Hound and Pup (Gavroche)

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Flurries of rumors, no more substantial than butterflies with their paper-thin wings, had been crossing the Ile de la Cité of late. It had begun a few months earlier, but had remained informal, kept to the shadows. The citizens of Paris were always restless. This created a near-constant eddy, but it was one to keep the eyes on lest it turn into a proper whirlpool, a maelstrom to suck the entire city into turmoil. Until the epidemic of illness struck, however, the rumors were only quiet whispers, passed along between the prefecture, Palais de Justice, and Conciergerie, but the threat was revealed by the sheer fact that these three were not at each other's throats about it.

Now after the arrival of cholera—and it had hit hardest the areas that were most likely to stir up trouble anyway—not to mention the incident at the parade, the police at least felt it was time for concrete, if discreet, action. "Just nose around," had been the order. "Don't let them know we're on to them." And so like a pack of hounds they were released into the city to trace these rumors and either confirm or discard them. Some were sent to the quays, some to the working-class districts; as for that old bloodhound Inspector Javert, he had been set upon the Latin Quarter and gauzy murmurs about a student group, or perhaps more than one. The young were always too hot-blooded to be trusted completely, and that area was teeming with them.

The Place Saint-Michel wasn't part of the inspector's usual assignment—that was another square, the Châtelet—but he occasionally crossed it on his way back to his rooms so his thin sharp form was not an unfamiliar sight there. Today though, despite the warmth of late spring, he had worn his old greatcoat over top of his uniform. Anyone who avoided him did so out of prior knowledge or a solid instinct. Apart from his manner, which was almost military, there was no way of knowing that that threadbare coat concealed a policeman. Therefore when trouble poked its head above the gutters, Javert had to suppress his first reaction in order to preserve his disguise, simple as it was. Today he was not an inspector, but he arrived at a scene that sorely needed one.

Keen brown eyes scanned the street, taking in the narrow space without losing a beat. However, the inspector had arrived at the end of the scene rather than the beginning and thus was missing most of the pertinent information. He saw only a young man sprawled out across the cobblestones, another standing over him, and for incongruous decoration, several oranges making a lopsided wreath for the one on the ground. What Javert didn't know about the situation was, in short, everything. Where he assumed there was a thief and a proprietor, there were only two students, both of whom had fallen in love with the same girl. One had bought the oranges for her, and the other objected to the gift. From words to a struggle, and from there to unbridled fists; eventually one had gotten the better of his rival.

Javert saw none of this despite his close observation. And so when he broadened his investigation of the periphery, he made another misstep. He caught sight of a familiar figure sauntering past, as if he were innocent in all this, so small that someone less watchful than the inspector might have missed him. Gaze lighting up with recognition, Javert loped after the child and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, boy! What is this? You here, and these stolen oranges too? I see how it is then." He stood back, arms folded, his expression laced with contempt, almost a species of disappointment. He hadn't thought the urchin such an idiot as that. "You thought you'd just stroll away? Well, I might be playing the spy today, but there's still an arrest warrant under this coat for you. Is it needed, or do you have some other story to tell?"

It seemed to Javert that the boy always had some excuse ready; either that, or he used his legs. They were a potent weapon, those legs. The day Gavroche had discovered he could outrun the police, well, that had been a dark day indeed. So the inspector was ready to sprint, as futile as it would be. It wasn't as though he could ignore actual daylight robbery when he'd witnessed it directly, after all.

[gavrochethenardier]

Paris had been thrown into a silent turmoil, the unrest shielded from the Government. The people were beginning to move. For now, it had only been speculations, ideas and thoughts passing between them, bravado and talk. But that was not the real problem within the streets. Silent whispers of an illness was slipping from ear to ear, people living in a silent fear for their lives. Gavroche couldn’t remember the name of the disease, but it had sounded pretty terrible. The people of the streets could not afford medicine, and Gavroche was no exception. No matter how many coins he could pickpocket, or stolen watches and hats and glasses he could sell, he would never have enough money. Nor his sister, or his friends. An icy fear had crept into him, but no-one must know. He was Gavroche. He was never scared.

As of quite recently, Gavroche had been spending most of his time in the Latin Quarter. His friends were harboured there, students beginning a secret revolution. A revolution soon to explode onto the centre stage, to disrupt everything there is or was, and to change France completely. But it was all very quiet for now. Whisper, speeches and rumours passing between the people who were willing to rise. The law seemed to be generally unaware of what was happening. Even that rat, Javert. Gavroche snickered to himself, strolling down the empty streets. The Inspector had managed to miss Gavroche quite recently. The young boy had slipped in and out of the streets as soon as he approached, not wishing to face the Inspector in a time like this. While making Javert’s life difficult was one of the most enjoyable activities he could do, there were more serious matters at hand. It was all rather sombre, and Gavroche found it positively dull. He missed the more peaceful times. While they may not have been happy, they were as close to cheerful as he could manage. Days spent causing trouble, pickpocketing the bigots of the upper class and climbing the roofs of the city.

