A/N: Hope you all had a nice christmas. Somewhere in the craze, I found the time to write a little :-). It's relatively short, but yeah, there you go
Chapter 56: Spider in the web
"There is a spider in the web. And I intend to find it and kill it."
"You will have to pardon Frater Jerome." Bahorel wondered why Coudrin still felt the need to apologize. The situation had calmed down a little, after Jehan recovering from the treatment the brother had given him. Even Bahorel could not deny that his friend seemed to be better, his movements more natural and apparently less hindered by pain. Franciscus had continued to examine him in greater detail but after a while he declared that shoulder and neck were the only injuries found on the young poet, and these would not linger for long.
That, at least, had somewhat soothed Bahorel's temper.
Of course, they still knew nothing about the girl.
But as Franciscus bound Jehan's arm to his body to restrict movements and allow better healing, Coudrin seemed to pick up the thread of the conversation some time ago, and at a strange place at that. It was not that Bahorel had forgotten or forgiven the behavior of the monk who had detained him from Jehan, but he had been willing to put aside this grievance for now to deal with more pressing matters.
Yet, Coudrin seemed to be unwilling to let this go completely and continued with his afterthought. "He is… not made of sterner stuff", he said, somewhat uneasily. "There are many an apple in the garden of the lord, and some are made for storms and some are not."
As true as this was, it did not excuse the man in Bahorel's eyes. He refrained from giving the metaphor, that the apples unable to weather a storm would best stay out of one and turned towards a thing he would much rather discuss – the subject of the assassin amongst the monks.
"That's how that man was able to hide amongst you", he snapped. "If you stick to rules rather than what sense dictates."
"I am not sure", Coudrin answered, "that we should discuss the matter of sense over emotion, but I will admit that we have been lulled into false safety, yes. None of us have seen it coming."
"How can that be?" Bahorel asked, slightly calmer, but filled with a deep sense of unease and curiosity. "He was with you for… how long?"
"Longer than I", Franciscus admitted. He was standing with his back to them, still wrapping Jehan's arm and shoulder in a bandage. "So longer than ten years…"
"That's half an eternity", Bahorel blurted out. "How can't you have known?"
It seemed so unimaginable. The brother, living among the benevolent men of Picpus, year in, year out, one of them and still… so much of a different creature in the end. It was almost not to be believed that none of them would have had an inkling of what was going on. Coudrin, however, seemed to be genuinely dismayed at the turn of events.
"He was a brother like any other." Coudrin answered. "Helpful and friendly. Content in his own company."
"Well of course", Bahorel gave back with sarcasm, annoyed at the naivety of the man before him. "In his own company he had ample time and opportunity for murder!"
"Yes", the head of the order admitted. "That is true, and only now we know. It is one of the bases of the order that we do not inquire too deeply about those who wish to join. You would be too young to remember, but our first years have seen turbulent times. To look for a man fully innocent there would have been as looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. So yes. We have relied on the conduct of the brothers in our middle and our own judgement of the character. It was a risk to take, and it has repayed us badly in this case."
"You couldn't have seen it." Jehan again intercepted before Bahorel could find more angry words. "I guess he was too good. He was amidst all these students of Picpus. They loved him, trusted him. And he waited. Years and years, until the time came and then he killed them one by one."
"This would imply a very deep game", Coudrin said thoughtfully. "And some foresight."
He sighed and stepped towards Jehan, leaning against the cot before he turned towards Bahorel.
"I am not sure why Frater Ant… this man has tried to kill you, and to be frank I am unsure if I want to know. I do understand that we have been deceived, but I am not sure to what extent I can help you in understanding all the particulars of the story."
He sighed, carefully folding his hands in his lap, frowning as he began to recound the story.
"He was one of the first brothers to take the vows after the legalization of the order under the restauration in 1817. Before, we have been forced to operate under a veil of a mixture of tolerance and half-secrecy, but as you can imagine, the legalization brought quite a number of new members to our ranks. The dislodged, or disappointed, or some who were simply on the lookout for a peace that was in short supply elsewhere. I always factored him to be one of the latter sort."
Coudrin shrugged, taking a moment's pause to inspire more recollection of the events more than a decade ago.
"Him being one of the first during these times means that I was personally there when his admittance was decided. There were different times, back then, and while the order had become official, it still carried the memory of the revolutionary days, of a fellowship built on trust and mutual respect, on the fact that prosecution carried many ugly faces in the uncertain times then. This is important to understand, because this was why our questions with respect to our novices did not pry much deeper than they were willing to convey themselves. The same was true for the man who became Father Antoine."
