A/N: I try. I still try. I know it's shabby after all these years. I still have it in my head though... and believe it or not, the story is there, just needs to be pulled out...

PS: Anyone knows who wants to talk to Katya? ;)

Chapter 73: Open board

"Didn't have to end like this."

"It still doesn't."

"Yes it does. We can't go back now. There's too much blood. We are no longer who we were. We are what we have become, what you made us!"

"It's all coming on too fast."

Jeanne Sellers turned her gaze to her husband and saw him scowling, he gloomily trodded along at her side. His accent was thicker than usual – a testimony to the fact that he was deep in thought and therefore less paying attention to the lilting notes and melodies of the French language, instead dropping back into the tones of his mother tongue again.

She sighed internally. Not, that she did not agree with him, of sorts. In fact, since the news of Lamarque's death had reached them yesterday, she had the feeling of sitting in a carriage drawn by mad horses, down and down the hills with unknown destination, unable to stop.

"I know what you mean", she said, equally lost in thought as she remembered the hectic hours that just had passed. She could say that to him, at least. Since her group had elected her spokesman, she could not be quite as open with the rest of them anymore.

She almost regretted that they had allowed themselves to be convinced to join the funeral procession of Evaristide Galois. The young student was nothing to them – they had neither spoken nor even seen him – and they had only their friends' word for it that he had been a man of their cause, and died in the pursuit of it.

Their presence at the funeral had been more of a question of loyalty than of purpose, but such were the things one did for one's friends.

And yet, another part of her was glad, and if it was only because this had ensured she was present for the impromptu assembly that had taken place in the new gathering house that Feuilly and his friends had secured by heavens might now which schemes.

"I guess it's the only way to keep some control on what's happening, though", Jeanne admitted with a slightly resigned shrug. "If anything, today shows that they have no scruples, no scruples at all. I guess if we're too cautious that's finally gonna be the end of us."

John Sellers sighed. "I know."

She could hear in his voice that her words had not quenched his worries, but she had little to calm them. Such was the way of revolution, and until a week ago, it had been easy, meeting, talking and plotting. Now, time would tell if they would be able to live up to their words.

For a moment, both stayed silent, united in their shared unhappiness about the situation. The strain of the days was wearing on all of them, the uncertainty that had broken into their lives and had taken their homes and what security they had. It had taken a toll on them, and on John probably the most of all.

It was the worst of times to be placing a new child into this world.

That was another piece of news that Jeanne had no idea of how to break to her husband. He was worrying enough as it were, and a pregnant wife would probably not improve the situation.

Still. She had no time to think of this right now. The assembly in the new gathering place had brought new information, and there was no denying that the pace was pickung up and leading to the inevitable conclusion.

"So." He was obviously rallying himself, taking a deep breath. "What do we do?"

"We talk to Marcel's family. Talk them into making the funeral a day early, so it coincides with Grantaire's as well as the Virille's."

"I suspect there will be trouble again at the funerals then." John sounded resigned, and Jeanne could not help but step closer to him, loop an arm around his in an attempt at support and companionship. She shrugged and gave his arm a squeeze, a dry gallow's humor creeping into her voice unbidden.

"Today, I guess, we can find trouble anywhere. Would do good to remember this."

John chuckled and smiled down to her.

"True enough", he admitted with a huff of a laugh. "These are the days." He hesitated for a moment, then continued on another note.

"Any news from our enemies then?"

"Apart from the apparent incident on the cemetery, you mean?" Jeanne answered drily and John chuckled despite himself, despite the situation.

"Yes", he admitted. "That is not what I mean, though. What do we know of them?"

Jeanne frowned, recollected the bits and pieces that had been shared in the assembly.

"You have heard about Frater Antoine, obviously", she began with what would have been the hardest to miss. John let out a swear in english.

"That horrible man", he snorted. "The weasel, creeping into our midst like this, and then... then..."

