A/N: Thanks to you guys for your comments, I really appreciate it! And here I come, bringing a new chapter of the City of glass fic. A day later than I wanted, but by the time I finished it yesterday, I was so very tired that I didn't trust my command of the english language any more, so I decided to give it another fresh read today, and believe me, that was a good idea *cringes*
I hope I removed most of the messes.
So, I've poured over a map of Paris, hope I got the locations of Issy, Rue Plumet and the Musain right, so that the overall descriptions, occurencies and directions make sense. If you find a mistake, correct me, I'll be happy to update.
So what will be there: A couple of OCs, both dead and alive, more well-known faces, and many panicked students runnung through many parisian streets on many errands. No E/E, unfortunately, they are currently having a (relatively) quiet time at the Musain, we'll see them again in the next chapter, I think...
As usual - comments make me happy, I'd really appreciate a word on how you liked it. I'll post this and get working on the next chapter right away :-).
Chapter 5: The streets of Paris
"The avalanche has already started. It is too late for the pebbles to vote"
A sorry mess.
Inspector Javert motionlessly stared down at the bodies that were still lying in the street, miraculously untouched by the crowd that had apparently formed directly after the incident, and was currently disbanded by the policemen he had fortunately thought to bring with him.
A sorry, sorry mess.
There was not much to be said about the manner of death of the young men lying in front of him. The immense puddle of blood, originating from the blonde's neck, but spreading out over several meters of dirty pavement, relieved Javert of the necessity to turn him around to find a clear cut over the throat of the man, killing him in instants.
The other one had been less fortunate. He lay curled up on the floor, the stomach wound had still killed him relatively quickly – stomach wounds were nasty things that could lead up to days of suffering, if the victim was unlucky – but there obviously had been pain and enough time for the young man to realize, what was going on.
Unfortunately, he had perished before Javert arrived, therefore robbing him of the possibility of asking the youth directly about the occurrences in this place.
Pity. But there were other ways.
With a sigh, the inspector crouched down beside the dark-haired youth and fully turned him to his back. The dead weight did not resist, and a face was revealed that still carried the remnants of a life barely begun, uplifted nose, plump lips, all in all, the face of a boy, not a man.
And yet, the face was well known to the inspector, and he did not need to look for any telltale documents to know that he was looking at Jacques Virille, a young artist in the trade of marble statues, fabled both for his – considering his youth – remarkable skill at the carving of religious figurines and his tendency towards association with those, that sought to overthrow public order and justice.
A young life wasted, alas.
And then, the other one would most probably be Antoine, his younger brother, a journeyman still, but in the same trade, both that according to the law and that going against it.
In short – two troublemakers.
Now Javert would have in general not been sorry about the removal of individuals of that kind from Paris, however, murder in broad daylight on the Barriere du Maine was quite a different story. And, alas, not one that could go ignored by the Paris police.
Which brought Javert into the picture.
Slowly, he got up again, circling the two dead with slow, deliberate steps, taking in the scene.
And then, he turned to question the witnesses.
Two hours later, nursing a considerable headache, Javert had gathered the information that was to be had at this place, with a mixture of threat and firm words, precise questions and vague suggestions. It was not much.
There had been a single attacker, and although the descriptions of the man varied, there were some consistencies to be found.
He had been still young – on the short side of twenty five, maybe, with a youthful, fresh air about him. Blonde, close-cut hair, rosy cheeks. Dressed to match the quarter. And reasonably skilled in the dirty work of butchering. None of those present had even seen him flinch during his deeds.
The queer thing about this story was that either he had met up with a number of extremely convincing liars, or this young man had gone mostly unnoticed up to now. There was one – a shopkeeper with a stand not far away from the place of the incident – that claimed to remember having seen him before, and in the same place, but apart from this, Javert was currently at loss as to who the attacker might be.
Additionally, the description of the man did not fit any of his usual suspects. This had been no ordinary crime, no squabble over goods.
This had been an assassination.
And as little sympathy as he had for the young men and their ambitions, they had not wronged enough in the face of the law to earn them what they were facing now – at least nothing had been proven yet. Given time, of course, they would have certainly reached a level of wickedness that would have made these killings necessary, but the hand of violence belonged to guard and police – and not to anyone else.
Given the fact that the attacker was most probably neither, this crime fell into the regime of the police. And brought him into the position to pursue a man, who probably had ultimately done the right thing in the wrong moment.
A sorry mess, indeed.
Marius lost no time in hurrying towards the house in Rue Plumet. Fear for the safety of his precious star was speeding his steps, and the path from the Musain to the home of his beloved had been deeply ingrained into his memory – he would have found it with his eyes closed.
