Chapter 20 - Salt, Honey and Clair de Lune
Grace felt like she'd been stood up.
Her foot tapped impatiently on the Pont au Double, but the best part of an hour must have gone by since the bells of midnight rang out.
After last week, she'd debated returning back to this spot at all. She wasn't in the habit, after all, of being insulted by grumpy old men. Maybe she'd decided to give Javert a piece of her mind. Maybe she'd spent all week thinking of witty retorts and comebacks to his biting comments. Maybe she'd seen something else underneath Javert's anger and bitterness…
But he wasn't here. He hadn't come.
Initially, she felt like a bit of a fool. There she was, having come running back for another verbal flaying, and he hadn't even bothered to turn up.
However, where she should have felt anger within her, instead Grace felt concern.
She knew, deep down inside her, that Javert would never shake off his duties willingly. He'd made a promise, and to men like Javert, their word of promise meant their very honour. Plus, The Inspector had dragged himself to this bridge when he'd been battered and bruised after the riot. And if that hadn't kept him from seeing her, then what was?
Something was wrong. She felt it in her bones.
But what could she do about it? The Inspector's life outside of these meetings was an utter mystery to her. She could be waiting on this bridge forever, for a man that might never turn up.
There was one place that she could think of to try; On one of the many walks Grace had taken with Eponine, she'd pointed out an impressive building on the Place Louis Lepinè that was, apparently, the headquarters for the police force in Paris. Eponine liked to keep one eye on the place, she'd told Grace, just so she could log in her mind which faces to run from in the streets. Grace knew how to get there from here. They might know where she could find Javert. She could go…
Biting her lip, she toyed with the idea in her mind.
Perhaps The Inspector doesn't want to see me. She thought. Maybe I'm making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be.
But that niggling feeling of unease ate away at her. Like a hamster in a cardboard box.
When the bells for one o'clock in the morning sounded out, she decided to head over there…
The streets were quiet and eerie. Almost like they sensed her unease. The lampdousers were still a good few hours away from starting their morning rounds, so there was a sickly yellow tint to Paris that night. Grace turned up the collar of her coat and pulled down the brim of her hat. It was the perfect kind of night to run into one of Thenardier's men. So she quickened her footsteps as she approached the Place Louis Lepine.
There were two solitary guardsmen on post at the Headquarters entrance. Both of them looked a little drowsy as she drew nearer, and one of them elbowed the other in the arm sharply. The second guard flinched and stood up straight.
"Evening, Sir." The first guard said to Grace.
"Umm…Evening." She answered unsurely, hands in her pockets. "I hope I'm in the right place, but I'm looking for a man by the name of Inspector Javert?"
"Oh, Javert? Yes, he keeps rooms in the officer's barracks."
Grace's heart fluttered a little.
"Good!" She exclaimed. "I was…hoping for an audience with him."
"What is your business with The Inspector?" The other guard asked firmly.
"I…uhh. I was told The Inspector was after…information. About the riot in Saint-Antoine the other day?"
It was a quick lie, but it looked like it had worked on the two guardsmen. Their expressions relaxed a touch and she knew that she had an inning.
"Go in, turn to the left, and then take the second right. Javert keeps his quarters in the third door down."
"Left, second right, three doors down." She repeated.
The guardsmen resumed their duty, and Grace passed by them with her hands still in her pockets. Her stomach was fizzing with excitement, but it was quickly tempered by the large, cool foyer she walked into. The marble grandness of the Headquarters was a stark contrast to the poor streets she'd walked through to get here. Her footsteps echoed through the empty stone halls, and she hurried along to the left before she could be stopped by any more guardsmen.
Eventually, she came to the door that she'd been directed to. But with a fist poised over the wood, ready to knock, she found herself pausing.
What am I doing here?! She suddenly thought to herself. Turning up at a man's living quarters at one in the morning?!
It felt… a little seedy. Like she was at the end of a messy night out and she was turning up at the flat of one of her ex-boyfriends.
Whatever the reason Javert hadn't turned up on the Pont au Double, he obviously didn't want to be disturbed, otherwise wouldn't he have sent word to her?