"Antoine Lauriel his name was, if I remember correctly", Brother Franciscus jotted in and Bahorel turned towards him in surprise. The medic simply shrugged. "We were something akin to friends, I thought"; he said, and for a moment, despite his gruff behavior, there was some deeper sense of regret in the man that somewhat reached out to Bahorel despite his volition.
"Antoine Lauriel, yes", Coudrin confirmed, nodding. "If I remember correctly, he was a soldier in the Grande Armee in his youth and has won some small renown there." He looked to Franciscus for further commenting, and the man chipped in his own pieces of knowledge.
"He did not particularly like to talk about it", Franciscus added. "I have asked a few times, but his responses were not such that they would have encouraged further inquiry. He has been to Russia and abhors the cold ever since – and from some comments I gathered that he did not make it back when the Emperor finally retreated."
"So he found his way home on his own?" Bahorel found himself impressed despite himself. His father had been an officer in the Napoleonic army, and he had grown up with tales of the merciless cold of Russian winters that were vivid enough for him to carry a healthy respect. His father had been separated from the troops for a few days and had had to fight his way back through snow and storm, and he had – very convincingly – described these few days as the most hellish experience that had ever been inflicted on him.
"That is what he claims", Franciscus nodded, "and given the fact that he was… creative about working with limited resources I am inclined to believe him. He did not like to speak about it, though, so I do not know where he has been abandoned and how exactly he made it back."
"I am not sure", Coudrin added, "that I know what part of the army he served in, but that may be something that can be gathered from what little archives we keep. What I do know is that he came to us claiming he had no family living and was tired of the bloodshed of the years before. It was not an uncommon story, mind you, and so I have believed it without too much question."
"Maybe it was even true", Jehan mused, looking from one to the other. A frown had ingrained itself into his face and he seemed thoughtful. "Maybe he had intended to settle here, before… something happened."
Bahorel found that hard to believe and snorted dismissively.
"Or maybe", he added, "he had been here to have a closer look at a somewhat suspicious society that had been granted official status when part of the government was still very convinced that that was a splendidly bad idea."
Coudrin winced.
"Monsieur, you will have to pardon me for saying that this is a very uncomfortable thought."
Bahorel felt no pity and shrugged.
"Welcome to my world", he commented. "A world where those we trusted turned around and stabbed us in the back."
"It does make some sense, though", Franciscus answered. "At least from a neutral point of view. It could even have been a combination of both – Antoine seeking out a calmer post, some friendlier skies after the cold of Russia and the turbulence of Napoleon's fall; and the desire to keep a watch on the Picpus order without attracting too much suspicion."
Bahorel had to admit that this had an awfully truthful ring to it. The story was ironic enough that he had to suppress the urge to laugh bitterly.
"And then, at some time", Jehan added, "his intentions have changed and he turned to the Picpus cell, befriended them and waited for an opportunity."
"His intention", Coudrin mused, "or his orders."
"I thought that particular part was clear", Bahorel said, shaking his head in impatience. "I thought we were all clear that the government was behind this."
But Coudrin raised a hand and shook his head. Everything in his demeanor spoke of him feeling uncomfortable.
"With all due respect and sympathy, Monsieur", he said. "I have said it before – I am not sure that I know what you talk about when you mention the Picpus cell, and I am fairly sure that it is and should be none of my business. "
"You can't understand the story if you don't look at it completely", Bahorel gave back. "I wouldn't have thought you to be a coward? Scared to uncover secrets that would actually force you to take a side?"
"I have taken a side a very long time ago", Coudrin answered firmly, his eyes boring into Bahorel's with remarkable sureness. "I chose God's side, and I did so in the middle of a revolution, where this decision, in its outspoken manner, could have well cost me my head. And when I did take this side, I swore vows. Vows that I intend on keeping for they have been said in the face of the one I never can and will betray. One of these vows, Monsieur, is the vow to speak the truth, always. Now, I am not obliged to mention everything I know, of course, but directly asked, I will not lie. But to speak the truth I have to know it. It will not do for a man of God to speculate."
The message sank in and again Bahorel found himself surprised.
"Oh", he said, feeling slightly sheepish. "I see." This complicated the discussion, but maybe it was best to gather what information was to be had and sort out the particulars later, with his friends or at least with Jehan. "Then forget about it", he added, "and lets return to Father Antoine."
"For some reason beyond my – or our – understanding", Coudrin contined, "it seems that Father Antoine as seen fit to kill a significant amount of people in this part of the city; let's leave it at that. I think that we can speculate well enough that if he came here with an agenda, this was not part of it."