The morning had been long past, giving way to an afternoon that was now at its prime, and sand had run through the hourglass since the attack in the morning.
He could only hope that he was not too late.
He had already passed the Jardin du Luxembourg, ignoring the curious looks from onlookers, who had frowned at the slightly disheveled young man, whose jacket still bore dark stains on the shoulder, and who almost ran through the park, not caring for appearances or propriety.
The Jardin had been well populated with both students and families on their outings during a fine May afternoon, but now that he had left it, streets were becoming emptier, as he entered a wealthier neighborhood where tenements made way for single family homes, surrounded by small grounds.
Number 55 was hidden behind a well-cared for, almost enchanted looking garden, enclosed by a fence and gate that reached about twice Marius' height. Now, in May, many of the flowers were in full bloom, rich and beautiful, an Eden of many colors and scents.
All seamed peaceful and silent in the warm sun.
Marius' heart was beating erratically in his chest. At first glance, everything seemed to be alright, no signs of intrusion were apparent. And still…
Who knew, what the man he had only very briefly seen this morning was capable of.
He clung to the iron ornaments, catching his breath, and looked into the maze of green and flowers.
Somewhere behind a hedge, something was moving. He caught a glimpse of a white-and-green dress, of hair like sunshine in spring, the quiet, careful movements of Cosette tending to the various flowers of the garden.
Marius closed his eyes in relief, placing his head for a moment against the cool iron, soothing his heated head, taking a few deep breaths.
And then: "Cosette!"
He kept his voice soft – it would not do for them to be discovered by Monsieur Fauchelevent, not now, not yet, but his words reached the young lady none the less, and the shuffling turned towards him, almost soundlessly, as the angel made its way to the gate.
The silence in Rue Plumet after the brawl of the market, the excitement of the Musain and the lively atmosphere of the Jardin du Luxembourg was tangible.
But it was only when Cosette finally came into view, still half hidden by the plants around, her eyes widening and a smile appearing at the sight of him, that he realized this silence was also dangerous.
A notion that he did not fully understand – an expected hue, a movement at the corner of his eye - made him turn his head.
And saw a lone figure walking towards him from the next crossing, unhurried, but determined. Brief as his encounter had been, he recognized the face.
Marius paled and froze for a moment.
"Good lord in heaven", he murmured, horror-stricken, and unconsciously recoiled towards the iron gate.
There was no smile on the man's face. His features were exactly as he remembered them, gaunt, lined, worn, but not yet old, a grim expression on his face. The eyes, firmly fixed on his target, were dark and cold, an icy determination that allowed neither question nor protest. And with an almost casual movement, he removed a pistol from his jacket.
"Marius… what's going on?" Cosette sounded worried, and rightfully so, because the man quickened his step, but the young baron was totally at loss as to what to say. Frozen in fright, he stared at his doom in form of the approaching assassin.
"I…", he shook his head to clear his hectic thoughts. He needed to run, and quickly, "I'm sorry, I …"
His gaze darted around wildly, in search of a shelter.
"But Marius…", Cosette protested, still confused, and followed his gaze to the end of the street, and that was when she understood the situation.
Her reaction was a blood-curdling scream that resounded through the street, clear and loud and unmistakable. It came at the same time as the shot.
Marius, in an instinct, had turned towards the pillars that framed the gate of the Fauchelevent garden in a quick and sudden movement, and it was thus, that the shot missed its goal, grazing only his biceps, pain like fire flaring up his arm, unpleasant, but in the end not dangerous.
The man threw a gaze – almost annoyed – at his now useless pistol and replaced it into his jacket. Instead, he shrugged out of his sleeve a knife that in a long studied movement dropped into his hand. Then he broke into a run.
Marius quickly considered his options.
He could accept the fight - not the cleverest of ideas given the man was armed and he was not. He could try to run into the opposite direction – more promising, but the speed that the man showed, made this endeavor risky at the least. Which left the Fauchelevent garden. It was not really a choice, all things considered.
Of course, the door was locked.
Cosette deathly pale in fright, but still with him at the gate, understanding what he was up to, shook her head, blond curls bobbing miserably.
"I don't have a key, it's in the house…", she measured the distance between the approaching man and the fence, which rendered going to fetch it a fairly futile gesture.
Thus, bereft of all options, Marius Pontmercy began climbing the iron fence of the Fauchelevent residence, while Cosette stepped back, wide-eyed, helplessly watching the scenery before her.
It was a close call. But finally, Marius jumped down from the lofty heights of the top of the gate into the garden, tumbled and came back to his feet, before the man crushed into the gates.
