Chapter 17 - Lost in the Stars

General Napoleon cast his arm out over the sands and ordered them into the desert. After the swift takeover of Alexandria, the French were keen to push on, towards the capital city. Javert and Burgelesse had been given barely three days' rest before they were ordered to move-out. And like the naive fool he was, Javert had stepped into the desert feeling like he could already see Cairo down the barrel of his rifle.

What had followed was a back-breaking, gruelling, and punishing push through the desolate sand-plains.

And in between the enervating heat in the day, and the sharp coldness of the night, it felt more like a slow crawl to death rather than a push.

Each day, the Officers' thermometers soared almost to 100 Fahrenheit and beyond.

The canteens emptied alarmingly quickly, and Napoleon had not sent the water wagons after them to replenish them. Nor had the food supplies managed to keep up with their advance. And as soon as the locals caught wind that the French were coming, they fled with their livestock. Occasionally, one of the men might happen upon a small cache of dried dates or lentils, left behind in the abandoned villages in the desert, but these were hardly enough to feed the whole battalion.

"It was better in Italy." Burgelesse told him. "If our supply chains failed, we could live off the land. Get food from the locals. Drink from their wells. But here… well, you can't live off dust, can you."

So, the men had to make do with the oranges they'd bought from Malta and the weevil-infested biscuits from the sailing ships.

More often than not, the village wells had been filled in with stones and refuse too. The men did their best to clear the rubble away, but when they did, all they found at the bottom was a brackish, muddy water that they'd scoop up with their cups and try to distribute around in small measures like shots of brandy.

The cold of the night was the only relief from the punishing heat of the desert.

Then, the men of the battalion would face a new kind of torment. A shivering, freezing cold that surged into their cores and had them huddling together like lost sheep on the mountain.

Luckily, tonight the men had managed to find some firewood amongst the burnt remains of the Egyptian village they'd come across on that day's march. But whilst most men watched the dancing flames, Javert was watching the sky.

That great expanse of twinkling beauty that he'd seen on his first night in Egypt was spread out above him. As if God was somehow covering the worn and weary men with a blanket of wonder to make amends for the ugliness of the day.

Napoleon had brought with him a number of 'savants' in his retinue. Artists and chemists and physicists and mathematicians. A variety of learned men from the top universities in France to come to learn from Egypt. Most of the rank-and-file soldiers referred to them as 'the donkeys', because of their slightly braying, posh voices. Thus, they tended to be steered well clear of. And no one wanted to help drag their carts of heavy equipment and apparatus through the desert when carrying just your rifle and back pack felt draining enough.

However, one evening, Javert had found himself curiously sniffing around the tent of one of the savants travelling with his battalion. Star maps and charts were spread out all over the floor, strange equipment being tinkerer and toyed with.

"You there!" The savant called out to him.

Javert instantly stiffened and stood up straight.

"Bring me that sextant there, if you wouldn't mind."

Javert glanced in the general direction that the man had pointed, seeing a table with a variety of papers and maps laid out on top of it, as well as a strange angular, metallic device.

"Come on, man! The sextant!"

Javert grabbed the device, hoping that it was what the savant had asked for. He walked over to the man, who stood beside a great brass telescope, staring down the lens with rapt fascination. Javert relaxed a little when the savant took it from his hands without protest, turning back to his telescope without a word of thanks.

He would have walked away, mumbling under his breath about the haughtiness of 'the donkeys', had the savant not seized his sleeve.

"Look! It's the Aldebaran! I've never seen it so clear…"

He backed away from the telescope and bade Javert peer into it. He scrunched up his face suspiciously, but the savant waved him at it again. Slowly, he lowered himself to the lens of the telescope and saw the stars up close for the first time.

"Can you see The Hyades just above it too? Beautiful, are they not?"

"Incredible…" Javert breathed back.