"Yes", Jeanne answered softly. "That was quite the horrible task to be achieved. I wonder how he sleeps at night... in any case, we have to assume that he is still about. He was wounded, although it's not quite clear how severely – Jean Prouvaire himself was only capable of giving a very vague account, and I have heard it only in retelling from Enjolras. In any case, the good news is that we know the assassin that followed the Amis de l'Abaissee is dead."

"Lying in the same church occupied by Frater Antoine, is that correct?" John had heard only the rumors, but Jeanne nodded in confirmation. "I wonder what happened there."

"We were not sure during the discussion", Jeanne admitted. "It is difficult to say, but at least none of us seems to claim the honor of having killed him, so I presume it was none of us. We do know it was him who kidnapped Mademoiselle Eponine the other day, but he hasn't shown his face since."

"That Eponine seems to be a resourceful girl", John rumbled thoughtfully. "I wonder if she had a hand in it, herself or via others."

Jeanne shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. As to the other assassins, they have been keeping surprisingly quiet. We haven't recognized anything, and neither have any of the other groups. Until today, of course. Although I have not heard of someone recognizing one of the attackers today."

John made a face.

"That's not good then."

Jeanne, worried, nodded.

"Not really. No."

But then, these days, nothing was.

"Francois."

"What?"

Stephane raised his head and frowned, but Joly, sitting on the floor in a corner of the slowly emptying impromptu common room, seemed to be lost in thought. He was twisting his cane in his fingers, one way, then the other, a nervous, preoccupied gesture.

For a moment, Marc Lamarin wondered if he should interrupt the scenery and either shake Joly out of his reverie or distract Stephane's attention, but finally the medical student seemed to shake himself out of his pensieve state, focusing on his companions again.

"I just remembered what the dying woman said. The friend of Joseph's. 'You should have stayed with Francois.' That's what she said."

He looked up towards Stephane and raised both brows. "Do you have an idea what she might have meant?"

Stephane shook his head slowly.

"I'm not quite sure you're making sense, Joly. What did Elise say?"

The young medic blinked a few times, seemingly returning from the memory of the dying Elise to the present hour and day.

"When I was with Elise, who was dying", he began the tale in a more coherent manner, "for a moment she seemed to mistake me for Joseph."

Stephane and Lamarin uttered surprisingly similar snorts of derision.

"You look nothing like him", Marc uttered, and indeed, it was hard to confuse delicate, sandy-haired Joly with the stout, dark Joseph; but Joly was unfazed.

"That is not surprising at all", he said. "By the time she told me this, she was in such a state of fever that she would barely know herself. Deceptions and illusions are quite common at that stage of the disease, I am afraid. Given the chance, she probably would have taken Musichetta for Joseph at that time."

Marc shuddered slightly at the thought of being that sick – not knowing your friends, and hoping for a friendly face so desperately that you would see it in any feature – while Bossuet chuckled darkly.

"Now that would've been a scene to be witnessed", he commented, trying to make light of the tale that Joly had just wrought, but the young doctor, for once, was not distracted.

"So, Stephane", he turned back to Barilou, who had leaned back against the wall in his usual study of leisure.

Marc could see that it was false.

"You know who he's talking about, right?" He had blundered out before he could think better of it, but if nothing else, this surprised and unsettled Stephane for a moment, long enough for his mask to slip for just a moment.

Which was enough for him to understand that he had been caught out.

"I'm not sure", he admitted, still evasive, then sighed. "Although I may have a hunch who he might be talking about."

"If it's the hunch we're getting, I'm taking it as the next step."

Stephane sighed.

"This is one more of the things that we should keep between us until we know more."

"Secrets all about", Bossuet answered laconically, but Marc Lamarin was not distracted by his quip. Instead, he looked at Stephane with a frown, while the older man searched for words.

"Something's really wrong about Joseph, is there?"

This time his statement was deliberate, and it had the same result as his involuntary blunder just a moment before. Stephane looked at him, slightly surprised, slightly unsettled, and then he nodded.

