Chapter 15 - Snow on Notre-Dame

The snow was falling outside the ABC cafe, Grace was pleasantly drunk, and Courfeyrac was hammering away at the piano beside her.

She was trying to do a sort-of improvised rendition of the Russian Dance from The Nutcracker, but the cigarette in her mouth and the fuzz of brandy in her body was making it harder…

Courfeyrac had a good musical ear too, and he was trying to follow her chords and patterns, but he didn't know the song, so every so often he'd hit a bum note and Grace would shout "Eyyyyy!" at him. He'd laugh and give her a hearty slap on the back in return.

It was fast and raucous, and the other boys in the cafe danced around them, sloshing their drinks on the floor.

The time for Christmas music had come, and Grace was fully leaning into it.

It had initially snuck up on Grace a little, without all of the John Lewis adverts, light switching-on ceremonies, and limited edition Starbucks drinks to tell her. The modern day certainly had a lot more 'Christmas foreplay' than 1831 did. But she had woken up that day, in the room her and Enjolras shared, to find her window crusted with a light snow dusting. Only when she'd marvelled at the sight for a moment did Enjolras rather flatly tell her:

"Don't look so surprised, it's December the twenty-second, after all."

She'd spent a long while poised at the piano that day, trying to remember when Tchaikovsky wrote and published his symphonies so she didn't break this world with another anachronism. Some distant memory of a music lecture made her think it might be the 1880's or 90's, and she was about to get up and leave the piano altogether, until her mind drifted back to home…

It had always been a Christmas tradition between Grace and her Mum to try and go to the ballet whenever they could afford to. Grace had lost count of the amount of times she had seen The Nutcracker in the Birmingham Hippodrome with her Mum sat beside her. At one of these performances, her Mum had bought a snow globe from the merchandise stall that stood pride of place on the mantelpiece and played the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

And rather ungracefully, she'd thought "fuck it".

I can't get Mum that Paddy and Max tea towel she wanted. Grace thought, remembering that note she'd made to herself in her iPhone. But maybe she'll feel this through the ages…

Once begun, the delicate, bouncing melody of the Overture had gained her one or two listeners.

Somewhere around the Children's Gallop, Grantaire had poured out a few glasses of booze.

The Song of the Snowflakes had gotten Bahorel and Joly waltzing around the cafe.

And by the time she was playing the Chinese Dance, everyone was so drunk and red-faced with revelry that it didn't matter if she played it well or not.

"Degas, you are a weaver of magic!" Combeferre laughed, trying to snatch breaths of air in between his swigs of brandy.

Grace took a drag of her cigarette and smiled.

"You should have been a composer. These tunes are marvellous!"

"Oh there from this new Russian composer. Not mine." She said with a dismissive wave. No matter how drunk she got, and how tempting it was to take the credit, she wasn't going to plagiarise the great Tchaikovsky.

"Brava! Bravissima!" Grantaire crowed, spilling his glass everywhere as he attempted to clap her.

Grace bowed low to him and blew him a kiss. "Oh, you are too kind… Too kind!"

"More!"

"Yes, another!" Joly and Bahorel demanded, words a little slurred.

"Oh merciful God, I need to catch my breath!" Combeferre huffed, collapsing into a seat.

"Perhaps something slower? The poor doctor's been run off his feet recently." Courfeyrac said, rising from his seat beside Grace to pinch his comrade's cheek jovially.

Combeferre protested and did his best to bat his hand away in his drunken state.

"I think we all need to slow down and sober up a bit!" Feuilly laughed, similarly collapsing into a vacant chair.

"Oh, I know just the thing." Grace sighed.

She poised her hands above the keys, glancing up at the waiting and expectant faces.

She began the gentle and lilting opening of the Pas de Deux. Fingers danced over the yellowed keys as she floated her way through those beautiful and heartbreaking descending scales.

The boys all seemed to quiet, taking a seat to watch if they weren't already sitting.

This was her Mum's favourite part of the ballet. The graceful and soaring dance between the two prima ballet dancers. And when Grace's mother had been inclined to ask her to play something for her, it had always been this movement. It was a little lacking without those romantic strings and strong trumpets to accompany her, but the old piano held its own. Taking the listening men from heights of splendour, and descending all the way down to the sinking feeling of grief. It was at once both beautiful and mournful. A celebration and a loss.

