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Chapter Text

Tomašis Yoska Javert led a miserable life, but one he did not consider to be so bad. He was fed, though the food was abysmal, and he was sheltered, though there were gates to keep them so. Occasionally, he could get himself an extra chunk of dry bread or even a few sous, when he ran little errands for the guards, carrying notes and washing bowls and such. They were cruel, but rarely to him. They ignored him, mostly, unless he approached them. His mother was there, and she was pretty and kind. When the guards were not around, she let him play with the cards she kept in her skirts. He liked the pictures. All in all, he did not consider his existence to be so terrible, but then, it was all he had ever known.

He did not know that most little boys played pretend with sticks and had space to run and play in the sun. Tomašis played with bits of straw from the floor and had nearly free run of the prison, so long as there were bars he could slip through rather than solid wall. He did not know that most little boys had a father who taught them to tie their boots and shave their faces when the hair began to grow. Tomašis did not have boots, and he was not yet old enough for the second to become a pressing concern.

As he grew, however, he noticed the jeers the guards directed at them, how they would point to his mother and make gestures with their hands. She always turned his face away and told him in their secret language that it was nothing, he was to ignore them, so he tried. It became increasingly difficult as time went on.

A prisoner was brought in one day – new to this place and weeping. When she saw him, she lit up in a frantic fit of anger? Excitement? Tomašis did not know the name for the emotion he saw. She flung herself against the bars and cried out to the guards, begging for her child to be brought to her, asking why could this woman, this gitane have her bastard boy when she could not have her own precious daughter? The guards ignored her cries and the woman eventually sunk to the floor, overcome with sobs that shook her whole body. She sat there for a long while until his mother went over and put an arm over her shoulders, helping her to stand and leading her to sit on a bench against the wall. They sat there for hours, the woman crying into his mother’s shoulder and his mother gently stroking her hair, not saying a word.

This was the first time that Tomašis Yoska Javert wondered why he was where he was.

In the months following this incident, Tomašis began to observe. He watched the guards, with their biting words and heavy hands. He watched the other prisoners, with their sallow faces and bitter compliance. But most of all he watched his mother, always ready with a smile for him. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks, the gray in her hair, and wondered why.

He was leaving the infirmary once, having just delivered a bag of rolled bandages, when the doctor called him back.

“Boy!” he said. “Come here.”

Tomašis turned and walked to him, expecting to be given a task to complete.

“Do you speak French?” The doctor asked, peering at him over clouded spectacles.

Tomašis nodded but said nothing. He had found that he was more likely to get his ears boxed when he opened his mouth, so he spoke only to the other prisoners – and even then, rarely. Though he wasn’t a prisoner. Not really. He just had nowhere else to go. He knew nothing else.

The doctor nodded and made a gruff noise of approval. “Do you know your letters?”

Tomašis shook his head. Where would he have learned his letters, being here his whole life? Stupid man.

“Sit,” the doctor said, pointing to the chair across from his own.

Tomašis sat. The doctor pulled a book from the drawer in front of him – a Bible, Tomašis recognized it. If a prisoner was dying and could not move to go to the infirmary, he was sent to fetch this book so that the prisoner might be given last rites before she died.

The doctor opened the book to where the frayed ribbon marked the page. “Pay attention. This is a D. It is the first letter in the word Dieu. D-ieu. That is the sound it makes. Do you understand?”

Tomašis nodded. D. D was for Dieu and docteur and dégage. He understood.

“Good. This is a T. It is the first letter in tabernacle.”

And in my name, Tomašis thought, but you don’t know that, because you have never asked. He nodded.

It was in this manner that Tomašis Yoska Javert learned his letters. The doctor showed him their shapes and sounds, and he went back to the cell and scratched them into the dirt floor with his fingers. His mother seemed very proud of him for this. At times, he saw her crying when she thought he couldn’t see. He didn’t understand why she cried. Not yet.

After a time, he could scratch out his own name: T O M A C H E S. His mother told him the spelling was wrong, but she was smiling when she did. T O M A S, she showed him instead, the name writ on whatever roster the prison kept of its occupants. Then he scratched her name: D A I E N A. He had to ask her to help him spell it, but the letters he produced on his own. She could not read, only write her own name and his, and she was proud of him for this and told him that reading and writing French would take him much farther in life than she ever had gone. He offered to teach her what the doctor taught him, so that they might go far in life together, but she just shook her head and stroked his hair.

Tomašis Yoska Javert did not know how old he was when he realized that his mother expected – or perhaps planned, he did not know – to die here in this prison. It seemed to be a fact he had always known, yet never said out loud, for fear the words would make contact with the air and become fate. He knew, too, that whether the words were spoken or not, his mother’s destiny had been decided.

He returned from an errand one day to find his mother on her knees, the doctor standing in front of her. For a moment, he stepped forward, curious, but then the sounds reached his ears: wet, sloppy. He knew those sounds well, as anyone would who lived within those walls, but he had never expected to hear them here in what he liked to think of as their place of residence, their home, their corner of the large cell. He turned and ran, shame and anger and embarrassment building up until it spilled over from his eyes and he fell to the ground and wiped angrily at his face to rid himself of the tears. His attempts were in vain, and he knelt there on the ground for quite some time before he was recovered enough to stand on shaking legs and make his way back to the cell. The doctor was gone, and his mother sat on their bunk, looking at the floor.

“Maman,” he asked her, “Why are we here?” What did you do, the question that he did not say, but they both heard beneath the words.

She smiled sadly. “I did a lot of things, Toma. A lot of things I regret.”

He frowned. She couldn’t regret them too terribly; she still did them, even here where there could not possibly be anything to gain. He added liar to the mental list of his mother’s faults. That morning, he had the idea that she perhaps didn’t have any faults, as young children often think of their mothers. Now, there was a list. He had stumbled through passages of the Bible, he knew the words for the sins he had seen. Liar. Fornicator. Just earlier that day, the doctor had made him read aloud from the book of Micah: I will cut off sorceries from your hand, and you shall have no more tellers of fortunes…And in anger and wrath I will execute vengeance on the nations that did not obey. Liar. Fornicator. Fortune-teller. Tomašis did not like the pictures on the cards so much now.

He nodded and could not remove the frown from his face, but stayed silent. There was nothing to say. But when she reached out a hand to touch him, he leaned back and turned his face away.

He pretended not to hear her sobs that night. He pretended for hours. But then he could no longer take it and he scooted closer to her on the bunk to kiss her cheek and work his way into her arms. He pretended not to notice how tightly she held him and how many kisses she placed on the crown of his head. He pretended not to notice that he, too, began to cry as he fell asleep. He didn’t notice when his mother stopped crying but did not stop sniffling. He didn’t notice the rasping of each breath she took. Fate had come to lay her claim.

His mother fell very quickly into sickness. It seemed to Tomašis that one moment she was fine and healthy and the next, coughing and pale. Of course, no one was ever fine and healthy within these walls, not even the guards. The air was poisoned with the stench of unwashed bodies and disease. No hope survived here. It did not make for an environment conducive to health.

The guards mocked her when she struggled to stand, saying all manner of crude, horrible things. When Tomašis tried to rebuke them, to defend her, she hushed him gently, stroking his hair and telling him to stay on the good side of the guards, to not anger them for something so trivial. Her words made him even angrier – how could she call these insults to her honor, her very being, trivial? Though nothing they said was untrue, she confirmed it herself when he asked.

He hated the guards when they said those things, but he hated his mother more for proving them right. Then he hated himself for hating his mother. He wondered if it was possible to hate and love someone in equal measure and tried to ask the doctor about it, to ask if there was anything God had said about it in the Bible, but the doctor just sighed and shook his head.

“Look, boy. Your mother is as fine a mother as she can be, I’m sure. But she’s a criminal and a sinner and God is giving justice. When the law is broken, one must be punished. That’s why your mother is here. When God’s law is broken, it is the same. Punishment is never pleasant, but it is necessary for justice to exist.”

Tomašis left even more conflicted than before. His mother was a sinner and a criminal and he hated her because she had broken the law of France and the law of God and had stranded them in this place. But he loved her as well. How could he not?

She seemed to be getting better one evening – the color had returned to her face and the light to her eyes. She pulled Tomašis close with more strength than she had had in the weeks since she first began to cough.

“Tomašis Yoska,” she said, her voice steady and not at all raspy and wispy like a dying woman’s should be, “You are my only son and I love you and I want the best for you. So, promise me one thing. Promise me that you will get out of here and you will make yourself a good life on the outside. You are –” here she stopped and hunched over, coughing, for several moments. When she relaxed and laid back, there was blood on her lips. She smiled, and the blood dripped onto her chin. “You are a smart boy. You know your letters and you know how to work with disagreeable people. These are valuable skills to have in this world. You can make yourself an honest living, I believe in you. Don’t let yourself end up in here like me,” she said, smiling sadly. In French, accented like his had never been, she told him, “You deserve better than this, Toma.”

Before he could form a reply, another fit of coughing seized her. After a minute or so had passed and the coughing remained, Tomašis helped her sit up and rubbed at her back, trying to ease the congestion. So focused he was on the coughing that when it stopped, he did not notice that she did not take another breath, and he began to hope. Then he looked up to her face and he knew. His mother was gone.

Gently lowering her back onto the bunk, he stood up and squeezed through the bars like he did a hundred times a day and found the nearest guard and told him that his mother was dead and that someone should be notified. Then he turned and walked back and squeezed through the bars again and sat on the edge of the bed, staring forward.

A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from whatever place he had been in since he saw the light gone from her eyes, and he looked up to see the woman who had a daughter, the one who had cursed him and called his mother a gitane. He had not seen her since that day, so many years ago. Now, he saw tears in her eyes and she opened her arms as if to embrace him.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, then stood up, walked to a corner, and promptly vomited. It was not much, for he had been eating little, stealthily giving his portions of food to his mother in hopes that she might regain her strength. When he had finished, he straightened up and walked to his mother – to the body – and took the set of cards from the pocket where he knew they were, tied up with yarn that was once a vibrant red, but now was the color of meat gone sour. He tucked the cards inside his shirt, for he did not want them to be found and taken by the guards or the doctor or whoever would remove the body.

When he had finished this as well, he was unsure what to do, and so he sat again on the edge of the bed.

“You are not crying,” the woman noted. Her voice was thick. She was crying.

“She was a criminal. Criminals do not deserve respect. Or tears.”

She shook her head. “Everyone is not deserving of respect at some point in their lives, even the law-abiding citizens. But still they receive respect. I’m sure their sons cry for them. Why should your mother be any different?”

Tomašis could feel the familiar heat behind his eyes that meant he was about to cry. He began to blink very fast. “She was a criminal and therefore not a good person. I don’t want to cry for a bad person, for surely it means that I am sorry that the world has lost someone who would make it worse and unsafe.”

The woman frowned. “Oh, come now. You aren’t a stupid boy. You may know right from wrong, I’ll give you that, but you also know that people are much more complex than that. No one is entirely a good or bad person, no matter what they do.”

Tomašis turned away from her and did not respond, but he allowed silent tears to run down his face. Logically, he knew that a person could not be both good and bad, but that logic also told him that he could not hate and love someone in equal measure, a fact which his heart strongly disagreed with. He put this idea to the back of his mind and tried to ignore it, for it confused him and he had no one to ask that understood his confusion.

He was alone now, truly. His mother was dead, and his father was some faceless man by the surname of Javert (whom his mother had never spoken fondly of) who was, for all Tomašis cared, dead or worse. Now he understood why his mother told him to leave the guards well alone when they said cruel things. They would be his only hope to get out of this place one day.

The funeral, if one could call it that, was a grim affair later that night. A shallow hole was dug, and the body was tossed in. Tomašis was not invited to attend, but he watched through the bars on the window above his bunk. He felt he owed her that. He said a prayer as well, though there was little chance it would help. His mother had never been religious. They hadn’t even thought to administer her last rites. She probably wouldn’t have wanted them. Tomašis was certain the gods she spoke of on occasion were not in the Bible. Another for her list of crimes: Liar. Fornicator. Fortune-teller. Heretic.

Tomašis did not know what they would have done with him had he not come to them with a proposal of his own first. Thrown him out maybe, or sent him to an orphanage. Or perhaps they would have just let him stay until he died, too, and thrown him in another shallow grave like his mother. Whatever fate had planned for him, he never gave her the chance to enact it. Not twenty minutes after the funeral, Tomašis had made his way to the office of the head guard, a man called Chabouillet. The office was neither locked nor guarded. It was a small prison, and most were in for petty theft or prostitution. The very dangerous criminals went to the Bagne in Toulon. This, Tomašis knew because he listened. He listened to what the guards said when they thought everyone around was too angry or too stupid to pay them any mind.

This was the proposal that Tomašis Yoska Javert presented to Monsieur Chabouillet: Tomašis was a resourceful boy, one who knew his letters and the law and who knew all the goings-on of the prison. Allow him to stay and work doing whatever they needed, and his value would far outweigh his cost.

Looking back, it was not a very strong proposal, but one must understand that to a boy just barely ten years of age, it sounded very smart and solid. Whether because the man took pity on the boy or because the boy’s mother had somehow paid for his life (Tomašis never discovered the reason, but as he grew, the painful wisdom of age led him to believe that it had been the latter), the man accepted his offer, and Tomašis began his new life the same day his mother’s ended.

For two years, he carried notes and packages, cleaned cells, bandaged wounds in the infirmary, counted time while the prisoners had their toilet, and he watched and he listened and he learned. He was given a copy of the Code Pénal and with it, continued his studies of written French (the doctor had ceased his lessons when his mother died, and Tomašis was left to assume that his mother had been giving the man her body in exchange for his reading lessons. This realization led him to cry tears of sorrow and of guilt for quite some time). He still scratched in the dirt with his fingers, but now he scratched whole sentences. He learned the code backwards and forwards and no longer needed the book. It was put into the stack of cards and tied with the yarn, as well.

The wages he earned were minimal, so little as to be practically nothing, but he did not pay for food or for a place to sleep, and he was good at saving. By the end of the first year, he had saved enough to buy himself a new shirt, which he took great care to keep as clean as he could, and a sturdy pair of boots, which he got a bit too large, that he would be able to grow into them. He wore them every hour he was awake, and sometimes he left them on as he slept, too. They caused his feet to blister and redden terribly for several weeks, and the younger guards, the ones who had known him only as errand-boy and did not think themselves too good to speak to him, remarked on his constant grimace. Eventually, though, his feet grew accustomed to being trapped in shoes and he no longer noticed a difference.

He had been working for the prison for two years, perhaps a little less, perhaps a little more, when the head guard Monsieur Chabouillet summoned him to his office. Tomašis stood there in his boots, hands respectfully behind his back, head forward but not bowed – never bowed.

“How old are you, Javert?” They all called him Javert. Or gitan. The only one who called him Tomašis Yoska was dead.

Tomašis blinked. The question of his age had never occurred to him. “I think…..12, I think, Monsieur.”

The man nodded and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. Tomašis waited. Then, finally, “I have a message that needs to be delivered to the police station-house in this town.” He held up the envelope, which was labelled with the address. “Do you know where that is?”

Hesitantly, Tomašis nodded. “I would be more comfortable consulting a map, but yes, monsieur, I think I know where that is.”

“Then a map you shall be given,” he said, already searching to produce one. “We don’t want you or this message getting lost.” He sniffed and, finding the map, handed it over. “It is not so far. And you will be given money to hire a ride, if you can find anyone willing to take you.”

Tomašis nodded his assent. “When should I leave, monsieur?”

“Tomorrow morning. Early. It is not more than a day’s journey, but you won’t want to waste any daylight.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Tomašis took his leave of the office and went to the cell. He knelt in front of the bunk by the wall and unrolled the map before him. He searched with his finger, finding the town relatively quickly. It truly was not far. He thought that perhaps he would not need to hire a ride if he walked along by the river. It was a straight shot and he could make it there in the late afternoon if he did not dally, which he knew he wouldn’t. He wondered if he would be allowed to keep the money that was intended for the ride.

True to his word, Tomašis rose before dawn the next morning (as he had for many years) and collected the message and the money from Chabouillet, and then he was on his way.

The shirt he had worn as a child, always so large on him, had finally gotten too small to wear even as a work-shirt, and he had torn it into even pieces and, with needle and thread borrowed from the infirmary, he had sewn it into a little bag. Perhaps not a very fashionable bag, perhaps more a pouch with a raggedy strap, but serviceable nonetheless. It was this in which he carried the message, the money (given to him in a small pouch, from which he had not yet removed it), the map, a small chunk of slightly stale bread, the Code Pénal, and his mother’s set of cards. Everything he owned in the world. Besides the map, the message, and the money, which he did not own. And his clothes and his shoes, which he did own, but were not in his bag.

As excited as he normally would be to be outside (when he had gone to buy his boots, it had taken nearly 3 hours because there was simply so much that he had never seen before), this time he was on duty. He had a mission and he would not jeopardize it for his own childish distractions. If he swung his bag a little too eagerly or paid a little too much attention to the fields and farmhouses he passed, well, no time was wasted and therefore it was harmless.

He had been walking for long enough that his feet began to ache by the time that he thought to pull out the map again. He briefly considered removing his boots to see if walking barefoot would help at all, but decided against it. He did not want to give the impression that he was just some gamin, some lost gitan child.

Squinting at the map, he frowned. He knew he was headed in the right direction, but he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. None of these towns had signs or labels to denote which was which, as they did on the map. Estimating the distance he had traveled, he guessed that he should soon come across the town of Faverolles.

Just as he looked up to see if there was anything to confirm or deny his guess, he heard footsteps behind him. A group of boys, not older than himself by too many years, but definitely larger, were approaching. He resolutely told himself that there was nothing to give him cause to fear, that they were likely just going to go about their business and ignore him, but he could not stop his heart from beating faster or his legs for taking quicker steps.

“Look what I’ve found,” one of them called out, “a wild gitan. I wonder if it’s lost, all alone out here, so far from the herd.”

“Pierre…..” another one of them said, “Let’s just go, yeah?”

The first boy, Pierre, laughed. “Ha! Why? I’m sure it doesn’t even speak French! It’s not as if it can understand me!”

Tomašis walked even faster, trying to remember all that his mother had told him about ignoring the guards when they had taunted them. He had a message to deliver, he could not get distracted. He had a message to deliver, he could not get distra –

“Hey, gitan! Read my palms, won’t you? Tell me my future!”

At this, Tomašis stopped. And turned. “Fortune-telling is a crime that I have no intention of committing today, thank you. I have to go; I have somewhere to be.”

The taller boy, Pierre, smirked. “Oh, he has somewhere to be, does he?”

One of his friends, who looked alarmingly stupid, laughed and repeated what Pierre had said. The other grabbed his bicep and again said, “Just leave it. Let’s go.”

Pierre laughed again and shook his head wildly, almost as if – by God, was he drunk? This did not bode well for Tomašis, who knew that men got much bolder and much crueler with wine in their bellies. They forgot their fear of the law, their sense of right and wrong.

He turned to go.

Pierre hollered after him, “Oi! Salaud! I was talking to you! Get back here!”

By this point, Tomašis was walking very quickly indeed. Pierre had apparently decided that he would not be able to catch up, for his footsteps ceased, and Tomašis breathed a silent sigh of relief. That did not last long however; not twenty seconds later, something flew by his head. A rock. The next hit him square in the back and Tomašis cried out, not so much from the pain, for it truly did not hurt so bad, but from the mere shock of it.

He clutched his bag tighter and started to run inland, in hopes he might come across someone who would scare the boys away. A third rock hit him, in the shoulder this time, and when he turned to see if there were more, he was caught around the arm by the stupid-looking one.

Pierre approached them, bouncing another rock in his hand. He threw it over his shoulder and glared at Tomašis. “Stupid gitan, should have paid heed to me,” he spat out, emphasizing his words with a punch in the gut that was hard enough to knock the wind from Tomašis’s lungs.

Pierre wound up his fist, ready to hit him again. Tomašis spat on him. The boy spluttered, wiping a hand across his face. It landed in his eye, Tomašis noted with some satisfaction. The boy drew back his arm again and Tomašis squirmed, trying to free himself of the stupid one’s grasp, but to no avail. He heard the hit before he felt it, the cracking sound that might have been a tooth or might have been his jaw. He hoped that it had been Pierre’s knuckles.

