Some Old New Excuse (Feuilly & Mylene)

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Unlike most streets, the Rue de Saint-Denis didn't really ever sleep. It was an anthill whose activity remained more or less the same, that is to say, busy. Its character merely shifted when night fell. This was the changing of the guard, when the day's shopkeepers and laborers gave way to the denizens the street was most infamous for. They crawled out of the woodwork like insects, and many of them did not appear much better. Dirty in every sense… even those who were clearly doing all right for themselves trailed behind them a faintly unpleasant air of desperation, adulteration and sin.

However, tonight Javert was not here for them. They could not know this and the wisest shrank to the shadows as he passed, but he had his orders. Monsieur le Préfet after just a few months knew his instrument well, knew how to propel him past the whores, whose presence in the streets would otherwise waylay him, to where he was needed most. The préfet, as far as Javert was led to understand, believed the working-class districts were more prone to restlessness of late and thus should be patrolled for possible conflagrations. It was something the inspector too had noticed, so he was not exactly displeased with the order— but of course that was of no consequence. He would have obeyed if the préfet had asked him to leap from the Pont au Change or some similarly ridiculous order simply because the man was his superior, as long as it did not conflict with his own sense of justice, which was as solid as it was rigid.

So for tonight the Rue de Saint-Denis was only a means towards an end. Inspector Javert passed along its length for a time until he reached a side-street that seemed as likely as any. Turning down it, he kept his guard up and his eyes open. This might not be the worst of the worst, nothing like the real slums to which he was more accustomed to be assigned, but nor was it Le Marais. It paid to keep one's wits about him.

This street was much quieter, a tranquil brook compared to the noisy rapids he'd just left. Whatever the préfet's theory, there did not seem to be many people about on this particular night. The houses were large affairs, but this was not a sign of their occupants' wealth, rather the opposite. Javert was familiar with the species if not these individual specimens. There would be several people sharing the space in each, often young men who either could not afford better or sometimes the rare bird who did not want better. This mystified Javert; why would you live in squalor if you had the choice?

Still, squalor was too strong a word for this area. It was neither good nor bad but simply existed as though it had been dropped there by a passing bird, surrounded as it was by much less savory neighborhoods. The inspector's pace quickened. If there was to be nothing on this night's patrol, he would rather not prolong it.

Just when he was nearly sure that the night would be completely uneventful, his ears caught a noise up ahead. His feet kept up the same brisk march and he was soon there, standing in front of another of the street's large residences. One or two rooms were lit, but Javert's attention was drawn instead to the sound he had heard. It had come from outside the building, but it wasn't immediately apparent who was responsible. Addressing the shadows, he called out, "Who's there, and why are you skulking about in the dark?" If it was a pair of lovers, well, all right then; but otherwise, there was no wholesome reason for hiding in the shadows.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The sheet of oilcloth, together with a handful of nails to secure it in place, had cost him more than he had really been prepared to spend. He didn't know if it would be enough to stop the leaking roof, hadn't even been up on the roof to take a good look at it—but he could hope.

Feuilly knew it could make things difficult. It was more than a day's wages—wages he used, for the most part, to keep body and soul together. Of course, he often could not resist spending a bit—wasting it, the men with whom he shared a room told him—on the printed material he had worked so hard to learn to read. Newspapers, mostly, for books were too expensive for the fanmaker's wages. He was thankful for the generosity of his friends when it came to books.

The light was nearly gone for the evening, which made for less than ideal working conditions. His paying work kept him until the workshop darkened, and a dry place to sleep was not worth losing his job over if he tried to miss a day. He knew the life a man like him could expect if not currently employed, had experienced it for a little while on first coming to the city—and did not wish to repeat the experience. Especially not when there was every likelihood that, if his employer ever discovered his involvement with the Friends of the ABC, he wouldn't have to miss a day of work to lose his job.

The risks had always been high, but the rewards were worth it. Would be worth it. Must be worth it.

