and the moment of danger was probably past.
Yet, the day had not left her completely unaffected. There was only so much tension that even Helene de Cambout could take.
The nun had moved to one of the rows behind her, moving so silently that her steps were barely audible, and she could not see her any more. She wondered if she should turn around, still feigning sleep, just to have something to watch and to keep her from staring into nothingness. But somehow she wanted to avoid to even give an indication that she might not be following the orders of nightly rest that had been given out by the nuns and remained where she was, motionless, taking deep breaths and listening to the silence.
The attack came completely unexpected and out of nowhere. The movement had been so silent that she realized the danger only in the very last moment, when the attacker, maybe in a flash of impatience, abandoned his silent movements to rush the last motion, and Helene, hearing, feeling it, reacted without thinking.
And so she turned around and got a very short glimpse of the face of a young man, blue eyes, innocent face, in the habit of a nun, right before the pillow came down onto her face, taking away her breath and any sound she might have made as he covered her mouth and nose.