Then there was a new voice. “Hey! What are you doing? Leave him alone! Get out of here! Go on, shoo!”

The arm holding him up released him (though not without twisting his arm painfully behind him) and Tomašis fell to the ground. The sound of his attackers fleeing made him smirk, though it hurt to do so.

“Child? Are you alright?”

With the satisfaction of hearing the boys flee, Tomašis had almost forgotten about his savior. He bristled at being called a child, but put it out of his mind and tried to stand.

“Careful, careful,” his savior said, grabbing him around the waist. “That was no light blow you took. Can you lean on me? I can help you, that’s it.”

At that moment, to Tomašis’s utter horror and embarrassment, he found himself completely unable to stand, and was scooped up in the man’s arms like the child he had been mistaken for. He then proceeded to fall unconscious.

He woke to the sight of a ceiling unfamiliar to him. He quickly sat up, regretting it when he did so, as it triggered a pounding headache. He hissed and raised a hand to his head.

“Ah, you’re awake!”

Tomašis turned to find his rescuer, who was significantly younger than he had thought him to be, judging by the pitch of his voice and the strength of his arms. By his youthful face and patchy beard, the man must have barely been out of his teenage years.

Tomašis cleared his throat. “Yes, I am awake. Thank you, monsieur. I’m sorry to say it, but there is nothing I can give you in return for your rescue.”

The young man snorted. “You need not repay me. I hardly did anything at all – just scared away the boys. How is your head?”

Ignoring the question, Tomašis sat up further, turning his head to look around him. “Where are we?”

“My home. Or rather, the home of my sister and her family. But it is where I reside as well. In Faverolles.”

Tomašis’s eyes caught the window and he frowned upon seeing how high the sun was in the sky. It was well past noon! If he did not leave now, his message would arrive too late and he would have to return in the morning to give it to the police officer.

“I have an errand to run. I must arrive before dark,” he told the young man, already standing and looping his bag across his shoulders (though not before giving it a thorough search – criminals were lurking everywhere and who knew what this man might have taken?).

The young man shook his head. “I do not think you should be going anywhere in a hurry after that blow to the head.”

Tomašis squared his shoulders. “Thank you for your help and for your concern, monsieur, but I have a job to complete.”

The man sighed. “Will you at least return after you have completed it?”

Tomašis hesitated and then – a halting nod. “If monsieur wishes it, then I shall return.”

“Jean.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Jean,” the man told him. He raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Tomašis was a bit taken aback. No one offered their name to him willingly, let alone ask his in return. “I – I am called Tomašis.”

Jean nodded. “Then Godspeed, little Tomašis. I pray that you do not again find yourself in need of help, as I will not be there to give it.”

“I – thank you.”

“The river is a left turn from the door. Follow it, and you won’t get lost.”

A quick nod and then he was gone, walking much quicker than he had been before this whole mess. He did not swing his bag or admire the fields.

Just as Jean had predicted, the journey was short, and Tomašis arrived before the sky had begun to turn orange. He would hazard that the time was 4 o’clock or perhaps 5. The town was small, and he had no need to ask for directions to find the police station-house. The building was at the center of the town, next to a carriage-house. He entered.

“This is a police house, boy. Don’t think to try anything stupid,” a voice warned him as he crossed the threshold.

Tomašis bristled. “I have a message for Monsieur l’Inspecteur. It is from the jail by Pontlevoy.”

An officer stepped forward and held out a hand. “I will take it.”

Tomašis looked him up and down. “Are you Monsieur l’Inspecteur, here, monsieur?”

“No, but I will deliver it to l’Inspecteur,” the man said, giving Tomašis a smile that looked more irritated than pleased.

“With respect, monsieur, I would prefer to deliver it to his hand directly. I can wait.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stood straight, prepared to do as he had said and wait.

The officer sighed. “I will make him aware.”

He disappeared down the hallway and did not return for some time. Tomašis waited. The bottom of his right foot began to itch, and he tried to ignore it. His attempts were not successful, and he was left to squirm uncomfortably. After what seemed like at least a quarter of an hour, the officer returned, a large, imposing man trailing behind him.

Tomašis took a step forward and inclined his head. “Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

“I hear you have a message for me that you have been rather reluctant to hand over,” the inspector remarked, though it did not sound like a question.

“Yes, monsieur. I have it here,” he said, drawing out said message and holding it before him.

The inspector took the letter but did not open it. Private business, then. “Accountability and integrity. Notable virtues in one so young,” the inspector told him.

Tomašis puffed up with pride at his words. “Thank you, monsieur.”

“You would make a fine policeman, when you’ve grown,” the inspector remarked. “Do think on it.”

Tomašis nodded, looking at the floor to hide the smile he could not help from breaking out across his face. “I will, monsieur. Thank you.”

The inspector nodded. “Good. You may go; this letter shall have no response today.”

Tomašis respectfully inclined his head and turned to go. The sun was low in the sky, but not so low that Tomašis felt he needed to stop and find lodging for the night. He was distracted the whole way back, the inspector’s words echoing in his head, and Tomašis almost felt that he was giddy with the compliment. A passerby would have noticed a particular bounce in his step that hadn’t been present upon his entrance to the prefecture.

He had almost forgotten that he had agreed to return to the house of Jean’s sister and her family, but as he passed by the town, he saw the man himself, carrying a heavy bucket of water as easily as if it were empty.

He walked to meet the young man. “Jean of Faverolles,” he said by way of greeting.

Jean smiled widely. “Little Tomašis. So, you made it after all? And look, the sun is just now touching the horizon. You made haste.”

“I am quick on my feet,” Tomašis replied.

“So I see,” said Jean. There was laughter in his voice, but Tomašis did not understand why. “Come on, then. I need to set this down before I look at the bump that’s surely appeared on your head.”

Not knowing what else to do, Tomašis followed Jean of Faverolles to his home.

He was not prepared for the sheer noise of the place when they entered. Before, earlier in the day, there had been no one there save him and Jean. Now, the house was full of children’s prattle and the smell of cooking food. Tomašis froze on the step, but squared his shoulders and made himself enter in after Jean.

He stood awkwardly to the side as Jean deposited the water bucket on a small stool in the corner and greeted his sister with a kiss on the cheek. To the man, whom Tomašis assumed to be the sister’s husband, he offered a brotherly hand-clasp. As he walked by the two children, playing on the floor, he ruffled their hair, making the older boy squawk indignantly and reach to fix it and the younger – a girl, Tomašis guessed, though he was unsure – giggle and clap her hands over her head.

The sister gave Tomašis a wary glance. “And who is this, frère Jean?”

Tomašis stepped forward, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I am Tomašis Javert, madame. Your brother saved me from a bit of trouble earlier this day and requested that I return so he could see how I fared.”

The woman frowned. “A bit of trouble? Jean, you didn’t speak of any trouble.”

Jean was quick to reassure her. “It was nothing, Jeanne, just some local youths being cruel. But the boy had been dealt a rather hard hit to the head, and I wanted to be sure nothing worse had occurred.”

She relaxed and then turned back to Tomašis. “Well, Monsieur Javert, surely you can stay for supper?”

He startled, eyes wide. Monsieur Javert. “I – that is very kind of you, madame, but I could not accept.”

“Nonsense,” she brushed his denial aside. “And you shall stay the night, too. I won’t have young boys wandering alone at night. Any number of things could happen!”

He opened his mouth to again decline her offer, knowing that he had no way to pay her (and to refute the assumption that he was a boy. Hadn’t he decided just earlier that he was 12 years of age? Perhaps even 13! No longer a boy, of course! But Jean caught his eye. He was shaking his head in a way that made Tomašis think there would be no denying Jeanne.

Still, he made a valiant attempt. “Madame, there is no way I can pay you for your kindness.”

She said the same thing her brother had said when Tomašis had brought up the same argument: “You need not repay me. It is just what one does. And besides, work has been plenty this year and there is food to spare. Who will eat it if you do not stay?”

And so, he stayed.

Jeanne’s husband was called Nicolas, as Tomašis soon found out. He did not speak much, and when he did, he was always exceptionally soft-toned and kind. Tomašis wondered briefly if perhaps he might be slow in the head. The oldest child, the boy, was Claude, and he was 10 years of age, not so much younger than Tomašis himself. The girl (it was a girl, he had been right) was Marie, and she was 4 years of age. The infant, which Tomašis had not noticed until it had been introduced, was born just seven months past and was called Lou. They did not say whether this was an epithet for Louis or for Louise, and the gender of the infant was unclear.

At first the supper progressed awkwardly, everyone sipping at their soup in silence, with the occasional attempt at conversation. Tomašis suspected he was the cause of this awkwardness.

“Where are your parents? Should they be notified?”

“No, madame, my parents are dead.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Do not be.”

……

“Marie, remove your hands from your soup!”

“Oui, maman.”

……

“Claude, would you like to tell our guest how your school is progressing?”

“Boring. I do not like to learn arithmetic.”

“But surely it is important to learn such things?”

“I do not care.”

“Claude! Do not be rude.”

“Oui, maman. Sorry, monsieur.”

……

“Marie, do not make balls from the bread.”

“Oui, maman.”

…….

“Nicolas, how is work?”

“It is work, Jean.”

“….Good. That is good.”

……

“Marie, stop playing with your food.”

“Oui, maman.”

Before she had even finished pronouncing her agreement, Marie proceeded to fling a soggy pea in her spoon, quite entirely by accident, surely, though it landed with a splat on the wall behind Tomašis. He smiled, and she began to laugh and Jeanne, given up on disciplining the girl, smiled as well. Finally, the awkwardness ceased, and conversation became more natural.

“So, Monsieur Javert,” Jeanne began, “what brings you all the way to Faverolles? It is not exactly a common place for travelers to stop.”

He nodded. “I was delivering a letter to l’Inspecteur de Police nearby and had to pass through the town on my way.”

She frowned. “Where did you leave from?”

“I left from the prison near Pontlevoy,” he told them, looking down into his soup.

He could practically feel their eyes on his wrists and his neck, looking for the tell-tale signs of a prisoner, though one so young as he would hardly have been lashed with a chain, not in a prison so small as his. He winced. “Forgive me. I was unclear. I merely work at the prison, I am not an inmate there.” Though I do reside there, he added silently. There was no harm in leaving that out. He had told no lies.

There was a tangible sense of relief in the room at these words. Understandable. If he had unknowingly invited a criminal into his home, to dine and stay the night? It was unthinkable. Of course, he did dine and stay the night with prisoners, every day besides this one, in fact, but that was by neither choice nor accident, merely fate.

“That is still a long way to send a boy on foot all alone,” Nicolas remarked quietly.

Tomašis shrugged. “I ask for work, they give me coin to see it done. I am in no place to pick and choose the shortest and easiest routes.”

Jean nodded, a weary look briefly crossing his face, as if he knew and understood the hardship of little work and many workers. It was not the place of the worker to question the work, for he would just be removed and replaced with another worker. There was always another.

At that moment, Claude belched loudly and quickly covered his mouth, mumbling “Pardon.”

Tomašis wondered how this child could possibly be within two years of his own age. He himself had surely never been so foolish, so innocent. To see the type of boy he probably should have grown to be made him suddenly grateful for the fate he was handed. This Claude would not be able to survive without his mother and father, not for a while yet, though Tomašis hoped he never had to.

“Monsieur Javert?” Marie asked, “Why is your hair so long?”

His back stiffened, but he forced himself to relax. His hair, long and black, undeniable proof that he was the gitan everyone called him, had always been one of the guards’ favorite things to mock. Tomašis liked his hair like this, and so he left it. But the cruel words were always difficult to bear. To Marie, he simply replied, “I like it this way.”

“Enough, Marie,” Jeanne chided her. “No more questions.”

“I do not mind,” Tomašis said. He did not lie; he found that he truly did not mind.

When supper had ended, Tomašis helped Jeanne clean the dishes, despite her insistence that he didn’t need to. She had been absentmindedly patting at her belly every few minutes, and Tomašis suspected that she was with child, rather than just well-fed, as he had previously assumed. He had seen in the prison what happened to pregnant woman who worked too hard, and he did not wish that fate upon Jeanne. He would help her while he could.

When they had finished, Tomašis was treated to something he had never before experienced: the well-polished nightly routine of a close-knit family. Jean went out of the house, returned with an armful of wood, and went about setting the fire. The children were put to bed and went with little complaint, though Claude did ask briefly if he could be permitted to stay up just a bit longer. Jeanne answered him firmly no, and he accepted it with no further questions. It seemed to be something he asked every night, for he knew in advance what the answer would be. The infant – Lou – was moved, basket and all, into the other room in the house, presumably the bedroom of Monsieur Nicolas and Madame Jeanne. Nicolas sat for a while at the supper table, carving a small chunk of wood into some unknown shape. Jeanne retired early, but the muted sounds of singing told Tomašis she was still awake, tending to the infant.

Tomašis did not often feel as though he had missed very much with the childhood he had had. His mother, criminal that she was, had nurtured him and given him the best opportunities she was able to procure for him. She had loved him. It had always been enough. But now, watching from within the domestic scene around him, Tomašis felt something that felt distinctly like longing rise up in his chest. He did not let it linger.

“Are you a woodcarver, Monsieur Nicolas?”

The man shook his head. “No, it is just a silly hobby of mine,” he said, smiling softly at the chunk of wood in his hands. “I am a carpenter. I made all of the furniture in this room.”

Tomašis looked around. “It is of good quality. You should be proud.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Javert,” Nicolas said quietly. He looked pleased.

A crackle in the corner told them that the fire had been lit. Not knowing precisely what to do with himself, Tomašis crept towards it, drawn like a moth. Growing up forever cold and damp, he had never been able to resist the warmth of a fire. The look on Jean’s face told Tomašis that he was not subtle in his movements.

“How did you come to work at a prison, little Tomašis?” the young man asked, tilting his head a bit.

Tomašis met his eyes. “There is always work to be done, and a prisoner’s bastard is cheaper to hire than a street gamin,” he said, honestly.

Jean nodded, as if he had guessed as much. “But you yourself are not imprisoned?”

“Not as such.”

“Then why do you stay?” he asked. “Surely there is better-paying work to be found, somewhere.”

“Ah,” Tomašis said, grinning bitterly, “But what work is there for a gitan with no papers who can only barely read or write?”

Jean frowned and was silent for a moment, as if the words had to turn about in his mind several times before they made sense. “But,” he said finally, “There is much work that does not require reading or writing. I know neither, and I am a tree pruner.”

Tomašis shook his head. People like Jean of Faverolles would never understand. “It is just different, monsieur. We were handed different fates.”

They were silent after that until Nicolas stood up and announced he was retiring to bed.

Jean stood, as well, and began collecting the cushions from the sofa. When Tomašis inquired as to what he was doing, the man replied, “You are a guest, and the floor is hard. But I am not giving up the sofa.” He laid the cushions out on the floor beside the sofa, in a line like a very thin, very strange mattress.

Tomašis nodded and sat on the cushion closest to himself. “It is your house. I would not expect you to yield the sofa.” He did not mention that he had slept on the floor for many years with no cushions. He suspected that Jean had guessed this. He removed the shirt-bag he had worn across his chest throughout all of supper and the events after. Setting it beside the cushions, he wondered, belatedly, if perhaps keeping it on his person during supper had been a breach of etiquette. The Code Pénal said nothing of etiquette, so he did not know.

“What’s in the bag, that you guard it so closely?” Jean asked, seating himself on the sofa.

“A map,” Tomašis told him. “And a book, and some cards, and a few coins which are to be returned to Directeur de Garde Chabouillet.” The bag was lighter, for the message had been delivered, and the bread had been eaten.

Jean looked curious. “Cards for playing or cards for reading fortunes?”

“For reading fortunes, monsieur, but I do not use them,” Tomašis told him, straightening his back. “Such things are a crime against God and a crime against France.”

“So you would not read mine if I asked?”

A brief hesitation. “No, monsieur.”

“You need not call me monsieur,” the young man said, leaning back into the sofa. “Call me Jean, as you did before.”

Tomašis started. He had not even realized he had stopped. “Pardon. Jean.” Then, after a pause, “You said you are a tree pruner? How is that?”

Never before had Tomašis seen a man light up so rapidly, especially not at the mention of his work. In the time between his asking the question and the fire dying down to just embers, Tomašis learned more about trees and their keeping than he had ever wondered or thought to wonder before. Jean’s enthusiasm made the information welcome, though, more than just useless facts. Tomašis went to sleep that night warm and feeling more in touch with the green world beyond the prison walls than he had in his whole life.

Tomašis awoke the next morning to find the household already awake and busting, though it was just barely dawn. The house smelled of eggs and bread and the children were running about. Nicolas was again whittling away at his chunk of wood, and Jean was dressed as if to leave, boots already on his feet. Jeanne blocked his way and hassled him into a chair at the table. When she saw that Tomašis was awake, she did the same to him, and they both were served plates of egg with slices of warm bread. There was a pewter pitcher of water in the center of the table, and Jeanne set before each of them a wooden cup.

All of this happened in less than 5 minutes, and Tomašis was stunned. If the guards at the prison had this kind of efficiency, productivity of the laboring inmates could double, perhaps even triple. He ate his eggs. The bread he tried to save, hiding it under the table in his lap, but Jeanne caught him and promised him another piece for the road. She would hear no protestations.

He thanked her and finished his meal quickly, helping once more with the dishes. Not wanting to overstay his welcome (and needing to get back to the prison at a reasonable time), Tomašis went about taking his leave of the house, still-warm bread in his bag and egg in his belly. He thanked Nicolas and Jean first, for their hospitality and willingness to let them into their home. Then he thanked Jeanne, for the meals and the company, and for her trust. She drew him into a tight hug (one that he was too stunned to return) and wished him well before she sent him off.

Jean was leaving as well, so they walked out and down the road together for a while. When the time came to part ways, Jean gave him a handshake and a smile, and Tomašis walked away feeling more alive than he had since he was a child in his mother's arms. The trip back to Pontlevoy was much more pleasant than his first journey. He was not accosted once, and the bread he had to sustain him was warm and not at all stale.

When he reached the prison, he went straight to the office of the head guard. He gave the man a brief report – leaving out the incident in Faverolles, saying only that a local family had given him shelter for the night – and offered the coin pouch. Chabouillet waved the pouch away and instead held out a uniform, folded with a cap on top. He smiled.

“You did well with this, and I feel it is time that you take on a proper role here. Congratulations,  petit garde Javert. Training starts tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

The year was 1794, and adjutant garde-chiourme Javert had been in Toulon for exactly eleven months. He had trained at the prison near Pontlevoy under the Directeur de Garde Chabouillet for a little more than two years. When he had reached an age that the man thought was suitable for an adjutant guard, 16, he had been given a bunk in the dormitories and a stick with which to beat unruly prisoners. The women that he most often guarded knew him and did not act out, for which he was grateful. He was not sure how he would feel about hitting a woman, even a criminal. He had his position for some years before Chabouillet received a request from le bagne in Toulon. There had been a small riot, some of their number had been rendered unable to do their jobs, and they requested that Chabouillet send any man he could spare who had no family or property to tether him to Pontlevoy. Javert, being non-essential and having no ties at all, was sent, along with a fat man by the name of Chaput and a young man whom everyone called Banlin le Coquin, Banlin the scoundrel.

On his last day walking the halls of the prison in Pontlevoy, the woman with the daughter (who had been here since his youth and still had several years left in her sentence) called him over. Thinking perhaps she had some complaint, he went.

“You are leaving?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He frowned. “It’s not any of your concern,” he told her.

The woman laughed, a wheezy sort of coughing sound, and shook her head. “So you are. The guards talk. They say le Gitan is leaving and they will finally be rid of him and his rules and his diligence.” She leaned over and spat onto the ground. “Bah. Les crétins. You may be a gitan and a bastard and a gaffe, but you are a good boy. Fuck them.”

“That is not an appropriate way for a forçat to speak of her guards,” he said, but he did not draw his stick. Then he turned and went back to his post. When he left, he did not say goodbye to the woman with the daughter, but he understood the mix of hatred and pride he saw when he met her eyes, and he gave a short nod. That was enough.

