Chapter 37 - Could I Have Your Courage?
Grace was ready to beg, scream, kick… do whatever she needed to do to protect Javert.
Valjean took a step towards Javert and her blood ran cold.
"Don't you touch him… DON'T YOU TOUCH HIM!"
She thrust out her feet to kick at his shins. The bonds at her wrists screamed in pain as she fought against them.
"Calm yourself!" Valjean hissed. "I do not wish to kill him."
"You don't wish to, but you will regardless." Javert scoffed.
"I do not want to either!" Valjean replied. "Have you learned nothing during the last twenty years, Inspector?"
Javert glowered at Valjean, staring suspiciously at him. "Then why ask for my life?"
Valjean's hard face showed the slightest glimmer of discomfort. The old man's eyes looked over Javert's face and took in each one of the bruises and cuts that he'd earned from Bahorel's beating. Valjean's eye twitched, a small empathetic wince of pain, and he quickly looked at his boots, at the blade concealed in his hands. His brow crinkled into a frown.
"Those boys out there, they would have killed you if left to it." he whispered. "They still might, if you remain here."
"And what do you care?" Javert asked. "Surely that's exactly what you want. To have me wiped off the face of this earth. No one to track you any longer. No one to mark you for the criminal that you are."
Valjean scoffed at him. He crouched down low and hovered at Javert's side. Grace gasped as the blade edged closer to him. Javert too shrank back from its metallic shine. Valjean waited until Javert met his eyes, as patient as a father talking to his petulant toddler.
"You are wrong." he said quietly. "You are so, so wrong, Inspector."
"Am I?" Javert growled. "The last time I saw you, you damn near bashed my brains out with the holy words!"
"I do not take pride in causing injury or pain. But all the harm I've ever done, I did out of desperation. Surely you must realise that?"
"Sounds like the excuses of a crimina-"
"And since I was shown the way, I have tried to do good in every step I took through this world."
"Once a thief, always a thief!" Javert spat.
Valjean sighed and softly shook his head. "I know you can't truly believe that, Inspector."
Javert opened his mouth to argue back, but he glimpsed Grace's face beyond Valjean's shoulder. Her eyes were wide with fright. Her cheeks wet with tears. But she was still beautiful in his eyes. Still extraordinary and spectacular. His whole understanding of the world, of the universe had changed, because of her. Javert recalled to mind all of the things that had changed him since he'd met her. All the things that had slowly picked apart his black and white mind…
He'd been about to bite Jean Valjean's head off for the mere suggestion that his moral compass had wavered. But hadn't he considered abandoning the Prèfecture? Hadn't he been prepared to double cross the organisation that had cared for and nurtured him over the years? The boys of the cafe wouldn't believe him now if he told them that, but it didn't change the fact that he'd contemplated it.
Valjean seemed to sense the hesitancy in him. The questioning that swam behind his eyes.
"Are you too proud to accept help from the likes of me when it is offered to you?" he pressed.
"And what would you have from me in return?" Javert asked, his brow dark with suspicion. "To let you go, I suppose. Forget I ever saw you. Let you slip back into obscurity without having answered for your crimes."
"Would that be so bad?" Valjean asked.
"He is a good man, Javert…" Grace piped up. "He cut roses for me in Provins. He brought me to Cosette when I needed a friend…"
"He cast you out of his house when you needed sheltering!" Javert cried.
"Because… because he was scared of you. Because he was afraid I'd bring you to him. Quite frankly, if I'd had you hunting me for the past twenty years, I'd want to run and hide as fast as I could too!"
Valjean huffed out a dry laugh. Javert glared at him with acid eyes. The old man cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to hide his small grin from them both.
"Well…" Javert grumbled, looking bashfully at the floor. "It's pointless for us to even entertain this conversation. I wouldn't leave without her."
He nodded his head at Grace and Valjean tracked the line of his eyes.
