Too Old for a Gamin (Open)

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

If someone had looked down the street that afternoon, they would have seen a gamin standing cheerfully by the side of the road, selling bits of paper for a little money. If they had looked a little closer, they would have noticed that on the papers were sketches, rather rough to be sure, but designed to fit any taste, from landscapes to politics. Most people didn’t bother looking close enough to see more than just the papers and the slightly grubby hands offering them, but if anyone had, they might have noticed that the gamin looked a bit too old to bear the title. They might also have seen that he had a somewhat feminine look to his face, and if he spoke, his voice sounded slightly too high, though it was rather coarse. But then, who would be interested in watching some street child who claimed to be an artist?

Irène was glad she didn’t have to speak very much; putting her voice down low hurt her throat, and she knew she wasn’t being consisted. If Papa had taught me voices instead of having Pierre teach me sums… She knew that it would be dangerous to be discovered, especially in an area rife with prostitution, which might become her only chance if her disguise failed. It would probably be better for her to find some rich eccentric to take pity on her, but then she would be wrapped up in dresses and walls again. Freedom could be so addicting, especially the freedom that came with trousers.

She supposed joining the prostitutes could be a sort of freedom, and she wouldn’t have to give a false name, but she’d seen some of the women walking about. Some of them had a hollowness to their eyes that frightened her, and she shuddered to think of letting her mind simply close off like that. Verses would stop coming to her, and there hadn’t been a time in her life when that hadn’t happened.

I ought to indulge myself, she thought, looking down at the cheap paper covered in bridges and caricatures of various political figures. After swallowing a few times, she piped up in her faux-boy’s voice, “If you don’t care for a picture, I’ll write you a bit of poetry. Bring a little gift home to your lady! Have her name immortalized in rhyming verse!”

Well, as immortal as her little scribblings would ever be.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

They were two opposing species, gamin and police, forced to share the common territory of the Paris streets. Because of this prescribed proximity, there had grown up between them a certain detente over the years, passed down through tradition to each successive generation. It was an imperfect peace, founded on marzipan and rice paper, easily washed away in a light rain. Sometimes it was the gamins who reopened hostilities, sometimes it was the police, but periodically the streets would erupt in places with miniature battles, whirlwinds of activity—theft or simple but destructive mischief. It was the police's unfortunate lot to deal with these when they could have been engaged in more meaningful operations.

As long as he was on patrol, Inspector Javert made a special point of watching the gamins. At the first sign of trouble he would be ready. This vigilance led him naturally to notice the slender boy selling 'artistic' rags. Sketches or poetry most likely. Nothing that appealed in the slightest to Javert, but at least he had something to sell. That was preferable to stealing the coins of honest men without giving them something in return. But as he strode further along the street in the gamin's direction, he noticed something that really seized his interest. The gamin looked as though he might outgrow his role any day, and he was rather effeminate. Neither of these on their own was decisive proof, however, so Javert drew closer, his arms folded in his usual stance. He said nothing, did nothing to announce his presence at first, but stood to one side, watched, and listened.

At this distance he was more certain of what he saw. He was a master of disguise himself and could recognize when certain tricks were being employed. The disguise was well-done, he would concede that. The average person with the level of attention they gave to anything would never notice. But the gamin was a gamine. Or more likely, given her age, she was some young aristocrat out for a lark. It was ordinarily no business of his, such things were perhaps inadvisable, but hardly illegal. However, the efficacy of the disguise had given him an idea. Such a skilled person could be useful as a spy.

So he stepped out deliberately in her path and let himself be addressed. His head turned towards her magisterially like the head of some great raptor, and he fixed her with a similarly aquiline eye. "You could jot down a few of Shakespeare's verses, since you seem so fond of theater," he said pointedly. "Don't worry, your secret is safe. I might, however, have a proposition for you. Would you be interested in turning your skill at disguise towards something more important than selling trifles?" The only part of him that indisputably marked him as police was his lead-headed cane, which he kept judiciously tucked into the elbow facing away from her.

