THE ALTERED COURSE

BY:  ROSE CARR

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Richelleen awakened to the sound of distant thunder. Startled, she opened her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was, then it hit her. It hadn't been a bad dream after all, for she was still here. Richelleen sat up slowly, shivering, wondering what time it was. It was still dark outside and a little cold. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders to ward off the chill, wincing as a sharp pain burned its way through the middle of her injured shoulder. Lightning crackled, bathing the tiny room in brilliant light, and temporarily blinding her. The answering boom of thunder came quicker this time, louder. The storm was getting closer.

She tied the corners of the blanket around her so it would not fall and eased herself off of the cot. She straightened up slowly, rubbing the small of her back with one hand. The cot she had been sleeping on was a sure guarantee of a backache in the making. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness, so she put one hand out as a guide, and carefully slid one foot in front of the other. "Ow!" she yelped, muttering a dark curse when her toe made painful contact with the table leg. "This is not going to be a good day!"

Lightning arced across the sky, sending another brilliant shaft of light across the room. In the glare she saw a candle sitting in the middle of the table and made a move for it, making a small triumphant sound when her hands closed around it. She remembered she had matches in one of her pockets and digging her hand inside one quickly found them. Holding her breath, she struck one of the matches against the wall, cupping the tiny flame with her hands until the wick caught and it sputtered to life. It's dim light cast pale yellow shadows that dipped and darted against the wall when the flame wavered in the tiny rivers of cold air that blew in through the window. Sighing, she sat down at the table, bending down to rub her throbbing toe.

Wistfully she wished the room had a stove. A small fire and hot cup of tea would do much to take the chill out of the air and her bones. She knew for certain it would make her feel better and if she felt better perhaps she could think a little clearer. A bright light lit up the room once more, the roll of thunder answering immediately. The storm is here she thought and for a reason she could not fathom, this made her feel uneasy. She picked up the battered spoon lying on the table and dipped it into the bowl of soup that had long since grown cold and immediately regretted it. The thick layer of fat that had congealed on the surface was now broken into small pieces, some of them clinging to the cold metal of the spoon like old bits of wax. Grimacing she pushed it aside and picked up the piece of bread that lay beside it.

Nibbling at the piece of stale bread, she looked around her. She did not see many options open to her but suddenly an idea started to take shape in the back of her mind. She dropped the piece of bread in her pocket for later and picked up the bowl with it's unappetising contents and set it on the floor. She placed the candle beside it, then grunting and puffing she managed to push and shove the table until it rested beneath the barred window.

Placing one knee on the table, she hoisted herself up until she was standing. Reaching up, she grabbed the bars and pulled herself up high enough to see through the small opening. The shallow window was just above street level and in the gloom she could see nothing, nothing that she recognized anyway. Her hands tugged at the thick metal bars and the momentary elation she had felt a few minutes earlier evaporated. The bars were rusty and old but still solid. I could dig around them for a month she thought and still not move them.

Thunder exploded overhead and this time the skies opened up rain started falling in thick heavy silver sheets. It blew in though the bars, it's cold needles stinging her face, mixing with the hot tears of frustration that started running down her cheeks. She sagged, letting go of the bars, and turned around, letting herself slide slowly down the wall until she sat cross legged on the table. For the first time she realized she was in real trouble and had no idea how she would get out of it.

She lay on her side, pulled her knees against her chest and cried. What a dreadful mess she was in! Her shoulder ached and burned. She was cold tired and hungry and oh...how she missed Nicholas! And Javert! Oh God, Javert...he must be going mad. How would he ever find her in this dreadful place? New tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. "Oh great," she said out loud. "Now I have a runny nose on top of everything else."

Reaching into her pocket she rummaged for her handkerchief and pulled it out. She frowned. Tangled in the white piece of fabric was a thin strip of ribbon. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes once more when she realized what it was. It was the black velvet ribbon Javert used to tie his hair with. She held it against her cheek, a tremulous smile curving the corners of her mouth. Somehow seeing and holding the precious ribbon that belonged to him made him seem closer. It was comforting. A new feeling surged through her. She sat up, brushed her hair back with her fingers and tied it with the ribbon. Dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief she said. "Richelleen, old girl that's enough of this self pity. You know very well that the people who love you will not rest until you've found. And if anyone can find you, it's Javert."