"Javert, he's right." Grace said, imploring him to see sense. "And now Combeferre and Joly are both dead…it will only increase their hatred of you. You heard what Courfeyrac said outside…"
"And what about you?! Hmm?" Javert asked, his voice desperate and afraid. "You're just as much of a traitor in their eyes as I am."
"They won't hurt me."
Javert scoffed and shook his head.
"They won't!" Grace repeated, trying to sound confident in her conviction. "They know me too well. I've laughed and cried with them. I've sung songs with them in the cafe…Plus, I'm a woman. They might all be fired up, but they're the sons of gentlemen. They wouldn't hurt a lady."
"You truly expect me to leave you?! My extraordinary woman…" Javert asked, his eyes choked with tears. "I was put on this earth to protect you, that much I know for certain now!"
"You have protected me." Grace said, crying softly. "You have. But now, you have to-"
"And what am I meant to do when the National Guard attack again? Watch from the other side of the barricade?!"
"I remembered… I remembered what you asked me in my chambers." Grace said hurriedly.
Javert looked at her with a deep frown of confusion.
"About…the tide of history." she continued.
She cast a nervous glance over to Jean Valjean, hoping that what she was alluding to wasn't being picked up by him. She looked back to Javert and waited for the lightbulb moment to illuminate his face. After a moment or two, she clocked the hard line of his brows lift slightly…
"You mean…you are certain? This is it?"
She nodded. Unable to quite articulate her lie. But this was it. This was the only way she'd get Javert to leave her side.
"The…the barricade will not fall?"
She shook her head.
"How can you be certain?" Jean Valjean asked her.
"I…" she began nervously. "I feel it in my bones."
Valjean seemed happy with her explanation, but when she glanced back to Javert, his face looked pained and conflicted.
"Swear to me." he said softly.
Grace swallowed hard. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to summon up the last dregs of bravery that she had. It was uncomfortable. It hurt her. Physically hurt to betray him like this. Lying to him felt like twisting a knife deeper and deeper into her guts, but if it saved a knife from burrowing into his…
"I swear."
Javert leaned back heavily against the post he was tied to. He took a long moment to think, and Grace thought that he was going to dig his heels in and refuse to leave. All her lying would have gone to waste. But then, he fixed Jean Valjean in his steely gaze, and with a quick flick of his head towards the bonds on his hands, he finally spoke.
"Do it."
Valjean cut the rope from off of Javert's wrists.
"What now?" Grace asked as Javert brought his arms forwards and rubbed at the sore skin on his hands. "How are you going to get him out of here?"
Valjean stood to his feet and extended a hand down to Javert. Javert eyed it up contemptuously, but eventually lay his palm into Valjean's. The old man pulled him up with an easy strength. Javert groaned as the bruises from his beating barked with pain.
"I shall take him a few streets away. Bring a pistol with me. And when you hear a shot, hopefully the others will believe that I put a bullet into his head and say no more of it. Hopefully you'll be able to make your own way to a place of safety after that, Inspector."
Javert bent to his knees and seized Grace's face. His hands were trembling as he kissed her firmly on her mouth.
"I will find you…" he breathed shakily. "I will find you when all of this is over."
Grace wished she could kiss him again, but she looked at him with a heavy feeling of resignation in her heart. She didn't want him to sense her fear. She didn't want him to taste the lie on her tongue.
"I love you…" she whispered weakly to him.
"I love you too."
"Take him. Quickly!" she said to Valjean. "Before the boys start to wonder what's going on in here."
Valjean seized him by the arm and Javert was hauled to his feet once more. He was wrenched from her in a sudden gust of cold air that left her feeling bereft and empty. She could feel the ghost of his last kiss on her lips. The warmth of his breath lingering on her cheeks. But Valjean continued to haul him roughly out of the tavern. And after one final glance back over his shoulder, he was gone.
She hung her head low as she listened to the footsteps of Javert and Valjean recede into the distance. A series of cruel and crude shouts of approval went up from the boys of the cafe as Javert was hauled through the camp.
"That's right! Show him how we treat traitors, Monsieur!"
"Make sure he feels the bite of lead!"
