Javert's face grew pinched and grim. Of all the matters preoccupying his stormy head, social affairs sat at the very bottom of his desires and concerns. The idea of being forced into a foray where he would have to make small talk and put on airs sounded about as appealing as wading through the Parisian sewers.

(He was unlikely to put on airs or make small talk at all, even if thrust amongst the society-people. He would plaster himself to a corner or alongside a bare wall, hands clasped at his back, and watch the proceedings, more closely resembling a guard dog than a guest.)

He took a sluggish bite of his jammed bread, and then followed it up absently with a bigger bite. His stomach was cramped, tired, aching. He hadn't eaten in at least a day. The bites hit his hollowed stomach like a rock in water, leaden and heavy. He washed it down with a burning, acrid sip of black coffee, as his glance dropped to Ariadne's book.

"Where the devil are they unearthing these things?" he mused. "A tome you recognize, I assume. In any case, I am sorry to tell you I will not be offering formal dance lessons. That is not my art. Though should I ever come across a fine dancer when we are out of this cave I shall be certain send them your way."