"I'm beginning to think so", he admitted. "I think I have met this Francois once, if this is the character that we are all talking about. I ran into Joseph one day while he was talking to him. Tall, blonde, although I can't say he was dressed to match his looks. He was not uncomely, but speaking from his clothes he was definitely lower class. Joseph introduced him to me as one of the merchants from the docks, but to be honest, I have never seen him there when I was visiting my father's Paris office. Also his demeanor didn't quite match the description. I didn't think much of it at that time – we all have our reasons for keeping this and that behind, but it's becoming a little too many secrets for my taste. I sure wish now that I'd asked then."

"So what do we know?" Marc Lamarin made an attempt at collecting thoughts, both his and those of his friends.

"He was living poor but trying to hide it." Bossuet, who knew a thing or two about tenuous living conditions, none the less could not quite hide the dry note in his voice at this fact. "I suspect that none of you quite knew how he was living."

"I did", Stephane admitted. "Although, yes. Obviously Joseph didn't want others to know."

Marc frowned. "Why?" he asked and earned himself a derisive snort from Stephane that was almost uncharacteristically distant.

"Can't you guess? That's what this whole thing is about, right? About equality. About not being who you were born as but who you can be. That's what the rebellion is supposed to be about." He gazed at Marc Lamarin directly, who could not help nodding in response. "So. What use is it to flout about humble beginnings?"

"Isn't the question rather 'what shame is there in it?'" Bossuet inquired somewhat drily and earned himself another disbelieving huff.

"That may be so if the leader of your group is Enjolras, who, as far as I can tell, truly does not care about this sort of thing. Although I'd really like to hear the opinion of Feuilly about this before I make final judgment, if you'll forgive me. But let's work on the assumption. With Enjolras, humble beginnings may not be a fault, but with the likes of Jacques de Morier? If he hadn't thought Joseph his equal – well, or at least a threat to his authority – he'd never taken him seriously."

"But why then not evade the thing?" Bossuet inquired. "Paris is full of revolutionary groups. Why rather play a sharade than being honest and finding people who will accept you for what you are?"

Marc Lamarin saw him and Joly exchange brief look that seemed almost too private for the moment of heated discussion, but he also already knew what Stephane would be saying to this.

"I can't believe I'm hearing that", came the answer, predictably as dawn, and Marc knew that Stephane had a point. "Isn't this what this is about? To face tyranny head on? To keep a ruler in check by constant questioning and challenge, to ensure a balance of power? If it doesn't work small it won't work big. If we can't keep the likes of de Morier in check, how can we hope to run a country? Wouldn't it be ridiculous to back down?"

"So rather he brought himself in a position where he would betray his friends", Bossuet countered drily. "Some way of making a stand. It's a statement, I'll give him that. But still, that one is quite bitter to my taste."

"This is getting nowhere", Joly intercepted the discussion. "As interesting as this is, I do not think this will help us get on in this question today. Francois."

Stephane shrugged, opening his hands. He sounded annoyed, but seemed to be willing to indulge Joly.

"I have no idea."

"So", Marc looked around at his companions.

"How do we get an idea? What means would we have?"

Bossuet, seemingly in good spirits again without even the slightest need to recover, chuckled.

"It's obvious, isn't it?", he answered. "The gamins."

Jean Valjean walked the streets much like a dead man would, his feet dragging him over the pavements with an almost leisurely pace, that carried nothing of levity and all of the weight that, unexpected and unbidden, had caught up with him.

This, he thought, must be what dying felt like.

He had lived on borrowed time for so long, and days had turned into weeks, months, and finally years, and something within him had begun to believe that even for the likes of him, one day there might be some peace to be had.

Of course, though, there was no peace for the wicked. And there was no peace for him.