"Malloirave, is that you…?" She heard a husky voice ask from the other side of the door.
The hairs on her arms all stood to attention.
It was Javert's voice…but he sounded different. Weak. Muddled.
"Malloirave..?" He asked again.
She didn't answer. Her tongue felt swollen. Her voice was gone.
"Is it dawn already?"
Grace gathered up her courage and swallowed down the lump in her throat.
"It's…it's not Malloirave."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy. She stood still, listening hard for some kind of noise from inside Javert's quarters.
"Oh God, am I…am I dead already?" She heard Javert ask shakily.
"What? Javert, it's… it's Grace." She whispered to the wood. "Why do you think you're dead?!"
"Because you…you can't be here…" Javert said weakly.
"Are you alright?" Grace asked, growing a little frustrated with having a conversation with the door. "You didn't turn up for our welfare check."
She heard a groan of pain from within Javert's quarters that made her chest constrict.
"I don't…I can't…"
Grace rolled her eyes and placed her hand on the doorknob. "Ugh. Are you decent? I'm sick of speaking to a plank of wood."
"No, you can't!" Javert exclaimed, but then Grace heard those same pained and dreadful noises coming from out his mouth.
Her brow furrowed with concern again. Something was definitely wrong.
"I'm coming in."
"No! Grace!"
But it was too late. With a push on the doorknob, she was inside his quarters, squinting through the dark as she looked for Javert's face. But she came to a sudden, jolting halt when she found him.
He was still in his bed, too weak to even stand on his own feet now. And acute mortification spread through him when he felt Grace's eyes take him in. From the top of his sweat-drenched forehead, all the way down to his blanket-covered feet. He couldn't even muster the energy to sit up, much less the courage to look her in the eye.
"Oh my God…" Grace mumbled. "What happened? What's wrong with you?"
He stared up at the ceiling, breathing shallowly as she drew to his bedside. There was no point in lying to her now.
"I'm d-dying, Mademoiselle." he stuttered, voice trembling with his feverish shakes.
"Dying?!" She exclaimed. "Why?"
"Because of a small… show of affection one of t-the rioters gave me last week."
"What?"
He flicked his eyes down to his hip and she followed the small movement. His bedsheets were a tangle of linen and sweat. And there was a smell. A faint but oddly meaty sort of smell.
Without warning, she lurched for the sheets.
"No, don't!" Javert exclaimed.
But back they were flung. And Grace didn't even need to peel away his sweat-sodden clothes to see the wound; it had wept a dirty, greasy-looking stain through his shirt. Sickly shades of yellow and red against the white cotton…
He lay there, exposed and shivering. He wished that Grace would say something, but all there was between them was a shocked silence.
"I don't understand…" Grace breathed. "I…I saw you after the riot. You were beaten up, but you didn't have…" she trailed off, pointing at his hip.
"The wound has spoiled, Mademoiselle." He said gravely. "I've seen it happen before. With other men in the army. It can be a relatively minor infliction, but then… Some miasma or poisoned vapour must have been close at hand when I was stabbed and… and, well, here we are."
"Infected." Grace stated blankly. "The wound is infected…"
Javert nodded and tried not to look into her eyes. He knew he'd see sadness there, he knew he'd see fear, and he couldn't bear to be the cause of those feelings in Grace.
"I'll go fetch a doctor." She said, turning hurriedly on her heels.
"No! It'll… It'll d-do no good." Javert said, stopping her abruptly in her tracks. "What good can a doctor do once the wound is already poisoned?"
Grace realised he was right. There wouldn't be a doctor out there that could effectively tackle infection in the 1830's. Robert Koch, Louis Pasteur, Joseph Lister, Alexander Fleming, they were all distant blips on the horizon…
"You haven't told anyone, have you." She muttered quietly.
"What's the point..?" Javert grumbled. "Even if I alerted my Sergeant to my condition, and he'd have summoned a doctor, I most likely would have been bled or purged or plied with all manner of poultices… and I'll still die regardless."
"Stop saying that!" Grace almost cried. To her surprise, tears were welling in her eyes.
