A/N: Sorry for the slight delay... work has slightly interfered, but I hope the chapter was worth the wait.
Thanks again goes to Valiya for betaing and cleaning up my deficiencies in the grammar and punctiation department!
This chapter, actually, was one that required one of the biggest bouts of research I've done yet for that story. I tried to get a grip on the workings of law enforcement in the 1830s France, and from what I can see, this is not an easy thing to be accomplished...
Also, I finally had to dive into the interworkings of the political system to fully understand, what is going on and where.
Last but not least, my physics background kind of ran away with me, and I tried to find oout what exactly it was, that Arago has been done about the polarization of light, and what the state of knowledge at that period of time was..
I could not help having Combeferre have a little physics rant ;-)
I hope I do not mess up things too much.
So what's there to be had? A bit of Javert, a fair bit of Hélène and Combeferre - who both find themselves in quite an uncomfortable situation at the moment - and truths and lies from unexpected places.
Thanks to all those who reviewed (quite a lot this time, I appreciate it, really :-D), and I hope you like this one too.
And now, without further ado...
Chapter 16: Tournament of lies and truths
"Always plant a lie inside the truth. It makes it easier to swallow."
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur?" . ?docid=32457909
Slowly, Javert turned away from the window surveying the yard of La Force, towards the young prison guard that had entered the room. He had watched the hustle unfold before his eyes during the last few minutes; soldiers with only a minimum of discipline crossing the court, criminals walking from here to there. Hustlers crept, beseeching, lying, and plotting at times amongst one another, sometimes with the guards.
It was a den of both villainy and sin.
Javert wondered how deep the rottenness of its inhabitants had spread into the very marrow of this prison.
Yet, as he met the gaze of the young soldier who had come to fetch him – a deceivingly innocent face that still looked partly that of a child's – he was as calm as he could be. Although the soldier's face was that of a youth's, his moustache seemed to accentuate rather than hide his slightly immature appearance.
Javert's hands were clasped behind his back, face schooled into an expression of neutrality.
"Yes?"
"Monsieur le Commandant will see you now."
Javert nodded. The fact he had been led here to wait was a telltale sign of a reproach that would not be given verbally. Just enough to put him in his place, but not enough to elicit any real offense.
The games of the vacuous and the vain. He knew them as well as he knew their rules.
But he prided himself in being above those petty notions.
He had a goal to pursue and no time for idle sport.
Monsieur le Commandant was a man about Javert's age for whom sloth, security and elevated position had allowed him to become stout. His formerly brown hair showed prominent signs of grey, and a moustache covered his upper lip and stretched out to his cheeks in a well-groomed manner.
He was sitting behind a sturdy wooden table as Javert entered, and slowly got up to greet the inspector with a friendly handshake. Javert had to admit – the man was hiding his thoughts well. His slightly puffy face betrayed nothing but a certain interest and seriousness.
"Inspector," he greeted his guest, motioning for him to sit at the other side of the table which was conspicuously bereft of paper, only decorated with a few pens and trinkets. "Can I offer you something?"
Javert shook his head. Like for games, he had no time for pleasantries.
"I would prefer we cut straight to the point." That may have been a bit rude, yet it was best that it was out right away. Everything else would certainly not be suited to relax the situation.
Monsieur le Commandant shrugged, and opened his hands in a jovial gesture.
"As you wish, of course, Inspector."
He smiled.
Javert felt ill at ease.
Technically, Monsieur le Commandant had no authority over him. He was a member of the National Guard which existed in unison, more often than not in dissonance, with the municipal police to which Javert belonged. Briefly put, he was military, or had been at least before comfortable living had turned him into what Javert was seeing now. Javert, on the other hand was a civilian, an investigator. He was an agent of the government, but still a civilian, and under the authority of the Prefect of Paris directly.
That in itself was a rare thing; most inspectors and investigators were placed under the one of the commissaries, in charge of a quarter or faubourg, but a chosen few like Javert were called to investigate those crimes that passed the artificial borders of the administrative subunits of Paris.
So technically there was the police, and then there was the National Guard.
Practically, as everywhere where the amount of bureaucrats surpassed the amount of people doing work, it was a mess.
Therefore, Javert was sure that Monsieur le Commandant did indeed, have some sort of indirect authority over him.
It was an unclear situation, and he did not like it. Yet, his own path was unambiguous.