The savant, Javert learned, was called Laplace. A mathematician and astronomer who used lots of complicated words that Javert didn't understand. Each night, when the rest of the troupe were exhausted and broken, Javert would volunteer himself to assist Laplace in setting up his instruments. In return, Laplace taught him how to focus the telescope, so he could appreciate the stars' beauty more closely. He taught him how to find the Bull and The Hunter and the Great Bear in the sky, so he could put names to their shining faces. And he taught him how to navigate himself north with Polaris, just in case he ever needed the stars to guide him.

The other soldiers told him that he was a fool to actively volunteer himself for more labour. "You ain't getting paid any more to be that donkey's lackie, y'know."

But Javert ignored them. Even in the darkness the stars gave off light, not despair. And he wished, he wished desperately, that he could learn that from them.

And just when the men thought that the frigid cold of night would never cease, the sun would rise again. But with the rising of the sun also came what the locals called the 'khamsin'. Or, as the French came to call it, the 'poisoned winds'. The atmosphere became dark in the middle of the day, and was filled with a reddish haze. Burning particles of dust swirled around them as they marched. It blocked out the sun, dried out their tongues, singed their eyelids, and ignited an insatiable thirst inside them. They did not sweat, did not speak, and breathed shallowly.

Froid had taught Javert how to read by instructing him to study passages of The Bible, rapping his knuckles every time he pronounced a word wrong. He remembered those vivid descriptions of Hell in Revelations- the burning, the torment, the fire. And Javert wondered what great sin he had committed to have known Hell without dying first. Because this place was it. This was Hell.

After the poisoned winds had subsided for the day and night came again, the men set up camp in another ruined village. Burgelesse approached Javert just as the sun was setting over the horizon, carrying a strange ensemble of items in his hands…

"What on earth have you got there?"

"The farmer called it an 'Oud'." Burgelesse said, eyeing up his prize. "I had to give him two of my brass buttons for it, but I haggled him down from five."

To Javert, it was a guitar. Or perhaps a lute. Round-bodied and with a slender neck. It was clearly missing a few strings and looked infested with wormwood, but Burgelesse grinned proudly at him, clearly very pleased with his purchase.

"You couldn't have bartered some food for us?!" Javert asked sardonically.

"Here." Burgelesse said. He delved into his pocket and threw a small parcel at Javert, not once taking his eyes off the Oud. "I managed to get that thrown into the deal as well."

Javert almost fumbled the parcel, but he caught it, hugging it close to hide it from the other men. As Burgelesse sat down beside him, he unwrapped it quietly. Waiting for him, beneath the linen wrappings, were two stuffed flatbreads.

His mouth was watering instantly. He could smell the meat and the spices- lamb, perhaps, and fresh parsley.

He bit into one with ravenous hunger, and Burgelesse took the other. He ate in silence, trying not to groan aloud with happiness as his world focussed down to just that flatbread and the rapturous tastes in his mouth. Burgelesse fiddled with his guitar-thing, taking bites of his food in between tuning and plucking the strings. It did not quite fill up the void of hunger inside Javert, but it was enough to see him through.

Burgelesse had succeeded in tuning the instrument to his tastes, and as Javert sat back, the flatbread settling in his stomach, he began to pluck out a few chords.

"My old commanding officer liked to hear me play." Burgelesse sighed. "He said that a soldier needed to know more than just soldierin', cause he can't fight for his supper forever, y'know?"

Javert didn't answer, he just looked out over the desert and at the first few twinkling stars beginning to appear in the indigo sky.

But soon, Burgelesse had begun to sing. A gentle and soothing song that might have been a lullaby for children.

"Before Lord God made the Sea and the Land

He held all the stars in the palm of his hand

And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand

And one little star fell alone."

Javert was surprised for a moment. It was so tender and beautiful, and it didn't seem right that it should exist in the midst of this ugly place. But he didn't look at Burgelesse. Didn't watch him play or gather a little closer around him, as some of the other curious soldiers were doing. But he couldn't. Perhaps thinking that it would cease to exist if he fixed it in his sights, like the mirages in the desert, or that he'd betray his tears of suffering and strain to the rest of his battalion.