"And quite frankly, Mademoiselle, I'd rather die in peace. Not being poked and prodded by some quack."
"Stop it!" She cried again. "You're not going to die!"
"Grace, look at me." He said, too softly for her liking.
She reluctantly turned back to face him, her gaze misty. It was true that he looked dreadful. His skin looked almost waxy. So much paler than his normal warm olive. He twitched and shivered as he lay open to the night air, even though she could see the stains of sweat all around him. And his eyes, those wonderful, blue, October-sky eyes, were sunken and circled in darkness.
"No…" she breathed. "No… I won't let you die. There must be a reason why I'm here, there must! If I can stop this from happening, then-"
"Stop this?" Javert asked.
She delved around in her memory for some ideas. Anything that might help.
"Wh-Where are the kitchens here?"
Javert frowned at her. "Mademoiselle, I couldn't eat if you paid me to."
"No, I don't want to feed you! Just…Just tell me!"
She seemed so forceful, so fixated, that he didn't have the heart to deny her. Honestly, it warmed his heart a little to see her fighting so heatedly for his life.
"Down the corridor you came by, and then to the left."
Grace went running from the officers quarters, heart pounding as she followed Javert's instructions. She found the empty mess hall, charging up the rows of long tables and benches. She reached the serving dais, peering around the huge, empty cauldron, until she sighted the doorway to another room. She lurched for it, panicked feet pattering in the empty silence, until she found herself in the kitchens.
Her hands were shaking as she searched the shelves for what she looked for. How she wished that she could ring up David and ask for his advice now. She'd willingly face a thousand awkward meetings with him, she'd watch hundreds of hours of him and Natalie smiling and smooching one another if it meant that she could help Javert.
Her hand touched a coarse bag and she hoisted it down from the shelf. Tearing open the top, a gritty and flaky cache of salt stared back at her. Grace allowed herself a small smile.
Good. One down…
She searched on frantically. Jars clacked together and glass tinkled as her clumsy hands delved through the stores. But soon, joining the salt, she placed a bottle of a clear spirit and a honey pot beside it. Gathering up her strange feast in her arms, she ran back to Javert.
He was waiting in the exact same position as she had left him. Prying his head off his pillow, he looked at the odd selection of items she had returned with. Grace took a handful of salt and poured it into the wash bowl he kept on his set of drawers. His confused expression only deepened when she mixed the salt with a glug of water.
"What are you-"
"Can I use this?" Grace asked, picking up a spare shirt of his that hung over the back of his chair.
"Use it for what?"
But the sound of tearing linen was the only reply he got. Grace made herself a few long strips of cloth and placed them in the salty water. Then she picked up the bottle of clear spirit and unstoppered it.
"Oh, we call that clair de lune." Javert said wearily as she approached his bedside again. "We do our best to confiscate it when found, but the men do like to brew it, in secret, in their barracks. Much like eating, Mademoiselle, I am not in much of a mood to drink either..."
"Is it strong?" She asked.
"It'll knock your head off."
"Then brace yourself."
With a swift movement, she pulled back his shirt and poured the liquid over his wound.
Javert's scream tore through the night.
"Gaaah! Jesus suffering fuck!"
A searing pain ricocheted through him and he bit down hard on his hand to keep his cries quiet. With heaving breaths, he fought to stay conscious until the intense agony in his hip had subsided back into a dull throb.
When he opened his watering eyes, he looked up to see Grace trying to stifle a laugh.
"What are you-?"
"Jesus suffering fuck?" She repeated, her voice wobbling with laughter. She didn't quite know why she found it so funny, or even why she was laughing at all. Perhaps it was the pressure of it all. The only way for her to let go of some of the terror she felt, was to laugh through it. "I've gotta say, I've never heard that one before!"
"Never mind that…" he said, feeling a blush of embarrassment touch his pale face. "What are you doing to me?!"
"Cleaning the wound." Grace said, picking up the honey and the salty rags in her two hands. "Honey is a natural antiseptic, that's why it never goes off. And the salt will also help to kill some of the bacteria-"
"Antiseptic? Bacteria?" Javert asked, shrinking away from Grace as she approached him again. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing." She said dismissively, dipping the rags in the honey first before laying them on top of The Inspector's hip.