Driving through Toulon was less than pleasant. The roads were uneven and full of holes, and the townspeople looked at the wagon with distrust. Arriving at the bagne was even worse. The smell alone was enough to make even Javert – who had grown up surrounded by rats, shit, and unwashed bodies – turn his face away. It smelled of dead fish and dying men. Javert’s grip on his bag (a real one, now, made from thick canvas and purchased from a market near Pontlevoy) tightened and his teeth clenched. Banlin le Coquin made a crude joke that does not bear repeating, but the subject and punchline was a whore’s nether regions and the smell that is often present. Javert did not like Banlin le Coquin very much.

The first few weeks in Toulon were miserable, and the weather did nothing to help. The skies were gray and the sea was rough, sending cold water over all of them, guard and prisoner alike. Javert, being both new and merely an adjutant garde-chiourme, was of course given the undesirable task of keeping guard of the hard-labor prisoners when the sea was the roughest and the air the coldest. Despite the rough conditions, however, he did his job to the best of his ability and his superiors soon took notice. The same diligence and rigidity that caught their attention also caught the attentions of his fellows, though they sneered at him and mocked his behavior.

“Think you’re better than us, do you? Think you’re so high and mighty with your morals and your rules and your code? Dégage!”

Having grown up with little company other than his mother and the doctor, the lack of camaraderie did not bother him. But their insults made his job more difficult, as it showed the prisoners that the other guards did not respect him and gave them the idea that they didn’t have to, either. But while he wasn’t unnecessarily cruel with the canne he carried, he wasn’t hesitant to use it when needed, either, and the prisoners soon learned that adjutant garde-chiourme Javert would not be taken for a fool.

Though his fellows never learned to like him, they soon grew bored of taunting him when he gave no response. After a few months, they hardly spoke to him beyond what was necessary.

And so passed a year in the Bagne. Javert kept order, the other guards ignored him, and the prisoners worked and slept and shit and served their time. Much of that year and beyond was the same day to day and not worth describing, but one day in particular stood out. It was the nineteenth of May, 1796, and garde-chiourme Javert, along with Banlin le Coquin and two guards both called Dubois (between whom Javert could only barely differentiate) were waiting for the arrival of the Chaine of convicts. They were to be marked, recorded, and separated according to their sentence. None of this would be unusual, for the Chaine arrived with new convicts every month or so, but a particular face caught Javert’s eye this time.

Javert, whose hands had been in the process of distributing uniforms and wooden sabots, halted in his movements for only a moment. That man looked familiar, but – the convict looked up and saw Javert’s face, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Javert shook the thought away and resumed his task. He must have been mistaken. And how cruel he must have become, to think the worst of a man so kind as Jean of Faverolles, who had helped him all those years ago.

The line progressed, and the man came ever closer. Though Javert had officially decided that his initial thought was wrong and that this man was no more Jean of Faverolles than he himself was the king of France, he was not truly convinced. One had to admit that the resemblance was striking, if nothing else. This man looked much older, the weariness of his face adding much more than the 4 years it had been since Javert had met Jean, and his shoulders were broader and stronger than Javert remembered Jean’s to be. But still, the lines of his face were the same and his hair was the exact auburn that Jean’s had been.

When the convict reached the first Dubois, his name, crime, sentence, and number were recorded. Theft, 5 years, 24601. Jean Valjean. The man – Jean Valjean, 24601, said nothing and offered no protest. When he shuffled forward in line, Javert could just barely hide his bewilderment as he handed over the uniform with its red cap and wooden shoes. When Valjean took the garments, he looked up and met Javert’s eyes. The recognition and shock he saw there only proved what Javert had tried so hard to convince himself was a trick of his memory.

“Little Tomašis…….?”

Javert abruptly pulled back his hands. “24601. Move along.”

The convict did so, the stunned expression still on his worn face.

Javert resolutely did not think about it again until he was to retire from duty. Once there was no task to occupy his mind, however, the thoughts resurfaced. How had this man, who had been so kind to a stranger he knew nothing about, turned to theft and crime? Javert was uncomfortably reminded of the pressing questions of his youth – can good people do bad things? Can people be good and bad in equal measure?

He was not a religious man, despite (or perhaps because of) having read the Bible front to back in his efforts to learn written French, but on this night, Javert found himself praying for guidance. For wisdom.  For answers.

He was not granted any of these that night, nor in the morning upon waking. And so, he decided, as he often had as a child, to simply not consider these things and just do his duty. And his duty was to guard the bagnards, one of which was prisoner 24601.

For a while, prisoner 24601 made this incredibly difficult. His mannerisms and expressions were too much those of Jean Valjean and made the separation of man and convict clouded and confusing for Javert. The first few years, Jean – 24601 – worked hard and it seemed as though he was truly repentant for what he had done. Javert believed he would finish his sentence and then return to his family, no harm done and a lesson learned.

As time passed in the Bagne, though, the convict took over more and more of the man and his humanity began to fade. His incredible strength saw him doing the hardest labor in the galleys and left him with the name Jean le Cric, Jean the Jack. Jean le Cric was a cruel brute of a man, crazed like a rabid dog and nothing like Jean of Faverolles. At the end of his four years, with just one more remaining, the convict saw a chance to flee and took it. He was caught on his second day out and handed an additional three years. Not two years later, he made a second attempt and was given five more years, two on double chain.

Javert watched Jean le Cric from a distance and was always confused. As hard as he had tried to separate Jean of Faverolles and prisoner 24601 in his mind, it was now nearly impossible to reconcile the two. Jean le Cric, 24601, was cruel and savage and stupid, for what fool tries to escape with just one year left of his sentence? And then again, three more times, ending up with a nineteen-year sentence from what had originally been just five, a fraction of that?

During the many years when Jean le Cric plagued Toulon, Javert found himself writing to his old mentor, Chabouillet. The man had moved on from his position at the prison near Pontlevoy and now worked in the Paris prefecture under Comte Angles. As tiring as Javert’s questions about the nature of man and morality must have been, Chabouillet never failed to respond with long letters of philosophy and wisdom. Despite long discussions and much contemplation, Javert found himself just as confounded as he had been in his youth. Jean of Faverolles had been a good, kind man, but Jean le Cric was an animal, a monster who would never find redemption. He could not reconcile the two.

At the end of those long nineteen years, the memory of Jean of Faverolles had faded to nearly nonexistent, leaving only 24601 in its place. Javert felt nothing but disgust and hatred for the man who dared to believe himself above the guard and the law. He handed over the yellow passport and the details of parole with little more than a sneer. The convict protested, as they often did, but Javert paid him no mind. The man had lost any honesty he had when he broke the law.

And so, Jean Valjean went on his way, only to miss his first parole meeting – the bastard had escaped yet again, and with another theft on his head, too, if the description given by petit Gervais was accurate. Javert vowed that he would find him, this snake of a man, and bring him to justice if it was the last thing he did.

It was with this in mind that he sat down and penned a letter.

Dear Chabouillet,

I am writing to inquire how one might go about making a transition from prison guard to member of the police force, as you have done. I ask this because I have been thinking lately that in order to see justice done in the world, one must be actually out in the world, patrolling the streets and keeping lawful citizens safe. In fact, this idea has been on my mind since the event that I had previously written to you about, to which you sent me a long transcription of le Code Penal and a few verses from the Bible. I have been pondering these documents, along with what I have been observing with my own eyes here in Toulon, and have come to the conclusion that the only way I shall be of any use to France and her people is making certain justice is dealt, with my own hand rather than trusting of other sources to do so with accuracy, particularly in delicate matters such as the one that plagues me now. For you see, the convict by the name of Jean Valjean, about whom you have given me some advice already, has skirted his parole and is in hiding somewhere, no doubt. I feel that I cannot in good conscious let a brute such as he roam the streets unheeded…….

Chapter Text

Javert considered himself a fairly adaptable man. He did not mind where he was or the conditions so much as long as he was on the right side of the law and of justice. So, when his dear (only) friend and mentor Chabouillet, now secretary of the prefecture under Comte Angles, informed him that the new mayor of rural Montreuil-sur-Mer had requested an officer from Paris to come and assist in stabilizing the town, he agreed with little fuss. Though he had grown used to the crowded, dirty streets of Paris in these last five years, his work was what truly mattered. And his investigative work on the Jean Valjean case, though the trail had recently run cold, could continue from Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Since he had joined the police, he had noticed an increase in the dirty looks citizens on the street directed his way when he was in uniform, but his promotion to Inspector the past year had cut that down by a large amount. Whether the people ignored him because they feared him or because they respected him, it removed complications from his everyday duties, so for that he was grateful. The inhabitants of Montreuil-sur-Mer had much different reactions than those in Paris, however. Upon seeing him, people fled or stepped back into the shadows, eyes wide and hands guarding pockets. Their reactions spoke to him that this town was either full of criminals or particularly wary of strangers. Having seen the crime statistics for recent years, Javert was inclined to believe that it was the former, though such a small town being a close-knit group would make sense and could not be discounted entirely.

His first stop in M-sur-M was the police station, where he found an old officer (evident only by the uniform, for the man looked more like the local drunkard than an officer of the law) asleep in his chair and a twitchy young man haphazardly tossing files into a drawer. After closing his eyes for a brief moment to hold in the tirade ready on his tongue, Javert walked over to the young man, ignoring the sleeping hog entirely. The young man, to his credit, jumped up immediately and straightened his cap.

“Are…are you the officer from Paris, then, monsieur?” the youth asked, looking unsure. By God, if these were the deduction skills of the whole force, it was a miracle the town hadn’t fallen into complete and total ruin yet (though, if rumors were to be believed, it was only the benedictions of the so-called Père Madeleine, now Monsieur le Maire, that had kept the city from collapse in recent years).

“I am,” Javert told the boy. “And this is the station-house for this town? Are the rest of the force doing rounds of the city?”

The young man turned a brilliant shade of red and stammered, “N-no. Well, yes. But it’s only Duboc and Regnard what are out right now. The rest is just us.” He stopped for a moment before realizing his error. “Oh! Us is Inspector Foley over there and myself. Martin Martin.”

Javert raised a brow at the boy. “Martin Martin?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Hm.” The boy’s parents must have had a strange sense of humor. “I am Inspector Javert,” he said with a curt nod. “I am going now to make my introduction to Monsieur le Maire. When I return, you will present to me the current schedule of duty, recent arrests and major events, and a list of problems the town finds itself with most often. Understood?”

The boy’s hand snapped to his head in a sloppy salute. “Oui, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. Of course.”

His nervous look and the visible tremor in his hand made some of Javert’s annoyance leave him. “Merci, Martin Martin.” He nodded to the boy, cast one last glance at the sleeping M. Foley, then turned on his heel and left the station-house.

The walk to the mairie was not far, but it was useful to see the town in the action of midday. Upon his arrival at the mairie, Javert had counted five infractions of the law, four of those being driving too quickly on the main road where there were pedestrians and market-goers. While he did not stop for these, for fear of being late to his meeting with the mayor, he was already making plans for more obvious signage regarding the limiting of speed on roads such as that.

The portress led him into the sitting room of the large house and told him that Monsieur le Maire was at his factory, there had been an urgent matter that needed his attention, but if Monsieur l’Inspecteur could wait just a few moments, surely he would return soon.

Javert, a bit irked by the delay, but understanding the urgency of duty, consented to wait, but declined the offer of tea or biscuits. He was busying himself by taking stock of the room when he heard the door open and a low voice murmur something inaudible, to which the portress responded something equally inaudible.

Javert stood and turned to greet the man who entered the room. He removed his hat and dipped his head. “Monsieur le Maire. I am Javert, the inspector you requested from Paris.”

There was a long pause, and Javert looked up to see the man apparently at a loss for words, his mouth open and his eyes wide. Javert straightened and raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, I thought my arrival was expected…”

The man seemed to recover from whatever had overcome him, for he smiled and nodded. “Of course, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. Forgive my absentmindedness; I am still thinking of the situation I just left, it seems. Please, let us go into my office to speak.”

Javert nodded his assent and followed the mayor, still holding his hat in his hands. While they walked through the house and up the stairs, Javert took stock of the man. His hair, an auburn sort of color, was speckled with gray and white. It was kept rather longer than the close-cropped curls that were in fashion now. The man was massive, but not at all overweight, judging by the prominence of the bones in his hands. It appeared to be mostly muscle, though of course it was hidden beneath his thick coat and Javert could not be certain. He walked with a very slight limp, but his age was right to estimate that he had fought in the Napoleonic wars and won his injury there. His clothes, though they were of good quality, were very clearly well-worn and out of fashion -- strange for someone with enough money to essentially purchase and run an entire town, but Javert supposed that perhaps the man was too busy to have new clothes fitted and ordered, or perhaps these were just work clothes and his normal wear was much finer.

When they reached the office, the mayor opened the door with no need for a key. Very trusting. Naïve. Javert was offered the chair on the other side of the desk, which he took, though he would have preferred to stand.

“Now, then. Inspector Javert, was it?”

A nod.

“Thank you for coming, and on such short notice, too! I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too terribly,” the mayor said with a tense smile. That expression seemed familiar somehow, though Javert did not know where he would have met the man before now.

“No inconvenience, monsieur,” he assured him. “It is my duty to be available for transfer at any time.”

Monsieur le Maire tilted his head to the side slightly. “You have no family to uproot and move, then?”

Javert cleared his throat to hide the scoff that threatened to escape him. “No, monsieur. No family.” Then, “Forgive me, monsieur, but have we met before? Your face is familiar to me.”

His shoulders tensed and then relaxed, though it did not seem entirely natural. “Ah, I don’t think so,” he said with another tight smile. “Your face is not a face I would forget.”

Javert dipped his head. “My mistake.”

“No mistake, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, it was only a question.”

There was a brief silence, in which Javert tried to stare at Monsieur le Maire’s face without making it obvious that he was doing so, but he must have failed, for Monsieur le Maire was nearly squirming uncomfortably under the attention. And then, “I requested your presence here in M-sur-M, monsieur, because there has been a troubling amount of reports as of late, and I feel that the habits of our current police force are unaccustomed to the dangers that come when a town grows quickly in industry and reputation, as ours is attempting to do. I had hoped that an officer from a large city such as Paris would have some opinion or advice on how best to deal with the situation.”

Javert blinked and cleared his throat. “Yes, I had noticed on my way here an absolutely baffling amount of minor infractions, left entirely unpunished, though there are officers on duty at this hour. The first order of business would be to reeducate the public on the laws they should be following, for I fear that many of those driving through the city weren’t even aware they had surpassed the legal, acceptable speed. I suggest this be done by both means of signage and by example. Inform those citizens who most traverse the road that the speed limit is now only so fast as a horse can trot and have them lead others by example. Of course, for this to actually work, the police will have to be more diligent in their rounds, for which I will organize a new schedule of routes….”

The conversation proceeded this way for quite some time, and the sun was low in the sky by the time Javert was led out of the house with a firm handshake from the mayor and a low bow from the portress. The bow unnerved him, and he was frowning for some time as he walked back to the station-house.

Recalling how nervous the boy Martin Martin had been the last time, Javert attempted to rid himself of the frown, though he was not entirely successful. He had hardly stepped foot inside the building when Martin jumped out of his chair and made haste towards him, holding a large stack of papers and folders. Javert was so surprised by this (he had expected that the boy would do as he had asked, but not to this extent) that it took him some moments to notice that young Martin was speaking to him. Or rather, babbling at him.

“…and here are the case files from prominent events. I wasn’t entirely sure if you wanted the whole report or just a summary, so I’ve written summaries myself and put them on top of each report, if that works for you? And the list of frequent problems is here, but if you have any other questions, I can most likely answer them all, as I do most of the paperwork around here. If I can’t answer anything myself, though, I’ll be sure to track down someone who can for you. Do you know if – “

“Thank you, Martin. This is excellent work,” Javert said, cutting him off before the boy could get started again. “If I have any further questions, I will come to you first.”

Young Martin beamed at him. Javert did not return the smile, but he did take the stack with a short nod.

“Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you! We cleaned out Moreau’s old office for you! It’s just down the hall there. It was quite a mess a few days ago – he had left a sandwich in his desk the day he retired, and the place was absolutely swarming with flies. It should be fine now, though. I think we were pretty thorough,” the boy told him, smiling as if they shared some personal joke, though Javert couldn’t think in the slightest what it could be.

The office was regrettably dirty, but there did not seem to be any insects, for which Javert was glad. He would be entirely too busy in the upcoming weeks to worry about such pests.

Javert did not sleep that night, choosing instead to stay at the station-house and read over the files that Martin had so thoroughly procured for him. Having slept for no more than three hours the night before and none at all that night, Javert found himself irritable and very tired come morning. It was presumably an effect of this state of mind that he had what seemed at the time a revelation, but he later decided must have been a fit of madness.

Javert had many flaws, but foolishness was not one. He knew himself well, and, thus, was aware that he held a deep appreciation for the physique of men such as Monsieur Madeleine. This was not a crime. It was, however, mildly inappropriate for one’s eyes to linger on the shoulders of one’s superior, so he had resolved immediately not to make a habit of it. It was impossible, however, not to notice the sheer bulk of the man, strength which he had only seen in one other. As the night turned to dawn, the face of Monsieur le Maire that had seemed so familiar upon their meeting somehow warped itself into the face of Jean le Cric, filthy and scowling, and then into the young Jean of Faverolles. Looking back upon this, it surely was just the tricks of a tired mind, for Jean Valjean and Monsieur le Maire bore little resemblance to each other, if any at all. But still, Javert could not rid himself of the thought, however insubordinate it might be. By the afternoon, the treacherous thought had receded to the back of his mind, but not disappeared completely, when the old man Fauchelevent – a bitter lawyer about whom Javert had heard nothing good, even after only two days in the town – tipped his cart into the mud (and hadn’t Javert only just said that drivers ought to go slower in areas such as these?).  The whole thing would have been a minor incident – the loss of a day’s work and a broken cart for Fauchelevent – had the old man not been trapped in the mud beneath the cart.

The townspeople that had been going about their business all crowded around to see, causing a scene that attracted the attention of the mayor. The man rushed over and, spotting the old lawyer, rushed quickly to his side. “What on earth happened? Has anyone called for a jack?”

When it became clear that the old man could not abide the presence of Monsieur Madeleine even in his hour of need (for there was some rivalry there, though Martin had informed Javert that it was largely one-sided), Javert cleared his throat and spoke up, “Oui, Monsieur le Maire, but it will take a quarter of an hour to arrive at the very least. The old man may very well be dead by then, suffocated in the mud if not crushed by the weight of the cart.”

“A quarter of an hour!” Madeleine whirled around to face the crowd, stricken. “Is there anyone here who is willing to crawl beneath the cart and raise it with his back? There are five louis d’or to be earned!” When no one answered his plea, he increased the amount. “Ten louis!”

“A man would need to be devilish strong to lift such a weight. And then he runs the risk of being smothered while he’s at it!” Some unhelpful peasant cried. Javert shot him a filthy glare.

“Please,” Monsieur le Maire begged, “Twenty louis!”

Javert shook his head. “Enough of this. It is not the will that is lacking, Monsieur, it is the strength. I have only known one man who might have been strong enough for such a feat. A convict in the galleys at Toulon,” he explained. “To find another man such as that is incredibly unlikely. We shall have to wait for the jack.”

Just then, old Fauchelevent gave a horrible cry. “It is crushing me!”

Monsieur le Maire met Javert’s eyes and took a shaky breath then, before he could be stopped, fell on his knees and crawled under the cart. There was a terrible moment of silence in which the crowd waited with bated breath, only the moaning of Fauchelevent and the squelching of the mud to break the silence. Then, the cart shuddered and rose a few inches. Javert gasped, his mouth hanging open, but leapt forward when the cart crashed to the ground again.

“Leave me, Monsieur!” cried Fauchelevent. “There is no other ending for this than my death; do not get yourself crushed also!”

Madeleine ignored the man and moved once again, drawing his knees up underneath him, and slowly rose up off his stomach, the cart’s weight bearing down on his shoulders. Javert could only stare in shock and mild horror as the cart rose, successfully this time, until the mayor had his feet planted on the ground and the cart held high enough above the ground for the crowd to rush in and pull free the old man Fauchelevent. When the man was free, Madeleine stepped forward and let the cart crash to the ground behind him, splashing mud everywhere. Monsieur le Maire looked horrible, his whole front coated in mud and his thick, well-cared for coat torn to the point of no longer being mendable. His face was pale and dripping with sweat, but his eyes were sharp and alert as they stared directly into Javert’s. He felt himself shudder, feeling as if those eyes were seeing directly into his soul.

