Chapter 18 - A Sparrow in the Grand Canyon
For the first time, Grace was the one waiting on the Pont au Double for Javert.
She paced nervously up and down the bridge, biting her fingernails and wondering why he hadn't turned up yet.
She glanced up at Notre-Dame, listening to the last peeling sounds of the bells of midnight. They rang over the city like an ominous dell-knell and Grace didn't like how they made her feel, for once.
Since the riot amongst the dyers men earlier that day, she hadn't seen any of the Les Amis d'ABC. They could all have been laying low, hiding out somewhere inconspicuous, waiting for the police presence on the streets to die down…
But something didn't feel right in her guts.
She heard the sound of clopping horse hooves on the pavement across the bridge. Grace gasped and pressed herself behind the shadow of a lamppost.
More police. She thought grimly.
Grace pulled her boy's cap down hard over her face, hoping it would hide her in even more shadow. On her way here, she'd seen one or two people who'd been unfortunate enough to run into the patrolling police that evening. They'd clearly been given orders to keep the streets empty, and they weren't afraid to use their truncheons to make sure that message was received by the citizens of Paris. She watched as the last of the police patrol rode out of view, that sinking feeling still pulling at her stomach.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
"Grace…" a voice behind her rasped.
She almost jumped out of her skin. Wheeling around, she was ready to throw hands, if needs be. But her thundering heart quieted when she saw the face of The Inspector staring back at her.
"Bloody hell…" she sighed, doubling over to take in a few deep, calming breaths. "You frightened the life out of me."
The Inspector said nothing, lowering his hand back down to his side as he watched her stand up straight again.
Grace almost pounced on him, seizing him by the lapels of his leather coat and holding him in a firm grip.
"Tell me what happened! The riot! You must have been there. I heard Bahorel say the police were already outside the church." She demanded.
A wince of pain passed over Javert's face. She was stronger than she looked, and she had him tight in her grasp.
"You…you weren't there..?"
"I wasn't allowed to attend." She said sardonically.
Javert sighed in relief and closed his eyes. Another wince of pain rippled through his features and Grace frowned at him.
She looked at him, really looked at him again. His face was almost grey. Dried blood crusted one of his nostrils and he had an angry-looking bruise forming around his right eye. Grace released him from her grasp and he slumped his wide shoulders low, sagging lower than she had ever seen him stand. It was like seeing a mountain crumble.
"Are…are you alright?"
"Nothing I've not been dealt before, Mademoiselle." He said, his teeth gritted.
"You look like you've just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson."
"Who?"
Grace shook her head, chiding herself. "Never mind." She gestured towards the wall of the bridge. "Do you…need to sit down?"
The Inspector took a seat, hissing out a small noise of pain as he did so. Grace eased down beside him, her frown of concern deepening. He smelt of gunpowder and sage, a herby and slightly bitter scent that clung to his clothes. She didn't find it wholly unpleasant; it was rugged and dangerous, and yet somehow evoked a feeling of calmness inside her.
Javert delved a hand into his coat pocket, scrunching up his face in what looked like agony to Grace as he manoeuvred his body.
"Are you sure you're alr-"
"For you, Mademoiselle." He said, dropping the apple that he'd taken from the barracks earlier that day into her lap. "I'm sorry I couldn't get you more this time."
It looked a bit bruised and battered, and Grace wondered what exactly it had gone through inside The Inspector's pocket. Nevertheless, she picked it up, accepting it gratefully.
"Uhh… thank you."
She took a few awkward bites of it, aware that something in The Inspector's face softened when he watched her eat. Still, she ate it, right down to the core, flicking the remains into the river when she'd got every last bit of flesh off it.
"Was this…Was this the rioters?" She asked hesitantly, pointing at his face.
"Indeed, Mademoiselle."
"So there was violence." Grace said solemnly.
"There was."
"Was there… anyone seriously injured?" She ventured.
"My men counted seventeen dead."
Grace's throat closed up with fear. Was one of those seventeen Courfeyrac? Marius? Enjolras?
"Who-"
"You needn't ask, Mademoiselle. None of those foolish young boys in your cousin's troupe were amongst them."
"Oh thank God…" Grace breathed.