She hopped down from the table, repeating to herself. "He can find you and he will!" In the meantime she mused, she would just have to think of ways to help herself until he arrived. Reaching into her pocket once more she pulled the piece of bread from it and took a small bite, chewing he stale bread, she concentrated on a plan of escape.

**

The clock chimed the hour, each wicked brassy tone reverberating through the quiet room, mocking him. Javert, his eyes wide open, lay amidst the tangle of rumpled sheets and blankets and groaned. It was four a.m.. He was not sure whether he'd actually been sleeping or had simply just lain there for hours, half drugged with fatigue. Sleep had eluded him the past few nights and when it did come to him he was tortured by images of Richelleen being brutalized by her captors. This night had been no different, perhaps it had been even worse, because the minute he had walked in he was struck by the emptiness, the absolute void her absence caused.

It had been a bad idea for him to come home, but Adele had been adamant, pleading with him to get some rest. When her pleas fell on deaf ears she resorted to threats, promising him she would give him no peace until he agreed to get some leave. She and Simone would stay with the sisters and help care for Nicholas while he was gone she said and he would be of no use to anyone if he was dead on his feet. Finally, too exhausted to resist and half heartily admitting she might be right, he had given in and let himself be driven home. He should have followed his first instincts though, this had not been a good idea.

With a deep sigh he threw the cover aside, swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment rubbing the tiredness from his face. He brushed back a tangle of sweat dampened hair from his forehead and stood up, reaching for his robe. He shrugged into it, pushed his feet into his slippers, tying the belt as he padded over to the window. He pulled back the curtain and stared out into the night, the glass reflected troubled gray eyes the same color as the pelting rain that hit against the pane.

Richelleen was out there . . . somewhere in this storm. But where? Was she hurt? Was she even now being tortured? Wearily he let the curtain fall and walked away. That she might be dead had never entered his mind, he would not even let himself consider that possibility. She is still alive, he thought fiercely, feeling sure that he would somehow know it if she were not.

He bent over and pulled a few pieces of wood from the bucket next to the stove and opened the little hinged door, threw them in and stoked the fire. From the table he picked up the pitcher and poured water in the kettle, setting it to boil. Habit made him take two cups down from the cupboard and when he noticed what he had done he reluctantly put one back.

The sky lit up, filling the room with it's incandescent light, and in that instant, in aching clarity he saw Richelleen's shawl draped across the back of her chair. He swallowed hard around the lump forming in his throat and picked it up. Her scent drifted up to him and everything in him suddenly yearned and hungered for her and it seemed to him that his very heart was being squeezed into a ball of pain.

With a choking sound he collapsed, his face buried in the soft folds of her shawl. "I will find you Richelleen", he cried. "I swear I will find you, just hang on a little longer. "

**

A fine sheen of sweat beaded Richelleen's forehead. Digging at the mortar around the bottom hinge of the door was hard slow work, but it kept her busy and made the time pass more quickly. And she felt that she was at least doing something to free herself. She did not know how long she had been at it, didn't want to know for it might depress her more to know how many days had passed. So, she kept at it. Every few minutes she stopped her scraping to listen for sounds from the other side of the door.

She had been at it for awhile when she heard a muffled noise. Quickly she swept away the dust and little shards of mortar, scattering them across the floor with her feet. Richelleen felt every muscle in her body tense at the sound of a key rattling in the lock. She drew in a shuddering breath watching the door swing open and steeled herself. Stepping back she drew herself up to her full height, pulling her blanket tighter around her like a shield. Expecting to see Gautier, she was taken aback when she realized it was not him but a younger man who stood before her.

For an instant her heart leapt at the sight of the stranger, thinking her rescue might be close at hand. It fell just as quickly when the anguish on his face finally registered. He was no savior. He was only a young man, not much older than a boy. He was painfully thin, with fair hair and a sad apologetic face. Worry lines etched deeply around his troubled brown eyes as he nervously coughed into his hand to clear his throat. He removed his cap, squeezing it between his hands as he spoke, his speech rushed, as if he had to get out every word before he lost his nerve or someone came to stop him. He spoke without looking at her, the hat still twisting in his hands. There was a woman he said, his girlfriend. She was very ill. He had heard someone that she was a healer. Would she...could she help them?

She observed him closely, wanting to believe he was telling the the truth. His grief looked genuine but still...he was here with that man. Her compassion winning out over caution she answered him. "You were told the truth Monsieur, I am a healer. Is your friend's life in danger?"

His fingers worried the battered cap once more. "I...we, don't know. She..Yvette, has a fever we cannot break. Won't you come and see what can be done?"