As soon as Fauchelevent had been sent to hospital and the crowd dispersed, Javert walked briskly back to the station-house and locked himself in his office. The impossible feat of strength had reminded him so strongly of the brute Jean le Cric (memories of whom were tainted with both disgust and, somewhat shamefully, desire) that his tired mind, already harboring suspicions of the double identity of Monsieur Madeleine, took the strength of the man’s shoulders and legs as concrete proof that the man was no honest businessman at all, but the escaped convict Jean Valjean. Without pause to consider the possible consequences of his actions, Javert penned a letter containing his suspicions and the reasoning and sent it off to Paris, with specific orders to make haste.

The days between the sending of the letter and the receiving of the reply were tense. Javert did not want to crowd Monsieur Madeleine, for fear it would drive him to run if he was truly the convict Valjean, but neither did he want to give him too much space and let the man slip between his fingers yet again. The two of them existed in a strange sort of limbo for three days’ time, and it seemed to Javert that both knew the suspicions of the other, but neither were willing to act out of turn and disrupt the uneasy balance.

Upon entering the station-house on the third day since the letter had been sent, Martin Martin stopped him on his way to the office and presented him with a letter, saying some nonsense about the postage from Paris that Javert did not care to listen to. He took the envelope and retreated to his office, tearing it open before he had even fully closed the door. He read the letter with the urgency of someone who has not eaten in days and has just been presented with a feast. When he reached the end, however, he found himself stumbling to his desk, grasping the edge for support.

He had been mistaken. Jean Valjean had been spotted in Paris not five days ago, and the department expected that he would be caught within the week. Javert had made a grave mistake, accusing not only an innocent man, but his superior and a well-loved and respected citizen. He must apologize at once.

Javert was disgusted that his professional judgement had been clouded by both his attention to the masculine figure and his obsession (if one were to believe Chabouillet) with the Valjean case, and he had accused the mayor of such heinous crimes. Despite this, Monsieur le Maire would hear nothing of his apology. In fact, the man went so far as to commend him for his diligence.

“Monsieur,” Javert protested, “I have disrespected your honor and your position. I ought to be dismissed.”

“Nonsense. You have only done your duty,” Madeleine said, smiling kindly. “Nothing more, nothing less. And if the good inspectors of the police never once doubted those above them, I’m sure that we would find ourselves in a much more corrupt world.”

Javert nodded his assent, though his mouth was still drawn into a tight line.

Monsieur Madeleine shook his head. “I will hear no more of this. Return to your duty and know that there is no injustice you have done.”

With a bow, Javert left the mairie. In his distress (for he had still not forgiven himself this infraction, despite the words of the mayor), Javert did not notice the shaking sigh that Madeleine gave as he left the room, nor did he see the mayor drop his head into his hands or hear the slightly manic laugh that bubbled up from his throat.

After this incident, the next few months in M-sur-M went by in a blur. The reforms Javert applied to the police significantly dropped the crime rate, though the vagrant population was high as ever. The problem was Monsieur le Maire, with his ceaseless, indiscriminate generosity. The man was robbed and merely sent the thief away with a slap on the wrist and the offer of a job, for heaven’s sake. He did not even report the incident and Javert was left to find out through the rumor mill on one of his rounds.

As irritatingly naïve as the man could be, Javert found himself impressed by the mayor. It was hard not to like Monsieur Madeleine.  To make matters worse, the man seemed determined to befriend Javert, apparently unaffected by his efforts to remain bland and uninteresting.

“Oh, Javert,” Monsieur Madeleine called one evening after Javert had given a late report and was about to take his leave. He turned.

Madeleine was holding up a document. “I wondered if I might get your opinion on this.” When Javert did little more than blink, the mayor flushed and shook his head. “Of course, if you are needed elsewhere, I understand.”

Javert shook his head and stepped back inside, closing the office door once more. “Not at all, monsieur. I was merely surprised.”

Madeleine smiled, then held up the document again. “I received this letter today regarding the hospital renovations…”

Javert found this an enjoyable way to finish the day, and thus, begun intentionally delivering his report at the end of his workday, so that he would have time to stay and converse with Monsieur Madeleine. At first, their conversations were strictly work-adjacent, if not directly related. After a while, though, they began to speak of other matters. They passed what Javert would call the point of no return one evening when Madeleine stood after Javert finished his report, and asked if Javert would join him for a game of chess. Javert accepted. Their evenings henceforth were spent in the library, and any pretense of professionalism was gone.

That was not to say they never spoke of work-related matters again. Monsieur Madeleine had been benefactor before mayor, and often spoke of his continued charity projects with Javert. His determination to set the city to rights was impressive, to say the least, and his efforts yielded real results, unlike many politicians Javert had observed in the past. Though his methods were…unorthodox (choosing to just pay for his projects directly rather than taking the time to go through the higher government), the outcome was immediate and visible, and the town seemed better for it overall. For some things, though, Javert absolutely had to draw a line.

“And I say that this is one case where you have no choice but to go through the proper channels!”

Madeleine sighed, leaning forward in his chair in agitation. “But Inspector, the time the bureaucracy takes with these things! Think of the children who –”

Javert cut him off, frustrated. “And what will protect those children if something were to happen and you were unable to fund the orphanage any longer? You need to do this properly, Monsieur, so that it won’t fall as soon as your time as mayor ends. Benefactors are all well and good until they run out of funds or perish, then the whole organization crashes down. Better to waste some time at the start and build something that will continue long after you’ve gone, don’t you agree?”

Madeleine sighed and sunk back down into his chair. “I hadn’t considered that. Alright, I suppose that you have a point. For this project, perhaps my way is not the best.”

Javert nodded, a bit taken aback. He hadn’t truly expected the man to concede with such little fuss. “Forgive me my rudeness, Monsieur le Maire. I was caught up in the discussion.”

“No harm done,” the mayor said with a brief smile. “I found myself quite engaged as well.”

Javert gave him a tentative quirk of the lips; something that could almost be called a smile. “It is nice to be able to speak freely about things and debate without fear of inciting real anger in one’s conversation partner. Few of my colleagues can temper their feelings such.” While it was true that one of the pair occasionally drove the other to fuming at the end of the night, the emotions always faded by the next day, and the topic could be brought up and discussed again.

“I’m honored that you consider me such a good alternative, then” said Monsieur Madeleine, his lips twitching upwards.

Javert felt himself flush. “Ah. That is not precisely what I meant, monsieur. No insult was intended.”

“Nor was any taken,” the mayor assured him. “In truth, I enjoy hearing your quips about your colleagues,” he admitted, looking down with a little laugh. “Perhaps that makes me an old gossip, no better than the women at the factory, but…”

Javert leaned back in his chair. “You speak often of your factory. You must be very proud.”

The whole face of le maire lit up in a brilliant smile. “Oh, yes. The factory creates so many jobs, feeds so many families. The employees work hard, too, and I would like to think that they respect me to some degree, at least. Oh, and the jet-bead rosaries are so beautiful! The beads are carefully inspected to remove any irregularities or imperfections, so the whole strand is lovely when it’s completed. I may have one here, let me see,” he said, leaning to the side to root around in his coat pocket. “Ah. Here, see?”

He handed over the rosary to Javert, who took it and rolled the beads between his fingers. “Very fine, indeed. Such quality your workers produce – and with such efficiency! You are right to be proud.”

He made to return the rosary to Madeleine, but the mayor waved it back. “You keep it. A gift.”

“I confess that I am not particularly religious, Monsieur,” Javert admitted, though he tucked the rosary into his pocket.

Madeleine inclined his head. “I had thought not – but, please, keep it regardless. It may yet serve a purpose, even if that is only for beauty.”

Javert considered this. He was a man of utility and Spartan comforts, but he could appreciate that beauty was a purpose of its own. And sentimentality. His mind wandered to the deck of cards still tied up in a box beneath his bed. Yes, things need not always have a particularly useful purpose to be kept. He nodded his agreement to the mayor. “Of course, Monsieur le Maire. Thank you for the gift.” A distant ringing – the church bells, tolling the hour – made him look towards the window and see that the sun was long set. “I had not realized the late hour,” he said, standing. “Forgive me, monsieur.”

Madeleine stood as well and shook his head, smiling. “I hadn’t realized it either,” he admitted. “I am the host here; I believe it is you that needs my apology.”

With a slight bow, Javert saw himself out of the office. On the walk home, he found himself absent-mindedly twisting the rosary around his fingers. Upon receiving it, he had every intention of tucking it away in a drawer in his rooms, but somehow, the rosary never managed to leave his coat pocket. In fact, he became so accustomed to having it on his person that he greatly felt its absence when it was removed. He often found himself twisting the beads around his fingers when deep in thought, a habit which he was certain Monsieur Madeleine was aware of, but never brought up except to smile softly when he saw the glint of glass in the inspector’s hands.

As time went on, chess became the background for many conversations, and the game was often abandoned in favor of selecting books from the shelves to add the words of great scholars to the discussion. On one rare occasion, Javert conceded defeat to a philosophical discussion about the nature of man’s soul. Madeleine, of course, believed that all men were naturally good, and could return to such a state. He believed this so fervently that Javert found himself unable to debate further, for fear of dragging such a soul as Madeleine’s down from its optimistic heaven to the filth of reality and scum that Javert lived and worked in. Instead, he commended the man, saying, “You are impressively well-read, monsieur.”

To his delight, Madeleine reddened and glanced away. “I would say that you give me too much credit, but I confess that I do consider it an accomplishment. I was born to farmers, you see, and, well.” He shifted in his seat. Javert had noticed that Madeleine became abruptly reticent when some subjects were broached, and had respected the man’s privacy enough not to prod. Now, though, it was clear that Madeleine’s low birth was the cause of this reticence, and Javert couldn’t help but to admire him. He knew all too well how difficult it was to struggle upwards in society, and the fact that Madeleine had made it to the rank of mayor, and well-loved mayor at that, spoke very well of him.

“You’ve done more than most would ever have expected.”

“I owe everything to the grace of God,” Madeleine said, but Javert could tell he was pleased.

“The grace of God, yes,” Javert countered, “But to your own hard work as well.”

“And you, monsieur? Is there a tale behind the great Inspector Javert?”

It was a blatant attempt to change the subject, but Javert allowed it. “Hard work, monsieur,” he said. “And a few kind men to whom I owe very much. I wasn’t easily given this role, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He gestured absently to his face, his hair, the color of his skin.

“Ah,” Madeleine said, delicately. “I didn’t want to presume.”

Javert shook his head. “As you say, the grace of God.” He wasn’t particularly religious, but it seemed the thing to say.

Madeleine, however, seemed to disagree. He frowned and, leaning forward, placed a warm hand on Javert’s knee. Javert felt as though all the breath had left his body. Madeleine looked at him, hand still lingering, and said, “Don’t discount your own accomplishments, Inspector.”

Javert held his gaze for as long as he dared, but eventually had to look away. The warm weight of Madeleine’s hand disappeared. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to regain his composure. “Thank you, monsieur. That’s very kind of you.”

And it was kind. Madeleine was always kind. The children in the town still called him Père Madeleine, and Javert knew that he preferred that title to Monsieur le Maire. As much as Javert tried to look down on his eternal optimism and, often, naïvety, he couldn’t help but find the man’s inherent goodness endearing all the same.

That night, Javert would have been hard-pressed to recall anything about the walk back to his rooms, for he was so distracted. The memory of Madeleine’s hand on his knee, the sincerity in his eyes, and the warmth of his tone would not leave Javert in peace. He couldn’t lie and say that his physical attraction to the man had disappeared, but he had been able to set it aside, especially since they had become something close to friends. Despite his best efforts, Javert knew he was walking a dangerous line, becoming so attached to a man like Monsieur le Maire, but didn’t think he would have the willpower to distance himself from the man now, after working so closely with him for nearly two years. Nevertheless, he made a great effort to do exactly that, and made his excuses over the next few weeks, rarely staying long enough to engage in any proper conversation. He claimed a busy schedule, and it seemed to work, for Madeleine was disappointed, but not insulted.

The downside to spending less time with the mayor was that Javert no longer had any good reason to refuse offers of drinks with the other officers of M-sur-M. His protests of respectability and propriety were weak, and they knew it.

“It does the citizens good to see us officers as one of them,” said Duboc.

Regnard agreed, nodding emphatically. “It’s good for team unity, as well, you know.”

Martin Martin was the only intelligent one in the room, choosing to stay out of the conversation entirely in favor of organizing some files.

One of the newly hired junior officers looked about to speak, but one sharp look from Javert had him quickly closing his mouth and turning to help Martin. Javert looked back to Duboc and Regnard. As much as he didn’t want to go, he was begrudgingly pleased to be invited.

“Alright,” he found himself saying.

Duboc and Regnard were far too excited to see Inspector Javert off-duty, and kept pushing drinks on him, no matter how many times he refused. They were neither forceful nor mocking, and Javert certainly could have ceased drinking, but his nature was to blend into the environment (the skill of both gamins and spies, you see), and he found himself easily falling into the role of an off-duty officer. All this to say that, by the time they left the tavern, Javert was quite light-headed indeed.

The hour was late, but not terribly so, and Javert found himself making a decision he was sure to regret come morning.

“There’s a matter I need to attend to,” he told Duboc and Regnard, sounding much more composed than he felt. “Tonight’s excursion does not excuse you from being punctual in the morning.”

For some reason, they found this addition hilarious. Duboc (who was nearly as tall as Javert himself) swung an arm around his shoulders with a grin. “Never change, Inspector. We’ll see you bright and early in the morning, you can be sure of that. Come on, you lazy crétin,” he said, removing his arm to swing it over Regnard instead. “Off we go. Bonne soirée, Inspector!”

Javert told himself that the cold would sober him up, and headed towards the mairie. Upon nearing, he saw none other than Monsieur le Maire himself, bundled up against the cold with a basket tucked into the crook of his arm, walking up the steps to the mairie.

“Monsieur!” He called, increasing his pace. “Monsieur Madeleine!”

Madeleine turned, and a confused but pleased smile spread across his face. “Bonsoir, Inspector Javert. Is something the matter?”

Javert reached him, and took the basket from him, using the other hand to hover over his upper arm. “Not at all, monsieur. It’s only that I…” he hesitated, unwilling to tell Monsieur le Maire that he had missed him, since he had seen him that very morning, albeit briefly. “I should like to talk to you,” he settled on instead.

Madeleine looked bemused, but acquiesced. “Alright, come inside.”

He was led to the library, where a warm fire was lit and their usual chairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. Javert thought he saw the chess set, folded and set on a side table. He immediately crossed the room to stand before the fire, forgetting in his drunken state that he could not afford to repair any more singe marks on his coat.

Madeleine had apparently been expected, as a tea tray had been left out. He set about preparing two cups, offering the second to Javert, who accepted, then sat in his usual chair, growing decidedly uncomfortable.

Madeleine seemed to sense this. “Do you care for a game of chess, Inspector?”

Javert looked around, taking in the variety of books around him. “Have you read many of the classics, monsieur?” He asked, ignoring Madeleine’s proposal.

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“The Greek?” Javert asked, abandoning his teacup to stand once more and step closer to the shelves. His fingers traced the spines. Religion, philosophy, politics...“Interesting stories, the Greek.”

Madeleine frowned. “I suppose so. I was never much for war tales.”

Javert hummed, still enthralled with the spines before him. He paused, his finger stilling. “And romance?” He didn't dare to turn around.

“Nevermimd,” he said quickly, before Madeleine could answer. “I beg your pardon.”

“Javert, I’m not sure I follow. Is everything alright?”

He turned around, and was stricken to see the confusion on Madeleine’s face. “Nevermind,” he said again. “Forgive me.”

Madeleine set aside his tea and stood, then slowly approached Javert, who felt as though he could barely breathe. Madeleine raised a hand to his forehead, and Javert’s eyes fluttered shut. He would have been humiliated to know that his lips parted ever so slightly as he savored the contact.

“You don’t seem to have a fever,” the man said. The cool hand left his brow. “Are you feeling well?”

A laugh bubbled up from Javert’s throat. He wasn’t feeling well at all, no. “Oui, monsieur,” he said, eyes opening. He could not look at Madeleine's face, so he looked to the floor instead.

Madeleine frowned. “Javert, I beg your pardon, but are you…are you drunk?”

Javert gave a short nod, horrified. Humiliating. He would accept it for the less-than-graceful out it appeared it be. “Oui, monsieur, I think I might be. Please excuse me, and accept my deepest apologies for disturbing you this evening.”

“What…” Madeleine trailed off, but Javert had already bowed and made his exit by the time he regained his composure.

They never spoke of it again. For weeks, Javert was on edge, waiting for the official reprimand. He ceased entirely any extraneous conversation, instead scheduling his reports in the middle of the day, and pretended not to notice the hurt in Madeleine’s eyes.

They went on like this for some months, and any observer would have thought the two men barely knew each other, judging by the cool distance kept between them. Javert was humiliated by his drunken, rejected advances, and could barely stand to look the man in the eye. He gave his reports as efficiently as he was able, then left without much more than an “au revoir.”

He received a message at the station-house one afternoon, requesting his presence at the mairie, and felt certain that this was the end. He resigned himself to packing his things and returning to Paris, hoping that the mayor had only requested his transfer and not his decommission entirely.

He walked into the mayor’s office with all intentions of apologizing and accepting the reprimand with grace, but was stopped before he could begin.

“Before you speak, Inspector,” Madeleine said, holding up a hand to halt him. “Let me say that I have been entirely selfish. I requested your presence here not in any official capacity, but to ask if you would accept the offer of a game of chess. I have been out a partner for some time, you see, and neither my portress nor my housekeeper have much skill at the game.” He smiled, a little uncertainly, and Javert could not help but to allow himself a small smile in return.

“Alright,” he said, and, thus, the relationship started to mend. They gradually came to the same point as before, where a game of chess followed every official report. Their discussions were more stilted than before, as Javert still felt horribly exposed from his misstep, but, as they say, time heals all wounds. Eventually, it was almost as if nothing had ever happened, and the evenings spent in the library again grew long and conversation-filled.

One such evening, the walk back to his lodging seemed colder than usual, though Javert assumed it was due to the late hour. His walk was interrupted only once, by a wretch of a woman crying and clutching at her head, from which the hair was completely shorn (and badly, too, if his eyes did not deceive him in seeing the bloodied scabs on her scalp).

“Madame!” He interjected, stopping her in her path, “The night air is cold and your head is bare – you will catch your death out here!” And then infect the whole town, he thought, privately. “Have you some home to get to, some warm place to stay the night?”

She smiled at him, a fragile looking expression, for the tears had not yet dried on her cheeks. “Yes. Yes, I will go home now. But do you know? Ten francs I got for these locks! Ten francs to send to my darling, sickly child. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Javert gave her a curt nod, slightly unsure. The woman seemed half-mad. Ought he to take her somewhere? “Please, allow me to escort you home, madam,” he said, but she shook her head.

“I live only round the corner there and Marguerite will be waiting. I shouldn’t dally, Monsieur,” she told him, still grinning like a loon, but at least the wetness of her eyes had gone and the tracks on her cheeks dried. “Bonne soirée!”

And then she was gone, stumbling down the street and humming some little melody. Javert frowned. A woman such as she ought to be watched. Though she seemed sane enough, something about her did not feel quite stable. He would make a note of it and inform the rest of the force the next day.

Unfortunately for the woman, whom the reader will know as Fantine, Javert received a letter the next morning that drove all thought of women and shorn heads from his mind. The Valjean case, at last! It had been years since the deputy of police in Paris had said that he would likely be caught within the week, only for the fiend to escape yet again! But here, in his hands, the statement that Jean Valjean had been apprehended, hiding under the guise of a man named Champmathieu, and his trial would be held seven days hence. Or rather, seven days from the date that the letter was penned, but only two days, now. Javert sent word at once to the mairie that he would be gone for several days on urgent business in Paris, though he did not specify what this business was. He hastily rearranged the schedule of routes so that the junior officers would share the load of his shifts until he returned to M-sur-M.

