A/N: Here I am again. I have been on holiday and away from all possible internet connections for almost two weeks - which is why the chapter is coming only now. I hope someone still reads this.

I received a number of fantastic reviews - thanks for it and I hope you still like it!

Thanks to judybear as well, who as always smoothes the edges of my english.

Comments make my day.

Love

Spirit

Chapter 38: A view into the abyss

"Leave this place. They are not for you. Go, leave. Now."

"This is not getting better", Bossuet commented when they finally had found the address and were staring at the dirty, hollow windows of yet another run-down building, with crooked walls and cracks like battle wounds running between the floors and windows. Joly frowned slightly, and fished for his handkerchief in his pocket, pressing it against mouth and nose, but the movement, as Lamarin realized, was more of an automatic one than one of actual disgust. In fact, the gaze with which the young man measured the house was rather more appraising than sorrowful.

"Well then." Lamarin felt uneasy, but there was no excuse for going a way only in halves without finishing what one came for and therefore he shrugged slightly and stepped towards the door. "It certainly does not get better by standing here."

Bossuet chuckled and Lamarin felt the older man's hand on his shoulder for a moment in a friendly gesture.

"There's something to be said for the way you are thinking", he agreed. "Let's put this behind us, the sooner the better."

Lamarin felt inclined to agree and not only for one reason. The house seemed to be a quite unpleasant place, but apart from that he was also impatient to get on. Their visit to Joseph's lodgings had done nothing to alleviate his fears, and he had not been able to successfully shake thoughts of the list they had found there since they had left the apartment.

Coming down the stairs they had been met by a slightly furious concierge, who, judging from her hairdress and general state of disarray, had just gotten out of bed. To his surprise, Bossuet had fairly quickly alleviated her ill humor though, by a mixture of dry jokes and half-truths, supported with some cheerfully naïve comments from Joly that Lamarin was relatively sure were fake. None the less, the tandem work of his two comrades had gotten them the valuable information, that Joseph had often had visits from a young lady of lower birth, a certain Elise Vertige, who lived just a few streets away.

The concierge had hinted at the fact that the young woman was of a somewhat sordid reputation, but while Lamarin had felt uneasy about this, neither Joly nor Bossuet seemed to harbor such reservations. In fact, they had been very nonchalant about it on the whole, and utterly unconcerned.

Whatever his own view on this, now that they stood here at the entry of the building, Lamarin's curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped forward and through the door into a place that was profoundly different to the house they had visited before.

Common to both was the dirt and neglect – but he had expected that from the outside already and braced himself for it. What came as a surprise, though, was the quiet.

Where the house where Joseph had lived was a noisy affair, words and shouts and quarrels and laughs, this place was silent. Indeed, silent as the grave.

The second difference, just as pronounced, but on another level, was the smell. A slightly sour, strange smell that Lamarin could not immediately place; but he did not necessarily associate it with poverty or neglect.

The riddle unsolved, he stared at the crooked staircase leading into the half-darkness of the building.

Lamarin refused to be cowered so easily though, and taking a deep breath he braved the creaking stairs to get up into the fourth floor of the building, where Élise was said to have rented a small room.

The higher they got, the more prominent the smell became, wavering through the house, and Lamarin felt himself tense, even though he did not quite understand himself why.

The fourth floor – the uppermost floor of the building – differed from those below in the way that in contrast to the three doors that led into small apartments from every landing below, the fourth floor actually showed six of them, one close to the next, but Lamarin unhesitatingly turned to the first on the right and knocked.

For a moment, nothing but silence answered.

And then, there was a rough voice.

"Go away."

Female, but the kind of voice that has been destroyed by life, darkness and spirits. And fatigue.

Lamarin cleared his throat.

"Pardon me Mademoiselle", he reiterated, trying his best at politeness. "We…" he fumbled quickly before he found his composure again, "we were looking for Mademoiselle Elise Vertige."

"Are you deaf?" came the voice again, this time more strongly tingled with annoyance. "I said go away. She's not here."

Lamarin hesitated for a moment, but then decided that a path half taken was not worth the effort.