Grace's vision was watery once more as she looked around the tavern for comfort. She felt like she'd cried all of the moisture out of her body. Like she'd cried more in the last twenty-four hours than she had done in her whole life. She wondered how she'd ever wasted tears before on breakups or the ending of Titanic when something as terrible and destructive as this had been waiting for her in her future. Before, she'd always believed herself to be a tough and hard woman. But that was clearly the privilege of growing up in a soft world like 2023. Her insides were no tougher than a blancmange.
Now, with Javert gone, she felt alone and weak. She'd tried to remain strong and sure in front of him. Had tried to at least pretend that she felt the slightest hints of courage. And she knew that she'd probably saved his life by convincing him to leave her behind, but now, in the emptiness of the tavern, she let her fear show.
She looked around the tavern for Eponine. Her body lay in the shadows not far from where Grace had been tied up. The flag of France was still draped over her body, and she could see the faint outline of her face underneath the cloth.
"You were always so brave." she whispered to Eponine. "So, so brave…Even when you were alone. I tried to do what you told me. Lock the fear down somewhere deep and hidden with all the other things that made me weak. But I'm still frightened. I don't even have an ounce of the courage you had."
She paused for a short while, listening for the sound of the pistol that Valjean had promised her. There was silence out beyond the tavern.
"If I could have any bit of you, it would be your courage." she continued, talking to Eponine as if she could hear her. "If you can, give me a bit. You gave me so much, but I just need a bit more from you before you go. I followed him into the mouth of Hell, just like you said, and now I'm too afraid to claw my way out. I don't know how to get myself out. Help me, Eponine… Help me… My brave, brave friend. You don't need your courage any more, so could I have it?"
The shot rang through the air.
So loud and so sudden that it made her jump.
Grace knew that it was just for show, as Valjean had explained to her, but she sobbed nonetheless.
Despite the strong words and shows of bravado from the boys before, no one made a sound as they heard the echo of the gunshot ring out to nothing.
Valjean slinked back into the camp eventually. He gave Grace a quick and furtive glance. So did Enjolras and a few of the other boys. She didn't have to try hard to look distraught, and when she began weeping again, her tears were genuine. Perhaps more relief than grief, but real all the same.
For a long while, she sat alone in the silence. The darkness of the night eventually swallowed up the tavern and the light of the moon was pale and sickly through the smashed in window.
She could hear the boys chatting amiably in the distance. Once or twice, she heard someone laugh as they shared memories of happier times or tried to buoy each other up when their moods sank low. Grace liked hearing them talk and laugh with one another. She could picture all of their faces as they talked. All of them, so well known and familiar to her now, that she could tell who was speaking just from the pitch and timbre of their voice in the distance. It was almost like any other evening in the cafe. The sounds of their voices in those low and distant conversations reminded her of the times when they'd discuss politics or women or food… When the warmth and welcome of their friendship had made her heart glow. When the future was far away and nothing was more important than who was buying the next round.
But eventually, even the sounds of the boys in conversation stopped. The striking bells of midnight sounded out and even the boys fell quiet.
Left alone to her own thoughts, and with nothing to distract her from herself, she emptied her mind of everything. She didn't think of home, her mother, Wilf, Javert, nothing… She couldn't. It hurt too much. Her head swam with nothingness. And she wished the darkness would just take her.
Grace looked up as she heard the approach of someone coming into the tavern. Grantaire looked green as he stumbled towards her. He had a bottle of something in his hand, which wasn't unusual for him, but it looked empty.
"I thought…you could do with a visitor…" he said haltingly.
Grace didn't quite know what to say. Surely he'd heard the shot in the distance. To Grantaire's mind, they'd just killed her lover in cold blood. And he thought 'she could do with a visitor'…?
"This…is no good, is it." Grantaire slurred, waving his head around the inside of the tavern.
"Do you mean just my situation, or the whole damn show?" Grace asked dryly.
"Eponine, Combeferre, Joly…all of them gone in the blink of an eye. And I'm sorry about your chap too. The Inspector."