Javert had braced himself for another great sear of pain, but it wasn't as bad as the alcohol and he relaxed into it.
"Mademoiselle, I told you I'd rather have died in peace, rather than be applied with poultices…" he said wearily.
"This isn't some quack doctor's 'chicken shit and the skull of an executed criminal' poultice. This will really help."
"How?" He asked, looking carefully into her face. "And how do you know all of this? In France, women are rarely permitted to pursue the medical arts."
"It's an Oxford thing…" she said, trying to wave away his query.
"They allow women to train as doctors in Oxford?"
She nodded, laying the last of the bandages on top of his wound. "Shocking, isn't it. Next thing you know, they'll be giving us the vote and everything!"
He picked up the sarcasm in her voice and bit back any more of his probing questions. Now wasn't the time to go poking around in her past.
He looked down at the wad of bandages now on top of his hip and then back to Grace.
"So…you say this will save me?" He asked softly.
Grace had a strange look on her face. She was staring off into the middle distance as she chewed her bottom lip. Restlessly, she moved from one foot to the other and Javert wished that he could somehow peer into her thoughts and see what she was thinking.
"Grace?" He asked again.
Shaken out of her speculations, she met his eyes. Grace thought about lying to him, but Javert was a strong man. He'd done so much for her. And he deserved to know the truth.
"It…might not be enough." She said earnestly. "You need…something that we have in Oxford, but not here. A medicine that would take away the infection."
Javert's spirits sunk. He nodded solemnly, settling back into his pillows as if he was waiting for death to catch up with him.
"Although…"
"Although what?" He asked.
"Athalia had penicillin…" she mumbled to herself. "…in that jar of mould that she put on Iosif's saddle sores."
"You know someone who has this medicine?" Javert asked hopefully.
"Yes. And she's here, in Paris. But…"
"But what?"
"But if I tell her who it's for, she might spit in my face."
Javert's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because you burnt down her home."
The Inspector's face soured as realisation hit him. He scowled and turned his gaze back to the ceiling.
"You mean, the gypsy camp I liquidated on the edge of Provins." He grumbled, his voice as black as thunder.
Grace was moving again. She picked up her cap and placed it back on her head, reaching for the bottle of clair de lune before she went. She took a generous swig to ward off the coldness of the night outside, and perhaps for a little bit of courage too…
"You aren't going to them, are you?!" Javert asked, indignation in his voice.
The spirit was strong. It tasted more like something she'd used to sanitise her hands in the COVID pandemic than any spirit she knew of. And she coughed a little as she placed the bottle back down. It warmed her oesophagus, all the way down to her twisting stomach.
"I have to try…"
"If you tell them that what you seek is for me, they'll never hand it over!"
"Maybe, maybe not…"
"There is no maybe about it, Grace!" Javert exclaimed. "They would sooner watch me die in agony than see me saved. That's how the criminal mind works."
"Athalia's not a criminal. I tried to tell you that before."
She moved towards the door with heavy, purposeful footsteps and Javert searched for the right words.
"Grace…wait!"
She stopped abruptly at the doorway.
"How long…do you think you'll be gone?"
"It'll take me a few good hours to walk there and back."
"I see." He said solemnly.
His body still shook with ferocity, his sweat still pricked at his brow, and he felt tired. So very tired.
Grace saw the fear in his eyes as he lay shaking and sweating in his bed. What she'd done to the wound might buy her a few more hours, but he was still on death's door.
"So…don't you dare go to sleep without my permission. Don't even close your eyes for a moment. Is that clear, Inspector?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle." He replied dryly, just about able to muster a wry smile for her before she disappeared back into the night.
She approached the Romani camp, breathless and wild-eyed.
She could hear drumming, and the screech of a fiddle slicing through the night air. The fires were still lit, and women were still dancing around the flames, even though it must be approaching three or possibly even four in the morning.