"Does she live here at all…?" he asked, feeling odd to have this conversation with a door in between, in this incredibly silent alleyway. By the way Bossuet and Joly were looking around they were feeling quite the same.

Silence answered his question and he frowned, exchanging a glance with Bossuet who seemed to know no more than him what to make of this situation.

Finally, the voice made itself heard again.

"Who's there?"

"My name is Marc Lamarin", he explained to the faceless person on the other side of the door. "I'm a friend of Joseph Sicar's."

This time the answer was immediate and took the form of a fairly impolite swear. Lamarin wondered how he should respond to that, but the woman spoke once more before he could overcome his exasperation and come to a productive conclusion in that respect.

"Joseph is not here."

"I know", Lamarin gave back. "But if it would be possible to speak to Mademoiselle Vertige?" He dared a step further, in the hope to be able to give a bit more persuasion that way. "It… well, it may seem that Joseph is in some kind of trouble. We…" He wondered if he was going too far in this, but on the other hand, what he had seen of Joseph was so difficult to reconcile with what he had learned recently.

"We want to help him."

This prompted another long silence on the other side of the door, but then, shuffling told them clearly that someone approached the door.

It opened, just the smallest bit, and Lamarin could see a shape peeking out from a half-dark room behind. He could not see her eyes roaming over his figure, but he could feel it, and the distrust and worry that radiated from the woman was so palpable it did not need vision to confirm.

"Mademoiselle Vertige…?" he asked, while she completed her scrutiny. Finally, she shook her head.

"No", she said. "Not me."

"But she lives here?" Lamarin pressed on, trying to meet her gaze and failing to do so in the bad light.

"Depends on how you call it. Who are they?"

"My name's Joly", Joly prompted, his handkerchief still pressed to nose and mouth so that his voice sounded slightly muffled.

"L'aigle de Meaux, they call me", Bossuet added in an attempt at cheer that was lost on the woman, who just gave a snort.

"Such a high and mighty name", she grumbled. "Well. See for yourself."

Lamarin realized, that if she was not Elise Vertige, she had not returned them the courtesy of an introduction, but he let that pass for the moment and stepped into the small room that was said to be the home of the woman they were looking for.

The room made Joseph's place a few streets away seem like a palace. Tiny, somber and largely unfurnished it was dark and lit only by what little light was able to pass a small window in the crooked roof.

The woman that had granted them entrance was old – or seemed old, Lamarin corrected himself right away, because he might be jumping to conclusions from her grey skin in the dim light, the drooping eyes, the missing teeth and the way that she held herself, slightly hunched over as if nursing a permanent pain in her back.

Only on second – or third – glance did he realize that there was another person present in the room, lying silently on the bundle of cloth that passed for a bed in this place, and when he saw her, he would have almost recoiled in horror.

She had all the air and makings of a specter. Huge eyes, hollow cheeks, skin drawn tight over pointed bones, almost a corpse living. Black hair pooled around the face, made her seem even smaller. She was taking shallow breaths, and her eyes, huge and glassy, wandered around the room aimlessly and did not focus on him. From time to time, a slight tremor ran through the frail body, but she bore it with apathy, barely even registering.

One could not live in Paris during these days and not recognize the symptoms that were placed before him. The specter had been haunting the city for months now, silently first, and more raging afterwards, claiming the poor, and some of the rich as well.

Cholera.

Which explained the smell… and probably the silence.

Involuntarily, Marc's hand flew up to his mouth and nose. Of course, Robert had told him some time ago, that there was little proof that Cholera could spread via miasmae, as other diseases did that were not transmitted by touch, but it could not hurt to try and be on the safe side.

He swallowed hard.

The gaze of the woman that had granted them entrance was hard, glittering eyes like flintstones in the semi-darkness.

"Satisfied?" she asked, voice grating and hard, and Lamarin did not know what to reply to her callousness, but he was interrupted before he could come to a decision.

"Stand back."

Lamarin flinched at the quiet conviction in the tone and complied without even questioning it, feeling a hand on his arm pulling him back carefully, while Joly stepped past him and towards the bed.