So finally, the dream he had dreamed was shattered. His little bird had left her cage, spread her wings and had no use for her guardian any more. The time had come where he was not protecting her any more – he was holding her back. And what was more, he was holding her back for the sake of his own cowardice, as if he could hold on to a life he did not merit by holding on to her. She had found a new protector, closer to her heart in a way that was closed off for him, and it was time to slip back into the shadows that had spit him out so many years ago. He had fulfilled his promise to a dying woman, and all of his excuses to cling to a life he did not merit had run out.

So, what remained for him now?

Penance. Finally.

That seemed to be the last clear thought in his head, the remaining deed to be done before everything would come to an end.

He stumbled through the streets with the vague idea of finding a national guard, a policeman, any official that might be capable and willing to accept his confession and surrender. There had been enough of them at the cemetery, and it was quite unlikely that they had all dispersed already. And indeed, as he turned a corner, he saw a group of three men, clad in the characteristic blue-and-white he had been hoping to see.

And when all three of them turned, for a moment he would have almost laughed out loud at the irony of it all.

Fate, indeed, had a way of running in circles.

Whatever doubt he still had harbored at the cemetery seemed ridiculous now.

Javert stared at the man that slowly approached him in the alley. In broad daylight and with enough time to take note of the face he effortlessly recognized the features of the young man in the face of the old.

It seemed befitting of these mad days, waxed rich with specters of his own past, that he should be confronted with one of his few failures; the man that he had met time and again throughout his life, had known him with different names and faces, until his trace had been lost years ago in the narrow streets of Paris.

He had not left the city it seemed, and what was more, he seemed to have fared well for it. His clothes betrayed a wealthy, if not rich man, who was modest enough not to attract attention, but well-clad enough as to not rise suspicion. It seemed that during the past years, Jean Valjean had become a master in the art of subterfuge indeed.

Yet, what was inside was not on the outside, and no cleaning could wash away the stain that was imprinted on a soul by a life in sin. And in this, Valjean was no exception.

A mad light was flickering in his eyes as he approached, and Javert straightened himself, wary, because he knew the strength of the man and the fury that desperation could bring, but emboldened by the presence of his two fellow guards as well as his own confidence and years of experience in dealing with potentially violent criminals.

Giving in only a hair's breadth usually brought trouble. It was in the nature of criminals to sense weakness the way a predator senses the fear of its prey, and Javert was not inclined to fall victim to this particular mistake.

And thus he awaited the man from his past with a confident stance, back straightened, every muscle at attention.

Valjean halted, a few paces away from Javert, and the flickering light in his eyes was accompanied by a distorted half-smile, that spoke of something akin to despair.

"And so it ends", he said, more to himself than to Javert, and the inspector was surprised to hear a grim, sad sort of satisfaction in his voice. "Inspector, it seems we have unfinished business between us."

Javert snorted slightly at the impertinence.

"By this you mean that you have been running from both the law and the word you gave me many years ago."

Valjean flinched slightly, but nodded.

"Yes." For a moment it seemed as if he wanted to add something, maybe in his defense, but whatever he had thought of saying remained hidden behind his lips. An excuse? An insolence? It did not really matter.

"But now here I am, to face the consequences."

Javert let his gaze wander over the man, trying to determine the purpose of this last, almost absurd turn of both these mad days and their own, private history.

"Why now?"

Again the sad smile flickered over his face, and he looked away from the inspector's piercing gaze, eyes glazing over for just a moment.

"Because now I am at liberty to do so."

"At liberty to follow the law?" Javert raised an almost amused brow. The excuses this man was able to find were indeed exasperating. "At liberty to do what is right?" He shook his head. "You are in delay of justice, Monsieur, and have been for a long time."

Javert nodded, giving no argument against it, again clearly looking for words as his gaze wandered back to the inspector, finally showing a notion of the defiance Javert was expecting from the man.

"I had another promise to keep", he finally offered.

"I don't care", Javert quipped immediately. "The law is the law, and as such is absolute, although I surely do not expect the likes of you to understand this. Whatever...", he spat out the word in disdain, with all the disgust he harbored for the way a usually holy thing was used and warped by criminals to explain their unlawful actions, "promises you made are insignificant in the face of this. Such is the way of the order of the world."

