"Right, that book." Bahorel moves himself over to most un-art-covered section of the room he can find, sits down, and pulls a pen out of his coat. It's not much of a distraction, but it's something to keep his hands busy.

"He murdered a woman." Bahorel lifts a hand against protest. "Argue that the book's not accurate all through, I thought of that, but it's more accurate than any newspaper until the barricade falls. And it has a good bit on the spy before he comes to our barricade-- years before--and he murdered a woman." Bahorel's weighed the accuracy of that accusation in his own heart since reading the passage; he knows his own biases. But even Monsieur Fauchelevent said he killed her at the time, and that's clearly a man ready to forgive and excuse whatever he can. There's no doubt in Bahorel's mind on the matter. "He killed her and made her last moments nightmare, and said she deserved it."

He spins the pen on the floor. A hard, sharp smile flickers across his face for a moment. "She was poor, you see. Poor, and a prostitute. And for Monsiuer l'Inspecteur that was enough."