"She is very ill", he stated the obvious, and briefly turned back to his comrades. "Maybe you should wait outside."

Lamarin felt slightly paralyzed, his gaze wandering between the two women and Joly, from one to the other, but Bossuet reacted to the words of his friend.

"He's right I think", he said and placed a hand on Lamarin's arm. "Come on, boy. Let him do his work."

"But", Lamarin contradicted weakly. "We… need answers about Joseph."

"She is in no condition to answer." Joly did not even look up from his patient, and Bossuet, with tender force, brought Lamarin to step back, bit by bit, until the door closed before his eyes and he stared at the unforgiving wood instead.

Lunch was a tedious affair.

Not only that it was late – usually they took the meal around one o'clock and the variations on this hour were rather rare to start with – but it was also a silent thing, the only sound breaking the calm was the clinking of silverware against porcelain.

From outside the window the distant sound of the streets were heard, but she paid them no heed. The sounds ringing in her ears were quite of a different making.

She had slept, this night, and rather wished she hadn't. It was less easy than the night before to describe and place the images of her nightly terrors, but she had awoken with a clear feeling of dread and no notion of having rested.

Breakfast – and coffee – had placed her on unsteady feet, but the morning had dragged by in lazy, tedious minutes, and Cosette had barely found the concentration to continue on the embroidery she was working on, part of her dowry, a set of napkins with flowery ornaments.

She had planned on doing twenty of them, and now that she reached number thirteen she had already thoroughly lost her enthusiasm.

"What have you planned for the afternoon, dearest?"

Her father's voice broke into her reverie and made her pause. Not because she had no answer to it yet – as a matter of fact she did not, but this was not the point or the problem – but rather because of the peculiar note in his tone, that wavered between worry and uncertainty.

This, on the whole, was a very new facet to her father.

Cosette carefully placed fork and knife on her plate, ignoring the piece of jambon cru, and looked up into her father's face.

Superficially, there was nothing wrong. His eyes were nothing but kind, and he was looking at her in a way that had her always convinced of the deep care and affection that her father held for her. But below this, she could see something lingering, an apprehension that had not been there before – or perhaps she just had not noticed.

Cosette sighed softly.

"I assume we cannot go for a walk, can we?" To stroll into the summer sun and air was a tempting thought, but the way her father pressed together his lips in response told her all she needed to know. None the less, he gave her an answer.

"Cosette", he began tenderly, "I'm sorry. Not today. Not, when I'm not sure that our escape from Rue Plumet worked."

"Our escape from what?"

Something flared in her father's eyes, a moment only, before it was gone again.

"Our escape from the man that tried to kill your friend", he answered, with a forced attempt at calm. His fingers were nervously tapping on the knife, and again Cosette could not shake the feeling that she was missing something in this story, that there was a twist to it she had not discerned yet. He knew more than he let on.

This was true about so many things.

"He was after Marius, not us", she said, softly. "Why are we so afraid?"

Her father shook his head, almost in agony, his grey hair wavering around his face like a lion's mane, making him look fierce, haggard and desperate all in one. He was so shrouded in shadows, that for a moment, Cosette had a feeling of staring into an abyss – and the abyss staring back.

"He tried to kill Marius, yes, but he may think we are the way to him."

Cosette looked at him, at the expression wandering through his eyes. And felt her spirit sinking.

"Why are you lying to me?" she asked. He looked, as if she had slapped him-

"I am not…", he began, but for once, she did not let him finish. Cosette prided herself on her friendly nature and had made it a philosophy to first and foremost think well of people. Sleep deprivation, worry, fear and the notion of not being master of her own destiny, however, had brought out a temper in her that rarely surfaced.

"Yes you are, Papa", she contradicted sadly. "On so many things. Why won't you speak about how you know that man? Why won't you speak about why we run? Why won't you speak about how we came to Picpus, or about what happened before it? Why…?" She broke off, knowing that there were already more questions than he would ever be willing to answer.

The anger in his eyes was terrible. His hands clenched on the table, knuckles turning white.