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

Irène somehow knew the man who approached her wouldn’t be interested in buying a little sketch or even a quatrain praising his mistress’s eyes. There was something sharp about him, something predatory that made her want to turn tail and run to the nearest hiding place she could find. This wasn’t a game of predator and prey, however, or at least it was one that would require more thought than speed. She looked up at the man and did her best to meet his gaze unflinchingly.

“Imitate Shakespeare, monsieur?” she said, still trying to keep her voice from sounding like a girl’s. “Wouldn’t you prefer I take after Molière, or some proper Frenchman rather than an English playwright? In any case, I write my own verses. Good or bad, the words are mine. I don’t steal from others’ mouths.” Their minds, perhaps – she had written a mediocre response to some poem a few years back – but never their mouths.

He knew. Somehow, he had seen through her disguise. She was sure it couldn’t have been anything obvious, since she deliberately wore clothes that would hide her figure, so either she needed to hide her face as well or he was particularly sharp-eyed. With the deliberate way he walked, she suspected the latter but wasn’t entirely reassured that he wouldn’t try to take her back to her home – as though she’d let him – while still finding a way to keep from telling people that she had run about dressed as a boy. The word “proposition” worried her still more until he mentioned her disguise.

“If you mean working in the theatre, monsieur, I’ve already considered that, and it’s not the path for me.” Not least because she might encounter her father, but she had never seriously considered acting or working for the stage in any way. The words came out rather glibly, a lie that might give her some sort of stability, or at least more of a sense of ease. “You don’t look much like a man of the theatre yourself, though. What would be so much more important than my ‘trifles’?” She tried not to let the idea of her poetry as a trifle sting; after all, the man had probably never read her work and couldn’t have any sort of opinion on it.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

She was a bold little rabbit too, Javert noted. The girl barely flinched, even in the face of his approach, and she was able to keep her wits close enough to quip back at him. His instincts had been good. This one would be a useful spy indeed if she could only be persuaded. But women, even the kind who would risk going around in the guise of a man, needed a lighter touch. He might use his usual tactics and the prey would bolt before he'd reached the meat of his argument. A more delicate operation then was called for.

"Your influences are unimportant. I would hardly know the difference between Molière and Marlowe if you presented them side by side. I don't follow the theater except to borrow techniques," he answered, giving her another meaningful look. Even the voice was convincing. If he didn't already know otherwise, it likely wouldn't have given her away. "Ah, an honest wordsmith, that is as it should be. Even words can be stolen, and it would be much harder to prove the theft in court. It is well you stay away from any such trouble." He didn't like to read, but if it was half as difficult to write as it was to read, then he could understand why an author might get upset over what otherwise seemed a trivial matter.

And now she knew he knew. The first checkpoint; how would she react to being found out? But she didn't lose her head. She remained where she was and responded calmly enough. Javert continued to be impressed. "Not the theater, no." He spoke carefully, in measured tones and in an attempt to be less sharp than usual. "As you have already guessed, theater is not my game. But there are other paths that require a certain amount of—subterfuge." How much should he say? She was still rightly wary of the stranger who had deduced her secret, but he couldn't put her off with vague phrases forever.

Eyes narrowing slightly as he looked to gauge her reaction, he continued, "Paths that pay reasonably well for little danger, and plenty of opportunity to use your skills. Does that sound like something that might interest you?" Until he had a better measure of her, he would avoid getting too specific. Besides, not everyone was as motivated by devotion to the state as he was.

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

Irène was tempted to walk away right then, when he dismissed her influences. After all, a man who cared little about words could hardly be expected to put up with an aspiring wordsmith. And if the thing he was commending most was her honesty… “I find trouble of that sort makes it hard to earn a living, monsieur,” she said. “And people who are familiar with my craft could tell whether I had taken another’s words for my own.” She’d heard of a poet who had recently been ostracized from a café for trying to pass off some German’s poem as his. The translation had been rather shoddy, too, from what she understood.