Richelleen's dark eyes softened. "Of course I would be glad to go with you and see what can be done Monsieur, but won't I need Gautier's permission to leave my...room?"

He blinked for a moment, his eyes darting from side to side. "Gautier?" he said spitting out the name out like a curse. "No. He is not here." His eyes implored her, the worry clearly registered in his young face, "Please, " he said with a childlike plaintiveness she found touching, " Yvette is in a great amount of pain, won't you see her?"

She took a step closer and laid her hand on his arm, "Let's go then and I'll see what I can do...if you will tell me one thing?"

"What is it you want to know?" he asked, puzzlement showing in his face.

"Your name," Richelleen said.

"Oh, my name...it's Milos", he said, his face flushing, somewhat embarrassed at forgetting to give her his name.

"Well, Monsieur Milos," she said warmly. "My name is Richelleen. Now, let's go and see what can be done for your little friend." She took the offered arm and walked out beside him.

As they walked she asked him questions, keeping him busy while her sharp eyes looked for a possible means of escape.

**

Javert was ready when Georges, his driver, knocked on he door. "Good morning, Sir." Georges said cheerfully as they strode out together to the waiting carriage. Georges noticed the dark circles under the Chief Inspector's eyes but said nothing, knowing he would be met by a stony silence if he were to inquire about his health.

"Good morning Georges," Javert said stepping up in to the carriage. "How is your family?"

"Very well sir," the old man answered closing the door for him.

"Georges," Javert said. "Our first stop will the church. I want to check in on Nicholas before we go to the station."

"Yes sir," Georges said. He climbed into the driver's seat and picked up the reins. Making a clicking noise with tongue he urged the horses on their way. He had been driving for the Chief Inspector for several years now and was not fooled by the stoic mask Javert presented to the world. While his boss had never been overtly friendly to him, the Inspector never failed to inquire about his health and the well being of his family. And though he had never been the generous sort, Georges knew in his heart that the shiny new Napoleon he found in his pocket each Christmas came from Javert. So, when he had met his wife and became a father soon after, he was happy for him. Happiness had been a long time coming to him and he had seen the many changes it brought. He enjoyed seeing Javert's eyes soften whenever he spoke of his son and his wife. He did not enjoy seeing them dark as pewter, like they were this morning. It was that man Gautier who was responsible for the Inspector's current distress. He was certain of one thing this morning. That Gautier would wish he had never heard of Chief Inspector Javert when he caught up to him. "No sir," Georges muttered to no one in particular. He did not want to be the one the Chief Inspector was after. "No sir."

Inside the carriage Javert sat, deep in thought, oblivious of his surroundings. Illuminated by the street lamps they passed his face appeared implacable, impenetrable. Those who caught a glimpse of him as the carriage rolled by ducked their heads and looked away. Javert didn't care. Long ago he had committed himself to upholding the law, administering his justice without regard to the person's guilt or innocence. The law had been his vocation but it had never been anything personal. Now things had changed. There had been new commitments made, new vows given. There were people he cared for and who cared about him, depending on him now and suddenly everything that he did had become very personal.

He stared out the carriage window, scowling at the passing buildings. Gautier would pay dearly for his crimes, this he vowed. But first he would find Richelleen, if he had to personally take apart every building in Paris brick by brick.

**

Milos ushered Richelleen down a small dark corridor, shadows dancing before the advancing light of the lamp he carried. She stepped in a puddle, her shoe becoming soaked with water. Rain had leaked in from somewhere, puddling on the littered floor. She thought she heard rushing water. That could be the rains flowing through the nearby sewers she mused, or the sound of the river. She wondered if they were near Notre Dame, for she knew there were several buildings with subterranean floors that served as shelters for the poor. They were crumbling and dirty, but no one asked questions, and they were cheap.

Milos stopped, knocked lightly on a closed door and then pushed it open. They entered a small room, and although it was dank and smelled of the sewer she could tell it's occupants tried their best to keep it clean. A young woman lay on pallet in the corner of the room, moaning softly as a stooped gray haired women dressed in a tattered old dress wrung out a cloth and laid it on the ailing girl's forehead. Richelleen frowned at Milos then crossed the room in a few steps and kneeled down beside her.

"Hello Yvette," she said gently. "My name is Richelleen and Milos asked me to have a look at you. Will that be all right?"

Though in obvious pain, Yvette managed a weak smile and nodded.