The hammer had come from one of the other men, and a third had promised him a franc or two for their other supplies. The money had never come through, but the rough-handed old construction worker who had given him the hammer—with the growled warning that he shouldn't ask where it had come from—had told him where to get the nails. 'I woulda helped ya,' he told Feuilly, 'but two of ya on the roof's bad 'nough at night.' He hadn't told him that his assistant would be a woman. He knew better than to trust the man to treat Mylene with even a modicum of respect.

He couldn't help but wonder if they thought he was crazy for even trying to fix the roof, given the lack of participation from the others. Some had habits much worse than reading to spend their wages on, others simply did not trust a young man who squinted through candlelight to read a book. One of them told him that he would ruin his eyes, but he didn't think that would be the case. His vision was still sharp, and he'd tried to parse together words by dim light for years.

From his place in the shadow of the building, the voice of an unknown man startled him. It sounded official, vaguely threatening. Police? Flattening his body against the wall, Feuilly debated for a moment whether he should step away from the wall and show himself, or stay where he was and hope the man would decide he had been hearing things. They were up to no harm, but he knew better than to expect to be believed.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

The night wind already started to get crisp up on these heights, Mylène noted as a gust tore at her hair she had put together with a leather thong to keep it out of her eyes, tearing a few strands from the messy bun and tickling the tender skin of her hair. She stood on the roof, legs apart for a better footing and the hem of her skirt tied around her ankles to net get entangled and provoke a fall. She would have liked trousers for this one, but there had not been time for a change of clothes. It was quite a risky idea to do this at night anyway, but she could understand Feuilly there very well. He had to use the hours of daylight for his own work, since what he planned to do here could very well be called luxury by those citizens of Paris who didn’t even call a room their own, leaky roof or no.

But of course she would help him, they had developed that idea together after all. And, if she was completely honest as much as she did this for him, she also did it for herself, yearning for the thrill such a nightly climb would bring. She really had wanted to know if she still was capable of doing it with the little opportunities she had had for training over the last few years. She was taking every minute she could, of course, but apparently once you earned your money the honest way, most of your time was spent with that. The hammer was tucked into a belt she had slung around her slim waist and the nails were in a little pouch dangling from the same. Mylène would need Feuilly’s help later for sure, but for a first inspection, she had begun to climb on her own, ‘testing’ the territory or so to say, so she could find out the tricky places she might have to warn him about.

Balancing on the roof’s crown with a fey smile on her face, she allowed herself a short moment of déja-vue, of falling back into her past as a rope dancer of Les Corbeaux. Her lack of fear had made her far too daring even at the age of thirteen and several guardian angels must have kept their hands over her as she had done those risky leaps, pirouettes and all those other tricks that had sent the crowd gasping.
But this was the past now, and she was not up here solely for fun, so she crouched low and pushed herself slowly towards the part where the roof showed missing tiles and allowed both the rain and the wind inside.

“Found the hole”, she called down in a hushed tone, slowly crawling backwards. “Sheesh, it’s almost an invitation, come on up!” Just as these words had left her mouth, she suddenly heard a call from down in the streets. A voice that wasn’t Feuilly’s. A voice that sent her muscles rigid and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Javert…
Of all the people that could have passed by in the street below, it had to be the bane of every gamin and gamine of Paris. Inspector Javert, the merciless, the bloodhound. Every fibre in Mylène screamed to jump to her feet and leg it, escaping over the adjoining roof, just away, away from this man! But maybe Feuilly would be able to hide… and maybe Javert had not heard her up the roof. Don’t panic, Coquine…!

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Somehow the shadows, cool, imperturbable, concealing the unknown, seemed more terrible to Inspector Javert than anything he had actually seen. It had always been thus with man, shrinking from the dark he did not know, but for this man, his wariness came from experience. Thieves and murderers favored the darkness. So where illumination was needed, there would be the inspector— a steady lamp, unaware of how dim was the glow he cast.