Nearly anything could involve subterfuge, as he put it, whether it was lying for art or just insisting that the bits in the soup really were beef. Some types were more acceptable than others, of course, and some were more subtle. What was her playing gamin, after all, but a particularly skillful bit of subterfuge? He seemed to think that was her art, however, which was rather annoying. The mention of money was tempting, though, as was the hint that it wouldn’t be too dangerous. That he had to bring danger up at all implied there was some, however, and she gave him a careful look. “What sort of danger would that be? Worse than what I see out here?” She had actually gotten used to the dangers of the streets, and it would feel rather odd to leave it behind if she did accept the job.

Subterfuge, money, and a hint of danger… “This isn’t politics, is it? But then, you’d hardly want a girl for that.” It hardly mattered that the passersby knew. It might even help. If something started to go wrong, she could scream for help, and who wouldn’t rush to aid a defenseless young woman, even one in trousers? “I may deal in words, monsieur, but I don’t like when they’re used to speak around things. If you’re trying to make me solve a riddle, you’re wasting your time. Even if I am clever enough, I haven’t the patience.”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Javert wasn't known for his tact. To him tact was a form of lying, minor, but that didn't matter. And worse, it was a waste of time. He would much rather say what needed to be said and have done with it. Scrutinizing her closely, he answered with another question. "And is this your living? It's not a very reliable source of income." If it was, she would be more apt to hear his arguments when they were coupled with an offer of money. The state did not always pay well, that was true, but at least it was steady pay. Not like this work, which depended on the whims of the populace. Also, he noted that she was sensible, to know that others would perceive a theft of words. Not everyone was Javert, who read as some men adopted strange diets for their health.

He had, it seemed, been right to mention the probable lack of danger, though she had seized on the obvious implications of his words. "That would be part of your task, to discover just how much danger there is," he said, finally following up this less-than-opaque answer with details, "in the cafés and taverns. The students are restless these days. We know that for certain, but what we still do not know is whether they are planning something or if their talk is still just words." He paused, considering the last part of her question, then shook his head. "No, so long as you're not caught, the streets are worse." There was no point denying that there was some danger. If the students' planning had crossed from ideas to actions, that made them treasonous and therefore capable of anything.

His eyes narrowed slightly. It was technically politics, but it was also police work, for which they had begun to use all manner of people thanks to Vidocq's innovations. "You might be surprised," he said, mildly for him. "It is politics, but what we need most is eyes and ears. You wouldn't have to engage in any yourself. Though I think you would be capable of it, with a little reading." He did not think much of young girls in general, they seemed to him to be an unintelligible lot as a whole, nothing but frilly lace and annoyingly high-pitched giggles. But this one was different. If she could write poetry, she could certainly handle herself in a debate if she were to be sucked into one.

No patience, eh? Well, he could understand that, and he had done as much as he could to placate her now. He might as well reveal all, and if she refused, then he couldn't be blamed. "Very well. It is the police courting you. As for me, I am Inspector Javert." He stood perfectly still, watching for her reaction.

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

“Reliable or not, I like the work too much to care for the pay.” That wasn’t precisely true; there were some nights when she was curled up in some corner, shivering and hungry and wondering what would happen if she went home and asked her father to take her back. “It gets me enough to eat, in any case.” She doubted she ought to mention the thieving she did on the side when her poems and sketches didn’t get her enough. This didn’t seem like a man who would take kindly to young women who stole.

The talk of her being caught and of the eyes and ears made her still more suspicious than she had been before, and even her impatience couldn’t keep her from hearing what he was saying behind his words. She lowered her voice just a touch, enough so that the passersby wouldn’t be terribly interested. “You want me to be a spy.” She’d never met any of the revolutionaries personally, but she had heard their talk, and it stirred something in her. It could have been just the fire in her blood, but she knew Paris could be far better than it was, and perhaps combat was the best – or only – way. They might not let her fight because she was a woman, but that seemed the only advantage working for whoever this man was would be. She suspected he was some government worker looking for hungry urchins who cared more about food than politics. “Monsieur, I don’t know how much time you’ve spent on the streets, but there are a good many who think the students have the right idea. Talk of the future appeals to people. I know it appeals to me.”