Grace closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Mentioning Javert in the same breath as the dead felt too much like flirting with fate. She made a show of looking upset for Grantaire, but she quickly cleared her throat and tried to move on.
"And let me guess, you've been raising the toast to absent friends." Grace said, pointing her eyes at the empty bottle in his hands.
"Pardon a man some liquid courage in these trying times, Grace."
She hung her head low and sighed softly. "You got any left?"
Grantaire snorted and approached her slowly. He bent down before her and tipped the bottle of brandy to her lips. There were only a few dregs left, but she drank them down, feeling the amber glow of the alcohol as it ran down her throat.
"Is Enjolras happy with you sharing a drink with a traitor like me?" She asked.
"He's resting. Courfeyrac is on watch, but the rest of us are meant to be catching a few moments of sleep."
"Finding it hard to nod off?" She asked sardonically.
Grantaire let loose a long puff of air and rubbed at his face. "I've seen a lot of animals die, Grace. Stags kicking and bleeding on the forest floor. Pheasants flapping mangled wings as they try to get away… But when I saw Combeferre and Joly fall…"
He stopped, his words trailing off into the darkness.
She resented the boys of the cafe a little. They had each other tonight, and Grace had been left alone. More so, they'd beaten Javert something fierce when they'd found out who he really was. But Grantaire… she'd always had a soft spot for Grantaire. Ever since she'd shared that cigarette with him outside the cafe and she'd felt the same vibration of sadness in him that was in her.
"I'd…I'd never seen someone die before… all of this either." She said quietly.
"It was like… their life meant nothing at all. Like they'd never laughed and screamed and sighed and loved…Like they were just one more death of thousands, millions, hundreds of millions…Just one more life."
Grace nodded vacantly. It was a tragedy. The waste of their lives was a tragedy.
"And I dare not tell anybody that I am afraid, Grace." Grantaire said, dipping his voice low. "I fear that they'd look at me differently. They have all shouldered the loss so bravely. Whereas I, who was blooded by the hunt long before any of them even picked up a rifle, I can't close my eyes without seeing their faces."
"You're scared. It's only normal to be scared in a place like this."
"But I couldn't bear for Enjolras to know I am scared." He said hoarsely. "Drunk, crass, rude, abrasive…but afraid?"
"He will be afraid too." Grace said. "He might be too proud to show it, but he'll be saving face for you all."
"He still believes the people will rise. He has faith, not fear. He still says that the good folk of Paris will rally to our side eventually."
Grace sighed. She hoped desperately that her lie to Javert turned out to be true. If it wasn't, then she didn't know how she was going to survive this night.
"And I know that most of us are now out of rounds." Grantaire grumbled. "I only have half a dozen left-"
"I would advise you not to discuss the state of our ammunition with a traitor, Grantaire." Enjolras cut in swiftly.
Grantaire gasped and shot to his feet. Enjolras was standing over the both of them, arms crossed and his face as stern as vengeance itself.
"For the love of God, I told you, I'm not a traitor!" Grace protested.
"You." Enjolras said pointedly at Grantaire. "Back to your rest. Now."
Grantaire shot Grace a quick glance. She tried to give him a reassuring smile; she didn't want him to be afraid in the night to come. She didn't want any of the boys to be afraid. Her throat went tight as Grantaire tried to find his courage and smiled weakly back at her. Still, his dark eyes dragged back over to Enjolras. With another curt bob of his head, Enjolras ordered him out of the tavern again. Grantaire staggered out of the cafe with his cheeks a deep crimson and his eyes brimming with shame.
"Enjolras. Listen to me." Grace called out to him again. "You're in danger. You need all the help you can muster. Now Combeferre and Joly are gone, maybe you're in a better mood to actually hear what I have to say…"
Enjolras bristled with annoyance, but she pressed on regardless.
"I never told the Inspector anything about you. If I had, don't you think the Préfecture would have shut you down long before tonight?"
"But you knew he was a spy. And you brought him here regardless. You lied to me about who he was."