"What seems to the problem?" Richelleen asked, though she was certain by the faint odor coming from the young girl of what she might find.

In answer Yvette rolled over on her side, her back to Richelleen. Her hands steady, Richelleen pulled down the sheet exposing the pitifully thin back of the young girl. "Mon Dieu!"she whispered weakly. Rows of ugly purpling bruises and angry red welts cut across Yvette's back from shoulder to waist. Yvette winced as Richelleen's gently probing fingers moved across her back. She knew the problem at once. One welt was swollen, the skin taut and shiny, burning hot beneath her knowing fingers.

Richelleen sat back on her heels stunned. "This is no ordinary illness," she hissed between clinched teeth, glaring up at Milos. "This child has been whipped!"

"Not by me!" Milos cried, involuntarily backing away from her withering stare "It was him, Gautier!" He said she would be an... example!"

Richelleen's eyes widened at this statement then she scowled, clearly puzzled. "An example? What kind of example? What are you talking about?"

"Yvette...Yvette works for Gautier, like we all do. Well...my birthday is coming up and she wanted to surprise me...with a gift. So, she kept a few sou from her last...job so she could buy one. He...Gautier, found out. He went into a rage and said no one would steal from him again once they knew what would happen to them if they were caught." Milos looked at the floor, "No one could stop him."

"Did anyone think of calling the police...or a doctor?" Richelleen asked.

Milos snorted, a rueful smile on his face. "Us, call the police?"

Her face was sad and she was sorry she had said it. For Richelleen knew exactly how he felt. Even now, many of her own people would not call the police or a doctor when they were in trouble. Slowly she got to her feet, straightened her clothes. She walked over to Milos and lowered her voice, not wanting Yvette to hear them.

"She has an infection and it must be treated soon, before it spreads. She really needs a doctor."

"Please, there must be something you can do! He won't let us move her."

"If I had my bag or some herbs, perhaps I could make a poultice to draw out the poison, but here..." she said throwing up her hands. "I need something to work with."

He hesitated for only a moment then straightened his thin shoulders and asked. "What do you want, I'll go get whatever it is you need."

"You can't.  If Gautier sees you there will be trouble."

Milos's eyes turned hard. "Forget Gautier, I will deal with him when the time comes, now what is it you need?"

Richelleen chewed her lip for a moment then asked. "Do you have something to write on?"

Milos frowned, then a smile brightened his face. He rummaged through a box in the corner of the room and returned with a piece of charcoal and butcher's paper. Richelleen started to write. She was almost sure that none of these people could read or write but dared not take the chance she could be wrong. She desperately wanted to save the young lady and just hoped that whoever got the note would cooperate and send the supplies and somehow know that the note had come from her. Hopefully Milos would be followed back to the hideout or someone would get word to Javert. It was the best she could hope for. She smiled at the young man when she handed him the note, feeling that for the first time in weeks the odds may have shifted in her favor.

"It's not too late for Yvette," she said answering the unasked question in his pinched face. "But you must hurry, time is our enemy here."

Milos put his cap on and left almost before the words were out of her mouth. Turning back to the suffering girl, Richelleen quickly took stock of the meager supplies available to her. Yvette was not only going to need the medicines in her bag, but all her skills. She set about her task, asking the old woman to find some water and boil it for her and also to gather as many clean dry cloths as possible.

When she left the room, Richelleen knelt beside the Yvette once more. "Wretched man", she muttered under her breath, "whip a child for a few sou. I hope when Javert finds him, he beats him senseless." Rinsing out a cloth, she bent to her task, her own problems momentarily pushed aside.

**

Nicholas, full and freshly diapered, nestled comfortably in the crook of Javert's arms. His tiny rosebud mouth making gentle sucking noises as he slept. Javert had come to cherish these precious moments he spent with his infant son, finding them very peaceful and soothing. Here in the rectory that smelled of soap and wax and incense he could relax for a moment. It's dimly lit halls echoed with the muted sounds of people about their work and from the school yard came the sweet chorus of children's voices raised in song. It was a world away from the problems he faced and he came as often as his schedule allowed. Besides, being close to Nicholas made him feel that much closer to Richelleen.

"Inspector Javert, Inspector Javert!" a voice called out to him from beyond the closed door, accompanied by frantic knocking. Startled, Javert almost jumped to his feet, then caught himself.