Any brash words she might have said next caught in her throat. The police she could deal with, but… Javert. The name was enough to make her want to run, tossing away her papers if she had to, but all she could do was stare into his eyes and force herself not to shake. She was a fool, such a fool, and she had somehow managed to get away with it for two years, but now she was cornered.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

He raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. Who was there that could think so cavalierly of good, steady employment? One possibility, that she was an aristocrat's daughter and therefore had no need of the money, remained high on his list, but it was not the only one. There were some who genuinely did care more for their work than for the pay it brought. These were most often artists, and he supposed poets counted among that group, so that much fit. If so, it might be more difficult than he'd expected to draw her away from it in favor of spying.

Still, he'd invested a few minutes in her, he could afford a few more. "But wouldn't you rather have more than just enough?" Javert stared at her, and even this impassive look came across as fierce, imperious, searching. He could not help it any more than the eagle could soften its gaze. What was her motivation, what convince her, if not money? "Yes, it keeps you fed now, but when it doesn't? What then?" he asked her challengingly. He knew well what that usually led to. He knew and didn't like it. And if anyone got proof on her, it would land her in La Madelonettes alongside all the other women who could not keep their hands to themselves, but stuck them into others' pockets.

"Come now, be sensible." His reasoning was sound, so why didn't it register with her? "Do you like to be cold and hungry? That is where the streets will leave you in the end." Then she lowered her voice and discreetly proved she understood the undercurrents of his words. Javert nodded curtly. "Yes, a spy," he answered, watching her carefully. She didn't reject the idea outright, but when she spoke again his lips curled into a terrible smile and he nearly laughed aloud. "I know the streets as well as any gamin, that is why we are concerning ourselves with these upstarts."

His eyes narrowed further at her bold statement. "Well! At least you are honest about it, that's something to be thankful for." Which was as close as he would get to an actual expression of thanks, even though by admitting her sympathies now instead of concealing them, she had inadvertently helped the cause of the police and kept Javert's own head from the figurative chopping-block. "If the future has anything to do with rebellions and republics, then I won't stand for it," he declared, sounding indignant. Certainly if he had any say in the matter, and he was determined to, none of it would come to pass.

Javert was used to his name producing an inordinate effect. It mostly pleased him, but it could also make his job more difficult. Which was it to be today? Her silence drew attention to itself, because until now she had hidden her nerves well, well enough not to attract the looks of passersby. Now, however, she stared at him, more than ever the picture of a cornered rabbit. His smile made a reappearance, and his eyes gleamed bright with certainty. No one would wear that look without having something to hide. "What! Are you suddenly speechless? Tongue cut out, or stolen by the cat? Or is it some shred of conscience silencing you? I wonder... what is it you've done, my little bird, and will you sing for Javert?"

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

Irène shrugged, wondering how she could be so cavalier when faced with a man who had eyes sharp enough to cut. “Just enough’s what I’ve always had,” she said. “I get a bit less on the street, but I’ve got a fair bit more, if you follow.” He probably didn’t. This man looked to be the type who believed women ought to be laced in corsets and people ought to stick to their classes. “A roof’s not much to give up in exchange for freedom.”

She found herself smiling a little. Sensible? She was a poet; the two simply did not mix. “Monsieur, no one has ever before accused me of being sensible, at least not since I started scribbling out little verses and saying they were more important than learning my sums.” Naturally, that had been when her brother had no more to teach her and simply repeating lessons grew boring. “Cold and hungry I’ve been, and I suspect I’ll be again, but there are worse things. I don’t suppose you’d know how it feels to have words running through your mind and no way to get them out and tell if they’re any good or not, but it’s torture. I’d starve and freeze before giving up my voice.”

He certainly was the old-fashioned type. Sure, they had their charms, but when they were so obstinate, it was infuriating. “Rebellions only come when they’re necessary,” she said. “Any birth is bloody, and only time will tell if the child will prove good or ill, but oughtn’t it at least have the potential to live?” She ought to write that bit down. Perhaps she could work for the revolutionaries. “And speaking of children, do you know how many die out here? How many a republic might save?” The thing she hated most about sleeping out in the streets was seeing little bodies, especially in the winter.