Grace was smiling, despite the tears that welled in her eyes.

The others in the cafe were similarly moved too. She could hear Joly sniffing occasionally and Courfeyrac subtly wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. Even Bahorel looked glassy-eyed when she glanced up to watch them. Grantaire had stopped entirely, one hand frozen still around his bottle of brandy and the other clutching at his breast. Whatever made Grantaire stop drinking was surely a success.

When she had finished, they almost felt bereft. A few of the men gave out a great sigh, as if they wished the music to go on for longer and had been denied a last goodbye.

Combeferre took off his gold spectacles and dried them with his handkerchief. "My Maman always wished I would study music instead of medicine."

Feuilly snorted. "My mother would have been ecstatic to know I'd learnt to read..."

"Aren't we all wonderful disappointments?" Grantaire purred sarcastically.

"Disappointments who somehow all found one another." Grace added, smiling at each of them in turn.

Courfeyrac lay a hand on her shoulder, the smile spreading from her face onto his.

The door to the cafe swung open, ushering in an icy wind.

"Close the door!" Grantaire yelled. "You're letting in a draft!" But he gasped a little and his face sobered when he turned to face the newcomer. "Enjolras!"

Grace turned to face him, seeing that he was covered in snow and bearing an equally frosty expression. Marius was behind him, looking similarly grim.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Courfeyrac asked.

"The cholera outbreak. It's spread." Marius said, stone-faced. "Gavroche told us that it's now spread all the way up to the Champ de Mars."

Grace sucked in a long breath.

There it was again. King Death, in his court of ruin. Streets of the ill were now turning into districts.

Luckily, Grace and her little band of brothers seemed to have steered clear of the worst of it. But there had been times when she'd seen blue-faced men retching in the street, frightened maidens clutching rosemary and thyme under their noses to keep away the evil miasmas, furniture wagons ushering linen-draped bodies to the cemeteries on the edge of town…

If only she could tell the others to stay away from the dirty water, like she'd tired to with Eponine.

Or maybe I could do a 'John Snow' and just remove the handles from all the water pumps I can find… she thought.

"I know." Combeferre said with a weary sigh. "I was attending patients on that side of the city all night. No matter how much liquid I give them, they seem to improve for a short while, and they sink right back down into malaise a few hours later. I lost three yesterday."

Grace looked at the young doctor again. Perhaps she'd just looked past it before, or chosen not to see it, but there were the dark circles of fatigue under Combeferre's eyes.

That's why he needed a rest. She realised.

"That's not just it." Enjolras said, brushing off the snow from his shoulders. "We've heard some…disturbing news from Gavroche and his gang."

"Which is…?" Courfeyrac prompted.

"They saw a physician arrive at the house of Saint-Sever last night, which can only mean-"

Feuilly gasped. "You don't think-"

"Yes." Enjolras said. His face was stone. "I think he has The Blue Death."

"Oh, sweet Lord." Bahorel shuddered.

"Do I feel warm, Combeferre? I think I may be coming down with it too!" Joly whined, flapping his wrist at the young doctor.

"You don't have cholera, Joly..." Combeferre sighed.

"But wait…Who does?" Grace asked, struggling to keep up with the conversation. "Who lives in the house at Saint-Sever? Someone I should know?"

Marius scoffed at her. "Goodness, Degas!"

"Well, he is English, after all." Feuilly said, trying to sound sympathetic. "Why would he know?"

"I suppose that's true." Joly shrugged, nodding his head.

"Oh my God, can someone just tell me who the bloody hell has cholera?!" Grace shouted.

"Jean Maximilien Lamarque." Enjolras stated flatly.

The cafe went quiet. A reverent hush descended over all. Courfeyrac made the sign of the cross and sighed. As Grace looked around with a frown, she saw that every one of them was staring at the floor in misery, and not for the first time, Grace found herself wishing she'd paid just a little more attention to her History lessons…

"Who the bloody hell is Lamarque?"

Javert was waiting on the steps of the Place Louis Lépine for Malloirave and the rest of the battalion to return. He watched the snow come down, settling over the city like a sprinkling of powdered sugar.