For an instant, the situation seemed to freeze, a moment of overall hesitation, as the opponents stared at one another from different sides of the gate – Marius in a garden that he had no business being in, and the attacker, the knife barely visible in the sleeve of his jacket, measuring the height of the fence to judge, whether he should follow or rather reload his pistol.
Cosette stood, paralyzed in horror.
And then, noises from deeper in the garden heralded the arrival of another player in this game.
All three whirled around to the source of the sound, only to see a man emerging from the bushes that Marius knew to be the father of Cosette, Monsieur Fauchelevent.
The student was surprised at seeing the old and slightly plump man move so quickly, but he had the speed and ferociousness of a bear roused and rushed towards the fence with a booming:
"What is going on here?"
None of the three were in the position – or willing – to issue an explanation, but Cosette, apparently drawing on reflexes acquired during long years of habit, stepped behind her father's broad back, hoping for protection.
Fauchelevent's gaze, however, was captivated by the attacker, and a kaleidoscope of emotions chased over his face, too quickly to decipher, to manifold to understand.
However, surprise was not chief among them.
And also on the attacker's features, there was a strange notion – remembrance? Fear? – that Marius could not quite place, but the moment was gone all too soon, because the man in front of the gate, estimating his chances, took flight once more and vanished down the street in a blur of quick steps and flying coat tails.
Fauchelevent took a few calming breaths, his fists curling and uncurling restlessly, as he stared after the man, vibrating with tension and anger. Marius did not dare to move a finger at the sight of these emotions unleashed from the usually calm and placid man he had observed in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
And then, Cosette's father turned on his uninvited visitor. His eyes were eerily calm.
"Explain yourself."
Marc Lamarin ran. The cartography of the not-quite-yet familiar city had him confused as to where exactly he was going, but the general direction of heading eastward seemed to hold true, and as long as this was, he could not be fully in the wrong. His breath was coming in short gasps, his heart was hammering against his chest, and from time to time, he took a quick look over his shoulder, but it seemed, that no one was following him for the moment.
Still, he did not dare to slow down.
He wondered where his friends where. They had all scattered when it happened, taking off into different directions in something resembling panic, and he did not know if the blood on his hands was his, or Jacques', or someone else's. All he knew was that it was there.
He had panicked, when it had happened. Nothing at home could have prepared him for these few weeks that he had now spent in Paris, since starting his studies of the law. He had gone from a green boy in an unfamiliar city to a student finding new friends both from home and Paris, to a member of a secret organization to a boy in the middle of a bloody fight in literally a manner of weeks. He felt, as if he had ascended, higher and higher, only to realize now, that he had lost all ground under his feet, and would fall, deep and hard.
And so he ran. He was not sure, how long he could keep up this pace, but he was sure on the direction he was going. Given the circumstances, there was only one place to turn. The Friends of the ABC had to know what had transpired, and the best place to reach them would be the Café Musain, which, again, would be eastward from Issy, where he had left of. With Jacques unaccounted for and Joseph out of town, hopefully Enjolras at least would know, what to do.
Hence the direction.
He had reached a wealthier neighborhood – vaguely he thought he could not be so far from the quartier St. Michel any more - when his strength finally deserted him. The streets were not very populated, the occasional passer-by throwing him a curious – at times disapproving – look but leaving him alone, which was a grace in itself.
Until he reached another crossing and almost crashed into three young men, who were pursuing whatever path they were taking with equal speed and fervor.
He skittered to a halt, dodged, and murmured an apology, even before his eyes had had the opportunity to register, whom he had almost run over.
Out of the three, only one was known to him, but that in itself inspired a relief so great, that he might have wept.
"Lesgles!" he called. "Wait!"
The man who had not allowed his step to be slowed much by the almost crash, stopped and whirled around, only quickly followed by his two comrades.
"Lamarin", Lesgles acknowledged, slightly out of breath. "I'm sorry, I will have to speak to you some other time. I have to…"
"There has been an attack on us!" Lamarin burst out. "I don't know if Jacques has been killed, but he has certainly been wounded. And now the Cougourde is scattered over the city, everyone took off in a different direction. I have no idea where the others are, but…"
"Another one?"
That comment came from one of Lesgles' fellows, a young man with round spectacles, pale complexion and sandy hair. His eyes were wide in fright.
Lesgle took a deep breath.
"No time now. You best run up to the Musain and tell Combeferre and Enjolras, what has transpired. We… no", he interrupted himself. "Best you come with us. We retrieve our lovesick comrade – alive hopefully - and then we all go back to the Musain and regroup. Strength is in numbers, so come."
Michel Lamarin complied, only too glad that he was relieved of the decision..
Given what he had just seen, he would like nothing less than be left to roam the streets of Paris on his own.