"So the Lord God hunted through the wide night air

For the little dark star in the wind down there

And he stated and promised

He'd take special care

So it wouldn't get lost again."

The men were silent. Heads leant against each other's shoulders as they listened. Their hollow, red eyes stared at Burgelesse, their chapped, dry mouths hanging open.

"But I've been walking through the night, and the day

Till my eyes get weary and my head turns grey

And sometimes I think maybe God's gone away

Forgetting the promise that we've heard him say…"

The words resonated amongst each of those tired and downtrodden men. Seemingly abandoned out here in the hellish desert.

"And we're lost out here in the stars.

Little stars, big stars

Blowing through the night

And we're lost out here in the stars.

Little stars, big stars

Blowing through the night.

And we're lost out here in the stars…"

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, hoping that there was a resolution, that there was salvation. Hoping that Burgelesse would lead them all through the path of despair and out into hope.

"But if you seek God's face, you will find his peace

And your head may lay down and your suffering cease

'Cause the father will find you, every lost star of His

Every little star, big star

Blowing through the night.

Blowing through the night."

When he had finished, none of the men applauded him or asked for more. Somehow, the world felt heavy and the weariness in Javert's bones felt denser than before. Slowly, one by one, the curious soldiers who had gathered around Burgelesse, stood to their feet and hobbled back to wherever they had come from. The small little bit of distraction that had taken them out of this terrible place was gone and the reality of the desert settled back into place.

"My son liked that one." Burgelesse said, placing the Oud on the ground and stretching out his fingers. "I used to sing it to him when he had nightmares. He never liked sleepin' on his own. Used to crawl up in between me and his Mama, and he wouldn't go back to sleep until I'd done my little ditty."

Javert turned towards Burgelesse, seeing him with new eyes. "How old is he? Your son?" he managed to force out of his tight throat.

"Oh, he died of the pox three summers ago. Him and his mother. Happened when I was in Italy."

Javert struggled to find any words. Burgelesse gave him a weak and distant smile and sighed to himself.

He felt like he should have said something to Burgelesse. Reached through his own discomfort and awkwardness and let Burgelesse know that he could see his pain. Not take it away, nor erase it. But simply see it. Sometimes, that alone was enough.

But he didn't.

Instead, the still sound of the night was interrupted by a growing, rumbling moan.

Javert closed his open mouth, turning to the noise like a startled meerkat. Everyone in the battalion knew that sound, but they were all desperately hoping it was the approach of thunder, or the grumbling beginnings of a sandstorm.

"To arms! To arms!" The voice of the battalion's Lieutenant roared above the noise.

Instantly, the spell of stillness was broken, and they could not wish away the sound any longer. The men sprang to action.

Javert seized his rifle, heart hammering. The rumbling noise was almost deafening.

"Form squares! Quickly!" The Lieutenant cried. He rode through the panicking men on the back of his horse, waving his sabre and screaming his orders at them again and again. "Form squares! Move!"

Burgelesse and Javert shouldered themselves into the nearest square formation. They were well-versed in this by now; the Mamluks liked to attack at night, trying to pick off as many Frenchmen as possible whilst they were hungry and exhausted from a day's desert marching. Each man stood with their back to the centre of the formation, creating four equal sides roughly twenty metres long, rifles pointed outwards, the first row crouched on their knees and the second standing behind them.

Javert bit the seal off the top of one of his cartridges, pouring gunpowder down the barrel of his rifle. The other soldiers in his square, Burgelesse included, echoed the same movements, trying to pre-empt the action to come.

He could hear the pounding of the horses' hoovess now.

He could hear the ululating cries of the Mamluk warriors.

And that distant and dull rumble that he had heard on the breeze was now a storm of noise.

"Don't let them get too close!" the Lieutenant cried. "The dead horses will start to pile up and then no one will be able to see a thing!"

