A/N: There I am, back again. As a new dawn is coming to Paris, things get into motion...

Again, I thank all those who read, reviewed, follow and favourite and lead discussions with me via PM. Writing this is so much more rewarding because of you. Thanks also to judybear236 for comments!

Again, on an informational notice: Henri Gisquet, who appears in the middle part of this chapter, is a historical personnage, not an OC.

I updated the list of OCs in my profile and added a list of historical personnages as well, if anyone's interested.

And now - have fun with the next chapter:

Chapter 23: Divided we'll fall

"The universe is driven by the complex interaction between three ingredients: matter, energy, and enlightened self-interest."

When they met in the morning, beneath an old, gnarled oak tree instead of the church, it was clear that tiredness and strain had caught up with both of them in their own manner.

Yet, the Friend had been adamant in his summoning, and the commands of the Friend were not to be ignored. Of course the Hound knew fairly well why he had been summoned, and he did not appreciate it.

"Where were you?"

In his tiredness, the voice of the Friend was still calm and warm, yet the Hound was not to be deceived. They were all dangerous in their own right and the Friend was seriously displeased.

"About", he answered. The Friend raised a brow, slightly ironic, and the smile around his mouth was deceptively mild.

"About Boulevard de l'Hôpital?"

That was of course part of the truth. Not the whole of it, but still it was a starting point. Yet, the Hound felt not inclined to be interrogated and gave only a minuscule shrug in response. He knew what the Friend was aiming at, but he also knew that the Friend would not understand. His brother knew nothing of the hunt as the Hound practiced it – merciless, relentless and powerful, a stronger drug than absinthe could ever be, a rush of smells and sights, of fear and power that only a predator can understand.

The smell of the girl lingered since the morning in the market, like a trail that was calling and beckoning him with vehemence.

Irresistible.

"And about Place St. Michel." The second statement was not a question, and again the Hound felt no inclination to agree or disagree. It was obvious that the Friend knew. "You have been seen", he continued, calmly, the reprimand veiled in layers and layers of friendliness.

"So?" the Hound finally asked.

"Your task was to lie low."

"I did."

"You were seen", the Friend reiterated, and the Hound thought this ridiculous, because of course he had been seen, but to those who had seen him, he had just been a passer-by, no one to pay any attention to. This was what the Friend would not understand.

"So what?"

The Friend looked up to him, and the Hound was not fooled by the warm, open exterior. The eyes of the man were the eyes of a murderer, of a man who had killed in cold blood. The Friend was as dangerous as any of them. Maybe more, because his true nature was hidden down so deep.

There was a threat lying in his eyes, an unmistakable, cold, iron threat.

"You", he said, "will follow the commands that you are given. Your decisions on who you track are not your own any more. You swore an oath. Do not forget this."

The Hound nodded, knowing his response to be a lie. He swore an oath to their brotherhood, yes, as part of the bargain long ago. But the oath to his strange and powerful nature was of a much older and stronger kind.

He could feel her scent, and it was much too overwhelming to be ignored.

And at the end of the day, he was what he was.

As Inspector Javert arrived at La Préfécture in the morning, he had no inclination of spending any time in the vast entry hall of the building.

There was no such thing as calm to this place. Daytime belonged to the friends and relatives of both victims and criminals, to their petty demands and hustles, getting under foot of solid policing work. Nighttime was the hour of the criminals themselves, being dragged into the building by the unwavering force of the law.

The early morning, as on this day, was in-between those worlds.

Javert paid no heed to the wails of a group of prostitutes, who, in one corner of the room, were disciplined by a few members of the National Guard – he did notice that the Guard actually had no business being here, at the headquarters of the municipal police – and ignored as well the bourgeois looking man that, hat in his hand, waited anxiously at the well-guarded door that led further into the building.

If the man had intended to speak to him, he was to be severely disappointed – Javert had no inclination for idle chat, and today even less than on any other day – and his forbidding face told the visitor so in no uncertain words.