She'd tried to run here, or at least, as much running as her burning lungs would allow. Grace made a mental note to herself to turn down Grantaire's cigarettes from now on… But she knew the pump of blood that thundered in her ears wasn't just from her running, it was also fear…
She found Athalia wheeling and spinning around one of the fires. A belt-scarf studded with dangling coins jangled against her thigh as she danced, her thick, black hair flowing freely around her.
In another time, she could have watched Athalia dance like that for hours. The sway of her body, the orange glow of the fire against her dark skin, her bare feet thumping on the grass… It was like she was performing a strange ritual, or she was a worshipper. But instead of some God, Athalia was worshipping life. Holding her hands up to the sky, bending her head back as she spun, she was a maenad or a nymph, dancing for the pure, epicurean enjoyment of it.
Grace stumbled for her, reaching out a hand to stop her spinning body.
"Athalia..!" She panted.
The Romani woman ceased her dancing and fixed Grace in her firm eyes.
"Grace! What are you doing here?" she asked, trying to catch her breath. "I thought you weren't due to visit for a few more days or so."
"No, I-"
"Come join the dancing! Today is the day we Romani celebrate our freedom from slavery in our ancestral homeland. We have food too. Meat roasting over the fires. The little ones have already tired themselves out, so we have the night to ourselves!"
"Athalia, I need your help."
Athalia's expression hardened. She saw the fearful, wild look in Grace's eyes and it made her instantly sober.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"Do you have that jar of cheese mould?" Grace asked, her words fast and jittery.
"I'm sorry..?"
"You know! The stuff that I saw you applying to Iosif's saddle-sores..?"
"I…Well, yes." Athalia replied, her frown casting a deep shadow over her face in the light of the fire. "But you've come a long way, and at such a late hour, for help with your blisters…"
"No, no, it's not for me. And it's not for riding blisters…"
Athalia waited, hoping that Grace would say more to explain herself. But Grace couldn't quite force the words out of her mouth. She'd been thinking, the whole way there, of what she was going to say. How she might possibly convince Athalia to give her what she wanted. But she'd drawn a blank. And now, she felt tears of desperation pricking her eyes.
"Grace, what's wrong? Why are you being this…secretive?" Athalia asked. "Who is it for? Why do you want it? Is it for your cousin? The golden-haired one you told me about?"
Grace shook her head.
"Well…is it for Eponine? Your friend?"
She shook her head again. Grace didn't know why she couldn't just lie to Athalia, but she couldn't. She was physically unable to. Javert had told her that the Romani would never ever voluntarily help him, and he'd implied that she'd basically have to lie if she was going to get what she was after. And if it saved a man's life, she was prepared to lie. However, as she stood in front of Athalia and those raging fires, she couldn't do it. Athalia needed to know the truth. She deserved that much after everything she'd been through. After everything Javert had put her through. And if Grace conned her, she'd never be able to look Athalia in the eye again.
"Well, for God's sake, Grace, who?" Athalia demanded.
"He's very ill, Athalia." Grace warbled, real tears sliding down her cheeks. "He'll die if I can't help him."
"Who will die?!" Athalia asked, seizing her by the shoulders.
Grace swallowed hard, looking despondently at the floor. Taking in a deep breath, she whispered it out, low and miserably. "Do you remember The Inspector? In Provins?"
Athalia's face turned bitter. She closed her mouth and let go of Grace's shoulders.
"There was a riot, in the city…" Grace babbled. "I… I don't know what happened, but he must have been hurt. And now, there's a wound. And it smells, and it's weeping, and he's weak…"
"I cursed him." Athalia said, her voice a snarl. A few other Romani had now stopped their revelry, drawing closer to Grace and Athalia. "If he is suffering, then his pain warms me. It is no more than he deserves!"
"Athalia, I've never begged you for anything." Grace said. "And after tonight, I'll never ask you for anything ever again, I swear. But please…"
"He destroyed my home!" Athalia cried. The fiddler abruptly stopped his playing and low, heated mutterings rippled through the crowd that had gathered to watch them. "You were there! You saw my children crying and my home in flames!"
"I know…"
She could feel the eyes of the other Romani boring into her.