This was the bit Javert hated the most. The waiting for the action to arrive. He could hear Burgelesse beside him, offering up a quick prayer to God. Often he'd wondered if he should do the same, but there was no God in this place. No matter what Burgelesse's song said.

Seeing the Mamluks at full charge almost ignited a feeling of respect inside Javert. They were impressive to behold; They galloped at full speed, carrying carbines, pistols, scimitars and spears on their person, and when one of their weapons was spent, they would just move on to the next without drawing a breath. Their faces were frightening too. Snarls of fierceness set underneath their white turbans. He'd seen many a Mamluk die, bearing that scowl of ferocity to the grave.

As the Mamluks approached, the gunfire began. A spattering of grapeshots and rifle fire that never failed to ring deep through Javert's soul. His hands shook as he took aim. They always did in the first few moments of battle. But as he settled into the square's rhythm of firing in a volley of shots, an odd sense of calm would settle over him. The upper rows took aim and discharged their weapons first, and whilst they reloaded, the lower row would take aim and fire.

After the first few rounds, it became a blur. Smoke stung at his eyes, the taste of gunpowder coated his tongue, and the screaming ricocheted around his head.

Mamluks fell from their horses, peppered with bullets and crying out in agony. French men were cleaved in two when a Mamluk would strike lucky and get their horse, gripping the reins in their teeth, close enough to the squares to hack at them with their scimitars. An ululating Mamluk charged Javert's square and sliced the head clean off a man standing not five feet away from him. His head landed with a dull thud into the sand below.

Eventually, the Mamluks gave up on their assault. Their cavalry were no match for gunfire, and as the horses swirled around the squares, they could find no weak-spot to exploit. Javert often wondered why they bothered attacking at all if they knew they would be out-gunned, but it wasn't about who was better equipped than who. It was about inspiring terror. It was about asserting their dominance over this acrid place. The Mamluks receded back into the desert and thundered off over the horizon, disappearing like distempered spirits back beneath the sand dunes.

"Enemy retreated! Stand down!" the Lieutenant barked after a few tense moments of silence.

Javert lowered his rifle, looking around the battlefield and trying to count the dead in the sand around them. No one had the energy to bury them. They would be gathered up and laid in one big pile together, Mamluks and Frenchmen alike, and left for the carrion to feast on tomorrow.

Javert felt sick. He'd vomited for hours after his first true encounter. Many of the others would be slinking off to the bushes or bent over with their hands on their knees to retch out the lingering terror they felt inside them. Nobody would sleep tonight.

"God can't find us here, Burgelesse." Javert grumbled bitterly, rising to his feet. His thigh muscles shook as he took a few tentative steps but he held himself aloft as he stared at the head of the poor man that had fallen foul of the charging Mamluk. He felt nothing but a hollowed-out sense of emptiness. "And if he did, I'd tell him to turn back and leave us."

Sometimes he felt like he had never escaped Egypt. No matter how many years he seemed to put in between him and that desert, it would only take a sudden bang, a loud noise, the sound of gunfire, and he was back there.

He was back in the heat and the death and the sand and the emptiness.

And perhaps that was where he belonged.

Javert bolted upright in his bed at the barracks.

He was sweating, despite the shiver of frost on the windows.

The fire, which had been lit the night before, was spitting and cracking as the last of the dying heat pattered out.

No wonder he'd been dreaming of Egypt. The spits and cracks sounded so much like gunfire…

He took in a few deep, calming breaths, pushing away the cries of the Mamluks and the sand and the Egyptian skies. Flinging away the blankets, he let the cold morning air flood his skin, as if trying to prove to himself that this was France, not Africa. His feet were on French soil, not Egyptian. He was a man now, not a nineteen year old boy.

Still, that morning he found it difficult to leave the heat of the desert behind. He splashed himself with the cold water in his wash basin, hunching his strong back over the bowl as he let the water trickle down his face. His cheeks were scratchy. He needed a shave.