The rich of Paris would be decorating their mantelpieces with ivy and mistletoe or instructing their chefs to begin preparing the truffles and the Bûche de Nöel. But amongst the poor, people would die from the cold tonight.

The horses rode into sight, carrying his men on their backs. Their dark blue uniforms were coated in white flakes, clinging to their shoulders and sticking in their hair. They would want to be inside, de-booted, and sat in front of a roaring fire as soon as possible. And perhaps it was the "Christmas spirit", but he didn't feel like denying them that comfort this evening.

The battalion left their horses in the stables and shuffled past him one by one. They all gave him a nod of respect as they summited the stairs and passed into the barracks. Javert did not return their nods. He stoically kept his face rigid and his eyes fixed forwards. Nevertheless, not one of them forgot to dip their head to The Inspector.

"Malloirave." Javert said simply when he spotted his Lieutenant at the back of the returning crowd.

"Sir."

The young man trudged up the last steps, his shoulders sagged with weariness, but once Malloirave was face to face with Javert, he clipped his heels and saluted his superior.

"Report." Javert said simply.

He led the way inside the Prèfecture's headquarters, expecting Malloirave to follow him close behind. The rank-and-file men of the battalion might have the luxury of down-time, but for those in charge, the day was not over yet. That was the price one paid for authority.

"Uhh…Well, the streets were quiet, Sir. As you'd expect. The Blue Death is everywhere."

"How many dead, Lieutenant?"

"Today? Perhaps eight hundred, Sir."

"Eight hundred…" Javert sighed.

This epidemic had done little to squash the Prèfet's fear of revolution. The already starving and hungry poor were now dying of disease. And all the King could do was recommend a diet of cabbage, turnip and sobriety.

"No disruptive activity in Montmartre or in the Saint-Michelle districts to report." Malloirave continued.

"How many times did you patrol the circuit?"

"Three, Sir."

"Only three?" Javert grumbled, turning them down a corridor towards the officer's barracks.

"We thought it best to keep the streets clear for the hearses, Sir." Malloirave replied grimly.

"Hmm."

The two men walked into a small mess-hall, where Javert was a little surprised to find a few of his regiment already gathering to receive their evening meal. Still, The Inspector could not fault them; He too had once been a hungry young man, who could unlace his boots, change his briefs and be down to dinner before a minute had passed by.

Javert had had them out on patrol late, so the giant iron cauldron that sat on a dais at the top of the mess hall was almost empty of that day's stew. The bread would be stale too, with the policemen who got to dinner service early snapping up the freshest chunks for themselves.

"Malloirave, after our debrief, you may tell the men that we will begin our morning drills tomorrow an hour later than normal. Compensation for their late meal tonight." Javert said flatly.

"Oh… Yes, Sir. I shall, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Malloirave stuttered, sounding surprised.

Even Javert was surprised at himself. Perhaps it was that "Christmas spirit" seizing him again.

No. Don't be ridiculous. He chided himself. It's good practice to keep the men's morale high to ensure their loyalty.

The two officers walked on in silence until they reached Javert's quarters. He always preferred to have his debriefs in his quarters; they lent themselves to total privacy and comfort. And people always tended to be more honest when they were comfortable.

He removed his keys from his long leather coat and unlocked the door.

"And what of the Monsieur from Notre-Dame?" Javert asked hopefully. "Did you have any confirmed sightings of him?"

"No, Sir." Malloirave said grimly.

Javert sighed to himself. Marcelin had disappeared back into the woodwork almost as suddenly as he'd appeared. He cursed himself for letting him go that day, on the steps of the cathedral, and each day the promise he'd made to Julius and Jocelyn to find their son- and Grace - became even more implausible.

And each time he heard news of the cholera death toll rising, it tightened the feeling of dread in his guts just a little bit more.

He invited his Lieutenant inside where a simply furnished bedroom awaited them. It was empty of all personal affectations and kept impeccably clean. Froid had raised him to keep a spartan living space, and it was a habit that he had carried over into his adulthood. The firelighters had been in earlier in the evening, so at least the room was warm when they sat in front of the hearth.