This then was one of those circumstances that needed illumination. Javert had not been mistaken. Someone was there in the shadows and that he did not answer, well, that did not speak well for his intuitions. Javert did not leap immediately into the depths but made his way around the indistinct border of the shadow so complete it unthinkingly swallowed within it anything brave enough to step into its path. The first turn of the corner yielded nothing; the wall was empty and barren. Though the house and its companion streets were dark, the inspector’s feline eyes saw enough to make out what was not there. He moved on, carried forward by the stalwart certainty that he had heard something, and that it had been larger than an animal.

The second corner brought him to the mouth of an alley nestled between two houses, and it was still darker here. Even so a shape barely distinct from its surroundings loomed against the wall, and Javert addressed himself to this specter. “What is this, a shade? Step out, step out! If you are innocent. If not, well, I have a pair of pretty iron bracelets for you to try.” Challenge given, he stood as if at attention and waited for the retort. Would it be flight or fight, or would this shadow-dancer be sensible? In his experience they rarely were.

In his unwavering focus on the first sound, he missed the second. His gaze did not stray to the roof, but remained fixed on the front half of the alley and this elusive unseen being, which he nevertheless knew to be there. When for a moment no response came he was quick to add, “Well, and what is your answer?”

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly knew then that he would not be able to completely evade this policeman. Fading into the shadows had only delayed being found—breaking into a run would both incriminate him and abandon Mylene, though he had no doubt she could escape along the roof if she had to. For another moment, the impulsion to run seized him—but he did not. He took a breath, hoping against hope that the policeman would believe him that he was up to no wrong. He couldn't afford to be arrested, though he could hope that the law students among his friends would make at least some effort to help him.

“A man,” he answered in as calm a voice as he could muster and stepped from the shadows. He tried to meet the man's eyes, hoping that this would make him seem more honest. Feuilly was no thief, and perhaps this policeman would see that. From his appearance alone Feuilly could deduce that he likely was not born to power, which gave him the faintest surge of hope that perhaps even some of the police could eventually be inspired by their cause.

However much he tried to keep himself calm, his palms were sweating and he was breathing faster than normal. He had always avoided the police as much as possible; rarely were they particular friendly to barefoot, paint-covered little boys—and he had never wanted to test their patience as a grown man, either. A problem with the law could cost him his job and endanger his friends. Neither of those—but especially the latter—was something he could afford.

He fought not to glance upward, toward the roof. He couldn't help but wonder what Mylene would do now, but he feared that even that small movement of his eyes and his head would make the police inspector more suspicious than he already was. He reminded himself again that they truly had nothing to hide, he could be honest—though perhaps not entirely honest about why they knew one another. There would be only a handful of reasons for a worker to frequent a cafe more known for its students, and everything that sprang to Feuilly's mind sounded as subversive as he supposed it was.

“'m just a fan-maker, sir. I live in this building.” His trade would, if nothing else, explain the paint and smudges still on his hands and clothing. He almost added that he was coming home late from work, but then decided to wait and ascertain that he was unaware of Mylene. He would have to explain about the roof repair if that were the case, and he knew any revisions to his story would raise his chances of feeling those 'iron bracelets.'

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

It did not help Mylène’s inner struggle at all that Javert seemed not to have noticed her on the roof for now. She might call herself lucky, but then she did not like the man picking on Feuilly solely, either! She didn’t even know whether her friend knew who he was dealing with, since he probably never had been in conflict with the law before, but it was too late to issue a warning now. Javert was onto Feuilly, and they only could hope for the best, since that man was all too eager to detect falsehood and treachery anywhere. Not that he wasn’t right two times out of three, but poor Feuilly really only wanted to get his roof fixed and happened to not be able to do it unless after sundown. It might be best if she stayed out of this for now and prayed for Javert to just pass by so she could help Feuilly up the roof and they could get to work in peace.