In long years of habit, he had acquired a certain experience in crossing the pandemonium of this place unscathed.

Javert crossed the door, unhindered by the guards, and proceeded into the corridors and stairways of the administration, passed by the interrogation rooms on the left and climbed up to the third floor, where behind another set of doors and corridors his own personal kingdom was located.

It was a luxury well deserved, this small room inside la Préfécture, an honor attributed only to very few members of the police. Javert remembered well, when he had still been Inspector under the commissioner in La Salpetrie, where he had had no place to work from but his own, shabby dwelling, clients, informants, complainers drifting in and out at any hour.

Being appointed to the Prefect directly six years ago had improved this situation vastly.

He was given this small room he was still occupying to this day, and three years ago, he had even been allowed an aide who helped sorting out the information and dealing with the more disagreeable tasks of the paperwork involved with being an inspector.

Javert preferred to be an early riser, but most days, Giubet was in before him, and today was no exception. He recognized the clean, but slightly worn coat that hung neatly on the stand in the corridor and found the man only moments after, standing in his office sorting notes and papers into various folders.

Giubet was a small man with the face of a mouse and an Italian heritage a few generations back. Like Javert, he had come from humble beginnings and raised himself, though not as far as Javert, through hard work and dedication. Unlike Javert, he had a family and a large stall of children to feed, but since the man was efficient and in general useful Javert had seen to it that he was decently paid and therefore fully focused on his work.

"Good morning, Monsieur L'Inspecteur", Giubet greeted him with his usual, even tones. He was a few years younger than Javert, though not much, and his brown hair, bound at his neck by a black ribbon in a style that seemed slightly at odds with the current fashion, showed the first streaks of grey.

Giubet was old-fashioned in everything he did, starting from his hairstyle, which was complimented by a simple waistcoat of slightly unpopular cut, to his obvious disdain when it came to the more raucous ways of behavior of his own class.

Javert gave his aide a curt nod and placed his own jacket outside the room before entering the small dwelling that had been the center of his life for the better part of six years.

On his desk – meticulously clean and orderly – two different folders had been placed, clearly marked in Giubet's accurate writing.

"Virille", the first one read, "Devereux" the second. The folder on the Virille brothers was significantly thicker, given that the murder had been watched by many and descriptions had been fairly concise.

There was much less on Marcel Devereux.

"I am not yet fully finished with the information gathered in Issy", Giubet informed Javert without looking up from his task – which might be considered impolite, but after three years the inspector was inclined to overlook these deficiencies in favor of the undisputable efficiency of the man. "I apologize for this. It will only take a few minutes."

"Take your time", Javert answered curtly, knowing it would be worth it, when a sudden thought struck him and he refrained from sitting down as he had intended to do. Frowning he turned back to Giubet, who was ordering the various notes and writings carefully. "Wait a minute. What about Rue d'Olivel?"

His aide hesitated for a moment before he ceased his activity and lifted his head to gaze at his superior officer.

"The folders had not arrived", he explained. "I have investigated, but I have been told only that you would be informed of the procedure."

Javert could feel a brow climbing, part in irony, part in suspicion. Unbidden, he remembered the discussion he had had with the commander of La Force yesterday, and the uneasy sentiment that had remained even after he left the prison.

Javert, in long years of policing, had learned to trust his instincts.

From the moment he had heard of the incident, he had been certain that it was interlinked with the events in Issy, at the Barriere du Maine and in Saint Antoine. While the involvement of the robbers who were currently in La Force remained unclear, the combination of evidence was almost beautifully consistent.

In all four places, death had hit those, who were at odds with the current reigning government. Deveraux, the Virilles and the students in Issy were well-known centers of unrest and dissatisfaction with the establishment. If Paris was a powder keg, these places were likely to be the ones where the spark would light.

As to the de Cambouts – well, everyone with eyes, the capability to read and the money to buy an edition of Le Globe could guess their affiliations.