"I suppose the search for the other vagabonds we saw fleeing over the Pont au Double was equally fruitless?" Javert asked, settling into an armchair by the fire.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Malloirave said with a downcast look.

Javert grumbled something inaudible and gestured for him to sit in the chair opposite him. The young Lieutenant did so, with a look of deep sadness on his face.

This is the news that had disappointed Javert the most. As he settled into his seat, he couldn't quite get rid of an odd feeling he had in his guts. A niggling. A wriggle. A discomfort.

Froid had called it the intuition. That strange sensation an officer of the Law got in his core when something was amiss. It was the reason why he refused to let go. Refused to give up and let sleeping dogs lie. The intuition would not let him rest easy until he'd finished the job.

In his mind's-eye he could see those two men. Running over the Pont au Double away from him. And the intuition, for whatever reason, would not allow him to forget them.

Only once in his life had he ignored the intuition, and it had cost him. He'd vowed to never do it again.

"What would you recommend we do, Sir?" Malloirave asked after a long stretch of quiet.

"You tell me, Lieutenant." he prompted his mentee. "What would you do to find these men?"

"Widen our search parameters? Set a reward for information about them? Find more informants in the area?"

"Hmm perhaps… Perhaps." Javert said, thinking to himself.

"What would you do, Sir?" Malloirave asked.

The two men looked at each other, the young Lieutenant's eyes shining with expectancy. However, Javert was at a loss for words. Malloirave had already suggested all of the sensible strategies and next-steps, but it was clear that he was wanting Javert to impart some sort of special wisdom or knowledge that he just didn't have. And if he ever wanted Malloirave to respect him again, the last thing he was going to say was 'I don't know'.

"Go and take your evening meal, Lieutenant." Javert eventually said. "The hour is late, and we will revisit this problem in the morning with a fresh mind."

Malloirave was a little surprised with this dismissal, but without argument or display of disappointment, he rose to his feet and bowed to the Inspector. He left swiftly, closing Javert's bedroom door behind him and leaving him quite alone.

The intuition knawed at him. Small and tiny, but acute enough for him to notice it.

Like a splinter underneath his nail.

Like the dull throb of a toothache.

With a sudden jolt of movement, The Inspector was up, out of his seat and reaching for his tophat. He knew himself well enough to know that this feeling would have him up half the night tossing and turning, so it was pointless to try and rest.

Perhaps if he left now, Malloirave and the rest of the battalion would still be in the mess-hall. They wouldn't see him slip off.

He didn't quite know where he was going, but he couldn't stay here, in his quarters, in the barracks. There was work to be done, and the intuition would not let him rest until it was through.

"Eponine, I don't know how the hell I let you convince me into doing this…"

"Oh, just shut up and lift!"

The two women groaned under the weight of a wood-carved bedframe. Grace grunted as her muscles strained in agony. Her arms burned, her back roared, her fingers seared.

Still, she gritted her teeth and silently manoeuvred the furniture out into the Place Notre-Dame. The square was desolately empty at this time of night, the air was dense with snowfall, and she was careful not to step on the broken glass that Eponine had cracked to gain entry into the apartment.

Grace was sure that the smash that Eponine made would have had people rushing to attention from all over the place, but Eponine had chosen this spot well. Most of the apartments in this area of town were deserted. Their inhabitants spending the winter in their country estates. The little spying session Grace and Eponine had engaged in, on the day Enjolras had almost got himself arrested by the Police, had just been the beginning of their staking mission. Hours of watching and waiting had followed. Just to make sure that there was nobody in the apartments. No one who would raise the alarm. No one who would miss a few bits of furniture. Not until they came back to Paris for the Spring season, anyhow, and by then it would be too late to do anything about the theft.

"Pick it up higher! Are you even holding it with both hands?!" Grace groaned.

"Yes!"

"Well, it feels like I'm carrying all the weight!"

"Oh, stop whinging and move!"

"I'm not whinging!"

"Yes you are!"

The two of them heaved the bedframe over the snowy cobblestones, all whilst Notre-Dame loomed over them in the background. The bells of midnight had rung out about fifteen minutes ago and it felt like not another soul had been around to hear them.

"Quickly!" Eponine hissed. "Move faster!"

"I'm moving as fast as I can!"