Saint-Michel wasn’t Gavroche’s usual place of exploration. But it was quiet, and he could climb and jump and prance around as much as he liked. He could act like a child and get away with it. It was all rather pleasant, now that he thought of it. There were no adults to scold him or get angry at him, and there were no children of whom he would feel the need to help, and there were no Inspector Javert’s to blame him for any sort of mishap or ‘crime’ that had happened in the surrounding areas. Gavroche often saw himself as a rather well-behaved child. He knew he was kidding himself, but he didn’t think that he caused all that trouble. He only stole occasionally, and he’d never murdered. But in the eyes of the law, both seemed to be on an equal level. The police weren’t particularly bright anyway. They just dawdled around, blaming whoever looked mildly suspicious. As long as you could make yourself look all innocent and sad and mopey, they were sure to let you go free and take the other suspect, the one who looked all tough and burly. And even then, fear of such a large man often sent them away.

A little scrape had broken out in the streets. Quick as a scared mouse, Gavroche had zipped towards the area of interest, shielding himself from view behind a wall. Two young men, probably not too older than his friends. They seemed to be fighting. One had oranges. Rather nice looking oranges too. Gavroche would quite like to ‘borrow’ one. You could never beat a good orange, in his opinion. He watched the scrabble with mild interest. It wasn’t something he hadn’t seen before. He’d seen far worse. He’d seen fights with knives and with guns, of big men who could be counted as behemoths battle each other in the streets. Mountains of muscles crashing into each other, grappling in battles where neither would win. This little scrape was rather boring. It seemed to be a personal matter, something the two had failed to sort out between each other. Gavroche shrugged. It did not involve him, and that was final. Once the second had rendered the first unconscious, he had hopped up and left, find it rather anti-climatic.

Gavroche had been strolling past, giving a distainful look in the direction of the struggle. Such dull entertainment. He would find more fun watching some of the bourgeois babble on about some plain, boring topic with their fanciful language that meant nothing to Gavroche. He found his street talk far more genuine. He had disappeared into his own little world. That was until the hand landed on his shoulder. Gavroche jumped, quite taken aback. Turning around, he saw Javert. Gavroche wasn’t so sure if he felt happy or annoyed. Javert, at this point in time? That was going to be difficult to handle. But now he had an excuse to mess with the Inspector. “I have no idea what ye talkin’ about, Inspector.” Gavroche shrugged, looking up at Javert with big puppy eyes. “I ain’t strollin’ away from nothin’. I was simply walkin’ through, findin’ a place to sleep for the night, seein’ as you rich ‘uns dun care for us hungry ‘uns.” Gavroche have a false sniff, trying to put up a good sob story. Of course, he had his elephant, but he was more than certain that Javert didn’t know about it. “Would ye really arrest a poor, homeless, starvin’ little boy for somethin’ he ain’t have no business in?” Of course he would, but that was relative to Gavroche’s little tale.

Once he had discovered that he could run faster than Javert, Gavroche had found glee in versing the Inspector. He’d dash through the streets, slipping in and out of the city that he knew so well, while and he would often lose the Inspector in streets that Gavroche was sure didn’t have any name. It was fun, but Gavroche decided it would be far more fun to poke sass at the Inspector at this moment in time.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

To start when one was caught, this was a sign of guilt. At least it was to the inspector when he was already on that track of thought, and with Gavroche he always was. When wasn't the boy up to something? If that were the case, then Javert had never seen it, and he wouldn't expect to. Wasn't it impossible to prove a negative? Even now he had a ready story, claiming innocence with a look that could have fooled many, but not the inspector. Not when he knew the sheer amount of trouble the boy got into every day, though he'd never been able to prove anything to the satisfaction of the courts. Not even that day when he'd stolen the very hat from his head, even that had not been evidence enough.

"No idea?" Javert drawled with a skeptical brow raised. "Then you're not the cause of this?" The idea, impossible as it was, drew from him a dry bark that might have been taken for a laugh. And without taking his eyes from Gavroche—the boy would be liable to disappear if he did—he swept a hand behind him in a general gesture towards the scene of the brawl. The first student, the original owner of the oranges, was just beginning to recover his senses but still lay on the ground; the second youth was already contrite, offering a hand up to his friend. But again, Javert missed all of this, seeing only the gamin in front of him.

He returned to his former stance, with arms folded; the boy's story was at least true to form. That is, utterly unbelievable. "What? What shelter is there here? Do the students let you make a roof of their books?" It might not be the best of areas, but it was also not so deteriorated that its residents would overlook a creature as ragged as Gavroche. He ignored the swipe at his class, because it simply wasn't true. He was neither rich nor poor. His pay just covered his few expenses and not much more. Besides, he existed outside of class altogether, a stranger who lent his efforts to society but remained apart from it himself. It had to be that way, considering his roots.

The mention of hunger, however, pointed out more practical concerns. "If you're so hungry, are you sure you didn't pocket an orange?" Javert demanded, still fixing Gavroche with an unbroken stare. "It would be such an easy thing for you." But the urchin continued along the same path, insisting on his innocence albeit in the most unconvincing way possible. Besides, they both knew his question was a rhetorical one. Javert would not hesitate to arrest anyone at all; the only reason Gavroche was not already in custody was a lack of proof against him.

The boy had nerve—misguided, inadvisable, but nerve nonetheless. Most, even some respectable citizens, bore a healthy fear of Inspector Javert, but not this one. He stood as tall as his decade or so of living allowed and though he could have run, stayed instead to play a more verbal game of cat-and-mouse. "I don't believe you," he said flatly with an air of finality. Trouble, and with Gavroche so near? He didn't believe in coincidence as wide as that. "This is something to do with you, or why would you be here?" It was all very reasonable to him.