It was on the whole odd, that he had heard nothing from Saint Michel. If Javert had been responsible for this sort of operation – and he allowed himself a silent moment of thanks that he was not, because for all the disdain that he harbored for those deceased and wounded in this venture, he was still certain that this procedure did not follow the rules of the law – this would have been one of his centers of attention.

Rabble-rousers they all were.

But that Enjolras boy was well and truly dangerous.

Which immediately prompted the question why he had visited the prisoners from the Rue d'Olivel incident.

Some of which had gone missing.

Even looking at the broken shards of the picture Javert was certain these events were interlinked. The missing Rue d'Olivel file was not a good sign.

However, before he could come to a decision as to what to do with respect to this curious discrepancy, he was summoned to appear without any delay in front of the Prefect of the Paris police.

Henri Gisquet was a man in his forties, with white hair, that, still strong, was neatly cut around his face to reflect an image of dignity. Dark, clever eyes were sunken deep, hidden under bushy eyebrows that seemed to be set in an expression of constant scowling, for there was much to scowl at in the Paris of these days.

He had been in the position of Prefect for more the better part of a year and seemed to be here to stay, which – as far as Javert was concerned – was a welcome relief after years of inconstancy, where political favor and flimsy allegiances had governed the appointment of Prefects practically by the week. Gisquet, on the other hand, had proven to be an efficient and zealous Prefect, with a real obligation both towards the law and the government, humorless and brave, intelligent and relentless – in short, a man after Javert's own heart.

The inspector felt no anxiousness, just a mild curiosity, as he followed the summons immediately, redressing his coat and hat, only to remove the latter as he was admitted into Gisquet's office, bowing in a befitting gesture of submission.

"Monsieur le Préfet", he saluted.

Gisquet sat behind a large Queen Anne table, stacks of papers neatly arranged, and did not get up at the entry of Javert, but he dignified the inspector with a gracious nod and an invitation to sit.

Javert followed, placing his hat on the table slightly to the side and waited patiently to be spoken to.

As he expected, Gisquet wasted no time.

"Good morning Inspector. First, let me thank you for joining me here so quickly."

Javert did not feel inclined to comment on a matter of course, but nodded for good measure and as to not put the Prefect off. Gisquet however continued without even noting his reaction. "May I ask - what is your current course of investigation, Inspector?"

Javert frowned slightly. He would have assumed that Gisquet knew. There were not so many investigators, who were placed directly under the general Paris municipal authorities. Five, to be precise.

"I have been charged", he answered none the less, "with the investigation of the murders and attempted murders of two days ago, and any possible interlinking between them."

Gisquet nodded soberly.

"The attacks on the young troublemakers, indeed."

Javert nodded in confirmation.

"I have been told", Gisquet continued, calmly, "that you have visited La Force yesterday as well, to speak to certain individuals that have been captured in an attempt of burglary in the Rue d'Olivel the night before."

Javert suppressed a sigh. When he had spoken to the Commander of La Force, he had been unable to shake the nagging suspicion that this conversation would not have been the last that he saw of the matter. The men of importance and standing in this city were all interlinked in their own, unfathomable web of opinions, positions and dependencies. He should have guessed that the Commander would have means of reaching Gisquet.

There was no denying it, at least.

"That is correct", he confirmed, and Gisquet nodded again.

"Do I correctly assume that you suspect a connection?"

Javert nodded.

"Indeed, you do, Monsieur le Préfet. In fact, there are several…", but Gisquet did not allow him to finish. Instead, he intercepted his wording and his voice, while fairly casual before, carried an edge to it that was a clear warning to Javert.

"There is not."

Javert blinked twice to regain his footing. The ferociousness of the answer surprised him, to say the least.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There is no connection", Gisquet reiterated in his precise diction, syllable by careful syllable, "between the Rue d'Olivel incident and the murder of students the day before."