"Well you aren't moving fast enough! We'll be seen!"

"Then why didn't you get your Dad's little posse to help you out?!" Grace grunted through clenched teeth. "They're all big, meaty blokes."

"Oh, shut up…"

Since their little to-do the other day, Grace had been careful to watch her back and keep an eye out for Thénardier and his gang. All she had to do was spot the nastiest-looking, pock-marked or scar-faced layabout in the crowd, and that would most likely be one of Thénardier's men. No wonder Eponine didn't feel like approaching them for anything. Even if it was work they'd be interested in…

"Which way?" Grunted Grace.

"Over the bridge." Eponine replied, nodding her head over to the Pont au Double. "Come on! Mo-"

"I swear to God, if you tell me to 'move' one more time, I'll throw you into the Seine!"

Eponine seemed to take heed of this, and the two of them heaved the bed frame on towards the Pont au Double.

Grace cast a nervous eye up towards Notre-Dame as they passed the cathedral by. The various Saints and martyrs on the facade were dusted with the snowfall, filling the cracks in their robes or donning them with little snowy hats.

Umm…Sorry God. She thought meekly, offering her apologies up to the Lord for looting and stealing, quite literally under his nose. Still, Jesus was all about the 'giving to the poor and needy'. I don't think he'd mind this too much…

At the end of the day, Eponine and her family needed much more than just this bed frame. It wouldn't put that much of a dent in their poverty. Neither would its loss put that much of a dent in the wealth of its owner.

They were just over the first third of the bridge when Grace huffed out a few words.

"Wait, wait, stop, stop, stop…"

She scrunched up her face in pain and lowered her end of the bedframe to the floor. Eponine looked at her with surprise and dropped her end down too.

"Are you really stopping here?!" She hissed at Grace. "In full view of everyone?!"

"I need a break! I'm out of breath…" Grace wheezed.

She danced from foot to foot, eager to try and keep warm in the midst of the cold night, whilst she stretched and flexed her aching fingers.

"Come on! We need to get going!"

"Just give me a second…!" Grace pleaded.

"We'll get caught if we don't get mov-"

"What have I told you about the 'm' word?!" Grace said reproachfully, pointing a finger at Eponine.

But a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Seizing her in a vice of will and determination.

The pain of it made her gasp, the roar of words made her ears sing.

"Stop right there, criminal!"

Grace instinctively tried to yank free of the hand, but it was iron. It was stone. And she was a deer with its leg caught in a trap.

"Oh, fuck..!" Eponine screamed.

"You are under arrest for attempted thievery and-."

"Run! Go!" Grace shouted to her friend, cutting off the booming command of the voice.

Eponine didn't need telling twice. She abandoned the bedframe and went running as fast as her legs could carry her in the opposite direction, disappearing into the softly falling snow.

"You will be detained in La Force prison until you can be brought to trial-"

"Get off me!" Grace screamed, trying to get out of the man's grasp. "Don't touch me!"

When pulling didn't work, she tried pushing. Slamming her shoulder into his bulky frame was like sponge hitting brick. Still, she reeled herself back and tried again, doing more to knock the wind out of her rather than the man who had her.

"You should not struggle. Assault against an Officer comes with its own sentence."

Grace tried to knee the man in between the legs. But he was clearly well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, unlike her. Before she knew it, he had seized her knee and, finding her off-balance, he pushed her to the ground. Her back landed with a hefty thud onto the floor of the bridge. Her boy's hat fell from her head as she wheezed up at the sky.

Stars spun above her.

And fire burned in her lungs and along her shoulder blades.

"My God… Grace?!" The man asked, utter shock in his voice.

Through the mist of her pain, she looked up into the face of the gentleman who had put her on her back. Peering through the darkness of night, and underneath the shadow of his tall top hat, she saw him.

Those wide, but beautiful blue eyes.

"Inspector Javert…" she husked out, rolling on to her side.

"What..?! H-how..?!"

"Pleasure, as always." Grace said with a wince. "Christ on a bike, that hurt…"

He blinked at her odd turn of phrase, wondering for a brief moment what a 'bike' was. Still, he shook his head and tried to re-assemble his flying thoughts.