"Alright, fine! Yes! Yes I did!" Grace said shortly. "But what does it matter now? He's… he's dead. You had him executed for his crime."
"Why?" Enjolras asked quietly. "Why would you betray me like that?"
She looked into his eyes for a long moment. There was hurt there. And perhaps it was the first time she'd seen genuine sorrow in his face. He didn't allow himself to be vulnerable ever. Especially not now, when the revolution he'd moulded with his own hands was at risk of crumbling down.
"If I'd have told you I loved him… That he made me feel safe… That I couldn't fathom going into this without him by my side, would it have made a difference?"
Enjolras made no reply. He turned to leave and Grace thought she'd squandered her last chance to speak with him. But he paused, one hand resting on the wooden doorframe.
"The people are not stirring." He said quietly. So quietly that Grace almost missed it. "I am afraid that no one will have come to aid us by the morning. And when the National Guard realise that, they'll attack again, and we'll have nought to defend ourselves with."
Grace wondered how much courage it had taken for Enjolras to say 'I am afraid'. How much pride had he forced himself to shed before admitting that to her. And Grace knew that she was the only person he'd ever admit that to. Not Courfeyrac, not Marius, not Grantaire… He couldn't. Couldn't ever. Otherwise their vision of him would forever be tarnished. They'd followed him into battle, and there was no way he could turn around to face them with fear in his eyes now.
"And I feel like the Lord God is testing me. Dozens of felled men lie on the other side of the barricade with belts full of powder and bags brimming with musket shots… Gavroche volunteered to go out there to fetch them back for us, but I couldn't… I couldn't let him go. Not after what you said to me." He paused, turning around to meet Grace's eye. "Because you are right. If I use children to fight this battle for us… If I knowingly put him in harm's way, then I really am no better than that crone who tried to sell me her daughter."
"Enjolras…" Grace breathed, her heart growing heavier inside her.
"But I can't spare anyone else. With two of us already gone, I can't risk losing any more of us if it were to go wrong."
"Then let me go." Grace suddenly found herself saying.
Enjolras stared at her, utterly lost for words. But somehow Grace felt rosy and calm. A feeling of courage filled her up that made her hold her head higher. She had asked for bravery, and it had suddenly come to her. Like it had been breathed into her face by an invisible spirit. Maybe it was Eponine. Maybe it was her kidding herself. Either way, she held Enjolras's stare and repeated her declaration.
"I'll go over the barricade."
"I don't think you understand." Enjolras sighed. "If you're seen-"
"Do you need the bullets or not?!" Grace said shortly.
She let silence settle over them for a moment, letting the idea seep into Enjolras's brain for a few more seconds.
"Cut me free, and I'll go. I'll go so Gavroche doesn't have to. I'll go so no one else has to."
Enjolras looked nervously over his shoulder. No one else was awake. No one else had heard their conversation. If this was a question of saving face, then there wasn't anyone who he'd have to explain himself to. Eventually, he looked back at Grace and let out a long, tense breath.
"Alright." He uttered.
Before she even had time to reply, Enjolras had made his way over to her and swiftly cut the bonds from her hands.
Her shoulders ached with soreness as she flexed and moved them back to a normal position. Enjolras helped her to her feet and held her arms until her legs had stopped shaking.
"Are you prepared to go now?" Enjolras asked. "We could be attacked again at any moment. And I'd feel better knowing we all had enough musket shots to-"
"Yes. I'll go now." Grace interrupted quickly.
She looked at Enjolras for a beat and flung her arms around him. Something inside her told her to hold him close. Pull him tight to her. Like he was a brother going away to study abroad and she wouldn't be seeing him again for a while.
"I wish you really were my cousin…" she whispered to him. "You're stubborn…and headstrong… But I can see why the Story Teller put me with you. Maybe they're traits that run in the family, ehh?!"
"You aren't making sense, Grace." Enjolras said, waiting for her to release him from her embrace.
"Did I ever?" She scoffed.