But at the same time, she also could not quite quench her curiosity, and even though reason told her to not even move an inch,she found herself creeping forward on the roof crown, so she could understand what Feuilly and Javert were now talking. They had lowered their voices a bit and up here the wind howled along the edges and crests, creating a background sound for Mylène’s ears that made it difficult to discern their words if she didn’t get closer.
Just now, Feuilly was starting to talk, and she admired her friend’s sure voice as he told Javert the truth while omitting the reason for him to be outside at this hour so he would not have to lie. Now there only was the question of whether Javert would buy it or not…

In tense anticipation of his answer, Mylène craned her neck and shifted her balance a little, forgetting some of the loose tiles she had recognized earlier when coming up. Her hand slipped on the moving tile underneath her fingers and the before she could grasp it again, the piece of burnt brick skidded down the pitch of the roof and burst into a million pieces on the cobblestones beneath. Cursing inwardly, Mylène ducked her head low; the only thing she could think of doing in that moment of shock was immitating the angry shrieking of a cat to mislead Javert about the true source of this accident, but she had no real chance of knowing how convincing her rendition would be. Her heart was beating so heavily against her ribcage that she thought it might burst any second. Jamais deux sans trois…<sup>1

1</sup>: (French version of: when it rains it pours)

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The shadows at last relinquished their hold and a man separated himself from them. In the still-dim light of moon and street lamp combined, a satisfied gleam came to the police inspector's eye as he surveyed this person. Whether he fell under Javert's purview remained to be seen. His appearance was innocuous enough, working class but that was to be expected in this neighborhood. Except for the way he hadn't answered a clear inquiry— twice— there was not much to speak against him.

He had not run, nor tried to— but it was a small boon only. He also had not revealed himself with a proper haste, not even when prompted. What then should Javert make of this young man who otherwise showed none of the usual signs of criminality? His voice was steady, his gaze equally so. The inspector noted, however, that his breath seemed to come just a shade quicker than perhaps it should. The case would be built from such small details, but so far there was not enough to settle Javert's mind one way or the other. He needed more pieces for this puzzle to become clear.

The youth's answer was a start, and did confirm what the inspector thought already. He had judged his appearance correctly; this was a worker, who belonged here in general and specific. When he had been an unknown quantity, a lump of clay from which the light of revelation might craft innocence or villainy, Javert had leaned towards the latter. Now the curtain had been pulled back to show an ostensibly bland individual, the policeman moderated his earlier tone somewhat, though he still harbored his suspicions. "All right, but it does not explain what brings you out here. It's approaching the hour when an honest man might hesitate to leave his house. So why have you?"

As he awaited an answer, Javert's eyes were carefully watching the fan-maker's expression, his baton resting loosely at his side. This was reversed in an instant at an unexpected noise somewhere further along the alley. Peering past the youth, he could not see much in the shadows, but from the sound something ceramic was likely— such as the tiles crowning the house. Javert's eyes and attention migrated from the ground, where he saw nothing, up to the roof where he caught some inkling of movement. It was unclear and could have been human or animal— but why would a person be crawling around the roof like a trained monkey?

"It seems you have a friend in your nighttime wanderings," Javert said, still staring upwards in hope of catching a glimpse of whatever was responsible for the noise. He was willing to accept that it had been a cat— the creatures made themselves a nuisance all over the city— but if only he could be sure...

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

The crash of the roofing tile made him flinch, and he hoped Mylene was safe. If he had believed in omens, he might have panicked. Tiles falling off a roof he was hoping to repair couldn't be a good sign.

Feuilly swallowed, following the police inspector's glance upward when he mentioned the presence of a friend. He had hoped, from the momentary gentling of the man's voice, that he might simply let him go—he hadn't been hurting anything or anyone, and had no intention of doing so. He had to remind himself of his own innocence in situations like this; too much investigation into his life could lead to trouble, but this man was not interested in his political behavior at the moment.

He took a breath, willing his voice to be as steady as it had started. He absolutely could not afford to be arrested right now, things were moving too fast in the city. Even a few nights in a cell could easily force him to abandon his friends to their fates when things heated up further. Honesty might get him out of this, inventing some story probably would not.