Javert's emotions grew bitter. She clearly cared more about their welfare than she did about his. He scowled at her and ground his jaw tight. Here he was, sitting in front of her with a bloody nose and a black eye, and she was too busy fretting over the boys that had caused his injuries.
"It matters not. Those morons will get themselves killed soon enough." He grumbled.
Grace blinked in surprise. There was an edge to his voice. A venom that she'd not heard before. Javert was stern and stoic and cold…but vicious?
"They… They aren't morons." Grace replied defensively.
"All of that money and education thrown at them, and they're still the worst kind of fool there is. The fool that believes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they've got to be right."
Grace blinked in shock again. Who was this man?
"Well, I believe they are right…" she said, a little weakly. "Anyway, I thought we'd agreed we weren't going to talk politics here."
"Truly?" He scoffed, ignoring her attempt to diffuse the tension now simmering between them. "I knew this type of thing was a game rich young boys liked to play, until they got bored and slinked off back to their country estates, but you? I didn't take you to be a fool too."
Blood pumped around Grace's head. Now he'd well and truly got under her skin.
"I don't expect you to understand, but they are fighting for a better future. One where all of this ugliness and violence and privation doesn't have to exist."
"You don't expect me to understand..?" he asked sarcastically. "Because I am the Law? Just a faceless servant? A mere figurehead of the system of government they are attempting to tear down?"
He paused for a minute, pulling himself to his feet, simmering with rage. Grace watched him take a few hot paces, trying to calm himself. It was odd to see him so riled, showing some kind of emotion after months of cold stoicism.
"I have seen hunger. I have been hungry, Mademoiselle." He hissed at her, pointing a finger into his breast. "I am not one of those nepotic dandy's who obtained this role because 'father pulled a few strings for me'."
"Then how can you possibly call yourself a man of the Law with pride?" Grace bit back. She leaned in close to his face, her eyes burning with ferocity. "If you say you've known what these people go through, what they suffer through every day, then how can you serve the institution that keeps them there?"
"Service to the Law is never shameful, Mademoiselle."
"Really? You don't feel any shame when you pry the food out of starving people's hands?"
"If it's food they stole, then-"
"You don't feel any shame when you arrest those desperate young girls selling their bodies on the street corner?"
"If they are blatantly soliciting in public areas, then -"
"You don't feel any shame at all when you see the wagons of dead? Gone because they were abandoned by the government that is meant to help them?"
Javert closed his mouth abruptly, unsure of how to reply.
"And you say you know what it's like to be hungry?" Grace said with a sad shake of her head. "And yet you constantly inflict that misery on others every time you defend this dreadful establishment."
He winced, turning away from her again and stumbling down the Pont au Double a few steps. He grabbed hold of one of the lampposts, his knuckles turning white and his breathing ragged.
"So what would you have me do?" He asked sardonically. "Let anarchy reign? Let anybody who feels the inclination to rape and murder and steal go about it unimpinged?"
"No, I…"
"You and your cousin are so keen to tear down what there is. But do you have the slightest idea what you're going to build in its place?"
"There is something better than this! And it's waiting for this city in the future!" She cried, emotion stirring in her chest. "A world where the people don't serve the government, the government serves the people."
"There is no authority apart that which comes from God!" He quoted to her. "And the authority that exists has been appointed by God!"
"Oh come on. You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Mademoiselle…"
"You think those fat-cats and bigwigs who eat pastries for breakfast and don't know how to dress themselves without their valet are God appointed?" Grace laughed sardonically. "Trust me, where I come from, you'd take one look at the politicians and Prime Ministers running things and you'd know that they've got as much to do with God as a vegan has to do with a slaughterhouse!"
"But the Law, Mademoiselle. The Law is infallible. It is morality itself, and that comes from the divine."
"Laws change! People change!" Grace cried, flapping her arms. "If this thing is so infallible and unchangeable as you claim, then why are new rules and regulations written and discarded every day?"
He struggled for an answer, feeling the whole yarn of his life pulling apart.
"The only constant that I've seen in this place is human kindness." Grace said quietly. "Maybe that's the thing that comes from God."