"I have visited La Force," Javert therefore began, "in pursuit of an individual that is suspected of the crime of murder of a citizen going by the name of Alexandre de Cambout. It has been brought to my attention that a number of suspects have been taken this night at the mansion, where the crime has taken place. However, when I came to question them, I have been told – and I have no reason to doubt this statement – that two of their numbers were missing. One of them was a man of remarkably short height, about the size of a child of twelve, the other one a young man, dark brown hair and average height. I have the suspicion that at least of this one, there should be a warrant around, but I will have to verify this."
"Hm…" Monsieur le Commandant spread his fingers in a thoughtful gesture. "Two missing, you say."
Javert fought down annoyance.
"Two missing from the same cell that is holding three more, I should say," he added, not without sharpness in his voice. "This would be a highly unorthodox prison break."
Monsieur le Commandant shrugged in an almost careless gesture.
"No offense Inspector, but you have no idea about the amount of unorthodoxy there is to be had when it comes to prison breaks. Human creativity – especially in crime – is near endless."
"That I am well aware of," Javert bit back. "It seems to me that at the very least, it is unlikely that those two would take off without bringing their comrades with them. But I am willing not to dismiss this theory at this point in time."
"So bring the other three to justice," Monsieur le Commandant gave back, seemly unfazed. "You have three, what do you need two more for?"
Javert was beginning to doubt his hearing. He prided himself in having a good perception on the nature of a human being, even at a quick glance, but he would have preferred to be wrong about this one.
"It is my duty," he explained, as if speaking to a child, "to bring to justice those who are guilty. And while these three are certainly guilty of the offense of theft, I have reason to believe that they did not kill Alexandre de Cambout."
Indeed, the words of the three criminals were of course not to be believed in general, but Javert did have a feeling that there was something about the dwarf that all of them mentioned, yet no one seemed to really know him.
The story became even more intriguing, given the fact that Javert knew very well who Alexandre de Cambout was. And what he was doing.
And that Sebastien Enjolras, general rabble-rouser, disturber of peace in this city and a law student with revolutionary ambitions had turned up at the cell of the attackers of Rue d'Olivel this morning.
A day after the deaths of several well-known figureheads of the more republican kind.
Whatever this story was, simple it was not.
However, he had no reason and certainly no inclination to divulge his thoughts to the commander.
"And you believe those men?" came the predictable question, and Javert leaned back in a study of patience he was certainly not feeling.
"In this, I do. Yes. In addition, I have spoken to the Guard on duty when these men were brought into the prison and he confirms the capturing of both individuals."
Something quickly flashed through the eyes of the Commander, only to be very quickly dispelled again.
"Ah," he said, a moment at loss, and Javert closed in on his prey.
"Therefore the question that remains is what happened to these two men. The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either you have had a very interesting flight from one of your cells, or the men have been taken, by you or by someone else. This would mean that you are hindering the municipal police to carry out their duty in which you are sworn to assist." This was slightly stretched with the actual nonexistent chain of command between Javert and the Commander, but he tried it nonetheless.
It worked.
For the moment, a muscle in the jaw of Monsieur le Commandant twitched erratically, and then he got up – not without some difficulty, as Javert noted – went over to the door to turn the key and shut the outside world out.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," he began, a trifle uneasy. "Since you are not to be swayed, and since I do not want to be seen in hindering the work of the police, which I indeed hold in the highest esteem, there are some things I can divulge to you. However, I will need your word that these facts will be treated carefully. I do understand you have a duty to your superiors, but you will have to understand that I have a duty to mine as well."
Javert distinctively did not like how this started. However the words of Monsieur le Commandant were not fully without sense. Therefore he nodded.
"Go on."
"I have reason to believe that neither the two men that vanished, nor the three still in custody are responsible for the death of Alexandre de Cambout. Let me elaborate."
He took to pacing, a slightly comical act given the figure he cut.
"The two that have been removed from custody already have been, for a few months now, actually in the service of the government. We have had some reason to believe, that they had been moving in – or close to – criminal circles, and thus we have enlisted their help in bringing down a few individuals. It's not an uncommon practice, I'm sure you're aware."
Javert raised an eyebrow. Indeed, he was aware, even though he personally did not like to resort to this sort of tool unless there was no other alternative. It seemed wrong to chase away the devil with images of Lucifer.
"I am," he therefore continued cautiously.
"Therefore," the Commander continued, "I have it on fairly good authority that none of the five that have been brought here have indeed killed Alexandre de Cambout. But there is something else to consider."
Slowly the Commander turned towards Javert, meeting his raised brow with a wry expression of his own.