“Roof leaks,” he responded carefully, sensing that it was better not to sound excessively proper. Anything that made the man question him further was dangerous. He had to seem like exactly the uneducated, hand-to-mouth young worker he'd entered life to be. “ Nobody else was gonna fix it. Can't work on it during the day or I'd lose my job, so... it's night.” His eyes fell on the broken roof tile on the ground. Surely even that alone would reinforce the idea that the building's roof was in bad shape.

He shrugged, something between a half-dismissive and a nervous gesture. Everything he'd said was true, and it left an opening for Mylene's existence without pointing her out. He couldn't be sure if the policeman had actually seen her, for Feuilly certainly did not when he'd looked up in the same direction.

Almost unconsciously, he picked at a spot of paint near the base of his left thumb. It was almost a wonder that he could still make such a mess of his hands after so many years of doing the same task, but the paint was almost part of him now. An ever-changing set of markings on his hands like the fur of a calico cat.

He looked back at the police inspector again, too aware of the beating of his own heart. He hoped he would believe him. He didn't have another story to tell, and he could show him the supplies he'd brought for the purpose of fixing the roof easily enough if he had to... but somehow, he still couldn't bring himself to trust that the policeman would just let him go.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Mylène was inwardly counting the seconds that passed between her slip on the roof, the crashing of the tile below and Javert’s reaction. Surely he would be thrown off now?! There was no way in the world that Javert of all people would just let this slide. He had the instinct of a bulldog after all, and a bulldog knew how to sniff out a cat, so to say. A human cat more like. Her muscles tensed in awaiting the inevitable, the sharp command to show herself and come down. She could still flee of course, though the only way to remove her presence swiftly from the roof was by showing her full form against the night sky. You couldn’t escape in a dash when shoving yourself inch by inch over the crest of a roof! The worst case scenario however, the one Mylène dreaded most was that Javert would use Feuilly to force her to come down. As long as she didn’t think her friend to be in immediate danger, she was able to look out for herself only, but…

Javert’s voice rang through the night up to her ears, and she suppressed a gasp at his words. They were not the worst, but they could go both ways now. A friend in the nighttime wanderings, that could either mean he was buying the cat story, or he was waiting for her to do something even more stupid so he could have his suspicions confirmed. That was one good thing about Javert, if you thought about it: He didn’t like to be wrong in something, so why he might be suspicious, he wouldn’t want to look the fool either. You just had to not make him TOO suspicious, but that was easier said than done. Feuilly was doing a very good job so far, and slowly Mylène started to hope for a good outcome… only that she was too distracted by an annoying fact creeping slowly but definitely into the forefront of her mind.

As she had cowered low quickly to escape Javert’s attention she had not paid heed in which position she had brought her limbs and had kept her muscles tensed in anticipation. Now as the moment drawed out and she dared not to move to give the Inspector any inclination of her presenc, she could not help but feel her muscles slowly cramping and a tingling starting in her left calf. She knew that tingling all too well, and she dreaded it, more almost than possible busting, for one would surely lead to the other. If she did not shift her weight, she would end up with a cramp, and there was nothing more dangerous on a narrow and steep roof – not to mention the unbearable pain that could not be relieved unless the right pressure could be applied to the leg.

The tingling intensified, there was no time to lose. Inwardly cursing her luck, Mylène shifted her balance and brough her leg forward until she could reach her calf with her fingers, massaging it. Biting her lip hard, she waited for Javert’s call. It was inevitable. What a beginner's fault and bad luck!

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Everything seemed to be in order here. Javert was suspicious by nature, but despite the fan-maker’s initial strange behavior, the inspector could pinpoint nothing that was amiss with his story. Even the roof itself was determined to submit a testimonial in the form of a fallen tile. Where at first this had aroused his suspicions, now it just served to cement his ideas in the fan-maker’s favor and chase off most of his doubts. Enough remained, however, that he continued to watch the roof for more signs of movement. If it had just been a cat, well and good; no human agency could hold sway over those creatures. They did what they pleased and thumbed their noses at anyone that protested. In this they were the gamins of the animal world, largely a nuisance but with the mean temperaments of their relatives, the lion and the tiger.