Javert only stopped at his apartment long enough to pack a small bag and inform his landlady that he would be away for a short time before he set about hiring a horse – though it took quite some time to find one that would be able to take him all the way to Paris, as he was not willing to stop unless absolutely necessary. He dearly missed the horse he had used to patrol around Paris, but M-sur-M had neither need nor funds for such an expense. The journey was long, and he found his mind wandering. The years since Valjean had slipped away the first time had all build up to this moment and now he would finally get to see the man brought to justice. Javert felt as though he ought to feel elated, or at the very least excited, but all he felt was a restless energy that made the trip seem to go on forever.

When he arrived, the sun was low in the sky, but Paris was still bustling with activity. That was one of the things he had gotten used to, this past year in M-sur-M. Nights were always quiet, except by the docks and the taverns, as one would expect. But the city went to sleep with the sun. Paris, by contrast, always seemed to be awake, people going about their business even in the dead of night. Javert could not say which he preferred.

He brought the horse to the nearest coach-house and procured himself a room for the night, a dingy little place that cost very little (his funds were already running low from the price of the horse, and he would owe the same for the return trip). The streets below were loud and smelled of shit, and Javert found himself tossing and turning for several hours before he was able to sleep. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to the peace of M-sur-M.

The next morning, the day of the trial, Javert, quite deep in thought, walked himself all the way to the steps of the Paris prefecture without quite recalling the way he had come. The years he walked these streets had embedded them into his memory to the point where he could walk almost blindly and not find himself lost. He was not even sure why he had come here – nostalgia? There was not really any other purpose. He had neither knowledge nor authority of the cases here, not anymore, and he would have to wait until the trial that afternoon to see justice done. So why had his feet led him here?

“Javert?” a voice pulled him from his musings, and he looked up to see his old mentor, Chabouillet, with a surprised smile on his face. “What on earth are you doing here?”

The man stepped towards him and moved as if to clap him on the shoulder, but refrained at the last minute, for which Javert was privately grateful. “I’ve come for the Valjean case. That is, the Champmathieu trial,” he explained. “Whether my input will be any help at all, I should like to see the man put behind bars at last.”

Chabouillet’s smile wavered. “Ah, still stuck on that old case, I see. Well, we all have those things that lodge themselves in our conscience, don’t we? Come now,” he said, his smile broadening once more. “Let me treat you to lunch. I won’t hear any protestations,” he told him, interrupting Javert, who had about to do that very thing. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. I’d like to catch up.”

Javert’s lips twitched into a smile. He had forgotten how insistent Chabouillet could be when he set his mind to something. He gestured for the man to lead the way and they walked to a café that Javert had visited with some frequency in his years in Paris.

“So how have you been?” Chabouillet asked once they had taken their seats. “How is Montreuil sur Mer?”

Javert drummed his fingers on the table. “It is infested with crime and filth, but we are making progress. At least I have found no evidence of the gangs that plague the streets here.”

Chabouillet nodded sympathetically and took a bite from his sandwich. “We’ve gotten a little farther into the investigations, but they’re a slippery bunch, particularly the big names. I prefer ordinary crime any day. You say you’ve been making progress, so I assume that the men there competent, then?”

Javert thought for a moment. “They are not overly impressive, but there is potential in them. There’s one in particular, Martin Martin – a young boy whose parents must have truly hated him to send him into the world with such a name – that I think could someday make a good inspector. Never a spy, though; he shows his expression through his full body like a child.”

“You called him boy, though – am I right to assume that he is hardly older than a child? Perhaps he will change with time,” Chabouillet suggested.

“Perhaps,” Javert allowed, inclining his head.

There was a brief silence, though it was not uncomfortable, before Chabouillet suddenly looked up from his meal. “Oh! I had meant to write to you, but now that you’re here, I’ll just tell you myself. We had the most interesting case a few weeks ago. It was all very confidential, of course, but it was closed just the other day and the whole lot of them locked up. It was a bakery, you see, that was really the cover of a most extraordinary plot. The head of it all, the baker’s daughter if you can believe it….”

The tale was quite long, as the investigation had taken nearly two months, and it was well after noon when Chabouillet had finished telling it. Javert took out his pocket-watch to check the time and had to catch the rosary that the mayor had given him. He had almost forgotten about the thing.

Chabouillet raised his brow. “I didn’t think you were religious, Javert,” he said, looking a bit confused.

“I’m not,” Javert agreed. “Monsieur le Maire in M-sur-M runs a factory that makes jetbead rosaries and he gave me this one as a gift. It felt rude to refuse, even though I won’t ever use it for its intended purpose.”

Chabouillet nodded his understanding, though there was a strange look in his eye that Javert could not place. “And yet you keep it with you?”

“I had merely forgotten that it was in my pocket,” Javert said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to leave if I’m to make it to the trial on time.”

“Of course,” he agreed, standing. “Thank you for indulging me for this little reunion, Javert.”

“I enjoyed it as well. It has been…strange, not speaking to you for so long,” Javert admitted. He cleared his throat, mind already on the case again. “I must be off.”

The restlessness had returned again, making his stomach churn. He nodded to his old friend and left the café, leaving a few coins on the table to pay for his meal (ignoring the objection from Chabouillet). Though lunch had been a welcome distraction, now his thoughts were free to drown him again. He ought to feel something other than this impatience, but there was nothing. He supposed it was because he still had yet to see the man with his own eyes.

Javert was, unsurprisingly, one of the first to arrive. He waited outside the doors for quite some time before the president arrived, at which point he went in and took his seat. The audience and the jury trickled in slowly, in ones and twos, but the one for whom Javert kept his eye trained on the doors did not show. Neither the accused nor any of his party – Javert did not suppose that there would be a proper lawyer, but perhaps a court-assigned man of law to aid the defendant. The table of witnesses – mostly men whom Javert had vaguely recognized from the Bagne – had arrived much earlier, but Javert spared them only enough of a glance to determine that he did recall their faces, if not their names.

When the moment did arrive, the culmination of years of searching, Javert was underwhelmed. The man was filthy, hair and beard wild and unkempt, clothes torn. He was terribly thin, too, which would explain his crime of apple theft, but Javert had trouble picturing the sheer bulk of Jean le Cric condensed into this frail old man. He was led, in shackles, to the front, his head hung and eyes down the whole while. Javert could hardly catch a glimpse of his face between the angle and the significant volume of hair obstructing his view. It irritated him to no end that Valjean did not once look at him or even appear to notice his presence at all – as if he were just another member of the audience, no more worth a glance than the snoring aristocrat beside him.

The president cleared his throat and stood, looking down on the defendant.

“This man before us, who gives his name as Father Champmathieu the former wheelwright, has been caught at theft. Beyond that, he has been accused of being the ex-convict Jean Valjean, known also as 24601 and Jean le Cric, who broke his parole and has been hiding from the law for eight years, guilty of theft, attempted escape, violent highway robbery, the breaking of parole, and ignorance of the law and its officers. Does the defendant wish to say anything in his defense of these charges?”

The man leaned forward, his manacled hands hitting the table with a jarring clang, and stuttered, “I’m not! I’m just just….I ‘aven’t even s-stole the apples, the b-branch, it were just…on the ground, I s-swears it! I never –”

He was yanked back by the man beside him, presumably the lawyer assigned to him by the court. “No, Monsieur President,” the lawyer said. “We would first like to hear the prosecution.”

The president inclined his head and looked to the table of witnesses. “You who were first to recognize this man,” he said, singling out the man who turned his face, “Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look at the accused and tell us, on your soul and conscience, if you persist in recognizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?”

The convict Brevet, whom Javert did recall after a moment’s thought, had been impressively helpful during his time in the Bagne and had received a good testimony of his religious habits from the chaplain. Of course, this only meant that he was smart enough to recognize that doing as he was told and making himself useful would get him much farther in the galleys than rebellion with his fists and slander with his lips. Javert would not have trusted a word that he said without knowing that he had no ulterior motive. The ex-convict Brevet seemed much the same as the convict had been.

“Yes, Monsieur President.” Brevet looked toward the accused and then back to the court. “I stick to it. That man there is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796 and left in 1815, a year before I. He is thinner now and has the air of a brute, but I recognize him positively.”

The president nodded his thanks. “Take your seat. The prisoner Chenildieu would be called next. Do you, as well, persist in your insistence that this man is Jean Valjean whom you knew from the galleys?”

Chenildieu – and oh, how Javert remembered this one. Je-nie Dieu, they called him. I deny God. He was a bastard, rotten to the core, and always had been, more likely than not since his childhood. He spat onto the floor when he stood and uttered a sickly-sounding laugh. “Pardieu, as if I didn’t recognize him! We were attached to the same chain for five years. So, you are sulking, old fellow?”

“Go take your seat,” the president ordered, before the man could attempt to rile up the accused any further. Valjean turned in his chair, clearly agitated, and looked to the audience with wide eyes, as if they could offer him any help or advice. “The court would now look to –”

“If I may, Monsieur President,” Javert interrupted, rising to his feet. “I am Inspector Javert, adjutant-garde in the Bagne during the years that Jean Valjean was prisoner there, and later the police inspector tasked with his particular case. I should like to speak before any more time is wasted. Would the court allow it?”

The president nodded his assent and gestured for Javert to present himself before the court. He did so with as much grace as could be managed in getting past the still-snoring aristocrat who took up the majority of the aisle in which he sat.

“I swear that all I will say before you now is the truth as wholly as I know it. Now, As I have said,” Javert began, once he had made his way to the front, “I consider myself more qualified than most to recognize the man Jean Valjean. Even more so than perhaps his contemporaries, here.” He gestured to the table of ex-convicts. “For you see, I first met Jean Valjean in passing many years ago, before he had committed any crime. I later knew him as I was garde over the hard-labor prisoners. At his attempts to escape, it was I who was sent to punish him directly, I who was sent to remove him from double-chain when the time had sufficed. Upon his release and immediate break of parole, I was the one who took over his case and followed his every move until he was lost in the streets of Paris two years ago.” He paused, allowed for the court to digest this information before he continued, voice shaking with concealed anger.

“And I tell you with all certainty that this man,” he jabbed an accusing finger at the pathetic wretch who was indeed not Jean Valjean, for Javert had seen his face and known that despite the similarities, this was not the man they sought. “This man,” he continued, voice practically dripping with disgust, “is not Jean Valjean. Whether he is indeed this Champmathieu he calls himself I cannot say, but know this: That man is not Jean Valjean, and the man who made such an error in bringing him here to court and wasting such time, such resource, will be sorry he was not more thorough before causing such a scene.”

With that, Inspector Javert turned and took his seat, nothing more to be said.

The president frowned. “This is…highly unusual, Inspector. But in weighing your honorable and trustworthy statement against the statements of men who cannot even be sworn to truth due to their criminal record, your knowledge and witness must be believed. The trial will continue, but this man has been found innocent of being the bandit Jean Valjean, at the least. The next whom the court would hear is Monsieur Baloup, former employer of the accused. Monsieur, in the years this man worked under you, did you ever fear that he would steal from you?”

Javert sat through the trial for a quarter of an hour more, but had to leave after that time, for fear his anger would boil over and cause such a scene as he neither wanted nor needed. He stalked out of the courtroom as quietly as his mood would allow, only the guards in waiting preventing the door from slamming shut behind him. In the hall, he stopped and exhaled hard through his nose. And so, the search continues.

Though angered, Javert was not at all discouraged by this failure. In fact, it renewed the sense of urgency that the case had once held, and he made his way back to M-sur-M with haste, eager to get to his desk and pour over the case files for anything that might have been overlooked.

His return was not as immediately productive as he would have liked, however, due to the absolute incompetence of the police of M-sur-M. Despite Javert’s best efforts, the junior officers failed to adequately complete their rounds, preferring to waste time at sandwich shops and linger around the salons which fashionable young ladies were known to frequent. Because of this dallying, they had apparently skipped over the areas of town that were less than desirable to stroll through, such as the docks. Infuriating as this was, Javert would not risk the safety of the town by leaving such dangerous areas unpatrolled and, as the officers of M-sur-M could not be trusted to follow even the simplest of instructions, the task fell to Javert.

He was in the midst of this patrol when a horrible noise, as if a wounded dog had learned to spit insults as it shrieked, came from around the corner. He turned quickly down the street and came upon a sizeable crowd, at the center of which was a fop of a man and a bedraggled woman, obviously a prostitute. It appeared that the woman, the source of the unholy shrieking, had set upon the dandy with her claws out and scratched a solid mark upon his cheek. Javert parted the crowd and grabbed hold of the woman by her filthy satin sleeve, pulling her away from the dandy.

“Come with me.”

The woman raised her head and Javert saw that it was the woman he had run into before hearing of the trial. She looked even worse, though he had not thought that possible. Her hair had grown back just enough to be ragged and patchy, and her front teeth were absent, making her top lip turn inward at a strange angle. Upon seeing Javert, her rage seemed to dissipate, and she paled. A shiver ran down her back (thought that could have been due to the snow melted through her bodice, rather than fear of Javert).

The dandy had run off, and Javert presumed it likely that the woman had been provoked. Switching his grip to her upper arm rather than the soaked fabric of her dress, Javert led the woman through the crowd and headed back to the prefecture. Neither of them spoke on the way there, and the woman followed without complaint or struggle. The small crowd followed as well, but Javert kept the pace brisk and they soon fell behind.

Upon reaching the station-house, Javert led the woman to his own office and sat her in the chair across from his desk. He lit the single candle and cleared his throat.

“Before I write a report to have you arrested for prostitution and assault, for which you will serve no less than six months in jail –”

“Six months!” the woman cried, interrupting him. “Six months in which to earn naught but seven sous a day! But what will become of my Cosette? Oh, but I still owe the Thenardiers over a hundred francs, do you know, Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

Javert scowled at her. “If you are quite finished, might I continue?”

The woman – Fantine, as Javert would soon discover – bowed her head, eyes wide.

“Before I write such a report,” he told her, “I should like to hear if you have any defense for yourself. Did you launch an unprovoked attack on that man?”

She shook her head, frantically. “I did attack him, I confess; you saw the fight.” As she spoke, her words were warped, lisping without her incisors. “But he tipped ice down the back of my dress! Ice! In such awful weather as this, and when I could catch my death at any moment? I didn’t provoke him to do so, either, Monsieur, he had been taunting me for some time before, but I was just walking and minding my own interests, I promise you.”

Javert gave a curt nod. “The gentleman fled the scene. With no victim present to note and your own account of harassment, I cannot justly charge you with assault. Prostitution without registration, however….”

Fantine bowed her head again. “Please, monsieur. I am only trying to provide for my daughter, you see. She is ever so sickly, and her medicines do cost so much. I was making my way before, but I was fired from the factory – the jet bead factory owned by Monsieur le Maire – and there is only so much needlework and sewing that needs doing in a town such as this. I had sold all else that I could. I resent what I have become, what I’ve fallen to, but I would do it over a thousand times for Cosette,” she told him, finally meeting his eyes.

Her determination, the pride in those eyes that were so lifeless just moments before, stirred a memory deep in Javert’s mind. His own mother, on her knees in a cell, pleading for his sake, giving all that she had to offer him something better than the life she had given him.

Javert sighed. He deliberated. “The law is the law, and you have broken it. Where is your child, that I might write to her keepers and explain what has happened, that they might keep her a while longer until your sentence is complete?”

The woman seemed to collapse into herself. “She is with an innkeeper and his wife in Montfermeil, the Thenardiers. But writing is no use. They are peasants, good people, but they cannot afford the care of such a sickly child as is my Cosette. Without the money I owe them, they said they will send her to me. If I am in prison……I do not know what they will do, but I cannot hold hope that they will keep her with no money.”

“Then she will be placed with the proper authorities,” Javert told her, rising to his feet. “The child will not be left to the streets.”

A knock at the door took their attention. Without waiting for response, it opened and Monsieur le Maire stepped into the room. “One moment, if you please.”

Javert removed his hat. “Excuse me, Monsieur le Maire, but – “

Fantine laughed bitterly and her anger from the fight seemed to return to her. “So, it is you who are Monsieur le Maire!” she cried. “Well!” And she promptly stood and spit in his face.

Monsieur le Maire looked only sorrowful and did not even wipe his face before he said to Javert, “Set this woman at liberty.”

Javert felt that he was on the verge of going mad. He experienced at that moment the most violent turn of emotions which he had ever undergone in all his life. To see a woman of the night spit in the mayor’s face was a thing so monstrous that, in his most daring flights of fancy, he would never have imagined it possible. On the other hand, the words of the mayor, so calm, rendered him mute with shock. Fantine had no such difficulty.

“At liberty? At liberty!” she cried, shocked. “Who said that? Surely, I must have imagined such words as these, and from the mouth of the mayor who so despises me, has wrecked my life so! I must be dreaming to think that I have heard these words – Set this woman at liberty! If it were so – oh! If it were so! My Cosette would be safe, my debt could be paid with time, my life could continue! Oh! Oh!”  It seemed that at this point, Fantine was overcome, for she fell weeping back into the chair.

Javert was dumbstruck. The mayor could not simply waltz in and free any criminal he liked! “Monsieur le Maire –”

“How much did you say that you owed?” The mayor asked of the woman, who could not even answer, she was weeping so.

“Monsieur le Maire,” Javert tried again, “You cannot have this woman released. She has insulted the law and now yourself, monsieur. She must serve her sentence.”

Monsieur Madeleine finally turned his gaze onto Javert. “An insult against my person is my business, not the law’s. And I can, in fact, have this woman released in accordance with article eighty-one of the law of the 13^th of December, 1799. I will hear no more on this,” he said, his voice final.

“Monsieur le Maire, permit me –”

“Not another word.”

“But –”

“Leave the room,” said Madeleine. His eyes were fierce and his tone brokered no question.

Javert straightened his spine and snapped shut his jaw. He grit his teeth and bowed to the very earth before the mayor, and stepped back into the frame of the door, remaining as close as he dared.

The mayor turned back to Fantine, whose weeping had subsided slightly. “I have heard you and I confess that I had no knowledge of your plight, nor of my own part in it. I would beg your forgiveness, but I fear it is too late for that. Instead, I will pay your debts and send for your child. Or you shall go to her, if you wish. I undertake the care of you both as my responsibility – you shall not have to work any longer if you don’t like and I will give you all the money required to keep a woman and child in good health and spirits. You shall be honest and happy once more, both of you. You have sacrificed everything not for greed or gluttony, but for the love of your child; for this I know that you have never ceased to be virtuous in the sight of God.”

Throughout this speech, Fantine had been slowly rising to her feet, her face slack with shock and awe. When the mayor finished speaking, she stepped towards him and her weeping began anew. “You must – you must be an angel of the Lord, Monsieur,” she told him, “For no one else could be so – so kind.” And she fell to her knees and kissed his hand, pressing her forehead to it as she wept.

And then she fainted.

Monsieur le Maire had the woman – Fantine, as Javert did eventually discover – removed to the new infirmary that had been established adjacent to the mairie. Javert avoided all but the necessary contact with the mayor, furious about the whole situation as he was, and was not kept informed of the woman’s condition.

To distract himself from the anger he felt toward his only true friend in the city, Javert buried himself in his work. Arrests were made, the laziness of his officers was harshly dealt with, and the Valjean case inched forward at a snail’s pace.

His anger at the mayor, combined with the hours spent pouring over the old files from the Valjean case, especially lists of known aliases and disguises, led Javert to reawaken his suspicions that Madeleine was hiding something. The capture of Champmathieu had so thoroughly crushed his suspicions before that they had not sprung back to life when the man proved to be no more than a common thief, but were left to silently fester in the back of his mind. Javert had always known that Madeleine had little respect for the law – his so called “mercy” extended even to thieves and beggars. It had been the only true point of contention between the two of them. But this blatant disrespect for the authority that Javert held had shown him that Monsieur le Maire truly held the law (and, thus, Javert himself and his very purpose for existence) in contempt, as if it were naught but a suggestion for how one should behave.

One evening, months after the failed arrest and subsequent hospitalization of the woman Fantine, Javert had had enough. The hours spent mulling the case over had convinced him absolutely that Madeleine was indeed Jean Valjean. He had yet to find solid proof but knew that he would find it on the man himself, the brand on his shoulder, and was willing to risk his career on the slight chance that he was mistaken.