"Because…", he began, breathing heavily, but running out of words after this first start, a kaleidoscope of emotions running over his features as he warred with his emotions, a thunderstorm in silence. And then: "It is better that you don't know." Silently and full of affection, but not satisfactory at all.

Cosette shook her head softly, warring down indignation and anger.

"I'm no child any more, Papa", she said.

"But you are still my Cosette. I.. swore to protect you, and I will not stop now. I will not throw you into this abyss you are asking for. Do not demand that of me."

He forced the words past his lips, almost involuntarily, it seemed, and his gaze was torn and in agony. For a moment, Cosette hesitated. She did not want to cause her father pain, but her own grip on a calm mind was dwindling and she was quickly spiraling towards darkness.

"But I do", she said, quietly, but with conviction. "I do."

Something flashed in her father's eyes, and she wondered if she had stepped too far, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by a knock on the door and the face of Touissant in the door quenched every continuation of the conversation they might have had.

"Monsieur", she said, "and Mademoiselle. Young Monsieur Pontmercy is here to see Mademoiselle."

Her first reaction was relief. To see Marius was always a miracle in itself, and he possessed an intrinsic sweetness that was capable of chasing the darkest of shadows away.

But now, there was more. When they had spoken yesterday, he had seemed so unsettled by her worries and words, so unsure in how to handle it. She knew he had tried to alleviate her fears, to chase away the shadows lingering over her, but the more he had tried, the less it had worked.

It was a bitter thought to fear that she was not able to be herself around him.

But he was still Marius, and she still loved him, and so, following a nod from her father that seemed almost relieved, Cosette got up and left the dining room for the corridor, where in the dim light coming from a narrow window at the end of it, Marius Pontmercy stood, looking anxiously towards her.

He seemed worried, or confused, and the moment he saw her, he took two quick steps towards her and pulled her into a hug. Still a light, tender one, for Marius was never anything but careful and tender, but there was some sort of desperation in his movements that put her immediately on edge.

"Marius…?" she asked, carefully, and he released her from the embrace, taking a deep breath before he met her gaze.

"Beloved…" he answered softly, his hand wandering to some loose strands of her hair that had escaped from her bun. His fingers were trembling softly. Cosette frowned.

"What happened?"

Marius shook his head.

"I'm not sure who my friends are any more", he answered. "I had the most dreadful quarrel with them, and I just do not understand it. They were…" he shook his head, grasping for words desperately. "They don't understand me. It is as if I never knew them."

Cosette felt the urge to close her eyes. The quarrel with her father – as tender as it had been, it was as close to a quarrel as they usually got – had left her raw and unhappy, and the fact that she was unsettled herself did not help matters. But this was Marius. And she loved him.

"I see", she managed softly, forcing down her own turmoil for the sake of his. "Did you fight…?"

"I would have never thought they support criminals", Marius continued to rant. "I would have never thought they would approve. I mean, of course, I understand that some people lead a very hard life, but still, there is no excuse to turn towards that, don't you think?"

The apple had barely quenched the burning hunger, but the price to pay was dear none the less… the beatings on her back were like trails of fire, one after the other, and the high-pitched, angry voice that told her that "stealing is a sin you little filth, and you are criminal like your mother…"

Cosette forced the images down.

"I think that depends", she said carefully, almost softly. "On the circumstances, on the crime itself…"

"Of course it does. But breaking into a house… stealing… and not even feeling remorse about it. Next I know, they will be in favor of women selling themselves on the streets. Of course we fight to make circumstances better for those who resort to that road, but to look into a face and see pride of villainy…"

"Pride or desperation?" Cosette asked quietly.

"As if I know." Marius shook his head. "It's difficult to tell. But…"

Cosette shook her head. This conversation went down a road that she did not like. She had barely been able to quench the thoughts and images that the night had summoned, memories that came unbidden

You little filthy thing. Like mother like daughter, up-to-no-good

She flinched involuntarily. And to hear Marius' condemnations did not make things better.

"But that is the question, Marius", she carefully said, her fingers finding their way to his lapels out of their own accord. "It is always the question…"

"They… I don't understand. Cosette… Cosette do you think that I am shallow?" There was an eagerness in his voice that made it crystal clear what sort of response he was expecting.