"What is this?" he said as Adele and Simone burst into the room, followed by a breathless Sister Clarice who waved what looked like a piece of crumpled paper in her hand. They swarmed in, closed around him, all talking at once.

"Ladies, ladies please." he said shielding Nicholas with a large protective hand. You will scare the baby. "Now, one at a time. Please. What seems to be the trouble?"

The women fell silent, looked from one to the other, each one waiting for the other to speak.

"Well?" Javert said, arching one eyebrow in question, a hint of impatience tingeing his speech.

Sister Clarice nodded at Adele, handing her the piece of paper she had in her hand. "You tell him Adele..."

Adele took a deep breath and quickly told him of the young man in the rectory and about his request. Thrusting the crumpled note to him she said. "I cannot read very well Monsieur, but I know Richelleen's hand writing and I believe this note has come from her."

Javert accepted the offered paper with his free hand. Studied it. His cheeks burned. It was from Richelleen all right, he would know her hand anywhere. Instantly his demeanor changed. "Simone, would you take Nicholas for me and see that he's put down for his nap?"

Simone, still unable to keep her cheeks from flaming whenever Javert spoke to her, managed to compose herself and took the baby from his arms, squeaking out a "Oui, Monsieur," as she left the room.

He pulled himself more erect than his normal stance, knowing this was the break he had been waiting for. "Is he still here?" he asked. The blue-gray eyes now as sharp and hard as flint, his every word clipped and measured. Every inch the Chief Inspector.

"Yes, yes," Adele said. "We told him it wold take some time to gather all that he needed. He's sitting in the rectory waiting room right now."

Javert pursed his lips. "Good, good. Go about your business, but keep him waiting as long as you can without arousing his suspicions, then give him what he came for and let him leave.

Gravely, Adele and Sister Clarice nodded their heads in unison at Javert's instructions. When they left the room, Javert heard them murmuring as the scurried down the hall and shook his head. He hoped they could pull it off.

He picked up his hat, seated it then grabbed his night stick and stepped out into the hall. Satisfied that he was unobserved he slipped out the back entrance of the rectory so he wouldn't be seen by anyone watching the front door.

Walking fast, he made his way around the side of the church courtyard, stopping at the corner to check out the street. Motioning to the policeman standing guard, Javert leaned over and whispered his plan to the young man who shook his head several times in agreement. Javert then crossed the street and climbed into his waiting carriage. Georges drove down to the end of the street and stopped. In a few moments the guard looked right and left then walked into the yard. He leaned his firearm against a nearby tree and took out a small black cigar. He called to a man dressed in workman's clothes who was sweeping the yard. The man wiped his face with a rag and propped his broom against the wall before walking over to the guard. He nodded his head and struck a match, lighting the guard's cigar. The talked for a few minutes.

Soon, a young blonde headed man emerged from the rectory carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper. If he saw the bearded man follow him close behind him, he gave no notice. He walked quickly, looking neither left or right. Clearly he was in a hurry.

Milos returned and Richelleen wasted no time in getting things in order. She mixed up a gluey poultice of ashes, tincture of lobelia and slippery elm, spreading it on a piece of fresh muslin. She laid it directly on the affected area, making sure it covered it completely, then secured it by wrapping her torso with a cotton bandage. She brewed a tea of yarrow root and licorice to help lower her fever. Richelleen held Yvette's head up, urging her to take small sips of the hot tea until it was all gone. Hopefully it would also dull the worst of her pain. Richelleen wished she had some laudanum, but could find none in the package Milos brought back. Yvette's color grew a little paler and her respirations a little more shallow, but she seemed to rest easier. Her moans had stopped. Milos looked at Richelleen as if to say, now what?

Richelleen stood up, rubbed the back of her aching neck and stretched. "I've done all I can, now all we can do is wait."

The undercover officer had done his job well, following the unsuspecting Milos directly to Gautier's lair. Once the report was made, Javert acted quickly. Joined by Roland and Gaspar he and his men were in position. The doorway of the tenement lay before them, dark and foreboding and curiously deserted.

Hidden in the alley of the adjacent building, Javert now gave his men their final instructions. He prayed their attack would be successful and swift, fearing a long battle would result in too many casualties. Hearing the agreed upon signal, he knew his men were in their appointed places. Javert glanced sharply around, counted the seconds in his head and raised a large hand that all but dwarfed the pistol it held. All was in readiness. He had only to give the word.

to be continued...

© 1997 Rose Carr

Contact the author: Rosematuse@aol.com

Home