If it had been more than just a mere animal, Javert was ready for that too. He still did not like everything about this situation, how the fan-maker had inexplicably hidden himself for so long. That was hardly the action of an innocent man, was it? So he watched and waited like the hunter with his trap. Eventually the hapless creature would have to step into it, and then it would be done. He did not have too long to wait, but in his blinkered concentration he again missed something, this time the fan-maker’s evasive response. It would have stoked the embers of his suspicion further had he seen it, but for the moment he was more interested in the roof and whatever answer it might offer.

His gaze sharpened at sudden movement. The trap was sprung and it had snared something much larger than a cat. He still could not see who it was clearly, except to know that it was a person, which was enough. Javert’s lip curled upward in minor victory. Reward for his diligence! He called out to this second person who had been less forthcoming than even the fan-maker. “So, you thought to let your friend take all the heat? No, no, my little cat, come down and warm yourself. There is enough fire to singe the whiskers of you both.”

But neither was Javert finished with the man standing beside him. He did not seize him by the collar immediately, but his doubts were back and had changed their nature in light of these new developments. He rounded on the fan-maker, his expression no longer accepting, but hardened into a grimace. “As for you, Monsieur Fan-maker, you didn’t mention that you were not alone. Who is your accomplice then? I will see soon enough, if he is not foolish enough to try and run; but I shouldn’t need to warn you, it will be better if you confess all, now. Lying to the police is not a beginning to anything good.”

Javert didn’t know whether this young man had a history with the courts, he didn’t look as though he would, but appearances could be deceiving. As he spoke he kept one eye on the roof for further signs of life. Now that the cat was revealed as an impostor, he had two choices, and each would require movement. Either he would do the sensible thing and come down; or he could flee.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly saw Javert's attention peak as he watched the roof, and his heart sank. So he had seen Mylene, now, and the policeman's suspicion was obvious. Feuilly sincerely hoped that the night would not end with either him or Mylene lying on the floor of a cell. He could hope that, if it came to that, one of his friends would do what was possible to get him out again—but how would they even learn of his arrest? He forced himself not to think about it too much.

He cringed when the inspector rounded on him. He hated this sort of confrontation. It scared him, though he didn't really want to admit that. Nothing to hide, come on, be brave... He suspected that, like most bullies, showing any fear would only make this man more intent on finding something over which to attack him. The almost joking way in which the man spoke told Feuilly that he seemed to enjoy his power over him, and that upset him. It worried him for Mylene's sake, too, now that the policeman knew she was there.

“A friend.” His tone had become defensive. It was his fault they were in this situation, and it was especially his fault that she was. The curl of the policeman's lip irritated Feuilly, and had he been a man of Bahorel's sort he might have turned physically against it with a fist. Feuilly's hands were needed for his work, however, and he didn't have the brash sort of bravery to throw him into a fight with the law. He felt like the red-furred fox in a painted hunt scene. He took another breath before speaking again, trying to get the shadow of annoyance and protectiveness and, yes, fear to leave his voice.

“'s hard to fix a roof alone, sir.” What would happen when the policeman would inevitably realize Mylene was a woman? It would make his story so much less likely to be believed, despite the fact that thus far he hadn't told the man any lies! “'Specially in the dark.” He looked at him, earnestly as he could. “I'm not lying, sir. I'm no kind of criminal.”

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Poor Feuilly was trying his best to appease Javert and if it had only been him, Mylène was sure he would have convinced the inspector already to go and leave him in peace. It was HER screwing these things up for him, and she couldn’t have felt more sorry and annoyed at herself. Since when had her usual streak of good luck ceased to hold? This was really not the right moment! Hopefully this was not a bad omen for the bigger things she had on her mind to deal with in the following days: her search for Alain, the gunpowder stealing with Ponine, the possible barricades even! Her luck could not be running out now! If Javert got her arrested for new crimes and old, there was no saying if she would ever get out of this one. Who would help her after all? Alright, she was close to some of the lads and they surely had the wits and education to know how to deal with the law, but she could not expect any of them to make a public appearance like that, getting their face known to the officials when they just were about to overthrow the state. The risk was too great.