But she would not give it to him. His words had strung all the wrong cords, and with her whole world afloat, Cosette was not even sure any more if he could be the pillar she would be leaning on to. Her world was changing and shifting, and what had seemed safe and secure only days ago now seemed to wash through her hands like the waters of the Seine.

The dreams and memories were haunting her and calling forth all sorts of specters.

"What would you say, if I had done similar things? If I had stolen, or if my parents had?"

He shook his head and there was almost a smile on his lips.

"You are such a kind soul, Cosette", he whispered, his fingers wandering from the tendrils towards her face, carefully ghosting along her cheek. "Your pity makes you such a better person than I am. But I will not believe that you have done any of these things. You are an angel, the one bright light that I follow. Your presence alone makes the callous words of a few moments ago so very much lighter…"

Cosette felt sick.

"I'm no angel", she whispered. "And maybe not what you see in me…"

He shook his head, apparently barely hearing what she had told him.

"You are too modest, love, too good. And if I see something in you that is not true, then it is that I cannot fully perceive you, for an angel can never be wholly seen with human eyes."

Cosette felt an iron ring closing around her chest.

"I'm no angel, Marius", she repeated. "And it is best you understand that. I am not without shadow. None of us is. No one is these days. If it is the spotless brightness you are looking for…" she shook her head as she looked at his dear, dear face, and tears threatened to rise and swim in her eyes, "I may be the wrong person."

That, finally, reached him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

"I don't know", Cosette replied, close to despair as she tried to understand how this conversation had gone so terribly wrong. "I don't know, but I also don't know if you know me. Or.. if you want to know me. I'm not what you think, no angel. I…" she shook her head angrily. "I carry my own shadows, Marius, and they are closing in. I can't outrun them forever. Not even for you."

He stared at her, eyes wide, as time ran by, and Cosette could feel him trembling, conflicted and sad.

"I am sorry", she whispered painfully, and he nodded.

"So am I." And yet, he let his hand drop from her face and bowed, stiff, every inch the nobleman he was, a mask on his features that she had never seen before. "Mademoiselle", he said softly, "you have given me much to think about."

She would rather have not, if this was the result, the silence and pain, but she had no choice, and she did not call him back when he left.

Only after the door had closed her knees gave in and she cried, silent, bitter tears, for her life that was falling to pieces.

When the door had closed and Lamarin and Bossuet were outside, Joly took Elise's wrist to feel the quickness of her pulse. It was weak, but steady yet, but the shallow breathing and her unresponsive state did not give much hope for her improvement.

She was not his first case of Cholera. Encouraged by Ashbel Smith, who, although he was barely older than Joly, had been much more diligent and stringent in his studies, and therefore had turned into a mentor of sorts, he had started visiting the houses of the poor.

There was much to learn there, Smith had said, and Joly felt inclined to agree. It was a different kind of work here, where people could not afford a doctor, where he was met with distrust and worry. Diseases differed from what he mostly saw at the Necker, and he attributed it partly to the circumstances of living that they were forced to endure, although when it came to Cholera specifically, the spreading of the disease as well as a possible cure was still a mystery to him.

The first time he had visited – and lost – a cholera patient had been horrible. His stomach had revolted for weeks after and he had been sure to perish of the same disease as well. He had lived on nothing but chicken soup and bread for more than a week, hoping that his unsettled stomach would keep it in.

He had survived, and although Bossuet – who had been incredibly patient through the whole ordeal – had never said anything, Joly suspected that he had not been stricken down with Cholera after all.

Nor had he when he went back to the houses of the poor and treated his next cases. Maybe, even though so many ailments seemed to catch on easily on him, this one, as unusual as it was, avoided him. Thinking on this he had concluded, that there was probably a connection between the fact that the spreading of Cholera itself was so mysterious and that it apparently did not spread towards him as other diseases were prone to do. Maybe, for once, he was lucky in that respect.