"Monsieur, with all due respect", Javert began, wondering why it was that Gisquet was piping the same tune that the Commander had done, and in a slightly different key. "I am aware that there are some doubts – the different time of the incident, the presumed burglars, whose role is as of now severely unsolved… but on the whole, one might consider that this attack has been directed at the heart and soul of Le Globe, and about the affiliation of this newspaper there can be no doubt."

Gisquet let this statement hang for a moment, his gaze wandering to something outside his window. He was placing his fingers together and his face was devoid of any expression.

"You seem to be under the misconception, Inspector", he began in a tone still more frigid than it had been before, "that I am discussing this case with you. I assure you, you are mistaken."

Javert frowned.

"Monsieur le Préfet?"

"The murder of Alexandre de Cambout", Gisquet repeated in other words, and now he turned his gaze back to Javert as if to further emphasize his words, "has nothing to do with the attacks on the students. Therefore, since I estimate you will already be sufficiently busy with the latter cases, I have taken this burden off your shoulders and relieved you of this case, seeing as it will probably require a different line of observation."

Javert stared at his superior with a mixture of incredulity and annoyance. Up until today he had estimated Henri Gisquet to be a man of sense and character, a good Prefect of Paris, efficient and steadfast, not easily cowered and dedicated to upholding the law.

The current situation, however, shed some doubt on this previous impression.

While he was still pondering things to reply, Gisquet continued, in his precise, accurate tones.

"There was no such person present as a dwarf. The number of burglars in the house amounted to three, and not a single person more. I suggest, you do not spread any other misconception you may have heard from dubious sources."

Javert shook his head. He had never been intimidated when it came to what was right. Not by people like Monsieur Madeleine, and likewise not by Gisquet.

"I would not call the sources so dubious", Javert answered. "There have been a number of members of police, a national guard at La Force and the statements of the three thugs, all pointing towards the same item. Even the statement that Hélène de Cambout made yesterday confirms the essentials."

"Of course it does", Gisquet said, as if explaining himself to a particularly annoying child. "Yet, like I told you, they are false."

Javert leaned forward in his chair, fixating the man before him with his gaze.

"You say that all of them are in the wrong?"

"I say this indeed", Gisquet answered. "With vehemence, in fact. And you should say so, too."

Javert leaned back and took his hat back in a slightly fidgeting gesture. The situation was becoming very uncomfortable indeed.

"The truth is the truth", he said, despite everything. "It does not follow words, either yours or mine."

The flash of anger at insubordination in Gisquet's eyes had been predictable but unavoidable. His voice turned icy cold.

"Inspector", he began, "I will make things easy for you. I have given you a direct command. Are you or are you not capable of fulfilling this?"

There were worlds hanging in this room between them and Javert once more marveled at the sorry mess he found himself in and that seemed to get worse with every minute he concerned himself with it. The more he was being discouraged by superiors both official and unofficial, the less he could shake the suspicion that he was moving on the outer rims of a political game that was outside his understanding or scope of work.

Yet, Javert had sworn an oath to find truths.

But how could he do so if he was dismissed – even dishonorably – from the service he was currently fulfilling?

A sorry mess; no truer words had ever been spoken.

Rage was warring with curiosity and a deep, profound annoyance, but in the end Javert's composure won over and he decided to bend to resist another day.

In a swift movement he got up.

"If you will excuse me, Monsieur le Préfet", he said, taking a bow that was just a trifle too low to be fitting for the situation. "I have three cases of murder and two of attempted murder on my desk which will require my immediate attention."

Gisquet gave him a hard stare, then nodded.

"I wish you luck in your inquiries, Monsieur. And I hope you will find the culprits soon. Dismissed."

Javert replaced his hat onto his head.

"I will, Monsieur le Préfet", he confirmed neutrally and turned to leave the office, silently completing the sentence that he had started.

I will get to the bottom of this…

There was not much sleep to be had that night.

Marc Lamarin had invited Sébastien and Robert Velu, a young medical student in his second year in Paris, to stay at his own, relatively comfortable lodgings, but arriving there a note that had been slipped under the door made any thought of sleep impossible.