"I'm afraid that is where you're wrong, Mademoiselle." Javert said with a sneer. "When people get hungry and desperate, kindness soon flies out the window. I have been up and down the length of this country, travelled to other nations entirely, and I've seen wickedness in all its forms. We are a species that is prone to cruelty."
"Oh really? Then why did Julius and Jocelyn ask you to look for me when I left Provins? Why did little Gavroche give his sister money for a family that beat and abused him? And…"
She paused, finding his startlingly blue eyes underneath the brim of his hat. He returned her gaze, feeling something like thunder roiling in his chest. She felt it too. A strange sort of electricity passing between them.
"…and why do you bring me food every time we meet here?"
There was silence. Long and painful. That strange feeling between them seemed to stretch and pull until it felt almost agonising to maintain looking at one another.
He couldn't stare into her eyes for a moment more. Javert had always been a man of few words, but there was nothing he could say in that moment. She had stripped him bare. Exposed him down to his core. And he had tried so hard to hide it.
Panic filled him. His heart reared up in his chest like a startled stallion. He had to get out of there.
Javert began limping away from her and Grace did not call after him. Leaving the ruins of his pride behind him, he felt the burn of her eyes in his back.
He felt her eyes on him every waking moment of the day.
Grace sighed in defeat. Tears welled in her eyes. There she was, alone and abandoned once again, and feeling like she had failed. But what could she do? She felt like her voice was so small in this place. A sparrow chirping in the midst of the Grand Canyon. And nobody would listen to her. Nobody could even hear her.
But even with The Inspector's pig-headedness, she had at least felt safe by his side.
Safe.
No one else in this place even came close to making her feel safe.
Apart from him.
Javert's room in the barracks was stark and cold when he finally limped his way back to the Place Louis Lepine.
The long, foot-pounding walk back had done little to quell his emotions. And his empty, hollow quarters stared back at him like a vast cave of loneliness.
Javert's mind was aflame. He replayed every moment of his and Grace's conversation, trying to figure out why it had turned sour, and he realised it was him. His petty jealousy had caused that argument. He'd insulted her. Called her a fool. Riled her, deliberately.
And now, he had most likely spoiled everything. She wouldn't come back. And he would never see her again.
He picked up the porcelain wash jug and hurled it at the wall.
As it smashed into pieces, he let out a deep groan of pain, seizing his side.
Stumbling towards his bed, he lowered himself down onto his mattress, teeth grinding to stop himself from crying out loud again. Slowly, he unfastened his coat and lifted his shirt, knowing already what he would find.
He had been attacked quite badly by the dyers men who had pulled him from his horse. A flurry of fists and feet and whatever else the rioters had brought with them had hailed down upon him as he'd lay flat on his back, upon the cold, hard floor. There was pain. A lot of pain everywhere.
Until it had all stopped when Malloirave had organised the charge. Perhaps he thought he'd been lucky as he watched his mounted officers chasing the dyers men away.
But as he looked down at himself, on the edge of his barracks bed, he realised that he had not been as lucky as he'd hoped.
It was a stab wound. Small and vicious-looking, roughly three inches above his hip.
He touched a finger to the crimson blood still oozing out of it, sucking in a sharp breath when pain ricocheted through him. It wasn't deep, perhaps done with a filed bit of bone or a small blade, but it didn't need to be.
He cast his eyes up, staring at the ceiling as dread and despair filled him.
He'd seen enough injuries in the army and during his years in the police to know.
It wasn't deep, but it didn't need to be.
"Fuck…"
Eponine knocked on the door of the small cottage. It was a quaint little thing, with a thatched roof and a small grey-stone wall around its edges. It would have been pretty, and almost fairytale-ish had it not been for the faint hum of something odd nearby.
"What's that noise?" Grace asked, searching around the cottage.
"It's the bees. Look." Eponine pointed towards a small wooden shed by the cottage wall, covering what looked like four conical hives. There were no bees flying about, as it was deep in winter, but they thrummed with life inside. Teeming with activity. "It's how I knew this is the place. Well… hopefully."
"Hopefully?!"
"Listen, I told you this was a bit of a stab in the dark. But I only know of one or two beekeepers this far out of town."
Grace didn't know what beekeeping had to do with Marius and Enjolras, but she hoped it would become apparent soon.