So she was caught, though she wasn’t sure for what besides being a runaway who dreamed of being a firebrand. Well, caught she might be, but she wouldn’t be captured mute. “I’m no bird, monsieur, and my tongue works as well as it ever did. I’ve nothing to fear from you unless there’s some crime against women speaking their minds.” She drew herself up as tall as she could and didn’t let her gaze waver from his. Something was flaring up within her, and she had a sudden thought of this same fury running through all of Paris. Now that would make a poem.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Just enough... that was all Javert had, and all he needed too. So he understood that much from her point of view. He even understood that the work could be more important than the pay. He felt the same about his duties. But that the work should be something as frivolous as poetry, that he couldn't fathom. "Freedom isn't worth being cold and hungry," he insisted, though he could tell by now they didn't see eye to eye on that point.

He didn't like to admit when he was wrong, but no matter how painful it was, he would do it. "Well then, I will retract. You are not sensible. Even so, you could still be effective. Clever and sensible don't always go hand in hand." There were men who might wade into deep and treacherous waters out of impulse, yet were quick enough at thinking on their feet that they could wade out again. Javert frowned slightly at her passionate words. He supposed he would have been the same; the very idea of being anything but police held a special horror for him. But as she finished her little speech he threw back his head and let out a bark that might have been laughter. "Ha! You are right. Whenever I have words running through my head, I chase them out again."

No, Javert had no more use for stray thoughts, the mongrels of the mind, than he did uprisings against authority of any kind. "It's always rebellions," he said scoffingly. "As if talk doesn't lead to action every time! That is the way of it, the way they think, these revolutionary minds. They never speak but they shout." Besides which, he didn't approve of what they shouted, either. "A chance? Why? It may be worse than what's thrown away and then the people will come crawling back to the king as they did after Bonaparte was bagged."

His gaze hardened at the mention of children. Always the last resort of argument, to brandish the young of the species as though they were somehow more precious. Yes, it bothered him sometimes to see the bodies, but no more than would a fly. "Then they should not be on the streets. Besides, revolutions are not a friend to the young. They are more likely to be trampled underfoot." Literally or figuratively, it was true.

He stared back at her appraisingly. "No, that is no crime. But why were you silent? What is your name?" She didn't look familiar, but he had a better memory for names and figures than he did faces. Perhaps her name would tell him something.

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

They obviously had very different priorities. She doubted this was the sort of man she could try to pull into a life of streets and sky and uncertainty, however briefly the contact might be. She had done that once, though without giving up her cover. Some boy had once wanted to play gamin, and she had indulged him, showing him what it meant to be cold and hungry and free. He had gone right back to his old life right after, but whenever she saw him afterward there was something different in his gaze.

The man’s laugh hardly deserved the name. It was a sharp report, somewhere between a bark and a gunshot. “I suppose I do that as well, but only to capture them again.” Could this man come from the same Paris she did? It was as though there was a gulf between them that no words could stretch across. She could try to understand his view, and he could try to understand hers, but that was all they could do: try. Nothing more would be gained.

But try she would.

“Sometimes things need to be shouted,” she said, “because the people speaking are unheard or because of the passion the words inspire.” She doubted there would be any use in imploring him to understand that words could reach up within a speaker and make themselves louder than they were meant to be. “If it does go wrong, then perhaps they will go back to the king,” she said. “But perhaps it will be a different king, a better king. And it may go right.” She had heard stories of the revolution in the previous century, and what she remembered most was the bright fervor at the beginning, before it was corrupted. “I don’t suppose you have much use for hope, monsieur.”

Her temper flared at his callous disregard for children. Yes, a revolution could harm them, but they were the ones worth fighting for, at least if the cause was the future. “Many have no place to go,” she said. “They may have no home, or at least a home that would be even worse than chancing it on the streets. Where would you send them?”

He was trying to figure her out now, to connect a name to her face. “As far as you are concerned, my name is Charlot Guillory. I was silent from surprise. Inspector Javert would be one of the last people I expected to approach me.” Possibly the last, though given how sharp-tongued she could be, she sometimes wondered how the police hadn’t come after her yet.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Why was it, Javert wondered with some irritation, that anyone ever felt the need to argue their case to him? Did he look particularly persuadable? Did he seem so, after just a minute's interaction? If so, he must be doing something wrong. When he was not spying, he only ever wanted to present himself exactly as he was. The thought grated like sandpaper and he frowned. But looking again at this young woman dressed as a dirty gamin, with her earnest expression set as if in stone, he could see it had little to do with him. Stubbornness drove her onward, not any genuine hope of victory. That was good, because his usual solution to nettlesome thoughts was simply to have none.