"And you've stood before him without spitting in his face?!"
"I hated him too, for what he'd done to you." Grace said, wondering when exactly that hate had gone away. "And I know you're not the only one he has wronged…"
"And yet here you stand." Athalia said darkly. "Asking me to save his life."
"There is more to him than just cruelty." Grace replied, her voice straining with desperation. "I've seen it! He… He can be kind too."
She thought of those meetings on the Pont au Double. The food he bought for her. The soft look in his face when he looked at her…
"One good deed for a pretty young girl isn't enough to right a lifetime of wrong."
"You're right! You're right…" Grace muttered gravely.
Athalia looked her up and down, an expression of disgust on her face. "Are you sweet on him?"
Grace's eyes widened to the size of golfballs.
A feeling not unlike the strike of red-hot lightning bolted through her body.
"No! No, I'm not..!" she responded heatedly, a blush creeping up her face.
She'd said it rather quickly. Too quickly. As if she'd half-expected Athalia to ask her that question and had had that rebuttal already primed for it. But she hadn't even considered the possibility…had she? She hadn't even consciously entertained the notion… had she?
No. The Inspector was rude and brusque and patronising and completely without charm. How could she ever be 'sweet' on a man like Javert?
Yet still, her cheeks were on fire. Her whole body burned like the meats that roasted over the Romani's flames. And she knew, deep within her, that she wouldn't be standing here right now, begging for help from Athalia, if she didn't believe a little bit that The Inspector had at least one or two redeemable qualities…
Athalia didn't look the least bit convinced by her reply. "So, what does he get from you in exchange for his…'kindness'?"
"Nothing!"
Athalia scoffed and put her hand on her hips.
"I swear! He's never asked anything of me!" Grace responded truthfully.
Athalia looked hard into her eyes. Perhaps she could see the honesty in her words. Grace hoped so.
"Athalia, please." She begged. "I know kindness to one person doesn't sponge out the cruelty shown to a thousand, but…but what kind of person would I be if I didn't try to help him?"
"And what kind of person would I be? If I refuse you?" Athalia asked, an eyebrow raised.
Grace was quiet. She stared into Athalia's eyes, flames flickering in her gaze. She had nothing else to say. She had run dry.
Athalia turned her back to her. Her belt of coins jangled against her leg as she walked away. Grace's heart sank as she watched her disappear into her caravan. The drums had fallen silent, the celebration had ceased, and the door slammed with a thunderous bang in the quiet that had fallen over the Romani camp.
Grace looked about at the harsh and unfriendly faces around her, sensing that she was no longer welcome here. She turned on her heels, beginning the long walk back to the centre of the city, with a heart that felt like a lead weight inside her.
Somehow, she'd have to go back to the Place Louis Lepine and tell Javert that she'd failed, that he would most likely die from his infection, that he'd been right…
"Clean the wound and reapply it at least three times a day!"
Grace snapped her head around to see Athalia calling to her from the doorway of her caravan. Her chest constricted with surprise when she saw a brown pot in her arms. She almost sobbed aloud.
Running through the crowd, she summited the steps and approached Athalia. Her face was stony as she looked down at her.
"Thank you…" Grace breathed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you…"
"But I must warn you, if he is truly suffering as you say he is, then this still might not be enough to save him."
"I know."
"Hmm."
Athalia thrust the pot into her arms and looked down stonily upon her again.
"You helped my children and I when we were in need. Consider this my returning favour."
"Thank you…" Grace said again.
"But since our balance is restored, I think it's best that we part ways now. Don't return back here."
Grace stared at her in initial shock, but after a second she nodded her head in understanding.
It hurt… but she understood.
"Well…if this is the last time I see you… May the road always be kind to you, Athalia." she said softly.
"And it to you." Athalia responded, nodding her head in one last show of respect.
Grace wiped the tears from her face and tucked the pot safely under her arms. With that, she turned back down the caravan steps and left the Romani camp. She hugged her prize tight as sadness tugged at her heart. Grace hoped that what she'd just done, having just lost a friend in Athalia, was worth it.
She hoped Javert was worth it.