"Merciful God, forgive me…"

Acute mortification raged through Javert.

He had never been taught to use physical force like that on a woman. Although, from the way she was dressed, he had assumed her to be a boy…

"Are…are you injured, Mademoiselle?"

"Just my pride, I think."

He blinked wordlessly at her as she sat herself up and rubbed at her spine.

The intuition had told him to come back here. An ache in his bones. A niggle in his stomach. Something that hadn't allowed him to rest properly since the last time he'd been in the Place Notre-Dame, breaking up that demonstration. And once he'd started walking, his feet had led him back to the 'scene of the crime'.

He'd been right all along: find Marcelin and he'd find Grace. And the other day, he'd let his eyes deceive him, he'd let himself be fooled by a disguise. Someone who he'd assumed to be just another radicalised student, running over the Pont au Double from his mounted officers, that had been her.

She'd been right in front of him all along.

"Wh-… What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?!" He asked eventually.

"I'm sorry, Inspector…" Grace began with an incredulous look at him. "Unless I'm still being arrested, I fail to see how that is any of your business."

He took a few moments just to look at her. Just to take her in after all those weeks since the night of the soirée. Even his most vivid dreams had been a pale imitation of her. Actually seeing the details of her face, hearing the cadence of her voice, it sent a shiver up his spine that set his whole body on edge.

Still, he noticed just how much thinner she looked since he'd seen her last in Provins.

"Have you eaten recently?" He suddenly blurted out.

"Excuse me?" Grace asked with a frown.

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. She looked at him strangely and Javert wondered which of the two of them was the greater sight: the woman dressed like a man, or the Inspector with his mouth open like a codfish.

He cleared his throat and stood up straight, hoping to begin again.

"Mademoiselle, your guardians bade me search for you." He stated plainly.

"My guardians? Julius and Jocelyn?"

"They… summoned me to Provins." He said, thinking it best to be liberal with the truth for the time being. "After you absconded with your cousin in the middle of the night."

Grace coloured red and looked to the floor. "It's… not what you think, Inspector. I haven't eloped with Marcelin or anything."

Despite himself, Javert's heart gave out a little twinge of something like hope when he heard that.

"So what is it, Mademoiselle?"

"Listen, I told you. Unless I'm still being arrested, I don't see why I should tell-"

"They worry for you, Mademoiselle." Javert cut in swiftly.

Grace closed her mouth as a lump of emotion bobbed in her throat.

"And perhaps, given the circumstances I found you in and the…attire in which you choose to present yourself, their worries are not unfounded."

Grace glanced embarrassedly at the bedframe and looked down at her boy's clothes, smoothing the lapels of her coat self-consciously.

"Look, it's…it's a complicated story."

"I've heard every story in the book, believe me, Mademoiselle." The Inspector said patiently, waiting for her to say more.

Grace sighed and said nothing.

"I could, of course, always continue this… interview from inside La Force. And then you would be obliged to answer my questions, Mademoiselle."

"Alright, alright…" Grace groaned.

She certainly didn't want to be arrested, and she definitely didn't want to spend an unspecified amount of time inside Paris's most infamous prison. She brushed away some snow and took a seat upon the wall of the bridge, letting out a long sigh.

"Please don't… please don't tell Julius and Jocelyn this, but…I was bored in Provins."

"Bored?"

"It wasn't their fault. They both did everything they could to make me feel welcomed and at home at the Chateau. But I'm just not cut out for that life. I couldn't live in that lady's world every day, again and again, for the rest of my life. I would have died of boredom."

Javert digested what she was saying. She had looked bored on that night of the soirée. When he'd first glimpsed her expression across that crowded room, looking out over the party with that slightly vacant expression. He also remembered how his presence had somewhat chased away that vacant mist from her eyes. Him. He'd done that.

His heart twinged with that same feeling again.

He cleared his throat again, chasing down the schoolboy feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

"Go on."

"Well, Paris was calling me. The boy's clothes, they were just a way for me to get here. I know it's ridiculous, but-"

"Not ridiculous at all. There were dozens of women like you in Egypt. Mostly the wives of lower and middle-ranking army Officers. They were mainly hustled up gangways and ushered into boats disguised in men's clothes. There was one Officer, who was in charge of our battalion, whose wife had dressed as a soldier so she could go to war with him. Pauline Fourès was her name. Although we in the infantry called her 'La Bellilote'..."