"An order that forgets the human being at times."

For a moment, temper flashed through Valjean's eyes, chasing away the dead expression that had been in them before, revealing to the inspector again a glimpse of his criminal nature, but he was not swayed.

"Insignificant excuse", he thundered. "It is the law that brings order into this world, and suffering stems from going against, not from abiding to it."

"Which does not help if others do not abide by it. Is it wrong to try and stop the suffering?"

"That is irrelevant, Valjean", Javert gave back. This was a discussion that he had led a hundred times. "It is not for you to right another person's wrongs. That is the duty and privilege of the police."

"If only they were doing it", muttered Valjean, and finally Javert felt that this discussion had gone on long enough.

"They are, in this very moment, prisoner", he gave back coldly, taking a step closer to Valjean. "I presume you have not come to lecture me on the subject of crime and justice, have you?"

Valjean pressed his lips together and held his gaze for a moment, but then he smiled wrily and averted his gaze.

"No", he admitted. "I have not. I have indeed come to right an old wrong."

"You have come to surrender yourself to justice, you mean to say."

Valjean sighed deeply, and whatever had held him during their previous exchange broke, a subtle change of his shoulders transforming him again into the somewhat dejected man that had approached them just a few moments earlier, before the discussion had lit a short-lived fire in his eyes.

"After a fashion", he admitted. "Yes." He took another step and looked from one of the guards to the other, one deep breath before he spoke again.

"My name", he claimed, calmly, in a voice devoid of all emotion, as if he were reading words without understanding them at all, "is Jean Valjean. In my youth, I have been tried and imprisoned for the theft of a loaf of bread; my sentence then extended because of my attempts to escape justice. Later, after release from prison, I have broken my parole and assumed the identity of a Monsieur Madeleine, using money I had acquired by shady means of charity to rise to the position of Mayor in the town of Montreuil-sur-mer. When found out by the here present inspector, I denied my identity and only later revealed it, when someone else was tried and found guilty in my name."

He swallowed, now looking into Javert's eyes. The inspector wondered why Valjean told him all of this, given the fact that he had been there the whole journey, that had been a story of his life as much as that of the escaped prisoner. It was a confession of the most complete sort, and even if Javert's testimony had not been capable of doing so, this, and in front of witnesses, would condemn him completely.

What a strange turn of events after he had been so extremely difficult to catch – and keep.

"Following this, I escaped justice again and finally ended up in Paris where I started a new life, hoping to remain undiscovered for years to come. Yet, this was not so and I only narrowly avoided being caught again. I managed to find safety under yet another name. Today is the day that I leave behind all these deceptions and stand before you as the one that I have always been. My name is Jean Valjean, and I am here to receive punishment for my crimes."

He pressed his lips together and stood straight, awaiting Javert's judgment.

The inspector let this sink in for a moment. Most of the tale he already knew, and the parts that he had puzzled about, Valjean had conveniently avoided to convey. Probably, he thought, in the hope of protecting any misguided souls that had helped him on this journey.

This was a discussion for a later day. There would be plenty of time to interrogate the man, once he would finally have him in his custody.

"Very well", Javert said and nodded to the guards standing next to him. "Soldiers, arrest the man. He is a fugitive from his parole, as I can personally confirm as I have crossed his path a multitude of times. He shall be brought to La Force and face judgment there as it is his due."

Valjean nodded, his head sinking down in admittance, as the soldiers took him by the arms and bound his hands, and a story, that had spanned half of Javert's own life, seemed to come to a temporary close.

"Mademoiselle Woroniecka?"

Katya lifted her head from her embroidery and looked at the young woman that had carefully opened the door and now stood unobtrusively on the step into the room, hands folded in front of her apron in a studied gesture.

"Yes Linette?"

