Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jeanne Valjean misliked Sundays.

She knows it is terrible of course to see the Lord’s day of rest as a curse, but, holding tight to Cosette’s arm in the midst of the post-church marketplace crowd, she can’t be bothered to think differently.

“Mama, can we go to Monsieur Tolande’s bakery?” Cosette cries over the noise, even as Valjean steers them in the opposite direction.  “We haven’t been there in months!” 

Valjean manages to pull them under a fruit-seller’s awning, which is thankfully free from any other shoppers (for who can afford fruit nowadays?).  “Cosette, I don’t think that’s wise,” Valjean starts, already dreading her daughter’s disappointment.   "M. Tolande is a fine man, but that area’s been unsafe lately, ma chere.  There’s riots, and-” Valjean stops, suddenly thrust back into a life in which riots were seen as holidays.  She takes a deep breath before continuing.  “Cosette, I simply won’t put you in danger.  Now, don’t look so forlorn, my love!  Why don’t I ask Mme. Toussaint to make us some strawberry tarts when we get home?”

Cosette seems satisfied, her good nature prevailing, and Valjean thanks God as always for her gentle charge as they make their way home arm-in-arm.

********

Well after dark, a rough-looking man appears in the darkened hallways of the villa, and Valjean can only smile at him in the mirror.  She winks and readjusts her hair under her workman’s cap, grinning as she tucks the unruly curls away.  Valjean makes her way outside, sneaking through the unkept garden with great care but little anxiety.  Cosette never asks for her mama after 7 or so, and thus she knows she is safe from discovery as she ventures into the night. 

Once outside her property, Valjean breathes a little more easily.  The street is quiet, and the bakery, being in the district that it is, shouldn’t close until around 10 or so.  Satisfied, Valjean begins her trek.

It’s silly, she knows, to put herself in such danger for a little bread (she shakes that insinuation off with a shudder), but she loves her Cosette, and really, it’s simple to navigate Paris at night in the with the right skills (and attire).

The stars are out tonight, and Valjean spares them a quick glance as she ducks into an alley, smiling at the silly old woman she's become.

********

Valjean suspects she is maybe two blocks from the bakery when the knife touches her throat.

“Well, well. Out late aren’t we, Monsieur?” the man says, the tip of the knife cutting into her skin as he backs her into the alley wall.  Lord God, help me.  Protect me-for my daughter’s sake.

 “Celebrating the Lord’s Day with a little wine and whoring?” he snorts, (though his voice is pretty for a thief’s).  Valjean lets out a low gasp as a drop of blood trickles down onto her shirt collar.

This reaction draws a smirk from the man.  “Or just avoidin’ the old cunt at home?” 

In this light, it’s nearly impossible to make out the details of her captor.  The man is taller than her, though slimmer through the shoulders and legs.  His waistcoat appears to be well-cut, and his top hat looks unpatched.  Clearly, he is no simple beggar, and Valjean allows herself to shudder.

“I’ll tell you what, bastard.  Give me your drinking money and I’ll let you go with a warning.  Come ‘round here again, and I’ll let you go cockless to the whores.  Understand?”

Valjean nods (Lord, thank You in Your infinite mercy), the knife tip still digging into her skin.  She reaches for the little money in her vest, and nearly throws it at the man.  She suspects she doesn’t breathe as he holds the coins up high, trying to decipher their worth in the dim light.

“Fuck you to Hell! Thirteen sous?  More trouble than you’re worth, useless bastard!”  the man shrieks, voice high as a girl’s, and Valjean knows that the lifting and pulling back of the knife is no reprieve.  Seeing her chance, Valjean shoves the man with all the force she can muster and reaches into her waistcoat pocket again.

Valjean expects the man to stand his ground, be put off-guard for a second and no more (just the time she needs).  She doesn’t expect her assailant to end up on the filthy ground, long dark hair falling free without the restraint of the top hat.  For a moment, Valjean is struck dumb, her own blade left half-opened.  A woman, robbing in the guise of a gentleman?  

“You cunt!”  the strange woman yells, gathering herself back up with the agility of an alley cat.  “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Valjean holds her knife in front of her, knuckles white as porcelain around the handle.  “Monsieur,” (Dear God let that appease her) she says, lowering her voice and taking a step backwards into the shadows, “We-we can both see I’m l-larger than you.  Let me go, and I’ll never come back here again.”

The woman’s eyes are big now, catching full sight of Valjean’s form with her weapon.  She remains motionless for a moment, obviously considering her options.

“You think I’ll let you out alive so you can mock me, laugh at how the most powerful woman in Paris would let a laborer go?” she spits, body tense in her fighting stance.

 Valjean leans forward, her form relaxing into a pose learned years ago in a world that’s decided to spill over into this one.  Dear God, show me Your grace.

 “Feminine mercy, you’re hoping for, is that it?” the woman taunts, lunging forward.  Valjean skirts the move and crouches as the blade swings downwards and to the side.  Valjean lifts her hand to block the blow, and she winces as the knife cuts into her skin. Her assailant gives a triumphant grunt.

Valjean is used to the blade, however (the blade, the whip, and whatever else Mme. Seltoire had under her bed), and quickly recovers herself enough to slash her own blade against the woman’s thigh. 

“You cocksucking son of a cunt-eating whore!” she screams, dropping her blade and clutching her bleeding leg.  It’s not deep, Valjean knows, but it’s enough to get her free.

Without thinking, she grabs the shining knife off the ground and runs, stopping only once to wail “Help! Police!”  before ducking back into the shadows and flying back towards the Rue Plumet.

********

It is only the next morning, bandaged beneath her gown and sent back to bed by Mme. Toussaint, that Valjean will examine the knife and wonder what kind of a woman this “Montparnasse” could be.