He stopped abruptly, realising that he was volunteering information to her about his past again. She was watching him too, her searching eyes eager to hear more, but he clamped his mouth shut and built up his walls again.

"Continue…"

"Well… I wasn't exactly following my husband into war, but the sentiment is the same, I guess. What Marcelin was doing, I had to be a part of it. It spoke to me-"

"And what is Marcelin doing?" Javert asked, somewhat forgetting his personal feelings and becoming 'The Inspector' again.

"Is this a welfare-check or an interrogation, Inspector?" Grace asked with a scrunch of disapproval on her face

Javert chided himself. There was no way she was going to give up the details of Marcelin's operation that easily. He'd been a fool to even ask; now she was on the defensive again.

"Well, does Monsieur Enjolras… does he at least provide for your welfare?" Javert asked, looking awkwardly out over the river.

Grace paused for a moment, studying his face carefully. The question took her a little by surprise. For a man who exuded such stoicism and coldness, this sudden stab at familiarity and care was a bit of a shock. His face fell into that same expression that she had seen in the convent rose garden. With those frown-lines and facial tics that she could tell were new to him. But he looked away from her, as if he were trying to hide this new part of himself. Like he was uncomfortable with it.

"Y-yes, I suppose so." She answered unsurely.

"You suppose so?" He pushed.

"I have a roof over my head and friends to watch out for me. Not everyone in this city can say that."

"Friends who ran from you when you were in distress?" Javert asked, briefly glancing in the direction Eponine had fled in.

"I… I told her to run." Grace stuttered. "I was buggered. No point in us both being in trouble."

"Hmm." Javert said, unconvinced.

"She'd do the same for me!" Grace exclaimed.

"If you say so."

Grace ground her jaw and looked indignantly out over the river. She thought about arguing back. Javert had told her that he had no family to speak of, and he inspired fear in the hearts of those who heard his name whispered on the breeze. What did he know about friendship?

"Well, if that will be all Inspector, I think I'll be going now." She said eventually. "You've done your duty and fulfilled your promise to Julius and Jocelyn. Please give them my love."

Grace picked up her boy's hat from off the snowy ground and donned it. She bowed to Javert and turned down the Pont au Double.

Panic filled him. The sight of her walking away from him, possibly forever, made him feel heavy with dread.

"Wait!" He called after her.

Grace paused, spinning on her heels to face the strange Inspector again. She could have just carried on. What did she have to owe him anyway? But she didn't. Something deep in her stomach told her to halt for him.

"M-Monsieur Julius and Madame Jocelyn also bade me to be accountable for your continued welfare too."

"What? I don't understand." Grace said softly. "I'm…I'm not going back to Provins, if that's what you mean. You'd have to force me."

"No, Mademoiselle, no. I cannot force you to do anything. What has happened here is scandalous, yes, but illegal, no."

Grace blushed and put her hands in her pockets. "The theft notwithstanding, I'm assuming." She said, nodding towards the bedframe Javert had caught her trying to loot.

"Indeed. But a young lady such as yourself, a stranger to French soil, and so very… different in your ways and mannerisms…" he paused, eyeing her up in a strange and curious sort of way, making Grace's blush burn fiercer on her face. "…They are, understandably, concerned."

"Yes, but you've seen me now. I'm fine. Everything's fine. You can report back to Provins, like a good soldier, and report your sightings to them."

"Yes, but Mademoiselle, what evidence to the contrary will they have that you're not lying in a gutter somewhere from one week to the next?"

Grace paused and bit her lip.

"Would you deny them that peace of mind, Grace?" Javert pushed, sensing that he was getting though to her. "Their own son has denied them this heartsease. Would you inflict it upon them again?"

"Alright, fine." Grace suddenly said, slumping her shoulders with a deep sigh. "So, what do they want? Some kind of… regular check-in? With you?"

Javert smiled to himself. This was turning out better than expected; she had been the one to suggest meeting again, and on a regular basis. Yes, he'd put the idea in her head, and he'd lied about Jocelyn and Julius's intentions to get there, but it all served a greater good. She could be monitored, and he got to see her again.