"You have a visitor, Mademoiselle", the maid reported in her usual prim, cool tones. She was a curious girl, detached and professional, and even after the five years she had been in their service, Katya knew almost nothing about her beyond the fact that she carried out her duties meticulously and without any visible joy or eagerness. "He is waiting for you in the salon."

Katya frowned, putting aside her work and rising from the cushions of the armchair she had been sitting in.

"Who is it?"

Linette stepped up to her, holding out her hand with a copper coin, imprinted with a coat of arms of lions.

"He did not give his name, but this."

Katya raised a brow shortly and took the small trinket, turned it in her fingers. She was no stranger to the symbol, knew its significance, as much as it came as a surprise to her.

"I see", she answered.

"Will you see him?" Linette pressed, and Katya nodded briefly.

"Yes", she said. "I think I will indeed."

He was of about thirty years of age and dressed like a minor merchant, in simple, yet well-kept clothes, brown hair covered by a hat which he lifted the moment Katya entered the room.

"Mademoiselle Woroniecka", he greeted her with easy courtesy, and surprisingly good pronounciation of her name, and she nodded in response.

"Monsieur...", she answered with a slight questioning note, and he quickly added "Deroche. Maurice Deroche."

"A pleasure, Monsieur Deroche", Katya answered, well aware of the silent, unobtrusive presence of Linette in her back. She wondered for a moment if she should send her away, but decided there was no need. Linette was discreet and for all that she knew, nothing about this meeting was as suspicious as keeping it in silence without a chaperone. "Please, do be seated." Her hand invided him to recline back onto the chaiselonge he had been sitting on, while she herself chose an armchair just across him. "What can I do for you?"

"My employer sends you his most sincere regards", Deroche began with a professional smile, "and I am explicitly to express the hope that I, and in extension he, find you well."

"Well indeed", Katya answered with a smile that mirrored his. "I hope that the same can be said of him, although of course it is not my place to express such a notion."

Deroche seemed unfazed by the statement and simply nodded.

"As well as can be expected, considering circumstances. I have been requested", he continued, cutting directly to the heart of the matter, "to inquire whether you intend to attend the salon of Madame Krasnicky tomorrow."

Katya frowned.

"I had intended to, yes. Why?"

"Very well", Deroche answered, ignoring her question. "And am I to understand, that you might be inclined to bring a friend to this event as well?"

"A friend?" Katya raised a brow slowly and smiled a wry smile. "Are we not all friends at Madame Krasnicky's?"

"Some more than others", Deroche admitted, "and the one I am talking about more than most. To you at least."

"Monsieur de Courfeyrac?" Not sure how much the man in front of her knew, Barthelemy seemed the easiest choice for an educated guess.

"That is one option", Deroche answered, his tone hinting it might not be the favourite one.

"Why would he...", Katya frowned and considered the possibilities this request opened. "Why would he be interested in meeting him?"

"The motives of my employer are his own", Deroche answered smoothly. "I am not inclined to question them."

And if you knew, Katya thought, you would probably not tell me. That, too, came as no surprise. However, for all she knew there was no real danger in the request. She carried some measure of trust in Deroche's employer, as ominous as his reputation was. And yet there was something strange about the story.

"But... is he not in England?" she asked.

Deroche's smile held a slightly wry note. "Of course he is. The question is merely an informational one."

That, finally, made Katya smile.

"I see", she answered. "Well in that case, I will do my very best to fulfil the request, Monsieur. As much as is within my power."

Deroche nodded and got to his feet.

"This", he said, by way of goodbye, "is as much as anyone can ask, Mademoiselle Woroniecka. My thanks for your understanding indeed."

She got to her feet as he stood up to bid him farewell, no more inclined than he to waste more time with idle chatter, now that everything had been said.

And yet, she stood, for some minutes, staring at the closed door, thinking of all the implications of why on earth the former bishop of Autun had not only come back – and incognito, on top of things – from his post in england, but also showed a surprising interest in meeting members of one of the leading revolutionary groups.

Interesting indeed...