This explained why he was actually a little nonplused by this exchange. He was being forced to think. Superficially, it was true, but for a man who practiced it so seldom even that was uncomfortable. Javert stared hard at her in annoyance, tempted to walk away. But if he did that, it would be a retreat and he wouldn't get the last word. He would be in the right, of course, but it would be better if the other person knew it too. "Hot blood brings nothing but trouble, trouble and treachery." Surely that was clear enough. You didn't even have to go a full century into history before running into proof. "A better king? And what's the matter with the one we have now?" Not the most ingenuous of questions now that he knew where she stood, but he was also mildly curious to see what answer she might come up with.

He raised an eyebrow at her strange certainty that change held out some possibility of betterment and was about to ask how she could be so sure when she answered the unasked question. "No, I do not," he said sharply but didn't elaborate. Hope was a foreign concept to him; he was in his own view neither optimist nor pessimist, but realist. He understood how things were. People could never change, and therefore everything was already as it should be. If he did his part to guard society, to keep the streets clean of too many thieving cockroaches, it was a losing battle but one that must be fought regardless.

Her pointed line of questioning would get her nowhere. He was just as strict with children as with adults. Their sentence was less harsh, that was all—a wrench on the ear rather than a cell. "Where would I send them?" he repeated. "To the orphanage, where else? That is where they belong if their parents cannot be bothered to look after them." If Javert dug deeper, thought about the conditions that reigned in those institutions, he might have seen this was punishing the offspring for the sins of their parents. But of course he never did.

He very nearly smiled at her answer. "I smell an alias," he informed her calmly. He wasn't bothered by the attempted deception; it seemed only right. "And does your family know how you spend your time?" Perhaps they did, perhaps this was even their idea. If so, it was a profitable one. She had been doing a decent trade, at least until her act gained Javert as a sideshow. "One of the last, and the least welcome, hm?" So said many just before they were dragged off to La Force. Javert frowned slightly. The name was familiar somehow, but he was sure he had never had a direct run-in with her before this. A runaway then? An accomplice to roguish parents? "How long have you been at this?"

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

Irène wondered whether her persistence was annoying him, and for a moment she thought she would run. She was quick on her feet and small, and though he was likely used to giving chase, she was sure she could lose him in the crowds and the streets. She had become rather familiar with them, and she might be able to find someplace to hide. The argument was continuing, though, and she wasn’t about to give it up unless she thought she was in real danger of being apprehended.

“And how much change has cold blood wrought?” she asked. “I’d rather have trouble than settle into old ways because people are afraid of change.” She supposed she had somehow grown afraid of being trapped, and to be trapped by society was as bad as any other cage. “What’s the matter? Perhaps the idea that blood alone determines the right to rule. Perhaps the fact that people must rebel rather than find some other way to address their ills.” Pierre would have laughed at her for speaking so formally, but it would have been a gentle laugh, and the sudden thought of him gave her a pang of homesickness along with a rush of strength.

She had doubted he would have any sort of hope, but it still irked her to think that anyone could exist without having some sort of hope, whether positive or negative. Does his heart even beat? Can he breathe? Her ideas were only solidified when he spoke so casually of simply sending children to orphanages. “They will be crowded, even more than they already are. Unless you’re willing to find someone to pay for better orphanages, the children would have a better chance at getting enough bread by begging.” She didn’t dare mention thieving, not to him. No matter what she might say about taking care of herself, she wasn’t about to push any suspicion onto children.