"If that pleases you, Mademoiselle."

He'd shrugged his shoulders and tried to look as nonchalant as possible, but inside his heart was galloping.

Grace flapped her arms and huffed. "Fine."

Javert tried to fight the surge of emotion that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"When? Where?" Grace asked.

Javert looked around him. At the bridge, at the softly flowing river beneath them, at Notre-Dame looming in the distance.

"What about right here? This location seems to be rather quiet at this time of night."

Grace looked up at the impressive edifice of Notre-Dame. Despite her roiling irritation and annoyance inside, the sight of the cathedral seemed to calm her racing heart.

"Alright." She conceded. "Here. On this bridge. Midnight."

Javert nodded too.

"But just once a week?" Grace asked quickly.

Javer had to fight hard to hide his disappointment. The reluctance was evident in her voice. She would drag her heels to these meetings, he would look forward to them every waking moment.

"Just once a week." He echoed.

"And it'll just be you? None of your… friends in blue?"

Javert scrunched his face into a frown. "If you are referring to the other men of my battalion, then no. None of them will be joining me. I will come alone."

"Good." Grace said with a nod. "Me too. Don't expect me to hand over Marcelin or anyone else to y-"

"I would not dream of it, Mademoiselle." Javert cut in facetiously.

Grace swallowed hard and nodded again. "Okay."

"An agreement."

Grace extended her hand again, in that same masculine way that she had done at the soirée, and waited for him to shake it.

He extended his own gloved hand and took her palm lightly. It felt odd to be touching her. To be physically connected with her after so many weeks as a metaphysical idea.

Grace stared long into his face, trying hard to understand the odd and slightly pained expression he bore.

Nevertheless, she felt the strange surge of something electric pass through his fingertips and seize her stomach. An arresting sort of sensation that made her stand up a little straighter.

"I uhh…" Grace mumbled, feeling a little thrown. "I guess I should go then."

Javert released her hand and folded his arms behind his back. He nodded simply and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"Until next week, Mademoiselle." He replied.

Grace was a little unsure of herself. She turned to leave, hesitating for a moment and turning back to The Inspector. She was expecting a catch or a twist of some sort. But he merely nodded at her again, giving her something that felt like a reassuring smile.

Without a backwards glance, she took of jogging down the bridge. Soon her figure had disappeared into the snowfall, just as her accomplice had moments ago. Javert stood still for a long while, trying to process everything that had happened.

The first emotion he named within himself was relief. He had found her. After weeks of nothing, he had found her.

But then came the fear. He had let her go. Back into the rookeries and hovels, into a city that was infested with cholera. Yes, he'd managed to cajole her into meeting him weekly, but would she make it to next week?

And then came a niggling doubt. Would she come back at all? He had no reason to believe that she would keep her promise, other than blind trust.

And then his eyes found the wooden bedframe again. Left unattended, it had gathered quite a few millimetres of snow, sitting abandoned in the middle of the bridge. Realising that he'd been rather unceremoniously left with it, his first thought was, What am I going to do with this infernal thing?

But then a shiver ran up his spine.

She stole this.

Stole it.

And I let her go.

There had once been a time, not long ago, when he would have arrested his own mother and father if he was obliged to. Such was his obedience to the Law.

Perhaps the biggest revelation tonight had been the simple fact that he, the great and unmoving pillar of Legalism, had allowed a criminal to walk free. He'd chosen to let her go.

Another small part of him shifted and cracked. He'd hauled men into prison cells with his bare hands. Turned the other cheek when women were wailing for mercy from him. Put irons on the smallest of bare-footed children to the thinnest, skeletal old women.

His hunger to see the Law served had fed him for years. And now he had pushed it aside, as if it had somehow gone stale.

He turned to the facade of Notre-Dame, his haunted face searching for some kind of comfort from the Lord.

"Christ in Heaven, what's wrong with me?!" He breathed out shallowly.

But neither God nor he was able to admit to him what had changed him so. Not yet, anyhow.

But it didn't feel like a disease, or an affliction, or a hysteria. It felt much more pleasant than that. And he was as foreign to pleasure as the stars were to sunlight.