She cast a nervous eye about behind them, looking for anyone who may have followed them. The police presence on the streets had fallen away these last few days, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And Grace didn't want to be the person who led the authorities straight to Enjolras and Marius.
It had taken the two of them hours to walk to the very edges of Paris. To begin with, Grace had thought Eponine was leading her to the ends of the earth. The houses eventually petered out, the thrum of the city's noises died down, even the smell of Paris receded away. Without the loom of buildings around her, Grace felt almost naked. She realised that the high-rises and rookeries had become almost like a comforting embrace around her. Now she was at the edge of the city, it felt strange to see open skies and green fields again.
Eponine knocked on the cottage door again. A few moments later, the door opened a crack and an old, wrinkle-faced woman answered brusquely.
She looked weather-beaten and constipated. The kind of elderly lady that was permanently grumpy.
"Yes?"
"I'm a friend of…" Eponine began unsurely. "I thought they might be here. My name is 'Ponine."
Grace kept very still. It had been a bit of a guess, coming here. But after days of nothing following the dyers riot, Grace had begged Eponine to take her somewhere where she thought Enjolras and the others might be. So she held her breath, watching the scowl of the woman in the crack of the doorway, searching for any hint of recognition.
"Ponine? Christ, he's mentioned your name more times than I can count!" The old woman grumbled.
She let the door swing open and, with a sigh of relief, the two of them were ushered inside.
"Go on, go through. They're in my parlour." The old woman grumbled, pointing towards a back room in the cottage. "Keep the curtains closed."
"Thank you, Madame." Grace said with a nod.
"Ponine?! Degas?! Is that you?" She heard a familiar voice cry out to them.
"Marius!" Eponine shrieked. And she was gone.
Grace took a few more moments to reach them, but she could hear the sounds of Eponine and Marius sighing with relief and embracing one another. Eventually she reached the parlour, squinting her eyes to peer through the dark room, and found Marius almost swamped in Eponine's arms, lying on the floor. Through the gloom she also found Enjolras, standing stoically up against a wall of glass jars.
The sounds of Marius and Eponine's joy flooded the space between them. Enjolras's returning glance to Grace was initially frosty, but he cracked a small smile at her and nodded once.
"Cousin."
Despite her lingering resentment towards him, Grace let out a long sigh and charged at Enjolras. Her hug took him a bit by surprise. Jars and glassware tinkled behind him as he stumbled a little, but when he had regained his feet, he put his arms around Grace and gave her a deep hug back.
"I am livid with you." She whispered into Enjolras's ear.
"I suspected as much."
Grace sighed again, pulling him in tighter. They were both quiet for a moment, hanging on to one another. Grace, to affirm to herself that Enjolras was indeed well and alive. And Enjolras, letting himself feel a little bit of fear and comfort in Grace's arms now the danger had passed.
"Are you both alright?"
"Enjolras took quite the smack to the head." Marius said, glancing up from his embrace with Eponine. "Some mounted officer got in a lucky hit, I think."
Grace turned back to Enjolras's face. Indeed there was a rugged red line lancing down the side of his right temple that made her wince.
She reached up a hand to expect it, but Enjolras shrugged away from her.
"It's nothing, Cousin. No need to fret."
"Nothing?" Marius scoffed. "You were talking in gibberish, conjugating Latin verbs!"
Grace gave Enjolras a firm stare and he rolled his eyes.
"I managed to hook him over my back and get him here without the police finding us." Marius continued.
"So brave of you." Eponine sighed.
"Madame Delacroix used to provide the honey for my grandfather's table. So I…I thought this would be a safe place to bring him to."
Grace's eyes had adjusted to the gloom and she realised that the jars lining the wall were full of honey. Rich, golden honey. The sight of them made her instantly crave sweetness.
"I remembered you telling me about it!" Eponine said. "I never forget a story you tell me, Marius."
"Turned up right in the middle of the blasted night, they did! No forewarning!" The old woman interjected, appearing suddenly at the parlour door.
"And we shall forever be in your debt, Madame." Marius said sweetly.
Madame Delacroix huffed and shuffled off, muttering something under her breath.
"Did you feel sick? Pass out?" Grace asked, pressing Enjolras for more information.