His rather barren room did have a mirror, hanging above the chest of drawers. It was small, barely showing his whole face as he stared into its murky surface. But perhaps it was better that he couldn't see his face in that moment. He'd see the face of an old man, still bruised and haunted after all those years. He had told Burgelesse that God had failed to find them in that desert, and sometimes he was unsure if God had ever found him, even after he'd left Egypt behind.

Javert set about compiling his shaving equipment: the bristle brush, the lather crème, the leather strop, the razors… He ran the blade a few times up and down the leather, sharpening it to a cut-throat edge. When he was happy with it, he coated himself in the cream and began delicately scraping away at his bristle.

His eyesight was still decent, and not many men his age were able to say that. Still, it was hard to make out the contours and curves of his face in the tiny mirror. Javert hissed as he nicked himself on his right cheek. Blood mixing with the lather of soap.

"Gah..! Jesus suffering fuck!"

He took in another deep breath and calmed himself. Froid would have beat him if he'd heard him taking the Lord's name in vain. His men would baulk too if they heard him utter something like that. He continued on until he had finished his whole face, wiping the remains of the soap off him and carefully poking at the small cut he had delt himself. It was sore, and still weeping a little.

Still, he dressed himself and donned his top hat, ready to greet his men for the morning.

The mess hall was thrumming with men at that time of day. Today's breakfast was a simple oat and honey porridge, but his men sat at the long tables, wolfing it down with vigour. Javert cast his withering gaze over them all, a few of them putting down their spoons and returning his stare with rapt expectancy.

Malloirave appeared at his side, clipping his heels and bowing. "Sir."

"Make sure the men have their boots polished, horses saddled, and are ready to be out on patrol in twenty minutes, Sergeant."

It was a lot to ask, in so little time. Malloirave's eyes widened, but he did not protest. He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned to the battalion.

"Right! The Inspector wants us booted and mounted in twenty minutes!" Malloirave cried.

The men dropped their spoons and abandoned their breakfasts in a scurry of movement. They passed by The Inspector and Malloirave with a few grunts of displeasure, but the mess hall was completely empty ten seconds later.

"Trouble brewing, Sir?"

"We've had intel that the fabric dyers in the Saint-Antoine region are planning to riot today."

"Oh…" Malloirave said, blinking in shock. "I hear the cholera has been bad in that region."

"Hmm." He replied, noncommittally. In truth, Javert was eyeing up the scraps of leftover food the men had left on their tables. An apple here, a hunk of bread there. He was secretly waiting for Malloirave to leave before he could start gathering up some rations for Grace.

"And are we expecting hostilities, Sir?" Malloirave asked.

"I would expect so, Sergeant. This won't be like the encounters we've had before. This is premeditated."

"I see…" Malloirave sighed. "Should I inform the men to bring an extra belt of cartridges?"

"A prudent idea, Sergeant." Javert said. "I shall meet you all in the courtyard in due course."

"Very good, Sir."

Malloirave bowed and backed out of the mess hall.

No sooner had he been left alone did Javert start reaching for the food on the tables. He wondered what he would do, or how he would explain himself, if one of his commanding officers ever caught him. Stealing army rations was a punishable offence. But the heresy of breaking the Law was not as sacrilegious as it had once been to him. A few months ago he had not even dreamed in his wildest imaginations that he would be purposefully flouting the rules and regulations of the police force. But now here he was, shoving apples and stale bread into his pockets for a girl who, in all likelihood, resented having to see him.

It was a pity the food this morning had been porridge. Had breakfast been something more solid - smoked kippers, perhaps, or pastries - then it would have been easier for him to smuggle it out for Grace. Nobody wanted cold porridge.

Their meetings on the bridge had been going on now for a few weeks, and each time he would endeavour to bring her something. She always ate it gratefully, never once mentioning if the food was stale or tasteless. Part of him wished that he didn't have to bring the food at all, that maybe one day she'd come solely for him and not the promise of a meal. But he was not so naive as to think that anyone, least of all a woman, would find his company appealing.