He made his way to the mairie with haste and was let in by the portress, who knew his face well and did not question his appearance, even so late at night. She told him that the mayor was sitting with Fantine, for her condition had worsened, and directed him to the hall leading to the infirmary.

On arriving at the chamber, Javert thanked and dismissed the portress, stating that his entrance need not be announced. He opened the door and stood in its shadow for some time, not entering the room. It was likely this ominous appearance that caused Fantine to sit up in her sickbed and begin to wail, pointing a shaking finger at Javert.

“He’s come for me!” She cried, “The devil, he’s come for me! Oh, would that I could see Cosette just once more before he takes me, please, Monsieur! I hear her playing in the yard, I do! Oh, won’t she come in!”

Madeleine – or rather, Valjean – was seated by her bed, but stood to gently press her shoulders back until she was lying down again. He made soft noises to soothe her and said, “It is not the devil you see, but Inspector Javert, come to see how you fare. Won’t you come into the light, Inspector?”

Javert acquiesced and stepped forward. “Valjean,” he said, nearly trembling with anger, “You know why I’m here.”

He saw the man stiffen, then forcibly relax when Fantine began to wail again. The woman was clearly delirious with fever. “He’s come to arrest me! Oh, God, he’s come to arrest me!”

Valjean placed a hand on her brow and grimaced at the temperature. “Easy, Fantine. Do not overwork yourself. It’s not for you that he has come.” Then he sighed and looked to Javert. “There’s no use protesting now, is there? I knew you would find out eventually, though I confess that I had thought maybe you had given up the idea when you brought your apology to me so long ago.”

“Jean Valjean, you are under arrest for –”

Fantine gave a huge, shuddering sigh, and began to strain against Valjean’s arm, aiming to sit up again. “Cosette! Cosette! Is it you? Are you there?” She spun to look at Valjean. “I see her! She is there! Oh, please do let her in! Cosette! Co –” Her words were interrupted with a fit of coughing, so violent that blood splattered through her fingers and onto the sheets.

Javert was brought abruptly back to the memory of his own mother’s death, so similar to this woman before him. He feet moved forward of their own accord and he found his brow creased with concern.

Fantine gasped and choked, dribbles of blood dripping from her lips, until she spasmed, just once, and fell back onto the bed, lifeless. Valjean looked away, a hand covering his eyes.

Javert clenched his fist. “Did no medicine help her?” He managed to get out between clenched teeth. “All of your stolen, filthy riches, and the woman dies the same as she would have on the street,” he spat. “What is the use of it all if even one wretch cannot be helped?”

“Javert, please.” Valjean’s voice was hoarse. Javert looked and saw that his eyes were watery, though no tears fell down his cheek. Javert knew better than to trust the pretense of a conman, however, and gave it little credence. He watched as Valjean leaned down over the woman’s body and took a moment to arrange her limbs and neck as though she were asleep. He smoothed her short hair back under her night-cap and straightened the tie of her chemise. Then he turned back to Javert. “The child must be cared for.”

“Have you not brought her here as you promised?” Javert sneered. “More lies?”

“I have tried,” scowled Valjean. “I have tried, but the innkeeper, this Thenardier, he would not release her. I will have to go myself.”

Javert laughed bitterly. “Now? You think you would go now? As if I don’t see through your plot. You mean to leave for the child and never return. Jean Valjean will have slipped through my fingers once more. Do you think me a fool?”

“Please,” Valjean pleaded. “Three days are all I ask. Three days to fetch the child and then I am yours.”

“You are not in a position to bargain, Monsieur le Maire,” Javert sneered the name, mocking him. “I will arrest you, now, and you will serve the sentence you deserve.”

Valjean frowned. “The child – Javert, see reason. I will run, you know I will, unless you let me get the child somewhere safe. Allow me just this and I am at your disposal, no struggle, no flight.”

“Run now or run at the end of three days,” Javert scoffed. “You will try it regardless, as your history has proven.”

“Please, Javert. We were friends, once. You trusted me, once...is this so different?”

Javert recoiled as if struck. Trust a con to go after any spot of weakness. What a fool he had been. “Yes,” he spat, “We were friends and I trusted you. And you were lying to my face every time we spoke! How dare you ask why this is different – how dare you!” Valjean lowered his head in something like shame, and Javert scoffed. “Give up your act; the man of mercy has been scraped away. Come, I am arresting you now.”

“But the child -”

“The child will be cared for, Valjean! How heartless of a beast do you consider me to be?” Javert shook his head in disgust. “A criminal only sees the worst in everyone, I suppose. What a fool I was to believe that someone so kind and good as this Madeleine character could be anything other than a fiction.”

Valjean ignored his jab. “The girl – Cosette – you will collect her? Swear it, please, swear that you will protect this child,” he begged, to which Javert gave a stiff nod.

“Of course I will. I swear it,” he added grudgingly, which seemed to placate Valjean.

The convict held his hands out to Javert. “Then I am yours.”

The arrest of Monsieur le Maire inspired an extraordinary commotion in M-sur-M. Javert was disgusted to see that everyone, all of Madeleine’s loyal followers and contemporaries, deserted him as soon as word got out that the man was a convict. It was what he deserved, Javert told himself, but the lack of loyalty shocked and repulsed him. In one spring morning, all of the good that Madeleine had done was forgotten, and he was nothing but a convict from the galleys.

Eager to get away from the gossip, Javert took off for Montfermeil as soon as Valjean was dealt with and locked away properly, out of his hands. The satisfaction he ought to have felt was tainted with something almost like betrayal, and he was furious with himself for it. How could he not have seen through the disguise? He, who had followed and known Valjean so closely, could not even recognize the man in a coat and hat. The ride to Monterfermeil was long and provided Javert with plenty of time to think and stew over the many conversations he had had with the mayor. Looking back, he saw all of the slip-ups that could have revealed Valjean’s identity, but Javert, in his naivety, had overlooked them all until the end. He had even attributed them to Madeleine’s low birth, had gifted that excuse to Valjean on a silver platter. To think he could have…he had cared for the man, damn him, and the con had certainly seen and used that to his advantage, playing Javert’s one weakness against him.

By the time he arrived at the town, Javert was properly boiling with anger and frustration. The first person he encountered in the town, a frightened and filthy gamin, stuttered out directions to the Thenardiers’ inn and scampered away as soon as he could, not even staying to ask for coin. Javert took this as a sign and made some effort to cool his anger as he walked to the inn. He was not entirely successful.

The Thenardier’s inn – a filthy, disgusting hovel – was on the edge of town, close enough to attract guests but far enough to avoid trouble with the citizens, Javert suspected. On entering the inn, he was immediately accosted by a monstrous woman with a sickly sweet smile pasted onto her face. She did not recognize him as the police, for he had worn plain clothes for this very purpose.

“Good evening, monsieur,” the woman crooned. “Might I offer you a room for the night? A meal, perhaps?”

Javert had intended to simply go in and ask for the girl, but he thought it best to observe undercover for now. “Have you any wine?”

The woman’s smile grew larger. “Of course! Have a seat, monsieur. Let me take your hat, here.”

Her hands reached, but Javert snatched his hat away and into his lap. “Thank you, but I’ll keep it here. Just the wine, if you will.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile never drooped. “Of course, monsieur.”

As Javert watched from the side of his eye, the woman went to a man of similar disposition (but thin as a rail, in contrast to her) and yanked him down to whisper into his ear. The man, whom Javert assumed was the innkeeper Thenardier (and the woman his wife), looked to Javert and frowned. He turned back to the woman and slowly shook his head, looking very suspicious indeed. She huffed and stalked off, presumably to fetch the wine that Javert had requested.

As he observed the rest of the goings-on around him (mostly drunks, quite a few missing hats or boots or coats that Javert suspected they likely would not see again), something caught his eye. A little girl, dressed in a wool coat with a matching bonnet over her curls, ran giggling down the stairs, pursued by another, smaller little girl dressed in a similar outfit. They both looked healthy enough, though Javert doubted if this Cosette was even as sickly as the Thenardiers made her out to be, or if that was another of their scams. Fantine, naïve as she was, would likely have fallen for the smiles and pretty words of the Thenardier woman, but Javert was less of a fool.

A lead cup was dropped with little care onto the table before him, and he looked up to see the Thenardier woman. She smiled in what she must have thought was a welcoming manner. “Your wine, monsieur.”

He nodded his thanks and waited for her to take her leave before sniffing the cup. Admittedly, he did not know much of wine, but this particular drink did not smell quite right. He left it in its place and continued to watch the girls. The smaller one ran under a table and emerged with a doll, the sight of which made the other shriek with laughter.

“Zelma, she’s half bald! What have you done to her, you silly girl?” the older one asked, clutching at her stomach as she laughed.

The smaller one – Zelma, presumably – frowned and inspected the doll. She shrugged as if to say she didn’t know, and the girls ran off again. Zelma stuck her tongue out at a shadow in the corner and then giggled and continued to run after the older girl. When they had gone, a pathetic little wretch emerged from the shadow in the corner, holding a broom and looking extremely forlorn.

She started to sweep and the closer she got to Javert, the worse she looked. Her dress was much too thin and short for the winter air, and her legs were thin and red under the hem. Her hands looked raw with chilblains and her nose was crusted and red. She was worringly thin, and her dress slipped down over her shoulders as she swept, revealing a smattering of bruises on her neck and arms. Javert hoped to God that this poor child was not the one he was sent to fetch, but his intuition told him that it was. Poor Fantine had been duped into thinking her money had been protecting her child, but this wretch looked as though she hadn’t felt a gentle touch or heard a kind word in years.

“Girl,” he called when she was nearby. She jumped and looked around as though she thought he must be talking to someone else. “You, girl. Come here.”

She slowly walked towards him, broom forgotten and dragging behind her. “Oui, monsieur?”

“What is your name?”

“I am called Cosette,” she told him, not meeting his eyes.

“I am Javert. Do you work here?” he asked, making an effort to keep his voice low and gentle.

She shrugged. “I work.”

“Do you play? Like the other girls were playing?”

She shook her head quickly and looked up. “No, monsieur. Ponine and Zelma play all day and have such wonderful toys! I have just one, a little lead sword this big,” she told him, holding up her little finger. “But mostly, I work.”

“All day?”

Cosette nodded.

“Do you have any things? Clothes or shoes or other accessories?” Javert knew not what a child required, but assumed that Cosette had some belongings, at least. She nodded. “Well, run and fetch them,” he told her, “Then come back here.”

She ran to the same corner she had emerged from before and returned in a moment with a small bundle. She still clutched the broom in her other hand. She showed him the bundle, which seemed to be a threadbare piece of cloth – a kitchen rag, perhaps? – with the aforementioned little lead sword, a few rocks, and a dirty satin ribbon to hold it all together like a little pouch.

Javert frowned. “Are you not cold, dressed so?”

She shrugged, but her shivers told him that indeed she was. He removed his coat and put it around her shoulders, caring little that it dragged on the ground behind her, then told her to follow. He led her to the man Thenardier, from whom she cowered away, hiding behind Javert’s leg. To trust a stranger to protect her from her own caregiver….

“The woman Fantine is dead,” he announced to the man. “I have come to collect her child.”

Cosette looked up at him with wide eyes. He wasn’t sure if she understood or not.

The innkeeper’s eyes widened, and his jaw went slack for just a moment before his façade was back in place. “Oh, poor dear Fantine. Oh, the poor soul,” he cried. “We can only hope that she is in a better place now, away from this cruel world!”

Javert was unimpressed. “Yes. The child?”

The innkeeper feigned horror. “You mean to take her from us? We, who have sheltered and loved her all these years? Why, she needs us now more than ever, the poor orphan darling!” His wife attempted to coax Cosette towards them, holding her arms wide and cooing. Cosette hid herself further behind Javert. 

“Fantine’s debt has been paid to you by a benefactor,” Javert said, ignoring the man, “You know this, but if it has somehow slipped your mind, I have with me the receipt. You have no obligations to her and no need to keep her any longer. I will be taking her now,” he informed them. The woman had joined them, looking back and forth between her husband and Javert.

“Well, the benefactor ain’t paid enough!” she claimed. “The poor doll has been so sick, isn’t that right? And medicine is so expensive, you know.” She batted her eyelashes.

Javert huffed a disbelieving laugh. “The only sickness this child has suffered is chill, which you have done nothing to remedy. You will get nothing more from Fantine, for the woman is dead and the benefactor vanished. I will leave and take with me the child, and you will be grateful that I have not sent you to prison for the unlawful treatment of this child and for this…. establishment that you operate. Now, good day and I suggest that you clean up your act, Monsieur, Madame.”

He took Cosette by the hand, broom long forgotten on the ground, and led her away.

“You thief! You vandal! This is kidnapping!” the woman screeched after him. “I’ll call the police on you!”

At that, he turned and gave her a disgusted look. “I am the police,” he told her. And then they were gone.

Chapter Text

Cosette’s legs were small and tired and had trouble keeping up with Javert’s long strides, so he picked her up and carried her, pulling his coat more firmly around her shoulders. “We are going to make a stop at the police station-house,” he told her, “and then we will be on our way.”

She nodded but said nothing. One hand clutched at Javert’s shoulder to hold herself up and the other held her bundle of possessions close to her chest.

At the station-house, Javert walked in and asked to speak to the Inspector of the town, to which he only received bewildered looks. “A head officer? Anyone who is in charge here,” he said, frustrated. “I need to report a crime. Several, actually.”

That got their attention, and a young man stood and approached him with a notepad. “Yes, monsieur?”

“The Thenardier inn,” he told the man, “They’re thieves and crooks and they ought to be arrested.”

The man sighed and lowered his notepad. “Have you any proof, monsieur?”

Javert crooked an eyebrow. “Send any of your officers out undercover as patrons. You will find plenty.”

The man put on a smile. “We’ll look into it. Thank you, Monsieur….”

“Inspector Javert of Montreuil-sur-Mer,” he said. “I’m leaving here today, but do contact me if you need assistance with the case.” He nodded and then left, shifting Cosette a bit so that her weight rested on his hip, rather than his arm. He vaguely remembered his mother carrying him in such a manner.

After acquiring a fiacre to take them back to M-sur-M, Javert’s funds had nearly been stretched to their limit.

Cosette sat across from him, still clutching her bundle to her chest.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, belatedly. “I’m sorry to say that we won’t get a chance to eat until we reach M-sur-M, which is a good distance away.”

Cosette shrugged. “That’s alright. Why are we going there?”

Javert grimaced. “It’s where your mother lived for several years. She got very sick recently and passed away,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”

She sat silently for a moment, digesting this. “I have no maman? And no papa?”

Javert shook his head.

She was quiet a moment longer. “Are you my new papa?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I am an inspector of the police.”

“Do the police not have children?” Cosette asked, cocking her head to one side.

Javert frowned. “No. Well, some of them do. But I don’t.”

“Oh.” A pause. “May I call you papa? Just for pretend?”

“Why?” Javert was very confused. He had never really interacted with children, even when he himself was a child, and did not quite understand how they thought or functioned.

Cosette shrugged. “It’s just nice to pretend things sometimes,” she told him. “Don’t you ever do that?”

“No,” he told her.

“Oh.” She looked out the window and began kicking her feet against the seat.

“Stop that,” Javert told her. “You will break it.”

She froze. Her little feet, clothed only in thin canvas shoes, ceased their movement.

Javert glanced up and saw that her face was tilted down but there was a stiffness in her arms that spoke of fear. He sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her. “I just don’t want you to break the seat.”

She nodded and relaxed ever so slightly. The kicking did not resume. “Will you send me back?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Cosette,” he said, drawing her attention. She looked up at him. “I promise that you are not going back to the Thenardiers, ever. They are criminals and bad people. You will be safe from them. Understand?”

She looked at him for a moment, as if judging his word, and then gave a short nod. She relaxed and slumped back into the seat. The kicking did not resume, but she did unwrap her bundle and take out the rocks. “Would you like to play with me?”

“I don’t know how,” he told her, shaking his head. “You play.”

She smiled and held out one of the rocks. “It isn’t hard. Alright, let’s have this one be…..a princess! And this is her castle, these cushions. And that one, the one you’re playing, that one is a dragon.”

“There are no dragons.” But he accepted the rock.

“There are in this game. See, it’s pretending!” Cosette moved her rock around in a circle on the cushion. “There’s going to be a ball and I’m oh so excited!” she said in a tinny falsetto voice, “I wonder what beautiful dress I will wear?”

“Rocks do not wear dresses,” Javert said, frowning.

Cosette laughed. “Well yours doesn’t, because it’s a dragon. But they aren’t real dresses,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Just pretend dresses.”

“I don’t see how this pretending is entertainment,” he told her.

She sighed. “That’s because you aren’t playing! Come on, make the dragon do something! Attack the party!”

He frowned. “I’ll not play a criminal. This rock shall be a police rock-dragon. It shall guard the party so that the rock princess doesn’t have to fear.”

Cosette giggled. “Thank you very much, Monsieur Police-Dragon,” she said in the falsetto voice. “Now we can have our party and there won’t be any bad people there!”

The game amused Cosette for some time, though Javert suspected that much of her amusement came from his own inability to play this “pretend”. Eventually, though, the day’s events caught up with her and Cosette fell asleep on the seat, Javert’s coat wrapped around her like a blanket.

She was still asleep when they arrived in M-sur-M and, rather than wake the child, Javert carefully picked her up and carried her back to his own apartment. It was far too late to find some orphanage or asylum to put her in, and he couldn’t very well leave her at the station-house. He tucked her into his own bed and set her bundle of possessions on the night-stand. The room was humble, but there was a fire and warm blankets and it was likely much better than what the child had had with the innkeeper and his wife.

Javert gave a long sigh as he fell heavily into the chair in the corner. He did not want to send the girl to some crowded orphanage where she would be alone and ignored until her adulthood, but saw no other option. He had neither the time nor the resources to keep a child, nor did he have the faintest idea about how to raise one. If only Madeleine – Valjean, damn him! If only Madeleine had been more than a fiction, the girl could have a benefactor to fill her every need. Although…the fortune that had been Madeleine’s still stood, for the swine had been honest and good with his business, if not his identity. Loathe as he was to do so, Javert resigned himself to going to the jail tomorrow, before Valjean was carted away, and asking what, precisely, the man had planned out for the child.

“I hadn’t though this far in advance,” Valjean admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

Javert scowled. “You mean to tell me that you intended to bring a young child into your home and – what? Leave her to roam the hallways until she was old enough to be her own responsibility?”

“Not at all!” Valjean protested. “I would have had her sent to school, to get a good education. The lifestyle of the mother is my own fault and should have no bearing on the life the girl shall have.”

“And now that your scheme is up? What would you have me do with her?” Javert asked, growing frustrated. “She cannot stay with me; I cannot afford it, nor do I know how to raise a child. Nor do I have any responsibility or desire to do so,” he added quickly, when Valjean seemed to perk up with an idea, no doubt to throw money at the problem until it resolved itself.

“Perhaps….some sort of boarding school? The convent has a school for girls, does it not?” Valjean asked. It looked as though he were thinking very hard.

Javert raised a brow. “And have her locked away in isolation until adulthood? A good education that might give her, but it can hardly be better than any orphanage.” There was a slight pause, and then he had an idea, though he was loathe to bring it up. “What of your family? Jeanne and Nicolas and the children? The smallest one must be nearly grown by now; surely an extra mouth wouldn’t set them back terribly.”

Valjean looked surprised, briefly, before his face turned down toward his hands, bound and folded in his lap. “Nicolas passed, long ago. He was ill and dying when I first…in 1795. The rest of them, I – I don’t know. I was told that Jeanne lived in Paris, but that was years ago. I thought to look them up upon my release, but I feared to know what became of them without me. What fate I left them to.”

“As if not knowing at all is any better?” Javert scoffed. “Forever making yourself into a martyr. I will do it myself. Gooday, monsie – Valjean. Convict.”