"No, Cousin." Enjolras sighed. "All was well after a good rest and some of Madame Delacroix's honey."
"Good." Grace sighed. "The last thing you'd have wanted was to get concussed."
She knew all too well the feeling of concussion. That run-in that she'd had with the lorry during her fresher week, back home in Oxford, had given her quite the bang on the head. Had she not been wearing her bike helmet, she probably would have cracked her skull open.
However, judging by the looks of confusion she got when she glanced around the room, Grace guessed that they had no idea what 'concussion' was.
"It's an Oxford thing…" she said dismissively.
Marius, Enjolras and Eponine all collectively let out an 'Ohh..' of understanding and returned back to their conversation.
"Is it just the two of you hiding out here?" Grace asked, moving the conversation along.
"I saw Feuilly and Combeferre slip down the sewers. Bahorel and Grantaire are most likely hiding out in Madame La Bouche's establishment… Joly and Courfeyrac, I don't know."
"Oh, they're being looked after by Gavroche." Eponine interjected. "Don't ask me how they can hide two grown men and a gaggle of little boys in that Elephant, but they have!"
"Well, that's a relief, to say the least." Enjolras sighed. "We'll give it a day or two more, and then I'll send out word to reconvene back at the Cafe."
"But not everyone was so lucky." Grace replied sternly. "Seventeen dead, I… I heard."
She cast her eyes to the floor, hoping that no one would ask her how she knew that information, or who she'd heard it from.
"They will be counted amongst the first that fell in the fight for freedom." Enjolras replied. "We shall build a shrine to their memory, as martyrs who gave all to build the new world."
Something twisted inside Grace's chest. Ever since Javert and she had had that fight on the bridge, after the riot, she hadn't been able to completely dismiss his harsh words. Now, it was like she was hearing Enjolras's pretty turns of phrase with new ears.
'Moron', maybe not, but perhaps a tad quixotic? Starry-eyed? Idealistic? She thought to herself.
"Their blood shall water the meadows of our new France." Enjolras added, almost bringing Marius to tears with his stirring oration.
"Enjolras…" Grace sighed.
But they were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Eponine gasped, grabbing on to Marius's arm and clamping a hand over her mouth.
"Were you followed here?" Enjolras whispered to Grace.
"I…I don't think so."
"You don't think so?!"
"Shh!" Marius hissed at them both.
Grace could tell they were all thinking the same thing. Hoping that it wasn't the Prèfecture knocking at the door.
They stayed utterly quiet as they listened to Madame Delacroix shuffle through the cottage, making more grumbling sounds of annoyance as she went. A heavy iron bar slid off the latch and it creaked open, cutting through the dense silence.
"I told you, I'm not interested in trading!" Madame Delacroix cried out.
Marius and Enjolras both slumped their shoulders in relief.
"It's the Gypsies again." Marius explained to Grace and Eponine. "They're camped outside the city, nearby. I think they want some of Madame Delacroix's honey."
"I'm only interested in trading with decent folk!" Madame Delacroix screeched, slamming the door.
"Gypsies?" Grace asked, eyes widening.
"Mmm, they arrived a day ago." Marius explained. "Or maybe two? It's difficult to tell, what with the curtains being closed..."
Grace felt a strange sensation niggling in her stomach. Like an unruly toddler that wouldn't stop poking her. Making her way to the door, she glanced back at Eponine and Enjolras briefly.
"Marcelin, give me a sous."
"Wh..why?"
"Just give me a sous!"
Enjolras delved into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. Grace took it with a muttering of thanks and glanced at the door.
"I'll be back. Wait for me." She said to Eponine.
"Degas, where are you going?" Marius called after her.
"I just need to… Just following a hunch." She said weakly. As she left the parlour, she grabbed a jar of honey from off one of the shelves and replaced it with the coin Enjolras had given her. "That's for Madame Delacroix. I bought a jar."
The others let her go, despite the confused and concerned glances they chased after Grace. Still, she shut the parlour door and made her way out of the cottage.
It was approaching dusk when she emerged back into the night. This far out of the city, Grace could see larks in the sky, twisting and turning in their murmurations. The air felt cleaner, the sky brighter. But she couldn't stop to take in the peacefulness of where she was.