Still, she stayed and talked for a while with him. Perched on the wall of the bridge, Grace would ask him about his role, the weather, that Sunday's sermon. A bit of small talk to humour him, he suspected. But Javert appreciated that she didn't immediately slip back into the night as soon as she'd finished her last bite. Every fleeting second with her, he treasured.

There had been nothing approaching a friendship or any closeness that he could point towards. Nothing since that strange, fleeting moment when she had told him not to drink water for a while. He had never managed to garner any kind of personal information from her. Nothing at all. Nothing about any aspect of her life before she'd come to France. Most people let slip one or two things, just in the course of normal conversation, but Grace was a closed clam-shell. So, he knew that she was purposefully being withholding. And sometimes he'd catch a faint hint of that sadness twisting at the edges of her. The same sadness he'd seen within her that day in the rose garden…

But he couldn't think about Grace now. Not when he had to lead his men into a potentially dangerous situation.

This was not the day to have his thoughts preoccupied with women.

"Go home, Grace. This is dangerous work we do today." Enjolras said, pushing himself through the crowds of jostling people in the streets.

"So you're perfectly fine to go wading into this shit-show, but I'm not?"

She reached out to grab his sleeve, but he shrugged her off. The workers of the dyeing factory pushed past them both in a throng of bodies. There was a feeling of violence in the air that made the hairs on Grace's arms stand to attention.

"I told you this work was not suitable for all." Enjolras said firmly

"You asked me if I could read and if I could fight and I said yes to both!"

"Grace…"

"Why am I here?! You never speak to me about what you're planning. You've pretty much forgotten I existed since we arrived in Paris. So why did I come here?! To sit in the cafe and play the piano for you all? That's what I did in Provins, Marcelin!"

"You…You were never meant for this kind of action."

"What?!" Grace scoffed. "Enjolras, stop!"

She seized him by the sleeves and this time he stopped, turning to her with that fiery seriousness that he always held in his eyes.

"The others might not know what you actually are, but I do!" Enjolras hissed, leaning in close to her. "I cannot in all good conscience lead a woman into what will surely become a -"

"Ow!"

A man brandishing what looked like a gardening pitchfork came barging into Grace's shoulders. She looked around briefly at the other men of the dyers factory. All of them were carrying some other kind of makeshift weapon, concealing it underneath their jackets or holding it brazenly out in the open. Clubs, batons, hammers, files… They looked like a fierce bunch. And the red dye from the factory had stained the skin of their hands and arms an angry-looking crimson. They all looked like the skin up to their elbows had been flayed off them.

"Enjolras!" A gruff voice called out over the crowd.

Craning her neck, Grace saw Bahorel waiting for them with his sleeves rolled up high. It looked like he was itching for a good fight.

"Enjolras! Come on! The police are already here!"

Enjolras turned and fixed Grace in his stare again. "I will not tell you again. Go back to the cafe and wait for our return."

"Who the hell do you think you are? My Dad?"

"Go back to the cafe or I'll put you in the next carriage back to Provins!"

With that, he turned from Grace and went striding off into the crowd. Grace was left a little lost for words.

Perhaps Enjolras was right. Grace had never so much as thrown a punch in her whole life, let alone been in the midst of a brewing riot. But for Enjolras to essentially blackmail her, and tell her to leave the "men's work" to the others, it filled her with rage.

The last of the dyers men passed her by, until she stood solitary in the street. It seemed oddly quiet now. That electric feeling of anger had passed, and she felt like she now stood on the other side of a brewing storm, watching it blow on to tear up another place. Still, she hoped that none of the boys of the ABC got too burned by the lightning they were helping to stoke up…

Javert sat atop his horse, outside the steps of Saint Augustine church. The rest of his battalion had not disappointed him, and had all turned out suited and booted, brandishing their sabres in their hands, with their hats pulled low over their brows.