"No. Not really..." Enjolras replied, looking Grace squarely in the eye as she backed away from him. He gave her a warm and golden smile of genuine affection. "But that's why I always found you so intriguing."
"How long till dawn?" Javert asked Malloirave as they walked through the ranks of the National Guard.
"Not long, Sir."
The young man trotted after him, struggling to keep up with Javert as he pushed his way through the crowds of soldiers.
"That's when the next attack is scheduled, yes?" Javert asked.
"Yes, sir. But how did you-"
"Move into place and amass your reinforcements under the cover of darkness, and then attack when the enemy may still be sleeping and you can see your way clear." Javert responded succinctly.
He didn't have time to explain to Malloirave that a dawn attack had been standard practise in Napoleon's Armies, and Malloirave did not press further. Perhaps the boy was finally learning that it was best not to go prying into his past. It never seemed that far away. No matter how far he ran from it.
"How many are here now?" Javert asked.
"The four o'clock count totalled three hundred, Sir."
Javert cast a nervous eye around the blue-clad soldiers. There were more, way more than he'd been expecting. Clearly they'd swelled their numbers with reinforcements during the night.
"But Grace said… Grace said the barricade would not fall…" he muttered to himself.
They could amass as many men as they liked. As many horses. As many canons. As many grapeshots ...It wouldn't matter because Grace had told him that this was the wrong side of history. But as he cast his experienced soldier's eye around the military men in the camp that morning, a pang of anxiety squeezed at his guts.
"What was that, Sir?"
"Nothing, Corporal."
He hurried off in another direction. His stomach churning restlessly as he took in all of the soldiers, all of the rifles, all of the heavy artillery…
Finding his way back to the Army's line of defence after Jean Valjean had let him go had taken the rest of the night. He'd used the sewers for a while. Then the deserted streets. All the while hearing the echo of Valjean's mercy, that gunshot, ringing in his ears. A patrolling unit of mounted officers had wanted to shoot him near the Rue Solaris, but luckily, one of the cavalrymen had recognised him and brought him back to the camp.
Once he was back amongst the men of his battalion, Malloirave had emerged with his tophat and his heavy leather coat. He had slipped them both on, feeling like he was becoming himself again. Still, he hadn't been able to hide the welts and bruises on his body from Malloirave when he'd shed himself of his civilian disguise. The newly promoted Colonel had eyed him up cautiously, his eyes swimming with questions, but had forced himself to bite them back.
"Is there a vantage point, Colonel? Somewhere where we can observe the enemy?"
"A few of the Guardsmen have been using the apartment buildings on either side of the barricade, sir." he replied, pointing up to the building to their left. "But there's been no movement all night."
Javert took off without so much as a backwards glance. Malloirave followed, his heels clacking behind him.
"Sir… Sir!" he called after him. "I think the Prèfet will be expecting an update from you!"
"To hell with him!" Javert grumbled, reaching the door to the apartments.
"But, Sir! Your mission..!"
"It won't matter what I tell him now! The tide of history is moving around us!"
There was a pause of silence as the young Corporal grappled for what to say.
"Are you…Are you feeling quite alright, Sir?" Malloirave asked, struggling to keep up with Javert as he took the stairs two or three steps at a time. "Those boys at the barricade. Did they hurt you?"
Javert winced as the memory of one of Bahorel's punches flashed across his eyes. He paused for a moment, one hand resting on the bannister and the other pressed against the swollen cut on his temple. There was still pain in his skull, and quick, sudden movements had his ribs aching, but he couldn't concentrate on his own injuries now. Nevertheless, Javert was touched that Malloirave seemed genuinely concerned for his wellbeing. Looking after him, yet again. But this time, there wasn't time for the young man to put him to bed and bring him a tray of eggs cocotte…
"Nothing I couldn't survive, Colonel." he said evasively. "But they weren't best pleased when I was discovered and my cover was compromised. It's why I had to flee."
"And…how did you flee, Sir?"
Javert swallowed hard. He powered on up the stairs without answering Malloirave's question. How could he even begin to explain what had happened between he and Jean Valjean? How would he even begin to explain why he had left Grace behind there?
