At the Sureté. "Javert..?" Dead silence. "Javert..." No response. "For God's sake, Javert, your tea must be ice cold by now." Muffled: "Francois, please let me alone." "That is absolutely out of question. Drink your tea, it will calm you." Javert lifted his face out of the gray folds of his sleeves and looked across the table at his chief. Eugene Francois Vidocq was sipping daintily at the murky green liquid from a china cup with a nauseatingly unruffled air. By now the station of Rue de Pontoise was almost deserted. Most men had finally gone home to rest, those on designated patrol were circling the district, and a few were still behind their desks, writing by candlelight, creaking with their quills. It was half-way into the third watch, and all the respectable sections of Paris were long asleep. But a few Surete offices at Number 6 Quai de Orfevre were still lit up. Two hours ago Vidocq, chief of the Brigade de Surete, finally managed to kick out the Dufour twins, who were still bickering about that footprint on the windowsill and was left free to concentrate on soothing his distraught colleague. Javert showed up on his doorstep half an hour ago, a storm-cloud in the shape of a man, and with much breast-beating related to him what happened. As far as Vidocq was concerned, it was nothing extraordinary: Javert simply won a fight he was supposed to win. But observing the man's remorseful slump over the table, Vidocq made a mental note to mention this incident to the Prefect and argue for Bulldog's immediate transfer into a different district. Vidocq spent enough time with Javert over the years to know that unless the man was able to entirely rationalize away his error, no amount of consoling will help. And even though in this case there wasn't much to rationalize away, it wasn't going too well: Javert looked ready to hang himself on the nearest tree branch. "I don't see why you're tormenting yourself like this," shrugged Vidocq and reached for another slice of lemon. "Francois, I just mutilated a 20 year-old kid," Javert drew in through clenched teeth. "Even disregarding the moral aspects of my behavior, Gisquet is going to eat me for this." Javert cocked his head to the side and squinted nastily at his chief. "And he'll eat you as well. You're guilty by association." Vidocq sighed and set his cup on the table. "Javert, there is nothing wrong with what you did. No one twisted his arm to sign up for the fight. The kid was a pest, but he is no longer with us, so why worry?" Javert's eyes snapped wide open. Extending a long, gaunt arm across the table, he grasped Vidocq's unbuttoned collar, pulled him in roughly across the table, and growled right into his face, drops of saliva flying: "Was? WAS?! What are you insinuating with that infernal "was"? Are you saying that kid isn't anymore? That he is dead? Are you calling me a murderer?!" Without attempting to detach himself from Javert's iron grip, Vidocq wheezed, "I'm saying that he isn't around anymore. He was moved to the hospital three blocks down. One of Gisquet's people told me. The doctor said it's nothing serious, just some bruising and a couple of fractured ribs." Although it did take that milksop a while to stop shaking and wailing like a baby, he added silently. Aloud he advised: "They taped his chest down, he'll be fine in a couple of weeks. Why don't you just relax and forget about that idiot? He got what he deserved. We have to work a lot tomorrow, and I need you alert and focused." Javert moaned n remorse, as his hand relaxed around his chief's neck and fell onto the table with a limp thud. The whiskered face dropped into the wool sleeve again. Of all the agents of the Brigade de Surete, Javert was the most improbable, for two reasons: he was not an ex-convict and he was already employed in the Prefecture. It was a strange stunt, to be an Inspector and a plainclothes snoop at the same time, but Javert managed it fine for most of the time. At times, however, he would fly off the handle for a few days and cease his visitations to Quai de Orfevre, perambulating instead across the entire Cite de Paris and making random arrests. The Prefect greatly appreciated these sprees, because they almost always resulted in convictions and raised his own status as an administrator; Vidocq, on the other hand, abhorred them, since they tended to botch up his careful set-ups of surveillance. Nevertheless he was willing to put up with them, since they were Javert's favorite form of therapy. Tonight, however, Javert was not in the mood for such amusements. The wrestling match left him drained and gloomy, despite the easy victory. Or more likely because of it, mused Vidocq. "I can't believe I let myself go like that," Javert mumbled, more to himself than to the man seated across the table. "I am such an ass. Why do you bother with me? I have no self-control and no honor. I'm no use to you or the Surete. I ought to transfer back to being a regular inspector, lighting lamps and examining storm-drains. That's all I'm good for." Vidocq heaved a mental sigh. Once Javert started on a self-berating binge, there was no stopping him. All a man could do is sit there and nod his assent, after removing all sharp objects from Javert's immediate vicinity. So he sat there, and nodded, and let Javert talk himself weary. ... They sat together until the third watch was over, and the patrols started coming back, stomping past the Surete building in their hobnailed boots to leave a report with the secretary in the Prefect's office. Vidocq deliberated a moment, then rose to leave, stretching out his short, powerful arms. As far as he reckoned, Javert, being Javert, managed best when left on his own. Any attempt to comprehend or heal his woes was useless, like trying to draw water from a bottomless well. So Vidocq opted for the more familiar and well-trodden route. "I heard that Gisquet is giving you a week off to regroup after today's incident. Is that true?" Javert remained silent and stared out the window with wide, unseeing eyes. "If that is so," continued Vidocq, unperturbed by the silence, "then I expect to see you here tomorrow, or rather today, at two o'clock in the afternoon. We have work to do. I'll supply the costumes. Bring along your guitar if you want; it will not be out of place." "Where are we going?" quietly asked Javert, without any trace of either protest or curiosity. "Have you ever heard of Cafe Musain?" inquired Vidocq, fixing the knot of his indigo necktie. A second's delay, and then the mechanical reply: "No." "I've been alerted by reliable sources to a certain group of students that gathers there regularly. It would be best for us to investigate in person instead of just sending an agent." Javert spoke without turning his head, but now the stupor was gone from his voice, replaced with concentration. "What are you suspecting?" "Sedition." Vidocq spat out with utmost loathing and severity. His hatred of what he called "the subversive element" was as strong and irrational as Javert's abhorrence of Gypsies. There was a pause. Javert passed a nervous hand over his brow, then clenched it over his crippled right hand in a double fist. It was a reliable and time-tested remedy: to work and forget. It was the only useful solution Vidocq could offer his friend. Work and forget. Idle hands are the Devil's workshop, and work shuts off the dark and desolate corners of the mind that, once carelessly opened, can swallow a man whole. "I'll be there," murmured Javert quietly but firmly. After a few moments' reflection, Vidocq nodded, blew out the candles, and exited, leaving Javert alone in the dark. << Tell me quickly what's the story...