Grace listened closely, trying to identify something in the air that would lead her to where she wanted to go. The men who had knocked on the cottage door were nowhere to be found, but still she took a few tentative steps, listening out for their voices.
There was a small woodland just outside the cottage, and the shadows of the trees seemed to move and bend in the fading light. Grace thought she heard a twig snap, and without hesitating, she took off running after it, holding her jar of honey tight.
Her ears had led her true, and as she entered the woodland, she heard hushed male voices in the distance. What's more, they were speaking in a language she couldn't understand. But it sounded vaguely familiar to her…
She ran towards them, trying to call after the men as she went.
"Hey..! Wait..!"
Eventually, she caught up to them, and through the gloom of dusk she saw a swinging lamplight. Two men turned to face her, scowling at her suspiciously.
"Are you…are you Romani?" She asked a little breathlessly.
The two men nodded silently.
"You want honey? I can trade." She added, thrusting the jar out towards them.
One of the men looked at the other. The other shrugged and nodded back.
"Fine. What do you want in return?" The Romani man asked. "Back at camp we have woven baskets, saffron, Spanish olives?"
A sensation, not unlike the tingle of snow falling down her back, rippled through Grace's veins.
"Did… Did you say Spanish olives?!" She asked, her stomach going tight.
"Yes… Spanish olives."
"Is… is there a woman called Athalia travelling with you?"
The men gave her an intrigued frown and one replied with a quiet "Yes."
Grace laughed with happiness, grinning at the two Romani like an idiot. But she didn't care how she looked. She was practically fizzing with excitement.
"Which way is your camp?"
"Uhh…"
"I'm her friend, I promise."
The two men looked at her suspiciously.
"I used to sing to her baby! Little Zaida? It was the only thing that could stop her crying."
"You know how to stop Zaida crying?!" One of the men asked, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Camp is that way!"
He pointed in front of him and Grace couldn't stop her smile growing. She thrust the jar of honey at one of the men.
"Keep it! A present from me!"
And with that, she took off running in the direction he had pointed in.
The trees whipped by her in a frenzy of branches and leaves. But she could smell fire smoke in the air. She could hear more voices nearby. And suddenly, she broke through the trees and came rushing out into a clearing.
There were burning fires, and caravans in her view, as well as the slightly alarmed and confused faces of a few other Romani looking at her. There was that wonderful swirl of colours again, the colours she remembered the first time she'd visited the Romani camp with Artemida. She drew in a few deep breaths, scanning the faces, looking for someone she might recognise. They were obviously wary of her. She would be too if an outsider had just come bursting into her camp, panting like a spaniel.
"Athalia?" She asked an old man, sitting on a log by a roaring fire. "Where's Athalia?"
The old man stared at her in shocked silence.
Grace groaned in exasperation. She turned to the rest of the camp and walked on.
"Athalia! Athalia!" She called out.
A door to her left suddenly opened.
"Mama, it's Grace!"
Grace spun around to see a small boy standing in the doorway of a caravan, his face illuminated in soft lamplight.
"Iosif!" She cried out, happy tears in her eyes.
At his back appeared Athalia, holding her baby girl in her arms.
"Grace!"
Grace rushed up the caravan's steps, flinging her arms around the boy and the woman both. She felt a warmth in her core. A feeling of happiness that she hadn't felt for a while.
"Oh, it's so good to see you…" she said softly. "When you didn't turn up at the Chateau for breakfast-"
"We were lucky. This band of Romani were passing by Provins, and they were kind enough to take us in." Athalia narrowed her eyes at Grace and looked her up and down, taking in every stitch of her men's attire. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Oh…" Grace laughed, taking her boy's cap off her head. "It's a long story…"
"Well, perhaps you can tell me it over a bowl of paprikash?"
Grace's mouth was almost drooling at the mention of food. Athalia's food, no less.
Little baby Zaida stirred in her mother's arms. She gave out a little rumble of a cry and her bottom lip quivered.
"This one hasn't let me have a full night's sleep since you and I last parted ways!" Athalia said with a tired sigh.
"Oh, well…" Grace began, taking the baby from Athalia. She rocked the little girl gently and smiled down at her. "I better warm up my singing pipes!"