Bahorel nodded. The Picpus group had existed for the better part of four years, so for Frater Antoine to join the order with the goal of destroying them in 1817 would have shown a remarkable foresight that was well beyond the scope of anyone's doing.
"Has he changed somehow, in the later years?" Jehan's question told him, that he was thinking along the same lines. "If you were his friend, I guess you know?"
Franciscus shrugged and placed himself on a chair next to his table littered with herbs and medical instruments.
"That is always difficult to say. He did keep to himself, seemed to prefer solitude."
"Which is somewhat unusual within our order", Coudrin added. "We have dedicated ourselves to spread the love of God amongst the people, and this brings us often into town – into schools or sick houses and, in the more recent times, also to the colonies."
"But the cemetery has to be taken care of as well"; Brother Franciscus reminded him. "And that is what Antoine did. He took care of the newly arrived, tended to the gardens, he was the one with the overview on where new graves were to be dug."
"As not to interfere with his own victims, no doubt", Bahorel growled.
"It does seem somewhat… gruesome, in hindsight", Coudrin admitted. "But God finds a place for everyone, and if a man joins the order and still prefers solitude, we thought it reasonable to offer him a place that fit his wishes – as long as we were able to do so. I have said it before; there are many apples in the garden of god, and it is never well to try and change what is deeply ingrained as the nature of a person."
"Naïve", Bahorel commented coolly. His anger had subsided somewhat, but it had not vanished.
"Just as admitting him into your midst without further inquiries", Coudrin gave back, and now for the first time there was a slight hint of annoyance in his voice. "This road leads nowhere."
"I agree", Jehan nodded, one of the fingers of his good hand running along his neck, resting on the deep wound there that Brother Franciscus had dressed with an ointment to soothe the wounds. "The question is, what do we do now?"
"The first, and obvious steps will be to search his belongings, and of course to warn every member of the order of the nature of this former brother."
"Will they believe it?" There was worry in Jehan's voice, and the way his fingers smoothed out the ointment on the garotte mark belied his anxiety. Franciscus weighed his head.
"If the message is brought by the head of the order, I would hope that this is weight and credibility enough. It is true that Frater Antoine had and has friends in the order, but in the end, we were all sworn to philanthropy, and evidence stands that his vows in that respect were more than false."
"They will believe me." Steel over silk. Not for the first time, Bahorel was reminded that he was facing a man who had weathered the storms of revolution and lived to tell the tale. It was easy to forget."This is still my house, and all of them are my brethren."
"They are indeed", Franciscus confirmed, lowering his head.
"I do not think he will come back, though." Jehan had stopped worrying at his throat and seemed somewhat dismayed. "I think he knows we lived at least long enough to give an account on what happened."
"No, he won't, probably", Coudrin answered, and it was clear that the thought had him feel somewhat uneasy. "The question remains though, where he will turn."
But Bahorel, thoughts on suspicious paths after the events of the day, already had a fairly clear notion of this.
When they arrived back at the apartment in Rue Pascal, the evening hours had already settled in and Éponine felt the exhaustion of the previous day creeping up with her. She was glad, when finally the door of the now familiar lodging closed behind her and Enjolras offered her a seat on the sofa with a gesture and without a word.
The student had been mostly quiet on their way back, somewhat retreated into himself and thoughtful. He had bestowed her a quiet thanks when they had left the domain of the underworld king, for her support and quick thinking, but apart from that their way back had been silent. She had not pried – years in the underbelly of Paris had led her to the conclusion that sometimes people needed to keep their secrets and divulge them at their own pace, and Enjolras seemed that sort of person to her.
She could not help wondering what was going on behind his eyes, but between a new wave of grief for his fallen friend, remorse at the deal they had struck and planning their next steps there was a multitude of possibilities that were at the heart of this silence, and she did not know what sort of questions she should ask.
Now that they were in his apartment, he wordlessly stepped to the washing bowl in the small bathroom and began to methodically remove the coloring paste from his hair, trying to coax back the customary, if traitorous blond. Éponine might have doubted the wisdom of this, but giving the matter some thought she gathered, that Enjolras probably felt a desire to at least look like himself once more. Because that he did not feel like himself was somewhat obvious to her.
But then again, who did, these days?
The evening found her sitting on the couch in a noble apartment, when, if things were normal, she would have now readied herself for another errand together with Patron-Minette, for letters to be delivered under the cover of the night or for careful watches to be undertaken while her older, more bolder companions tried to gather some riches from the more fortunate citizens of Paris.