"You may notice that this drama is still a protagonist short. One question, Inspector. Do you have any idea of the whereabouts of the widow?"
At this time of day, the entrance hall of the Préfecture de Paris was a busy place indeed. Messengers filed in from the local commissionaires' offices, bringing in the reports of the events of the day past to be filed into the archives of the municipal police. Inspectors and visitors alike crowded the entrance hall.
There was a steady buzz of noise; of members of the police discussing, both amongst themselves and with the visitors that tried to pry information on this or that case from them. There were sounds of muffled crying and hectic arguments, of the steps of too many people, both slow and quick, a cacophony of activity, fear and excitement that was frightening and overwhelming all the same.
In the far corner next to the windows going out onto the street, someone had placed a couple of chairs to accommodate those visitors with the patience or inclination to quietly bide their time. All of these were occupied as well.
Amongst those who sat there, bourgeois and miserable alike, each in their own distinctive corner sat a young man in a slightly rumpled shirt and a grey waistcoat. The cravat around his neck was bound, but carelessly, as if he had not given it the attention it might have deserved for the occasion.
He seemed calm, a man with slightly unruly, light brown hair, lost in his own thoughts. His gaze turned half to the windows on the far side of the hall, and he might have seemed a bit queer to those surrounding him because his occupation was slightly unusual, especially at a place such as this.
From his pocket, he had taken two sets of brown glasses about the size of his palm, and raised them to the light coming from the window. He looked through them with a slight frown, turning them one against the other, observing the changing effects within.
It took a very careful observer to see that his hands were trembling.
The polarisation of light…
Light passing a glass medium tilted at the right angle will exhibit a unique sense of direction, an absolute sense of polarisation that is then intrinsic to it and as much a property as its brightness or color.
Thirty degrees, Professeur Arago had said the angle was. But it was difficult here with the light coming from all directions, even though the sun was shining through this window specifically, and this was the light Combeferre was trying to use. He needed something to focus on, something to pass the time. To avoid letting his thoughts run wildly at a time like this. Worry was omnipresent. And Hélène had been in there so long…
He turned the second glass, observing the dim shade coming through it. Did it become darker?
The polarisation of light…
It can be created by both reflection and transmission, and the angle is unique and intrinsic to each material. It can create the most striking and surprising effects. Two beams of opposing polarization will not interact, two polarisers demanding contradicting angles will let the light vanish…
A darker shade caught his attention for a moment, and a rush of excitement swept over him as he saw with his own eyes what Arago had spoken of. Unfortunately, his hands were unsteady and the effect was gone before he could examine it further.
How much time had passed? Time – there was another concept. It was almost as fickle and difficult to grasp as the capricious properties of light. How could it be that time passed so quickly when he was at the Musain among his friends, discussing and laughing and sharing ideas, while here, the clock seemed not to move at all, and every second seemed an eternity?
The polarisation of light…
It's all about the angle and the object. A unique combination of reflection or transmission, of shades and color. In fact, light itself, if used properly, is beautiful.
When she emerged from the deeper reaches of the Préfécture, he recognized her immediately. Standing at the door she had just closed behind her, her eyes scanned the entrance hall, obviously looking for him. He took a moment to take in the state she was in – taut face, posture rigid and pained, but fully composed as her quick eyes darted around, spotting him in a manner of seconds.
She did not smile. But she held his gaze.
The polarisation of light.
It's all about the light, what it hits, and how you perceive it. That's the secret of beauty.
He got up, wrapping the glass back into the soft leather he had taken it from and placed it back into his pocket. Looking up, he saw Hélène approaching with determined steps and the same, dead expression in her eyes that she had almost continuously worn since she had so unexpectedly turned up yesterday.
"Madame," he greeted her when she was close enough to be appropriately addressed, and she nodded in response, giving him what passed for a wan smile.
"Let us leave, Monsieur Combeferre." The urgency in her voice was well-veiled, but not unspotted by him, and he nodded, falling into step at her side with practiced ease.
They left the Préfécture unhindered.
A few moments later, they were sitting in a hired fiacre that was on its slow way through the packed streets of Paris towards the mansion of the Dufrancs. While Combeferre did not know exactly, where they resided, the driver seemed to know, and so the cart set out without any hesitation, while Combeferre, sitting across Hélène, desperately looked for something to say.