The scrawl was unmistakeably Jacques Morier's, if more unsteady than they were used to, which was quite understandable given the man's condition.

Come when you can. It's Armand.

Of course there had been no question of sleep afterwards, and the three students had turned on the spot, directing their steps to the Necker as quickly as they could.

The hour was still early, but they were admitted, due to some quick talking on Robert's part – his studies had made him familiar with the Necker already – and a few moments later they were rushing down the corridors to reach the room that Armand had been placed in.

Despite the time, the chamber was fairly crowded already. Three more of their comrades had apparently received similar messages and so a major part of the Cougourde met again, less than an hour after having scattered from the assembly at the Café Musain.

The doctor that they had seen attending to their friends was there as well, but he had stepped back from the bed and took up a monitoring post somewhere close to Marie, the nurse that was apparently again on duty this morning.

Sylvain was sitting in a chair, his hurt leg propped up on another one, and even Jacques had dragged himself out of his bed, unwise as this might be, his eyes still much too bright in a telltale sign of fever. Two of their comrades were hovering by his side, and given the fact that Lamarin spied traces of blood on their clothing that matched the spot coming from the wound in Jacques chest, that had apparently reopened, they had probably helped him move over here.

While Armand was certainly the reason for all being here, Jacques was the center of it, his presence even in weakness demanding a part of the attention of all those present. He had the air of a general, despite his current condition, a center of all that was going around him, both monopolizing and commanding. He seemed oblivious to this, watching the young nobleman with an expressionless face in which only the slightest of frowns allowed to judge that he was in fact not indifferent, but fighting for composure.

For Armand, that much was certain, was dying.

Marc Lamarin exchanged a gaze with Robert and let his regard then slip towards the doctor, not wanting to disturb the somber silence in the room. The young medical student picked up on his intent, nodded and went to the older man to converse in hushed tones on the condition their friend was in.

Not, that it was not obvious.

Armand was shaking with fever and deathly pale, lying in bed and looking as if he had already started to fade.

Normally, he was a cheerful man, with brown curls that were widely called romantic, a man of charm and companionable ease, and what he was lacking in severity, he made up with enthusiasm.

Randomly, Marc remembered that he had pined after a woman going by the impossible name of Celestine – the heavenly one, as Armand had sighed; that he was the son of a nobleman who had distinctly not appreciated his son's opinions, and as a consequence, Armand was often out of money.

He was closer to Jacques than to Joseph – this was a thing that mattered in the Cougourde – and if anyone would have consulted Marc Lamarin on the subject, he was out of their numbers the one who least deserved to die.

His comrades were crowding around the bed and their leader likewise, but the scenery struck Marc as odd. It had the air of a spectacle, of simple watching without participating. One look into the faces of his comrades proved the contrary of course, the signs of distress more than evident and still, he tried to imagine how a similar scene would have played out, had one of the Friends of the ABC been struck down as Armand had and were now standing on the threshold of death.

That, if nothing else, made him approach the struggling man on the bed.

Armand's breathing was labored and just like during their last visit he seemed to take no note of their presence whatsoever. Carefully, Lamarin lowered himself to sit on the bed to get a clearer view at the fight of their comrade. His chest was tightening in pain at seeing Armand so, and at the anticipation of what he might be forced to witness.

As of now, Marc Lamarin had never seen anyone die.

Yet he felt sorry for the man who, in a room full of his friends, still was somehow alone.

Armand responded to the shifting of the mattress with a weak, painful moan and a flutter of his eyelashes that had Lamarin freeze for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed.

He knew that there were certain protocols to a situation like this, and as a last fallback line in dubious situations, he went back to the rules of etiquette that he had been taught in his youth.

Careful, hoping not to inflict any more unnecessary pain to his dying comrade, he took Armand's cold, clammy fingers, wondering if the gesture came too late to be of any comfort to the man.