And with that said, he left. He did not let his mind linger on the reasons why doing so made his gut twist uncomfortably, and tried to focus on the anger and betrayal he still felt. He returned to the station-house before the workday had really begun, and was immediately caught around the waist by 20-some-odd kilograms of grimy little girl. He stumbled back, just a bit, in surprise, and patted her head.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur L’Inspecteur,” said Martin Martin. “I tried to hold her back, but she slipped right past!”

Javert cleared his throat. “No matter.” He gently pried Cosette from his legs. “Pull the latest census with address records from Paris. I am going to search for the family.”

“Yes, Monsieur, right away.”

Of course, he did not say precisely whose family. It was clear she had none of her own, or Fantine would have deposited the child with them instead of the Thenardiers. The law would not abide Cosette going to the relations of a convict to whom she had no clear connection, but in this case…well, as long as she was cared for and out of the hands of the state, the law would have no reason to pry further. He herded Cosette down the hall and into his office.

She immediately clambered into the cracked leather chair across from his desk and sat with her feet dangling above the floor. “What family, Monsieur L’Inspecteur?” The title twisted itself in her childish, gap-toothed mouth.

“You may call me Javert,” he said, going to sit in his own seat on the other side of the desk. “Monsieur Javert. And we are looking for a family who will take care of you.”

Cosette sat so straight in the chair that Javert feared she might slip off the edge. “But Monsieur Javert –” she protested, eyes wide, “Aren’t you going to take care of me? I want to stay with you!”

He shook his head. “I am not fit to care for a child. You need a family, with a mother. Someone who will feed you and teach you and give you toys.”

“But you can do all of those things!” she pleaded. And – oh, no, she was starting to cry. “I won’t go! I won’t! I want to stay here! Please, Monsieur Javert,” she begged, slipping to the ground and coming ‘round the desk to cling to the arm of his chair. “Please! I can help here; I can clean and cook and wash and……” she trailed off and sniffled, looking altogether quite pathetic. She still wore Javert’s coat, and it made her small frame look even smaller. “You promised,” she said after a moment, her voice no louder than a whisper.

Javert – damn him! – could hardly bear the sight. “Cosette,” he began. “I have no way to take care of you. I work long hours and make little money. You would be lonely and hungry. If you stay with a nice family, you will be fed and cared for and attended to, and other things that parents do.” He did not know what those things might be, truly. His experience with parents was limited, to say the least. “I will check up on occasion, to make sure all is well with you. But you will be much happier than you would be here in dreary Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

She sniffled once more and wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. Then, hesitantly, she nodded and returned to her seat across the desk. “What are their names? The maman and papa?”

“We shall have to search for them,” Javert told her. “But the woman I am thinking of is called Jeanne. Her husband died many years ago, but she had several children. The youngest is much older than you.” Unless she had had others, since he had first met her. It was not impossible.

Cosette said no more, but Javert could tell that she was thinking on this, considering the situation, perhaps. As Javert had suspected, Jean Valjean’s own file, kept in his desk drawer due to its frequent use, was able to tell him that the woman and her family had still resided in the house in Faverolles when Jean Valjean had first been arrested. There was no further information. Martin knocked on the open door, then deposited a file on Javert’s desk with a nod and a wave to Cosette. Javert nodded his thanks, then opened the file. Martin Martin had done as requested and procured the Paris census, the newest as well as those for the past decade or so, though he had done this extra of his own volition. Javert thoroughly approved.

“We’ll make a solid officer of you yet,” he said, nodding at the boy, who beamed with pride.

The search did not take so much time as Javert had feared, not quite a day, and the woman and her children – only two noted – were last known to be located in an apartment in Paris. One of the poorer areas, but not as seedy as some Javert had patrolled. He set about planning for his absence at once, for, of course, he would bring the girl himself. Before he did so, however, he had to speak again with Valjean. If the guards at the local jail had any comments on Inspector Javert coming to visit the degenerate ex-mayor twice in a single day, they wisely held their tongues.

“Inspector,” Valjean said with no little amount of surprise. “I did not expect to see you.”

Javert knew not if that sentence meant so soon or ever. He did not think on it. “I have found Jeanne Valjean. She is recorded as living with two children. I know not the fate of the others, but it is not unlikely they have gone out to work.”

Valjean looked blown away. He fell heavily against the wall behind him, chain clinking with the movement. His mouth had fallen open and his gaze fell far beyond Javert. “Alive,” he whispered.

Javert nodded curtly, though he knew Valjean paid him no mind. “I will go there myself, with the girl. Tomorrow, if possible.” A pause. “Is there anything you should like me to take to them?”

Valjean seemed to snap back into reality, meeting Javert’s eyes again. “Yes. Yes. I have…I have some money, saved up. In the left drawer of the desk, under a false bottom, if they haven’t cleared the house yet.”

Javert raised a brow, but voiced no comment on this. “Anything you wish to say?” he asked. “I could bring a message.”

Valjean smiled, faintly. “You are quite good at that, if I remember,” he commented. His smile quickly fell, and he shook his head in despair. “What could I say to them? I…..”

There was a period of silence, then Javert nodded and stood. “I will fetch the money and deliver it and the girl to the household in Paris,” he said. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but shut it after a moment. “Valjean,” he tilted his head in farewell.

The mairie had not, in fact, been cleared yet, but Javert suspected that was in part due to the unrelenting nature of the portress. When she opened the door and saw that it was him, she immediately closed it again, and would have indeed denied Javert entry, had he not stuck his foot out just in time to catch the door before it shut him out.

“You’ll not have entry here, you rat,” the woman hissed, pushing against the door with all her might.

Javert grimaced, only partly from the pain in his foot. “I do not come to disrespect this house,” he replied. “I come at the behest of ….of the former mayor.”

She stopped crushing his foot, then, but did not open the door completely. “And why am I to believe you?” She scoffed. “You, who befriended and betrayed him?”

Privately, he felt rather irritated that she had the story backwards, but had to respect her loyalty to her former employer. “The woman who was here,” he said. “Fantine. I have her child. Monsieur Madeleine,” – for Javert could not bring him to call the man by any other name to the face of this woman who so respected him – “Monsieur Madeleine has offered money to go to her care and keeping and has requested that I collect it.”

The door slowly opened, and Javert met the narrowed eyes of the portress. “I’ll not leave you to roam these halls alone,” she warned.

He nodded. “Of course.”

With this acknowledged, he was granted entry, and made his way to the office under the close and watchful eye of the portress. Javert realized that in all his times here, he had never once asked the woman’s name. He had left it too late now, he supposed.

Upon reaching the office, he headed for the desk, but was accosted by swatting hands when he attempted to open any drawer. “Oi! No prying,” she snapped. “I’ll do it, thank you kindly. Which drawer are you needing?”

He retreated, not as irritated as he probably ought to be. It was…nice, to know that at least one person in the town had not abandoned the ex-mayor entirely after the arrest. “The left. There should be a false bottom.”

Indeed there was, and the widening of the portress’s eyes told him all he needed to know. She looked conflicted, then hesitantly looked up at Javert. “Monsieur le maire, he was arrested for bearing a false name, yes?” When Javert gave a brief nod, she continued. “There were no….illegal dealings, were there? With money?”

Coming around the desk, he saw what had made her wonder so. The amount of money in the drawer was more than Javert had ever seen at once in his life. He could not stop his own eyes from widening. Valjean must have been well-prepared for any incident where he must flee. Javert wondered idly how many identities Valjean had taken on before this one, then shook the thought from his head. It hardly mattered now. “There is no evidence of any such dealings,” he told her. “Anything could still come to light, of course, but I personally do not believe him to be capable of any truly wretched deeds.” As he said it, he found that it was indeed true. No matter what he thought of Jean Valjean, he could not convince himself that the character of Madeleine had truly been nothing but invention.

She nodded, relief flooding her eyes. No doubt she had feared she was fiercely defending a man who dealt in an awful secret trade, peddling drug or flesh to those rich enough to avoid the law. “Right,” she said. “Of course.”

After he had taken the money and stowed it safely in an envelope in his pocket, they left the office and went back to the parlor, where the portress stopped, her hands worrying the skirt of her dress. “Monsieur L’Inspecteur?” She hesitated, and he looked up, waiting. “He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

Javert looked away. “The law will do with him as is fit,” he said. “Good-day, madame.”

The journey to Paris seemed longer than it had before, though perhaps that was because of the quiet impatience of the girl before him.

When Cosette sighed loudly for what seemed the hundredth time, Javert huffed and asked, irritably, “Have you something to say, Cosette?”

She pouted. “Non, monsieur.”

Not five minutes had passed before she sighed again and looked out the window dramatically.

Only Javert’s unshakable constitution kept him from rolling his eyes to the heavens and snapping at the girl. “Can you read, Cosette?”

She looked up at him, abruptly, and shook her head. He had suspected as much.

“Come, sit here,” he said, gesturing to the space beside him. She stood and sat beside him. He took a file from his bag, a dull report about a peasant’s disagreement over land, and opened to the first page. “This is a report from the police,” he said. “It has lots of letters in it. The first one, here, is D. It is the first letter in dossier, case, which is this word here, and makes that sound. D-. Do you see?” When she nodded, he continued. “This one is C, like the first of your name, and sounds as such. C-.”

The journey did not seem so long when both travelers were occupied, and Cosette could recognize most common letters when they arrived, and sound out short words with Javert’s assistance.

“Well done,” he praised. “You’ll be reading books in no time.”

Cosette beamed. “Merci, monsieur Javert.”

The driver was paid, and Javert exited, glad to stretch his legs after the long journey. They had left early enough that it was just early afternoon, and there was no need to find a room as of yet. “Up now, come on,” he said, reaching his arms to Cosette lift her from the fiacre.

He set her down beside him, and briefly evaluated the girl. She definitely looked happier than she had in Montfermeil, but not much healthier. His landlady had bathed her and plaited her hair back from her face, so she was certainly cleaner, but the thinness of her frame and the redness of her hands and nose had not yet gone. Her red knuckles were more pronounced by the tight hold she had on the bag of her belongings – Javert had given her the shirt-bag of his childhood which, despite its clumsy stitches, had remained sturdy all these years. She wore the same loose dress that Javert had collected her in, but around her shoulders was a brightly colored knitted cloak that her mother had made, but been unable to send before her passing. Thick, woolen stockings had been procured, as well as some buckled leather shoes, but the shoes were just slightly too large. Javert would have taken her for better attire with the money from Valjean, but hadn’t replaced even his own clothes for years, and didn’t have the faintest idea where one bought clothes or shoes for little girls. He thought it best to leave the task to Jeanne Valjean, assuming that she would indeed take the girl.

He hadn’t thought much about what would be done if she refused.

“Come,” he said to Cosette. “Stay close to me.”

“Where are we going?” she questioned, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He gently took her shoulder and shifted her in front of him, that he might keep a watchful eye. “To meet Madame Valjean,” he told her. “I have the address here, but I believe the streets are too narrow for a fiacre to travel.”

She nodded and pulled something from the pocket of her coat – one of the painted rocks she so adored. She began to babble in that high voice that Javert had come to learn children (or at least, Cosette) often used when playing.

“Do not fall behind,” he cautioned, his hand still hovering over her shoulder. Paris was dangerous, as he well knew, and these streets more so than others.

Madame Valjean lived around the corner from the book bindery in which she worked. Two years past, she had lived alone but for two children, a boy and a girl. This was all that Javert knew. When they located the address of her residence, an apartment on the third floor of a creaky old building, and knocked on the door, Javert thought for a moment that perhaps she had died or changed address since the last census that Martin Martin had procured.

The boy who opened the door glared at them, and Cosette cowed and hid behind Javert’s leg, as she had done in Montfermeil. “Who are you?” Javert was surprised to realize, upon hearing the voice, that the boy was not a boy at all, but a young woman in trousers and a waistcoat. He studied her face for half a moment, deciding that she must be nearly grown, but not old enough to be the child Marie he had met so long ago.

Javert stood straighter. “I am Inspector Javert from Montreuil-sur-Mer,” he started to say, but had the door slammed in his face before he could finish. His mouth hung open. That was twice in two days that he had been shut out by a woman, an occurrence which, up until the matter with the portress, he had never experienced. He quickly regained his composure. “I need to speak with – ”

“We’ll not have the police here!” The woman announced. He heard the lock click. “Take your business and go, if you please.”

“I need to speak with Jeanne Valjean,” he repeated, louder, through the door. “Is this her residence?”

“What do you want? She isn’t here.”

Javert frowned. So she did still reside here, at least. “I have news of her brother,” he said. He made no mention of Cosette, as he would rather speak to Madame Valjean directly.

There was a moment of silence, and Javert almost turned to lead Cosette away, intending to return at another time when the woman herself might be in, but then the lock clicked again, and the door slowly opened. The young woman stood with one hand still on the doorknob, blocking the entrance.

“He’s dead,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Long time ago.”

Javert shook his head. “Jean Valjean is alive. I have spoken with him not two days past. He has been arrested again,” he added, then felt as though perhaps he shouldn’t have. What business was that of this woman’s?

“Come back this evening,” she said. “Maman gets off at six.”

And with that, she shut the door once more. Javert looked to Cosette, who looked very confused. “Are you hungry?”

Javert and Cosette managed to find a café to pass the time in, though it was not one he had frequented during the years he lived in the city.

Though Javert was a firm believer that food was food and there was no need to be extravagant when something simple would suffice, he also remembered being a child who had only ever eaten stale bread and broth, a bit of soupy porridge on occasion. The first time he had left the prison with his own money, he had bought himself boots, but then spent a good deal of money on meat pies and fruit pastries, as well. It was with this in mind that he allowed Cosette to order the muffin she had been eyeing after their meal had finished, as well as a thick fruit juice to drink.

“Try this, monsieur,” Cosette encouraged, eyes wide as she held the muffin out to him. “Have you ever tried anything so good?” She asked after he had broken off a piece from the top and eaten it.

“It is very good,” he told her, his lips twitching up into a smile. “Thank you for sharing.”

She nodded eagerly. “Thank you for letting me have it, monsieur. Thank you!”

The owner of the café kept eyeing them after a while, and Javert did not want to overstay their welcome now that their food had been finished. “Come, Cosette,” he said.

His pocket-watch had been out of time lately, but a glance at the skyline told him it was not yet six o’clock, and they had time still to waste. They walked a ways to a local market to wander, though he kept a tight hold on Cosette the whole time. Crowds were dangerous, at markets especially so. He tried not to think on the money he had tucked away in his waistcoat, still a frankly staggering amount, though the great majority of it had been left in M-sur-M for safekeeping.

Cosette seemed to adore the crowd, but it soon began to irk Javert, and he led them out the way they had come. Surely a quarter of an hour or so before six would be alright.

Ten minutes later saw Javert and Cosette sitting in the Valjean residence. He did not squirm under the glare of the young woman, apparently Jeanne Valjean’s daughter, who had still not introduced herself. She had, however, brought a cup of water for Cosette. None for him, he noted.

“Are you really the police?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

He nearly rolled his eyes. “No, rather I thought it would endear myself to you if I were,” he replied, then sniffed when she made no reply. “Of course I’m the police. I’ve not come to arrest or cause trouble, if that’s what worries you.”

She nodded, then jerked her head to Cosette. “And the girl?”

Javert turned his head to look at Cosette, then turned back. “This is Cosette.”

The woman raised an eyebrow, but Javert said no more. She huffed. “What have you to say to my mother?”

“It will keep until she arrives,” he said firmly. “Have you a name?”

She narrowed her eyes. “No business of yours.”

“How unusual,” he replied dryly. “No business of yours. Is that a family name?” He arched a brow.

The woman fidgeted but did not turn away. “Nicole,” she said after a moment. “For my father.”

Javert nodded once in understanding. “Nicolas.”

“You knew him?” She asked, eyes wide. Javert thought that was rather a foolish assumption, given that any idiot could make the connection between Nicole and Nicolas. He decided it wasn’t worth reprimanding her, given that her foolish assumption was correct.

“I met him,” he replied. “Once.”

The girl opened her mouth as if to reply but was interrupted by the sound of a key scraping in the lock. She turned and Javert stood up as Jeanne Valjean entered.

“Nicole, you’ve no idea what a…..” she trailed off, eyes wide and mouth hanging ajar, when she looked up and saw them all. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “I didn’t realize we had guests.”

“The police-man is here to speak to you, maman,” Nicole said. She crossed her arms and adopted a defensive stance with her legs spread and her hips forward. Javert thought it quite mannish, but then, he did not pay much attention to the attitudes in fashion with young women. “I tried to turn him away but he wouldn’t have it. Important business, I presume.”

Here, Javert stepped forward before the girl could worsen his introduction any further. “Madame Valjean, I am Inspector Javert. I come on behalf of your brother, Jean Valjean.” A pause. “He has recently been arrested. Again.”

The woman furrowed her brow. “What do you mean? Jean’s been….I haven’t heard news of him for years. I thought….”

“He made one successful escape attempt and lived as a fugitive under an alias for many years,” he told her, not ungently. “He wanted to contact you but feared the worst.” Foolish man, he thought privately.

Jeanne Valjean looked stunned. Nicole stepped forward and led her by the arm to the settee. “Sit, maman,” she said. “I’ll bring you some water.”

As the girl turned to fetch the water, Jeanne reached out a hand to her. “Perhaps some wine, instead,” she said. Her voice was quite faint. For the first time, Javert realized how well Jean Valjean had aged. His sister did not look so terribly old, but she did not wear her years with the same grace that Valjean – Jean Valjean, that is – did. Especially now, her face pale with shock, she was far removed from the rosy-cheeked young mother he had met all those years ago. She did not seem to recognize him. No doubt she had seen many faces come and go since then and he did not leave such an impact on her as she left on him.

He cleared his throat and sat, awkwardly. It did not feel quite polite, but he did not want to further overwhelm the poor woman by looming over her with his great stature. Cosette scooted herself closer when he sat and tucked herself into his side. He nudged her forward. “Madame Valjean, this is Cosette. Cosette, say hello.”

She did not move much from the shelter of his shadow, but she did wave a hand and mumble what might have been “Pleased to meet you, madam.”

Jeanne smiled, though she still looked thoroughly stunned. “I’m sorry Inspector, I don’t….I don’t quite understand why you are here. All this trouble to update me on a man I have heard naught from or of in decades? I don’t ….”

“Here, maman.” Nicole had returned with both water and wine, the latter of which Jeanne took gratefully. She sat in the armchair and crossed one leg over the opposite knee. “Start talking, Inspector.”

Javert nodded once. “Until his recent arrest, Jean Valjean had taken on the guise of a Monsieur Madeleine, a successful factory owner in Montreuil-sur-Mer. It was a persona of his own creation, not one which he stole from another,” he added, unsure why this addition was important but feeling that it was. “He had been elected as mayor of the town and, through an unfortunate series of events, became sole provider for this child Cosette. She was not able to be collected from her former residence – ” he tried not to hiss this word. Truly, he did. “ – until after his arrest. He had an amount of money set aside for…certain events… that he now wishes to go towards the care of the child. He is loathe to put her into care of a stranger or lock her away in a convent, for she has not yet known much of love in her life.”

Throughout all of this, both Jeanne and Nicole had been silent. At this, however, Nicole snorted. “So he was cruel to his bastard and now wants us to make up for it while he rots in a prison cell?” She scoffed. “Right.”

Javert frowned, but Jeanne spoke before he could correct her. “Nicole, do not fault the child.” She turned her head to look at Javert and Cosette, still hiding. Javert hoped she was not listening, but knew she likely was. “I feel for the child, truly. I may not know the circumstances, but I’m sure no child deserves such a fate. But….I am old, Inspector. I have birthed and raised and sent off my children to marry or work. I do not see why I should hold responsibility for my brother’s mistakes.”

“Cosette is not his child,” Javert said, still frowning. “He is not the kind of man to abandon a child in need, his own blood or not.”

“I know what kind of boy he was, Inspector,” Jeanne said with a rueful shake of her head. “But I have never met the man Jean Valjean, who was imprisoned for so long and apparently lived fleeing the law for twice that.”

It occurred to Javert, then, that he was probably the person who knew Valjean best in the world, even above his own family. And, he supposed, the same could be said for Valjean of him. His frown deepened. “He is….Jean Valjean has broken the law, many times. But I have grown to see that he is, perhaps, a good man dealt a wrong hand. That, at least, has stayed the same since his youth.”

Nicole looked disbelieving. “And you’re what – his parole officer?”