He wished she would cry. Not for the reason of being able to comfort her, but simply because it was more than clear that she was frozen in her grief. It was like some twisted form of hibernation, much akin to a tree in winter which had taken all its life and strength to its innermost core, to weather the storm and the cold, at the cost of limbs and branches, to retain some small chance of survival.
He had known her for a year now, and knew her to be lively and spirited, interested in everything she saw, full of questions and opinions, her dark eyes never still, never stopping to wonder. Now, looking into her eyes, he saw nothing but the reflection of himself.
She stared out of the window, seeing nothing.
Maybe, if she cried, some life would return to those eyes. To see sorrow would be better than this cold, silent, composed, incredible pain.
"How did it go?" he finally asked, and she gave a minute shrug, the fingers of her right hand slightly worrying the crude lace of the dress she was wearing.
"Not unexpected," she said neutrally, blinking away any expression that might have colored her face. "They had many questions. I answered. Most truthfully."
"They held you in there for a long time."
He was stating the fact because there was nothing else he could say. There was a rift between them that was wider than the river Seine and much less easy to cross. Her posture radiated refusal, and he dared not approach any further than she would have him.
That was the credo of them, always.
"They were probably diligent," Hélène replied. "And of course the issue of me spending the night at the place of a friend raised some eyebrows."
Combeferre shook his head.
"What wrong is there in you seeking a haven somewhere after such an event? One would think this a natural reaction."
Slowly, she turned her face away from the streets before her to watch him.
"I ran from the police that were in my home already. And not to my parents, not to their friends. I ran to you."
When put in this manner, it did have an unfavorable ring to it. Given the state in which she had arrived at Enjolras' apartment yesterday, it was a good indication that she had not been thinking clearly at that moment.
"So you told them nothing of Mademoiselle Éponine." It was not really a question, but her lips twitched slightly in something that valiantly tried to be a smile, one of the wry expressions that indicated a dry sort of humor. But it fell apart at the edges and her eyes were still dead.
"I suspect I would have badly repaid her kindness of saving me from that attacker."
She turned away abruptly, back to the streets that she watched but did not see. The lines under her eyes were deep.
"True…" Combeferre concurred. "But still…" She closed her eyes and he fell silent. There was no point of any discussion or any planning now. Perhaps it had been a bad idea for him to go with her. He should have sent Joly. His comrade's natural friendliness had elicited the only glimpse of the woman he knew, when he was fussing and worrying over her with an ease that Combeferre did not dare. Perhaps, it was indeed, though he would have it otherwise, that out of their group he was most ill suited to be a source of comfort to her right now. Even Enjolras, who was not exactly comfortable in emotionally complex situations, or even Éponine, who did not know Hélène at all, would have been able to reach out to her more easily.
It was a painful thought.
"Perhaps I should have…" he began voicing his thoughts, even though he was not fully convinced of the wisdom of trusting his thoughts to speech. But she had started to speak at the same time and he fell silent at once.
"I am tired," she whispered. "And in pain."
She took a deep breath, eyes still closed, head turned towards the street, voice almost inaudible, as she forced soft words of cruelty past her lips.
"But I'm glad you're here."
For all the words he knew, he had no words to reply to this. So he stayed silent, watching her pale, dejected face until the carriage drew up in front of a generous mansion that was the home of the Dufrancs.
"Madame! Madame! Mademoiselle is here!"
The servant, a woman that looked about thirty but seemed younger in all her demeanor and countenance, did not seem to care that Mademoiselle had long since turned Madame as well. She opened the door wide and ushered them both in. "Come, come, quickly, it's so good to see you. Madame and Monsieur will be overjoyed. We were so worried!"
Hélène stepped in, slightly dazed, and he followed, taking a quick glance at the entrance hall they were standing in. It was generous, large and well furnished. A thick carpet covered the floor, and a staircase led upwards where several further doors could be seen.
He had known that Hélène's family was well-off. Seeing this place, he understood why no question of status could have stopped her marrying into what was a family of nobility.
The door had not yet fully closed behind them when he heard quick steps on the upper stairs, and a woman of considerable format took to hurrying down the steps as swiftly as her elaborate dress would allow it. Before she reached ground level, she was joined by a middle aged man with curly hair, receding at the temples but still pitch black and thick.
He saw her eyes in the man, and her slender face accompanied the woman's slightly plump figure. The resemblance was undeniable.
Feeling awkward, Combeferre stepped back until he felt the door behind him, letting the Dufrancs have their reunion in peace.