“As though I’m fool enough to give you my true name,” she said. “Did you suspect it because it should belong to a boy, or are you simply insightful enough to see through my lies?” Being cocky felt even more right than calling herself Charlot. “My family hasn’t the faintest idea where I am, and if I’m lucky, they never will.” Let him make what he would of that. “Since you haven’t so much as looked at my work and have taken apart my disguise so quickly, I’d say you’re among the least welcome.” Least and last of all would be her brother; she didn’t know how he might react and didn’t want to hurt him any more than her disappearance already had. “Long enough to know my way around the streets.”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The more they talked, the more Javert wanted to arrest her. His instincts cried out for it. This girl in boy's clothing wanted to rebel in more ways than one—not surprising, but it was an itch the inspector longed to scratch. As long as there was no proof, however, he could do nothing. He would not seize a person if he was not sure that they had done something specific, or had been planning to. As far as he could tell she had committed no crimes, though he certainly suspected her of it. And so he was confined to arguing in the streets.

This frustration sharpened his tone, which even at its most neutral was never warm. "You're assuming that change is even possible with cold or hot blood." And that it was necessary, but they'd already been through that. Unlike her, Javert didn't feel trapped by society. He had found his niche and anything that would destroy that niche was a threat. "What other way is there?" he scoffed. "Democracy, like the Americans?" Because it had been founded in rebellion, the Americans' republic was inherently distasteful to him, never mind what it meant in practice. "Thieves and cutthroats on an equal footing with honest men! Never!" His eyes flashed at the very thought, and to consider, that was what the students had in mind for France...

He should perhaps have given more consideration to the orphans and the gamins that clogged the streets and the institutions, but the biggest reason that he should was also the same reason he never would. He hated this class of people precisely because he had sprung from them. "They belong in the orphanages, not the streets." They might be crowded but at least they would be warmer in winter, and more importantly, the streets bred nothing but crime.

"I know lies when I see them," he snapped back. He was growing more and more impatient with this encounter. It did surprise him slightly to learn she was not leaning on her family for support. That meant she was surviving solely on the earnings from these trifles... or if she was not, then perhaps he would have cause to arrest her. But again the question of proof. The inspector scowled at her, though obviously this would not wrest the truth from her as it often did with others.

"Why lucky?" He shot her a sharp glance. "Did you fly away or were you pushed from the nest by force?" It would in fact make a difference to him, in the limited amount of thought he was reserving for this. If she had left her family because they were wicked people, rogues, the worst vermin of the streets, then perhaps he could understand better than she could guess or he would admit. He was of course used to being unwanted and in fact took some pride in it; this just meant he was doing his job properly. "Long enough that you should be able to recognize an offer too good to pass up," he replied, having given up recruiting her but not on voicing his disapproval.

[IRENE ARLETTE TREMBLAY]

Irène was no doubt putting herself in danger with every word, but she found herself relishing the way her heart was pounding, the way she felt like a rabbit facing down a hungry wolf. She had known she could feel like this through actions and had, often, stepped a little into danger just to feel her blood grow warmer, but knowing that words could give her the same sensations was new. I should have known. It’s been long enough, she thought. I should be careful. That second thought was more easily pushed aside.

“Change is always possible,” she said, her tone shifting slightly from sharp to shocked. The man was blind enough to not known change could be good, but she hadn’t thought he would assume the world was static. “If it weren’t, we’d all be huddled in little huts and dying of the plague.” She could wax lyrical on change and fluidity but doubted he would want to listen to a poetic monologue, even if she could make it rhyme on the spot. “Democracy might be a bit radical for some, but it seems to be working for the Americans. Putting those born to the poor on the same plane as those born to the rich… equal in the eyes of man just as they are equal in God’s eyes.” She hadn’t been in a church for about two years, she realized, and found she didn’t feel at all guilty. “Why wait for judgment and Heaven?”

She would get no further on the subject of children, she realized, and perhaps she should turn and leave now, bidding adieu while she could still feel she had the upper hand. Her feet remained rooted to the pavement, however, as he gave her another chance to wield her sharp tongue. “If you didn’t know lies from truth, you’d make a very poor inspector indeed,” she said. “What does it matter whether I flew under my own power or because I was thrown into the air now that I have wings?” Winged ones… that would be a good term for the gamins. “Long enough also to know my own mind and have my own morals, and those morals say that I should refuse your offer. I will not be a part of maintaining a world I do not believe in.”