There was still two options of course, one of them being to escape over the roofs and just be gone with it. But could she really do that? What would happen to Feuilly, if she just legged it? Would Javert ever believe him that this someone on the roof was not affiliated with him, as he had just claimed he wanted his roof fixed? Running was and would always be a show of guilt, and Javert would jump at that chance without a doubt. If his suspicion was raised any more than it already had been, he might just arrest Feuilly now and ask questions later. She could not let that happen, and yet if she DID come down there was a fair chance Javert would believe their tale even less. Of course, she had the oilcloth to prove it, but first and foremost she was a woman, and not an unknown face by him at all. Their last run-in a few years ago hadn’t been pleasant, and she hadn’t changed much in her appearance since then. Not to mention that she couldn’t always rely on Gustave Desjardin’s goodwill to bail her out. The Hammer surely also had other things to do.

Javert’s words were a barely concealed threat, and not very inviting at all, but Feuilly’s voice sounded defensive now, Mylène could feel he was at his wits’ end. No, there was only one choice to be made, even if the gamine in her screamed to run. The chances were not in their favour, but at least she might be able to make it a little less dangerous for Feuilly, if Javert focussed his annoyance and desire to arrest solely on ‘La Coquine’, former leader of a child gang more than once acting up with the officials and the law. If push came to shove and Javert did not believe their tale, she could always ‘confess’ she had talked him into it. Lo’ and behold, that she lived to see the day: Mylène La Coquine…the martyr.
Grabbing the oilcloth, she started to move, calling down in the gruffest and most grudging voice she could muster: “Eh bien, soit, je suis en route, Monsieur L’Inspecteur, attend!”¹

Swiftly and nimbly, she made her way downwards, needing less than a minute for reaching a level from where she just sprang down, landing almost elegently on her feet and stemming her hands on her hips, looking up at Javert almost brazenly. If Mylène was going to do this, she would be doing it her way, humble pie had never been her choice of food. “Happy now? Can’t one fix a roof in peace these nights?”

¹: “Alright, I’m on my way, Inspector, give me a minute!”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

So. This second person on the roof was indeed connected to the affair. Not that Javert had doubted it for a moment, but here was confirmation straight from the mouth of the young worker. A friend. A partner in crime, perhaps? Well, they would see, one way or the other. Whatever happened now would determine the course of the rest of that night, whether two cells would remain empty or gain residents. The inspector's eyes watched him as he spoke, but also the roof. It would be inexcusable if an accomplice managed to scurry away just because he was too intent on the one bird in the bush.

However, his doubts were all settling in the opposite direction despite his initial suspicion. The roof clearly needed work. Javert knew more about fixing rooves and gutters than he would have preferred, having been assigned to the task to an unconscionable degree while an inspector at Montreuil-sur-Mer; and even after that, whenever his own residence was in peril, he found it more expedient to handle it himself. Why waste money hiring another man when you could not even trust that they would do a better job of it?

So Javert knew about the difficulties of mending a roof without assistance, and that lent more credibility to the fan-maker's story. "You are making sense at last," he said, his voice still gruff but less accusatory. He was nodding along to Feuilly's words when the response came from the roof, and the arrival of the second 'roof-mender' on the ground upset the balance of his thoughts again. From the person's slender silhouette he at first guessed it to be a young boy, and his brows raised when he realized his error. A girl? Who would be mere friends with a girl, and one capable of climbing about on rooves like a circus animal, at that?

