World: Paris
Scene: Somewhere in the southern countryside, 1831.
Players: Javert = Dessa; Chantal, Regine = Abby
A quiet rural road, its cobblestones running a bit to grass and moss, lined with tall trees whose overhanging branches lend a pleasant shade in the summer heat.
Chantal is about fifteen; petite, fine-boned and frail as a pixie. Her glossy black hair, loosely plaited down her back, looks almost too heavy for her. Wide eyes of a vivid violet peer gravely out of a pale, triangular face. Despite her fragile appearance, however, she seems quite sure of herself.
Javert steps briskly down the road, then pauses briefly as the house comes into view.
Chantal is sitting curled up on a bench, half hidden under the trees. She looks up curiously.
Javert mumbles to himself, "This is it?"... checks the address, "Guess so. A wonder...." He then notices the girl on the bench.
Chantal leans out slightly. "Can I help you, monsieur?"
Javert bows deeply. "Do you live here, mademoiselle?"
Chantal tilts her head slightly. "Yes."
Javert says, "Good. Yes, then. I come on orders from the Paris Prefect. I would like to speak with... your parents?"
Chantal's brow furrows. She climbs out of the bench, smoothing her skirts. "Why? What's the matter?"
Javert looks at the girl, "It's nothing you need concern yourself with."
Chantal links her hands behind her back, lifting her chin to look up at him gravely. "If it concerns my parents it concerns me too, monsieur."
Javert puzzles momentarily at the strong will of this child. "Very well, ahh..." he tilts his head in a manner very clearly indicating, 'What's your name?'
Chantal tilts her head slightly. "Chantal."
Javert nods. "Very well, Mademoiselle Chantal Enjolras. It's a matter of your brother, Marcelin."
Chantal frowns at this, jaw tightening. "What's happened to him?"
"He is suspected of some activity at his school unbecoming to him." Javert quickly adds, "Are your parents in?"
Chantal folds her arms. "What does that mean? --Tell me first." She sidesteps so as to block his path.
"It means," he says, perhaps a little more sharply that he would wish, "That we think his parents should know about it."
The chin goes up another degree. "Why? So they can send him nasty letters and he can send them nasty letters back?"
Javert says, "It is no concern of mine what your parents do with the information I have to give. It is my concern that I should tell them, and that they should at least know what their son is suspected of."
Chantal scowls. "Suspected of saying things people don't want to hear, is all, I suppose."
Javert says, "Suspected of distributing fliers within the academy containing messages meant to turn people against the King."
Chantal laughs, the little breathless incredulous laugh common to all teenagers who cannot believe how stupid their elders are. "Oh! Really."
Javert says, "Yes, really. Now, where are your parents?"
Chantal takes a deep breath. "It won't do any good, you know. Whatever he's doing he won't stop, and father and mother will just rage and write hateful things to him and he won't listen."
Javert says, "Well, if it doesn't do any good, that's one thing. But if they don't know, that's quite another. Let me speak to them."
Chantal allows herself a little bitter smile. "You think they don't know. What they don't know, monsieur, they'll make up, so it hardly matters."
Javert says, "If it hardly matters, then it will not hurt if I speak to them. Are they at home?"
Chantal scowls. And doesn't answer. If he's that determined, he can just darn well ask the maid.
Javert nods to the girl, and steps around her.
[In the parlor]
Javert bows deeply, "Madame Enjolras?"
Regine is sitting by the window, making some pretense of embroidering. She sets the work aside and rises as he enters. "Yes?"
Javert says, "I come from the Paris Prefect, bringing news of your son, Marcelin."
Regine's face goes hard. "You assume I wish to hear of him."
Javert is momentarily surprised, though it does not show very much. 'It must run in the family,' he thinks to himself.
Regine sighs faintly, closing her eyes for a moment as though to hide a ceilingward glance. "What has he done now?"
Javert says, "If you wish, I could speak to your husband, Madame, but I am under orders to have this news known to one of you."
Another sigh. "He is not at home. You may as well tell me." She retakes her seat as though to brace herself.
Javert says, "Marcelin is suspected of organising, printing, and distributing revolutionary fliers at the academy at which he studies."
Regine puts the back of her hand to her forehead. "Dear God, not again." Her tone is exasperated. "And they confronted him, I suppose, and he made speeches at them, I suppose!"
Javert says, "Basically."
Regine gives a little hiss of annoyance, and glances out the window.
"If I may comment, Madame..." Javert ends that in a questioning note.
Regine glances back at him with the slightest of nods.
Javert says, "On the way here I came across your daughter on the road. I suggest caution with her. She seems to be interested in protecting her brother, and supporting his actions."
Regine sighs again. "Chantal." It isn't a question. "Yes. Well, she adores him, of course. She has always been... difficult." She smooths her hair slightly.
Javert says, "I leave the matter, of course, to your own judgement, but perhaps keeping, shall we say, a tighter leash on her might keep the matter under control."
Regine arches a pale-golden brow. "I appreciate your concern, monsieur."
Javert bows to the Lady Enjolras. "I shall take my leave then." He looks at her, "Though I somehow doubt this will be the last time we meet. Farewell." He turns to leave.
[Outside:]
Javert comes up the road.
Chantal stands by the side of the road where it overlooks a brook, throwing pebbles into it moodily.
Javert nods briefly to the girl as he passes once again by her.
Chantal makes a point of ignoring him, brows furrowing as his footsteps pass.