It did not, however, because some of the pressure he gave was returned, a weak tightening of the fingers only, and still the first response he had seen from the man. Encouraged, Lamarin bowed forward and ran his hand over Armand's sweat covered forehead, wiping away clammy locks that had stuck to the skin.

"Rest easy, my friend", he said in what he hoped was a calming manner. His voice was more or less steady at least – a grace in itself though he had no idea how he managed it.

Armand was burning up, and Lamarin, though he had no medical experience to speak of, knew that the end was near. He felt the bed shift again and saw that Sébastien had taken up his example and placed himself on Armand's other side.

Silently they sat, as moments passed, and Armand stubbornly clung to life for another heartbeat, another breath, another minute.

The Cougourde watched and waited in silence.

Eventually Robert stepped up to Lamarin, having finished his conversation with the doctor and only confirmed what Marc already knew. There was nothing to be done – the infection from the stomach wound had spread throughout his body and would kill Armand, in a minute, in an hour, maybe in a day if he were particularly strong – but the doctor doubted it. The death sentence was spoken, and all that remained was to wait for the end to happen, and for him to be not alone.

Marie brought another bowl of water, and Lamarin took it upon himself to softly brush the cool liquid over Armand's face, soothing away the droplets of sweat, trying to bring some minuscule relief within the agony that he must certainly feel.

Daybreak turned into mid-morning that way, with hardly any conversation and somber waiting.

It was Lamarin, whose eyes never left Armand's face as time passed by, who realized that the dying nobleman's lips were moving slowly as if he were trying to speak to them.

Exchanging a quick gaze with Sébastien he understood that his comrade had seen it as well, but the polytechnic student motioned Lamarin to bow forward to catch the words that Armand was whispering with all that was left in him.

It was difficult to decipher. Armand had been soft-spoken at the best of times, but now his voice was barely audible, his painful, labored breaths wheezing past Lamarin's ear.

But the young man strained to hear, and what he heard let all the color drain from his face.

He remained a moment after Armand had fallen silent, trying to regain his composure. What to make of this new information? His thoughts were racing, and it took a while – his arm which carried all his weight as he bowed over his comrade trembling with the effort of holding him up – before he felt safe to raise himself again. And yet, Armand's words were ringing in his ear with the force of a drum.

They were the last words that Armand de Riberòn would ever speak.

Half an hour later, God showed mercy on him.

He stopped breathing as the bell of the nearby church rang the tenth hour and passed over the threshold in peace.

He took Lamarin's with him. For those last voices were as clear as they were terrible.

Joseph was at the fair.

Joseph, who had left for Aix less than a week ago. Joseph, who could not, under no circumstances, have been back already from his errand that brought him to the south.

Joseph, of whom none of them had guessed that he had been back.

Holding Armand's hand during the last moments of his life, Marc Lamarin had no idea what to do.

Silence followed the young man's death much in the same manner as it had preceded it, but there was a slight shifting to the mood in the room, anxiousness changing to sadness, and slightly heavier breathing told Lamarin that a few were fighting tears.

He felt frozen and unable to cry, a trait that was not shared by Sébastien. Tears ran down the man's cheeks, and while he managed to refrain from sobbing, his silent grief was still something to behold.

"There goes Armand…" he whispered, "the first of us to fall…"

As if his words had broken a spell, the rest of the Cougourde started to file around their fallen comrade in their own, silent farewells, some of them in tears, some of them deathly pale and silent.

The grim reaper had found his way into their midst all too suddenly.

Lamarin stepped back to make room for the others, having said his goodbyes, and he found himself at the side of Jacques, whose pale face showed the strain of being up for too long despite his injuries.

Yet, Jacques was Jacques. He was as hard on himself as he was on them.

Silently they watched the proceedings, the leader and the youngest of them all, side by side.

Eternities passed before Jacques began to speak.

"Well Marc", he said by way of greeting, in a cool, biting tone. "A true revolutionary you are…"