It was the father who first checked on her well-being. He exhibited a calm manner, confident in both movements and speech. Before his eyes, Combeferre could see the woman he knew being transformed into a cherished child again; some of her posture relaxing ever so slightly in the face of the absolute trust one only has for a loved parent.
Her father placed both hands on her shoulder as if to steady or support her, asking if she was hurt. He looked into his daughter's eyes with a deep worry that Combeferre understood only too well. He questioned only sparsely, calmly and matter-of-fact, too soft for Combeferre to hear fully, while the mother stood in the back, fidgeting nervously.
Hélène nodded and shook her head, responding only in soft tones, but he could see the tension seeping out of her slowly as her father finally nodded. After some further conversation, he stepped back to make way for the mother.
She had no time for pretension, no time for soft questioning. There was heartfelt warmth in her as she wrapped her daughter wordlessly into a hug, unpretentious and sincere.
For a moment, Hélène froze, her arms limp at her side, her posture more rigid again as she vibrated with tension.
Her shoulders shook once.
Once more.
And then, silently, her whole body trembling from the onslaught, she began to cry. Her posture sagged, tension draining from her in great waves.
For a moment, Combeferre closed his eyes in deep relief. Something that had been painfully wound close inside him slowly released, bit by bit, and he found he could breathe more freely again.
He wondered if he should leave, having brought Hélène to her family and thus having fulfilled his errand. But leaving without a word seemed just as rude as staying, and there was no question of disrupting the scene that played out in front of his eyes.
It was Monsieur Dufranc who resolved the situation, stepping towards Combeferre in an obvious attempt to attract his attention. He turned to give a polite bow and a nod.
"Monsieur…"
The older man showed the hint of a smile and responded to Combeferre's greeting with one of his own.
"Thank you, Monsieur for bringing my daughter here," Dufranc said frankly.
"Jean Combeferre," Combeferre introduced himself, aiming at politeness, and this elicited a small smile from the older man, who greeted him with a friendly handshake.
"Aristide Dufranc," he introduced himself unnecessarily. "I was wondering, Monsieur Combeferre," he said, "would you follow me for a moment?"
His hand made an inviting gesture, and Combeferre complied, partly out of politeness, and partly because he was not quite ready to leave yet. There was a calm friendliness in Dufranc's manner, and as he followed him, Combeferre briefly recalled what little he knew of him on the account of Hélène.
Dufranc was the owner of a large porcelain manufacture, having made his fortune in the fabrication of dinnerware of the more common kind, striving at a certain style while still keeping the prices affordable for the common public. He had been a deputy of the chamber since before the upraising but had managed to be re-elected under the current reign as well.
Combeferre knew little of his intentions or colors. Whatever he did, if he did anything, he accomplished it with little noise. Dufranc was the father of a friend, and as such, he would not blatantly refuse his interest.
Nonetheless, he felt slightly on edge as Dufranc led him into a salon. From a small table, he took two glasses into which he poured a golden liquid from a carafe.
"Please," he offered, and Combeferre was about to refuse – it was not yet noon – but Dufranc made an insisting gesture. "No offense, young man," he emphasized. "But you look as if you could use it." A wry smile ghosted over his features that instantly reminded Combeferre of Hélène. "And so do I."
Combeferre reconsidered. In fact, there was some wisdom in the words of the man.
And so, as Dufranc raised his glass to his own lips, Combeferre followed suit and let the burning alcohol run down his throat comfortingly.
Brandy. Good one at that.
Warmth spread, starting from his chest, and he felt a slight uncoiling, taking a deep breath and following Dufranc's invitation to sit.
"Again," the deputy began, "I have to thank you. For bringing Hélène here, and also for – if I understand her words correctly – providing shelter for her during this night."
"The credit belongs only partly to me," Combeferre deflected the thanks. "I was actually a guest at a friend's home myself. But whatever help I was able to provide, it was gladly given."
Dufranc nodded.
"I do appreciate that. In fact, I was wondering if I could have your account of the night."
Combeferre wondered if he should have traded stories with Hélène on their way here. It would perhaps have been better to clarify what they would be telling, but it was too late for that. Besides, on the drive here, it had been the furthest thing from his mind. He took another sip of brandy to collect his thoughts.
He stuck as close to the truth as possible, but he evaded the subject of Éponine altogether as he recalled Hélène showing up in the middle of the night, covered in blood and disoriented, retracing the steps that had let them here.
Dufranc smiled, almost sadly.
"Don't worry about the gamine. Hélène mentioned her. I have no intention of bringing her to an unfavorable fate after hearing she saved my daughter's life. It is noble though, that you try to protect her."