The outright panic in the aftermath of his first Cholera patient had dulled to a slight unease, that was not exactly agreeable, but at least bearable, and so he was not worried overly as he examined the woman in the bed to discern the progression of the disease.

There was little hope. Her fluids were out of sorts, her breathing shallow, and she was unresponsive and feverish. Joly knew enough to know she was entering a terminal phase.

All that remained was to ease the passage.

"How long has she been in this state?" he asked the other woman present without looking up. She snorted.

"She was like that when I came this morning."

"It is very admirable that you came by to help", Joly answered, as he took a bowl of water that the woman had brought and wetted a dirty cloth to place it on Elise's forehead. "Are you not afraid of infection?"

The woman snorted.

"Which would make me loose what exactly?" she answered callously. "The splendid life I have? You know nothing, burgeois kid. You're just a child playing at mercy."

Joly raised his head to look at her.

"Oh no, that's not true, Mademoiselle", he answered, and a slightly sarcastic expression found its way onto her face at his formal address. "Although I do know little of your perils, I will admit. But this is no game for me."

The woman snorted.

"I know your kind. As bad as the priests who think their pity buys their way into heaven. Let me tell you something that we know and you don't. There is no reward for a good deed."

Joly frowned.

"Why are you here then?" he asked curiously, and she hesitated for a moment.

"Cause she's a friend", she finally answered reluctantly. Even we have that, you know?"

Joly smiled sadly.

"Why would I doubt it?"

He continued to examine the woman, but there was so preciously little he could do. There was no food or drink he could prescribe against this ailment – she would not be able to contain it and for all he knew nutrition just made the disease worse – and there was no pill that would cure or ease her disease.

He dripped some cool water onto her neck and wrists, hoping it would soothe the fever, and indeed, this seemed to rouse her a little and she tossed and turned, breathing a bit more heavily. He was not sure if this was a good sign, but it was a reaction at least, and so he began to speak to her, in soft, tender, warm tones.

"Mademoiselle Vertige…?" he asked, and indeed, this seemed to grasp a remnant of attention in her. Her fingers clenched into the sordid bedding and her body tensed in a tremor, muscles clenching as she tried to regain control over herself.

Dry, parched lips moved in silent words, and then, finally, Joly found the gaze of her eyes on his.

She must have been beautiful, once, long ago, he thought, looking into the dark blue that was contrasted with her black hair, an exquisite combination ruined.

But for a moment she was awake. Of sorts, at least.

"Joseph…?" she asked softly and Joly hesitated. Deception was nothing he would pride in, but he wanted to help her where he could.

He settled for a middle path.

"Be easy…", he whispered, and she took a deep breath.

"You're stupid", she whispered painfully. "You should have stayed with Francois. What if they find you?"

Joly closed his eyes. He could not bring the lie over his lips, not even for the sake of a patient, and therefore he bowed towards her, coming closer to the glazed eyes.

"I'm not Joseph", he said softly. "I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you."

Her eyes went wide at that. Weak as she was, his words seemed to rally something within her, and she shook her head, crawling back with what little force she had.

"No", she whispered, and Joly, who had not expected such a reaction at all, raised his hands in a calming, but futile gesture. "No", she repeated again, beating away his raised hand as if it were threatening her. "You! It's you who brought this here." With surprising strength given her condition, her voice took up volume and vibration, and Joly flinched at the sudden rejuvenation of the woman that had seemed to be not much more than a ghost. "You have been spreading the disease among us. You doctors. Don't think I don't know."

Joly was fairly sure that her voice was ringing through the whole building and he recoiled, in parts shocked at the opposition his good will received, in parts hoping that removing himself from her sight would also stop her ranting but there was no such luck.

"You with your poison and your hate towards us. You destroyed us, you destroyed Joseph, now you destroy me, and I will die here, and it will be all your fault."

Joly threw a quick glance to Elise's friend, who had approached the bed again, and through all the contempt and callousness in her eyes, he also saw a deep resignation that kept him from arguing.

"Go", she mouthed without making a sound, over Elise's shrieking and wailing, and her final nod closed her off to any attempt of contact on his part.

So he did the only thing that remained for him to do.

He fled.