The first pink and yellow hues of the pre-dawn were just creeping over the horizon when Javert reached the top floor. He strode towards a group of sharpshooters who were all sitting together, sharing a cigar and a mug of coffee. They all had dark circles around their eyes. Their heavy, blue coat collars were pulled up against the chill that still lingered in the air. It had been a long night for everyone…
"You there!" Javert called out to the nearest of them. "Any more incidents since the last attack?" "None, sir." the soldier sighed. "It's been too dark to see, really. But now it's almost dawn, we'll keep an eye out for any glinting buttons or glasses frames."
Javert approached the open window, where one of the men was standing duty, looking down the barrel of his rifle at the barricade. He pushed the man aside without ceremony.
"Oi!" the sharpshooter on duty protested.
Javert didn't pay the man any heed. He hung himself almost out of the window, looking down at the tangled mass of wood and nails and timber with breathless anxiety. There were bodies scattered about the no-man's-land, twisted and unmoving, most of them wearing the royal blue of the National Guard. Still, his keen eyes searched the wreckage, looking for something, anything that might have hinted at where Grace was.
"Hey, Guillaume, do you see what I see?" One of the other sharpshooters said behind him.
The soldier who stood beside Javert turned to look at his colleague with a frown. "What?"
"Down there, by the smashed up cart."
The soldier pointed past Javert's shoulder, down into the desolate wasteland in front of the barricade. From so high up and so far away, he couldn't initially see where the soldier meant. But eventually his eyes found the upturned cart in amongst the rubble, one wheel spinning in the early morning light.
"Must have been a rat." The soldier replied. "They'll be having a feast down there."
"No, no. Keep looking. There's something behind that wheel."
Javert felt his pulse quickening. His skin prickled with dread. Short, sharp breaths hissed out of his panting mouth. As the moments passed, he stared unblinkingly at that cart. So long and so hard that his vision began to blur and vibrate. He looked at that spot for so long, he began to believe the marksman had clearly made up seeing something…until he saw a hand on the turning wheel.
Javert gasped aloud.
So did many of the other watchers on the top floor of the apartment building.
"Is that…someone still alive down there?" Malloirave asked.
"Can't be. The poor bugger would've been lying there for hours and bleeding from God knows where." The marksman known as Guillaume said. "Plus, we would've heard him screaming or crying out for help in the night. And it's been as quiet as the tomb of Jesus himself out there, hasn't it boys?"
The other members of the National Guard all made general humming noises of agreement.
The hand gripped the wheel with fierceness, pulling and pulling until Javert saw the top of a head rise up from out of the gloom.
He was too shocked to speak. Terror had turned his tongue to sludge in his mouth. His limbs as heavy as iron.
"Oh-ho-ho! Boys, I think we've caught ourselves a scavenger!" Guillaume chuckled.
"I spotted him. I should be the one to take him out!" The other marksman whined. He shook Guillaume's shoulder and tried to pull him away from the window.
Meanwhile, Javert tried to shake himself free of the mind-numbing fear that had gripped him.
"What… What are they even doing out there?" Malloirave asked.
"Probably searching for extra bullets on the dead." Another soldier sighed. "Must've snuck over the ramparts when it was still dark."
The figure down amongst the rubble and the bodies slid their way over the death and carnage. Head low, face concealed in shadow, they wouldn't have been noticeable had they not been pointed out earlier. Their movements were slow and deliberate, as if they were afraid that if they moved too much in one go, they'd be spotted. It was almost heartbreaking, knowing that they'd already been sighted, when they were trying so hard to go unnoticed…
"Get off me!" Guillaume grumbled, pushing away the Guard who was jostling at his shoulder. "Get off!"
"C'mon, Guillaume! Get 'em before they get behind something else!"
"Tell him to get off me then!" The marksman exclaimed.