He hoped that they looked intimidating enough to convince at least a few of the dyers men to go home.

But from the expanse of red-armed, angry looking men before him, that hope seemed futile.

As soon as the men had seen the police, the hurling of abuse had begun. Their faces contorted with rage, hacking up phlegm to spit on the policemen's boots, a cascade of foul language and insults flung their way…And then the literal hurling began.

Bricks and bone fragments and dead cats... All manner of foul and deadly things that the men had brought with them got flung their way.

A rotten head of lettuce came flying straight towards Javert's head, and he had to cover his face with his arm before it struck him.

He could ask Malloirave to repeat his instruction to stand down and disperse. But he knew that would be fruitless now.

He could ask his men to fire a round of warning shots to frighten the crowd. But would they heed this caution?

There was blood in the air, he could sense it. And these men were not going home without a fight.

"Do you see the King's 'mercy' before you?!"

Javert looked up to see Marcelin hanging off a street lamp, his accusatory arm pointed right towards him.

"Here comes his iron fist again to beat you all back into submission!"

The crowd roared in anger.

"And you, at the bottom of that fist, are crushed and brutalised!"

Another roar of dissatisfaction wrought the air.

Javert's heart rate plummeted. No…. no, no, no, no, no….

If Marcelin was here… then did that mean…?

His eyes scanned the crowd, hoping that he wouldn't see her face.

"Our grandfathers would be disgusted if they could see us now!" Enjolras cried on. "The revolution that they fought to create in 1789 is a distant memory! Their cries of 'Liberté, égalité, fraternité' now fall on deaf ears, and a despot sits on the throne that they once emptied of scum like Louis-Phillippe!"

"Sir, what are your orders?" Malloirave said beside him, panic in his voice.

Grace! Oh God, is Grace here?

"We must show the King that we are not content to starve in the streets!" Enjolras roared.

The crowd roared with him.

"We are not content to die of disease!"

Another deafening cry of anger.

"Sir?!" Malloirave repeated again.

"And we shall never be content until France is free!"

Chaos erupted on the steps of Saint Augustine.

Men charged at the mounted police officers as weapons and rocks and bricks went flying.

A few of Javert's men acted quickly, pulling their weapons just in time to fire a shot or two before the rifle was wrestled off them. Then they, in turn, were pulled off the back of their horse and they'd disappear from sight under the crush of red-stained men.

Javert could hear them screaming as they were undoubtedly pummelled into the pavement and their horses braying in fright.

"To arms!" Malloirave cried, drawing his sabre from its scabbard. "Fire at will!"

More gunfire sounded off as the mounted officers who hadn't yet been swamped discharged their weapons. A few dyers shrieked out in pain and collapsed to the floor, but this only incited the others to even hotter anger. And as the rain of rocks and bricks and rotten food continued to hail down on top of Javert's men, it was impossible now to look up for long enough to take aim.

"Retreat! Retreat back to the Rue Saint Lorraine!" he heard Malloirave shout above the deafening noise.

The horses' hooves clapped sharply on the cobblestones as the men began to retreat.

"Sir!" Malloirave called out to Javert. "Sir! Let us go! Once we reconvene on Saint Lorraine, perhaps we can organise a charge."

He paused for a moment, waiting for his superior, his mentor, to respond. But Javert was still searching the chaos for Grace's face, his skin ashen-white and his mouth open in horror.

"Sir!" Malloirave roared again.

This time, his voice seemed to reach him and Javert blinked twice, coming out of his horrified stupor.

Y-yes. Go, Sergeant! Back to the Rue Saint Lorraine!"

Malloirave's shoulders relaxed a little, visibly relieved that whatever strange spell that had taken The Inspector had now released him. He turned his horse and went galloping away to the rendez-vous point.

Javert did the same, gathering the reins of his stallion in hand and turning to flee…

…when he suddenly felt several pairs of hands on his back, his body being lifted clean off his saddle, and the cold rush of the morning air past his face as he was dragged off his horse.