These coups with Patron-Minette felt a lifetime away.
And yet, could it have been only yesterday that Montparnasse had called a favour of his own from her? Even that – separated from this evening by only a night and a day – seemed to be a notion almost absurd, as if it belonged to another Éponine, and another Paris.
And yet, come to think of it, that errand had probably spared her the fate of Grantaire, or the student Ramon Deleric, or Feuilly, who was still recovering from his concussion. As boring as sitting in that restaurant had been, this at least was a blessing to be counted.
Éponine frowned. It was somewhat strange, she thought, that Montparnasse had not yet come to collect the information from her. They had not agreed on a rendezvous point or on a method of meeting, but in truth, they rarely did if it was only the two of them. Paris, as big as it was, was small if seen from below, and the underbelly presented its own world with its own hierarchies and sets of rules. They treaded the same circles and paths and had done so for a long time. They knew where to look for each other and how to find for each other, and in the uncertain scheduling of gamin and gamine, it had proven more useful to not try and fix a time and place but instead to learn the other's whereabouts by means of a simple set of questions to the right ears.
However, she had spent the whole day in her regular haunts, had gathered information and asked around, had gone to the officier's club, of which Montparnasse was a regular, as she knew, had walked with Babet and visited Cortez, and during all of this time her friend had not found the opportunity and necessity to show himself.
Éponine frowned. This behavior was unusual – not alarming, but still something to be worth considering.
Their lives were uncertain ones, and sometimes appointments could not be kept by way of circumstances – urgent business to be taken care of, an overzealous policeman keeping someone in custody, a passage normally used rendered insecure by occurences out of one's control. This had happened before and was like to do so again, and maybe this was all that there was to the story.
Éponine also had to admit, that she had not looked for Montparnasse as well, so with everything else going on in the city at the moment, Montparnasse might have also had better, and more urgent things to do than to pry information from her about an errand that had been – in all honesty – rather boring.
But something about that thought was bugging her and would not leave her alone, as she absentmindedly listened to the splashing that Enjolras made washing his hair, waiting for some of his friends to arrive.
She knew Montparnasse well, and she had agreed to run his errand for a number of reasons, and not the least of them was that she had gotten the impression that the matter was urgent. This was emphasized by the fact that he had actually given her a dress to ensure the success of the mission, and something in his manner had led her to believe that his request was important to him.
She was not sure what had given this impression, but there were patterns to Montparnasse, under all these shifts and turns of countenance, easy manner and display of levity.
So, on the whole, she considered that it was rather strange that he had not come to retrieve the information that he had paid for.
It was out of the question that he would have been able to locate her – she had been much too prominent in the underworld today if one knew whom to ask.
So either Montparnasse's priorities had shifted… or he was in some sort of trouble.
Éponine frowned at the thought. They were not as close as they had been, but that did not make them indifferent.
And then there was the matter to consider that he had not told her the reason of the errand, and that the errand had proved so utterly fruitless and uneventful. Watching the politician, Éponine had been bored out of her wits, nothing more, nothing less, and this did not fit very well with the urgency that Montparnasse had given her to believe.
Had she misinterpreted him?
Or was there a larger pattern that she did not see, one, in which she was only a pawn, chosen to play a small role that did not allow this view from the gallery?
Éponine slowly shook her head.
There was something about this story that she did not like.
"Is everything alright?"
Enjolras' cool voice interrupted her thoughts. He was standing in the entry of the room, leaning against the door and for the most part, he was blonde again. There were some streaks of brown around the lower back part of his neck, where he probably had not seen it in his polishing glass, but apart from that he looked much more like himself.
For a moment, Éponine considered laying out her thoughts before him. Enjolras, while not being acquainted with her world, was smart and analytical, and maybe would see what he had missed.
But she found she had no words to explain to him what she disliked about the situation, and if she were to explain her relationship with Montparnasse, she would not even know how or where to begin. And so she shrugged off the thought with an attempt at nonchalance and diverted the discussion.
"There's still some brown in your hair, here." She mimicked on her own head where his curls still carried a darker hue. "Should try to wash it out?"
For a moment, to her surprise, something was flashing first through his eyes, and then, like a deep breath, but somehow different, through his body.
"No, thank you", he said, his voice steady and sure. "I will deal with it myself. So… are you alright?"
He came back to his previous question effortlessly and Éponine gave him the only answer she had for him.
"Sure", she said. "Just a trifle tired."
He believed her no more than she had believed his quiet on their way back was coincidential, but he respected it all the same.
And she was infinitely grateful for it.