Javert didn't even want to think the thought that had made his heart pound like a drum. The thought that had made him break out in a bitterly cold sweat. He didn't know who it was who was crawling around the mess and death down there, but the ice that swept over his skin told him everything he needed to know. It was the only time in his life that he hated feeling 'the intuition'. But he knew. He knew…
"Let him have a go, Adolphus!" Another soldier chided the man shaking at Guillaume's shoulders.
"No…" Javert whispered, finally finding his voice. "No! Stand down, Soldier!"
"What?! But they're right there!"
"Stand down, I said!" Javert roared.
He grabbed at the marksman's rifle, tugging it sharply away from the barricade. The soldier fought back, grunting and huffing as he fought to regain control of his gun.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" The marksman growled, knuckles turning white as he held on to the rifle.
"We've had orders to shoot anyone we see down there, Inspector!"
"All of you, stand down! Do not shoot!"
His voice sounded almost manic now. His eyes were fierce and huge.
"Sir, what is it? What's wrong?!" Malloirave asked.
"We don't take orders from you! You aren't our commanding officer!" One of the other soldiers roared back at Javert.
He was locked in a test of strength now. Him and the other guardsman wrestled with one another, the rifle dancing between them as it bobbed from side to side. Teeth gritted, eyes burning with fire.
"He's mad! Get him away from me!" Guillaume grunted.
The other marksmen descended upon Javert and lay their hands all over his body. They heaved and pulled, but Javert's fear had made him strong. He held on to the rifle with lock-jawed force. A limpet refusing to be pried off a rock. Not even when four men, Malloirave amongst them, were heaving at his back did he let go.
His roar was ear-shattering.
He felt his fingers slipping loose of the gun.
The marksmen groaned and cried as they tried to pry him off it.
He couldn't let go. He wouldn't let go.
But his arms ached. His fingertips slipped over the glossed wood. His strength was no match for the men pulling and straining at his body.
And the whisper of the wind kissed his fingers when the rifle slipped from his grasp.
He fell back. A tangle of bodies crashing into the floor. For a moment, the stars swam above him in the indigo light of dawn. Most of them had disappeared by now. Melting back into the sky until the next night came. They didn't want to be here. They didn't want to see this…
He blinked, struggling against the flailing limbs and groaning bodies around him.
"Don't…don't shoot…" he murmured.
"Hold him down. I've got a good line of sight." The marksman named Guillaume said, without looking over his shoulder.
Javert raised his head just enough to see him rest the barrel over the window frame, a long steady breath passing through him as he took aim.
"No..! Please!"
He lurched for the man, but the hands that had held him before grabbed at his body again.
"Inspector Javert! Please! Calm yourself!" Malloirave said in his ear.
"No! Don't!" He roared at the marksman. He kicked like a wild beast. Struggled like an ensnared boar. "NO! NO!"
And the marksman cracked off his shot.
The Story Teller had, of course, read books about the June Rebellion.
His face was firm. His wild hair blowing in the early-morning breeze.
As he stood on the roof of the apartments that lined the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he looked down on the world and tried to bring to mind everything that he recalled from those books:
"The barricade fell on the 6th of June, 1832.
40,000 members of the National Guard, led by the Comte de Lobau, mounted a final attack against the Revolutionary Republicans.
A swift volley of Gribauval cannon shots and grenades brought down the last of the Republican's defences.
Men of all ages fought and died on the barricade. Old soldiers in their sixties, and boys as young as 14-16 years of age.
Louis-Philippe rode through the streets, after the uprising had been crushed, to show that he had control back of his capital. Soldiers applauded him as he passed them by.
73 soldiers of the French army were killed.
All of the insurgents lost their lives."
But the Story Teller had to confess…reading about the event was an utterly reductive experience. Especially when compared to seeing it play out beneath his feet.
Mankind had written of war and battle and death since the beginning of time, but even he, who had been present when Homer wrote of the fall of Troy, when Sun Tzu had penned the 'Art of War', when Alfred Tennyson had published 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'… even he found it hard to hear the conclusion of this story. Even he couldn't help but shed a tear as he watched the barricade fall that morning.