Combeferre took a sip of brandy and chose not to reply. He was still making sense of the man sitting across from him, and he would not have that activity disturbed by incautious words.
Dufranc let out a small laugh after a moment and shook his head.
"Very well, Monsieur. Keep your silence."
He rolled around the brandy in his glass, thoughtfully watching the golden liquid as it shifted and shaped between the crystal.
The polarization of light…
Right until he finally lifted his gaze to Combeferre again.
"You're one of them, right?"
Combeferre, drawn out of his reverie, coughed a little.
"I beg your pardon?"
Dufranc sighed softly.
"Please, Monsieur. I bear you no ill will. But I would not have you think me stupid. I know very well what sort of newspaper it is that my daughter is running." A smile ghosted over his features. "And I would be a poor father indeed if I did not have an inkling of the associates of my daughter."
Combeferre thought of his own family and was not sure whether he was inclined to answer this. Dufranc however seemed not to expect an answer.
"You need not say anything, Monsieur; your face shows it clearly enough." There was a hint of mirth in the older man's eyes. "I might even go as far as congratulate you on your writings; some of them were very well done. Some were perhaps a trifle too radical for my taste, but then again, it is the privilege of youth to be radical, while it is the duty of old age to be wise. Is this not so, Monsieur Combeferre?"
"Possibly," Combeferre replied, taking another sip of brandy. Dufranc was right. He did need it.
"Now then…" Dufranc sighed, "I have exposed myself sufficiently to you by showing that I know fairly well what my daughter is doing and have thus done nothing to prevent it. May I now hope for a genuine opinion on what happened to my son-in-law and what is the source of this?"
The man was aggravating, changing all too quickly, and Combeferre felt slightly ill at ease. But on the other hand, this was an opportunity he had not seen coming. He had known that Hélène's father was a member of parliament, but he had assumed that just like for most of them, turning to revolutionary ambitions would have led to estrangement between parent and child.
Either Dufranc was a very convincing liar, or this case was different.
Revolutionaries must be quick of decision.
It was almost as if Enjolras were standing beside him.
They must not doubt and seize the opportunity given.
Combeferre decided to take a leaf out of his friend's book.
"If you would have my genuine opinion, Monsieur," he prompted for honesty, "then I would tell you that someone has targeted a number of people opposing the government. They have done so in secret, and with single assassins, a synchronized attack at various places to various people, and they have been disquietingly successful. The events indicate that they have achieved a remarkable amount of intelligence when it comes to revolutionary movements of Paris, and they have struck where the hurt is deepest. They have not been successful everywhere they tried – your daughter escaped, as did the friend who provided us shelter this night. In fact, this was the reason for us being there together. It did not seem wise to split up."
"Indeed not."
Again Dufranc was gazing thoughtfully into his brandy.
"This is ill news, Monsieur Combeferre," he said, "and I am disquieted to hear it. Yet I thank you for your honesty. It is appreciated."
Combeferre drained his glass in a vain attempt to calm himself.
"You have given me little choice on the matter," he remarked, feeling slightly bolder, and now Dufranc laughed in earnest, a spark of Hélène in his eyes.
It hurt.
"A touch of defiance, at last," he said chuckling. "You are yet what you pretend to be, Monsieur Combeferre." He shook his head and followed suit in draining his brandy, looking mournfully into the empty glass. But when he turned to look back to Combeferre again, his gaze was serious again.
"Again, thank you for your honesty. And thank you for keeping my daughter safe in these troubled times. I fear things are afoot, and there will be turmoil before you and I know it."
"That is well possible," Combeferre concurred.
"In my dealings in porcelain," Dufranc explained, his eyes fixed on something only he could see, "I have had the fortune to make the acquaintance of a group of Chinese merchants who, in the same trade, visited Europe in an attempt to understand our ways and procedures in producing. I have had interesting conversations with one of them, going by the curious name of Li Mei, a very interesting man with a lot to tell."
He placed his glass aside, placing his elbows on his knees and looked at Combeferre intently.
"He told me that there is a curse among the Chinese: 'May you live in troubled times'"
He got up and turned towards the stove on the wall of the room which was unlit and clean, but still he gazed into it as if there were a fire.
"I fear we are cursed, you and I, Monsieur Combeferre...and my dear daughter too. And only time will tell where this curse will lead us."
His fingers fidgeted slightly, running along one another unconsciously; a gesture only too painfully familiar.
"Only time will tell…"