But as soon as her features came into view, his expression hardened into understanding. "'La Coquine'… and now it all comes clear. 'Fixing the roof,' were you?" he asked with a disbelieving stare and a sneer in his tone. They had had too many encounters in the past for this to be coincidence, and too many for Javert to believe anything innocent was afoot now. "What's your real purpose here, and who's this that you've roped into helping you? He says he's no criminal, so what's his place in this?" They were always given a choice, true, but Javert never liked to see a man fall from grace to a life in the gutters, and if this fan-maker stayed too long around the gamine, absorbed too much of her influence, he would be lost. If he was not already.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly's heart sank when he heard Javert's words. The policeman knew Mylene from somewhere, and somehow he found it believable that he likely knew more about her criminal past than he did. That was for the best, perhaps, because he could easy feign ignorance of anything... but the most he could do was hope that the inspector would believe that just because a person stole did not mean they were doomed to do so forever. It might be difficult cycle to break, but Feuilly knew that Mylene herself was evidence that it was possible.

He could try to save himself, and some instinctual part of him wanted to do exactly that. But that was unfair to Mylene, wrong, cowardly. He kept his eyes on the police inspector, frowning. “Maybe you mistake her for somebody else?” He couldn't entirely keep the concern from his voice, but perhaps that wouldn't be such a fatal flaw... “I'll show you the oilcloth for the roof if you want.” He was willing to do almost anything to prove their innocence, as much to protect her as to protect himself. It was his fault they'd gotten tangled up in this.

Clearly, though, the man thought she was a criminal and that he was her accomplice, though he still seemed to provide an opening for her unwilling accomplice. He knew that he could not force the policeman to believe him, but it was worth trying. Perhaps honesty would win out even against an extension of the apparently inherently unfair law... The inspector was, after all, as human as either of them. He had to have the capacity for human understanding, was almost certainly not born into the upper divisions of the bourgeoisie...

He was willing to pretend his interest in her went beyond friendship if necessary to assuage the man's concerns, though he also didn't want to frighten Mylene with that. Somehow he doubted it would help. The thought passed through his mind that he could claim they were related somehow—but he doubted that would help, and would only provide a false element to the story that he would have to remember to maintain. He preferred not to do that for as long as possible.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Of course Javert would recognize her, she would have been surprised if not, and that had been the main reason after all for her to hold out from coming down for such a long time. She knew her chances had just slimmed to an unrecognizable tiny rest, and she would have liked to avoid that as much as she was able to. One of Javert’s maximes after all was ‘once a thief, forever a thief’ and many of the guards in the city shared these beliefs. She might not have the yellow ticket of an ex-prisoner since she gladly had never been one, but her past was a stigma to those who knew her. Not that Mylène herself viewed it as a stigma, she even looked back on those times with some nostalgia sometimes, regardless of the fear, the pain and the ever present hunger that had accompanied her childhood. Being out of law also could mean ultimate freedom, if you knew how to be an optimist and savour the upsides. And Mylène had always been just that, basically optimistic.

This was also while she looked still on the bright side now. And a big plus on the bright side was that Javert was still only talking, he had not grabbed and restrained her yet, what might have been wise with a girl like her, known to be as evasive and slippery as an eel in your fingers once you thought you had her. Not that she wanted to escape right now, but the physical freedom also was a mental one: nothing was lost yet, there was still a tiny spark of hope that she could convince Javert she had had no criminal intentions in this affair.
“Good evening to you too, dear Inspector”, she replied sassily, as if he not just had accused and threatened her. But then she realized what an opening both Javert and Feuilly had given her, an opening that would enable her to keep at least her friend out of this completely. Feuilly might know a few snippets here and there about her past, but he truly did not know as much about the fame of ‘La Coquine’, she figured. Mylène wasn’t as vain to think that anyone in the city should have heard of her in former times.

So her eyes quickly darted between Javert and Feuilly and she gave her face a slightly abashed expression, biting her lower lip. “He’s not”, she replied calmly then, “Mistaking me, that is. I’m sorry, mon ami, I… guess I should have told you about…my past. I was … in conflict with the law several times when younger.”
Turning to Javert, her expression changed from uncomfortable to annoyed. “An he is wha’ he says he is, Javert, so let him off the hook. This is ‘tween ye an’ me. Even a bad girl can do a good deed sumtimes, can’t she? Here’s the oilcloth, doubtin’ Thomas! The likes o’ us dun buy such things fer sport!” For that, it truly had been too expensive a trinket.