Javert straightened his back. “I am the officer who arrested him. But I have known him for most of my life. We were, at one point – before I knew his true identity, of course – friends, of a sort.” He cleared his throat. “Regardless of the man himself, something must be done with the girl. I cannot keep her myself and I agree that it is best not to put her in a home or a convent. The money from Valjean will pay for any expenses she might entail,” he added, hoping to lead them to a decision.

Jeanne sighed. “The money is not the problem. I am old, Inspector. I cannot run after a child the way I used to.”

At this, Cosette slid from her place behind Javert. She was still clutching the shirt-bag with a fierce grip, but she released one hand to push back the hair that had fallen loose from her plaits. “I will not run much, madam,” she said quietly, eyes wide as tea saucers. “And I am not a burden. Please do not send me away – I can clean and cook and fetch! I am very quiet and I shan’t be bothersome…” she trailed off here, for Jeanne had begun to cry and Cosette seemed very alarmed. “Are you alright? Do not cry, madam; it never helps the way you hope it will,” she said in a soothing voice.

This, however, made Jeanne weep harder and she put out her arms and swept Cosette into a tight hug, which the girl was too shocked to return. “Oh, Cosette. Oh, ma petite. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

They sat like that and rocked to and fro for some time, whilst Javert and Nicole both sat, uncomfortably not looking at either each other or the scene before them, for the sake of polite privacy. After Jeanne’s weeping had subsided, she straightened up and sniffed hard, shaking her head a bit to clear it. Then she took Cosette by the shoulders and looked her up and down. “We’ll take you shopping for something to wear tomorrow. Unless you have other belongings….” She trailed off, looking to Javert, who shook his head. She nodded. “Right. A trip to the shops for you, then!” she said, punctuating her words with a fingertip to Cosette’s nose. The girl smiled a bit and scrunched up her nose.

Javert nodded, then stood. “A word in private, Madame Valjean?”

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded and shuffled Cosette over to Nicole. She rose and walked past him to the kitchen. “Come.”

“Regarding the money Val – Jean Valjean has set aside for the child –”

“I’ll not take any of it and you can tell him I said so,” Jeanne said, arms folded and back straight. “I’ve managed all these years without the aid of my brother. He shall not be our savior or whatever he imagines himself to be.”

Javert huffed, frustrated. “He does not imagine himself a savior or anything other than a guilty wretch who wants to see the child cared for and his family well. The money has nowhere else to go but to you,” he said. “You waste only your own time and effort in refusing it.”

He waited a moment and, when Jeanne Valjean made no motion as if to respond, he continued. “I shall leave here what I’ve brought. I’ll return to check up on the child and bring another installment.” He placed the envelope containing the money on the table. “If that is all…..Good-day, madame.”

“Goodbye, Cosette,” he called. He raised his hand in a brief wave, but the girl had already rushed over and wrapped her arms around him.

“Goodbye Monsieur L’Inspecteur Javert,” she said quietly. “I will miss you until you come back.”

The journey back to M-sur-M was quiet. He found it odd after the chaos that had been Cosette. The woman and the child would do each other well, he decided. He would return on the month to keep informed on their welfare and to bring Valjean’s money.

Wasn’t it strange how returning from a place such as Paris always seemed to take longer than going?

Chapter Text

M-sur-M was quiet. Crime rates had gone down. The whole town was still abuzz with talk of the disgraced mayor, but Javert was under no obligation to shut it down. It irked him to no end.

The lack of crime was admirable for the station, it showed how much they had improved, but the days seemed to stretch on much longer than they ought for Javert. Whole days shut in the office without even a minor infraction to report. He found himself writing, nothing in particular, just writing. He was out a conversation partner and didn’t expect to feel the absence as much as he did.

He would catch himself, throughout the day, thinking things that he would say to Monsieur Madeleine – only. Only.

One evening he had gotten so irritated with the incessant young Martin Martin that he wrote out the whole damned thing in a long, wordy letter to the ex-Monsieur Madeleine and sent it off to the jail in which he was being held, all before he could think twice about what he was doing.

In the light of morning, he wrote another with his apologies for the intrusion and the information that Cosette had been delivered safely to Jeanne Valjean. He signed and sealed it, then thought for a moment and undid the seal, added a brief note that he hoped Valjean himself was well. The envelope was re-sealed and sent. He did not think on it again that day.

The following week, he found himself writing another, about a new law up for vote. They had often had such conversations in the time he had begun to think of as Before. He sent this one as well.

When the time came for the visit to Cosette, Javert was surprised to note that he was – excited is not the word, but ready to see how the child was.

The girl Nicole, once again be-trousered, answered his knock. She raised a single brow. “And so the prodigal copper returns.”

He ignored the comment. “Is Madame Valjean in?”

“Monsieur Javert? Is that Monsieur Javert?” He heard Cosette screech, then heard little footfalls – the only warning he got before the girl came running around the corner and threw her arms around his hips. She had grown several centimetres.

“I see you are being fed,” he said, “If you keep growing at such a rate, you’ll be shoulder height with me before long.”

She giggled and let him go. “But then where would I find clothes long enough? You must have trouble with that, monsieur.”

“Cosette,” Nicole said, “Would you like to fetch our guest some tea? It doesn’t seem as though he will be leaving anytime soon.” The last bit was directed at him. It came with a disgruntled twitch of the lip.

He only quirked a brow in response.

She sighed. “Come, sit. Maman will be home soon.”

He was led to the same sitting room, where Cosette was ready with a tray of cups and a teapot. She took great care in pouring and handing him a cup. She hardly spilled any at all. He noted that she had gained some weight, for he could no longer see her bones poking uncomfortably close beneath her skin. Her cheeks were rosy and she looked clean and well in new clothes and a ribbon holding her hair back.

He said as much to Nicole. “She looks well.”

“We do care for her, thank you,” the girl said with a scoff. “Why are you here?”

“I have come to check on Cosette, to make sure she is well.” He paused and looked to Cosette, who had quickly grown bored with their talk and gone on to play with something or other in the far corner. “I also need to speak with your mother.”

Nicole nodded in understanding and sat in the chair opposite him. She sat like a young man, legs spread and elbows resting on knees. “The money from my uncle, of course. I suppose you visit him often, then? You, the so-called friend who arrested him?” She shook her head and made a face.

Javert replied as calmly as he could. “I have not visited since I brought Cosette to you. I have written several times. I do not believe he is permitted to answer.” Or perhaps he just chose not to. It mattered little to Javert either way, of course.

“What do you write?” She had leaned back in her seat – manners were never his strong suit, but Javert did not think this young woman had many – and looked curious, which was a step up from antagonistic.

“Anything. Politics. The day’s events. The happenings of the town. We used to talk quite often, before I knew who he was.”

“You miss him.” It was not a question.

He did not deny it. “The law is the law.”

Nicole grimaced slightly. He felt briefly that the girl empathized with his plight. Briefly.

The door opened – “Was that the Inspector I heard speaking?”

“Madame Valjean.” He stood. “I have come to check on Cosette. She looks well.”

The woman smiled, pleased. “She does, doesn’t she?”

He pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. The rosary was still there, and it surprised him for a moment. “Here is another installment.”

She looked as if to protest, but he interrupted. “I am only to bring it to you and see it delivered. I care not what you do with it – donate it to the church if you have no want of it, Valjean would like that.”

He had not strictly meant to add the last part, but it is the truth. Madeleine had always revered the church and donated a small fortune during his stay in M-sur-M, all of which Javert made sure went to feeding the poor or housing the sick or some other cause Madeleine – Valjean would have liked.

“A religious man?” Jeanne looked surprised. “He went to church with the rest of us, of course, but he never had the patience to sit still indoors for so long. How he must have changed,” she said, a bit sadly.

Javert thought back to a young Valjean taking in a boy off the street and treating him the same, just like a friend, when he discovered his origins. “Not so different.”

Jeanne looked at him oddly, then shook her head. “I suppose I wouldn’t know.”

“Would you like to write to him?” Javert asked, suddenly. That had not been his intention in coming here, but the idea was a good one. “I could see it delivered.”

She thought for a moment. “Alright. I’ve no idea what I would say, but…I would like to. I shall need some time to think on it; I…do you have an address I could send it to, that it might be passed on?”

“You may send it to mine. If you have a spare note…” Nicole fetched a bit of paper and ink, and he wrote out his address.

Jeanne popped up as if remembering something. She flapped her hands at him. “Don’t leave just yet – just one moment, let me – ”

She walked down the hall and returned holding a book. “I – well, I don’t even know if he would be allowed it, but I figured since he can read and write, now – I assume he can, because….anyway, I thought he might like this.” She handed him the book. La Belle et la Bête. “Any misprints are thrown away, but I rescued this one. It’s only the index that’s wrong, anyhow.”

When he said nothing, still examining the cover, she spoke again. “It’s an older tale, but I thought, he probably hasn’t read it yet. And he was always such a romantic…I suppose if he has, then – ”

Javert spoke, then. “It looks like something he will enjoy. Thank you.”

He stowed the book in his pocket and noticed Nicole giving him an odd look. He quirked a brow, but she shook her head. Young people never ceased to bewilder him.

Cosette came running out again to hug Madame Valjean, whom she called “Tante Jeanne”.

It was some weeks before he found it in himself to visit Valjean. He had intended to wait for Madame Valjean’s letter before he did so, but it was long-coming and he feared it mightn’t come at all. So, he went.

The man was a husk.

“Cosette is well.”

The husk looked up. “Is she?” He seemed starved for information.

“Oui. And – Madame Valjean gave me something to pass to you,” he said, a bit awkwardly. The book was stowed in his coat. “She feared you had already read it, but I thought not.”

Valjean looked awestruck. “Jeanne…sent me a book?” His hands trembled slightly as he reached out for it. “La Belle et la Bête.” He smiled. “You’re right. I have not.”

He nodded. Then looked away. Then looked back. He was not fidgeting. “The – letters. I apologize,” he managed to spit out. “I should not have been so…” he did not know what to say.

“Letters?” The man’s face was blank.

So he had not received them, then. Javert felt tension run from his shoulders, but he did not know why. “I. No matter.”

Valjean sighed. “I ought to send something to Jeanne, but I fear that I wouldn’t know what to say. Next you see her, would you…would you tell her that I’m sorry? Tell all of them that I’m sorry?”

Javert gave a curt nod. He cleared his throat. “Yes. I have taken enough of your time, I – ” he realized he had not taken any time at all, for the man had naught else to do. He paused. “I will take my leave. Good-day, Valjean.”

He did not look back when he left. He could not bring himself to do it. Blast! Why could he no longer separate the man Jean from the beast le Cric as he once did? If only the beast had not so reformed himself that he was indistinguishable from the man. If only le Cric was still underneath the skin, somewhere. But Jean Valjean looked merely old and kind and weary.

He snapped at Martin Martin upon his return. Why did the boy have to be asking questions, always, incessantly asking questions?

His pen and ink were out before he much thought of it, and he realized that he had intended to write to Chabouillet. To what end? He shoved aside the paper and inkwell and laid his head on his arms. Why had this case twisted him up so?

He knew why.

Why couldn’t things be simple? The law was so simple; one followed it, a good citizen, or one did not, a criminal. Criminals could be reformed from petty crime, but nothing so extensive as this scheme. On paper, the situation was very clear, but why was it so clouded in his head? In his heart?

Javert left the stationhouse early that night. There was hardly any work to be done and he was itching to do anything other than sit around.

He found himself at the docks. He was not on patrol, but the women there knew his face and his step and fled when they heard his boots on the street. He wondered if his mother had frequented such a street. He knew so little about her.

The rosary from his coat-pocket had made its way into his hands, and he clutched at the beads as if to pray, but he hardly knew how. His feet had him walking home before he had made a conscious decision to do so.

Once in his rooms, he felt a bit lost. He felt just as restless as he had before, but there was a bone-weariness that clung to him. His fingers fell slack and the rosary slipped to the ground. When he crouched to collect it, he came eye-level to the box stored under the bed.

It had not been opened for many years.

His hands were not shaking as he put the box onto the bed and carefully removed the lid, but he felt that perhaps they should have been.

The boots were inside. The worn-out, meticulously cleaned and polished child-sized boots. The first thing he had bought himself. The first thing that separated him from his past. They ought to have been thrown away, for even a gamin wouldn’t find use in them, worn out as they were. He carefully set them aside.

The cards were also in the box, still wrapped in the same faded red string. He ran his thumb over it. Another thing he oughtn’t have kept.

A memory came to him as he held the cards. It was old and hazy, but a memory nonetheless.

He sat on the floor across from his mother, seated on their bunk. She was hunched over to hide her hands from anyone passing by. She spoke softly in their secret language, tapping his hands as she set down and described each card. To Tomašis, she was the most beautiful, the smartest, the most magical person he knew.

Her fingers were thin and long and her nails were yellow and cracked. They were an old woman’s hands, though she was still young in years. He watched them as she drew the cards.

“The emperor, reversed,” she said. “Your past. Tyranny. Lack of control. Oppression.”

Another.

“Death. Your present. A change or an upheaval. Abrupt.” She frowned, but made no further comment.

“Temperance. Your future. Balance. This carries a warning,” she told him. “Keep yourself on the middle path. Do not lose this balance, Tomašis. Be wary of extremes.”

He let himself dwell on this. She had seemed so serious. Be wary of extremes. Keep yourself on the middle path. Without any conscious directive, his hands began to shuffle the cards.

They shook as he drew each one.

Temperance, reversed. Extremes, unbalance. Just as his mother had warned.

Judgement. An awakening. Not necessarily pleasant.

The hierophant, reversed. New thought, rebellion. Usually one of chaos.

Past. Present. Future.

Javert did not sleep well that night. By the dawn, his eyes had barely shut.

He stopped paying attention to the days, and only realized how much time had passed when he was accosted by Martin Martin one morning upon arriving at the station-house.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur! Monsieur l’Inspecteur!”

He stopped and closed his eyes, only for a moment, before turning. “Yes, Martin?”

He held something out. A book with a paper bound to the top. “A message, monsieur.”

“Merci.”

The book was la Belle et la Bête. He did not open the message until he was in his office with the door shut. He knew what it would say. It was from the head of the jail that had been holding Valjean. He was to be moved to le Bagne at Toulon. This morning.

He had been deemed too much of a flight-risk to put with le Chaine, which could be counted as a sort of mercy. Instead he was to be carted there alone but for several guards, today. He was already on his way, in all likelihood.

He had not been permitted to keep the book.

Javert sat down. This was always the end result. He wasn’t sure why it made his breath short. He had known this would happen.

He took pen and paper and, after a moment’s thought, began penning a letter to the Madame Valjean.

Madame J. Valjean,

Jean Valjean has been transferred to le Bagne at Toulon, where he will reside until his death. In the case that you still intend to write to him, I will deliver it myself. I will still be making regular visits to see that the child is well kept and to bring the installments of money.

When last I saw Jean Valjean, he wanted to pass on to you his apologies.

Sincerely, T. Javert, Inspecteur de Police de Montreuil sur Mer.

The reply was prompt and arrived in a week’s time. Javert took this to mean that the delay in the letter for Valjean had been due to lack of words, rather than lack of time or will.

Dear Inspecteur,

Do call me Jeanne. There are too many J Valjeans in this world.

I thank you for your information regarding my brother. I confess that, as of yet, I have been unable to find any words at all. I simply do not know what to say. Perhaps I am angry, perhaps I am sorrowful. Perhaps I am just too old to dwell on the past.

In lieu of a letter, I would have you tell him of his nieces and nephews.

Nicole, you have seen. She lives here with me and helps with Cosette and the housework. Pierre, just older than she, is studying in university, of all places. He plans to be a doctor. The twins are happy but unmarried as of yet. I fear that they never will, but they seem happy enough to help raise the children of their neighbors and live on their shared modest incomes. Louis works in a factory; his wife is pregnant not four months yet, but she is so big, I wonder that it might be twins. Marie – goodness, I hadn’t wondered if the girl might never grow up – but here she is, in Paris, with 2 children of her own and a modest but successful dress shop on a rich street. Claude has stayed in Faverolles, for he loved it so, and runs a farm from which he sends me the most beautiful vegetables.

I do not know what I would say to Jean, but he gave his life to feed those children, when they were children, and he deserves to know how they made it.

Merci-
Jeanne.

Javert was not entirely satisfied with this response. He had hoped that she would enclose a letter he could just hand over to Valjean and be done with it, but this sounded as if she expected him to read it out to the man.

M-sur-M was still quiet and, now that the buzz of the scandalous maire had been all but forgotten, there was little to catch his interest. Even still, Javert found things to occupy his calendar for months before he finally admitted that he had no pressing matters and really ought to deliver Jeanne’s message.

The Bagne was a long ways away, but the stench carried for a ways out, just as he remembered from his first arrival all those years ago.

A very young adjutant-garde brought him to a room with a table and two chairs, set up for interrogation, and told him to wait for the prisoner to be brought. Javert wondered if he himself looked so very young when he had worn that uniform.

The man brought in bore little resemblance to the fearsome Jean le Cric who had existed here for so many years. He wore the green cap of a life sentence. He looked so very old.

Javert stood when Valjean was brought in, though he hardly knew why.

“Merci. That will be all,” he told the young guard.

The guard looked conflicted. “But – ”

Javert raised a brow. “Police business. Leave us.”

The boy did as he was told.

Valjean sunk into the chair across the table. “Javert.” He sounded neither resentful nor pleased.

“Valjean.” Javert sat. “I have news from Jeanne she wished me to bring to you.”

He perked up, but only slightly. “Oh?”

“Of your nephews and nieces.” He paused. “They seem well.”

He then read the letter, almost verbatim. By the end of it, Valjean looked a little lighter. “That is good to hear,” he said. His voice was tight, as if he was holding back tears. “I hadn’t dared to hope that – when I was first arrested, the youngest were thin so that their bellies swelled with the ache of it, and little Pierre was so sick….I thought….I never thought they’d make it.”

“It seems that they did.”

“Indeed.” He almost smiled. “And you’ve seen them? How are they? How do they seem?”

Javert thought a moment. “Jeanne seems proud of them all. Of the children, I have only seen the girl Nicole. She wears trousers and a waistcoat and lounges about like some young dandy. But she is kind to Cosette. And protective of them all.”

Jean smiled. “That is good. She wasn’t old enough even to speak when I…I didn’t really ever meet her.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “I am not sorry to have arrested you. But I am regretful that this is the way things have come to pass.”

“Tis the law.” Valjean’s smile warped. It was bitter, now.

Javert looked away. “In this case, the law seems…” A hesitation, brief. “Unjust.”

He let that sit in the air between them, but neither said anything.

“I think – ” He began folding up the letter from Jeanne. “ – I think I always knew that you were…that Madeleine and Valjean were one in the same.” The letter was stowed in his coat-pocket. Valjean would not be permitted to keep it. “I didn’t want to admit it, but I think I always knew.”

Before Valjean could respond at all, Javert gave a curt nod. “Au revoir, monsieur.” And he took his leave.

The young guard was waiting by the door to collect the prisoner. Javert said nothing to him.

It was some months before he visited again. He policed the town, he brought money to Jeanne, he kept notice of Cosette’s ever-increasing height. Nothing eventful happened. There was no news from le Bagne. He found himself looking for anything, any reason to travel that way or to stop by le Bagne. He could find neither reason nor excuse, but needed to see how the man was. So he went.

Valjean looked worse, if that was possible. His hair had started to whiten before his arrest, but now he bore almost a full head of snowy, filthy, matted hair. Javert could not draw his eyes from it.

“You look older.”

Jean nodded. He looked…apathetic. “Time does that.”

“This is not time, Jean,” Javert spat. “It’s not been even a year. This place is killing you!”

The man hardly reacted. A small shrug. “C’est la vie.”

Any other response might have drawn out pity deep from his heart, but the carelessness of the phrase threw Javert into a fit of anger that he felt in his very bones.

“Why have you not attempted to escape,” he hissed, leaning forward over the table. He could feel his breath quicken, but couldn’t control it. “What is stopping you? Cosette is cared for, I am the only one who knows your face so intimately – your chances are much better now than they were when you fled nearly once a year, so why have you not tried?”

Jean stared at him. His mouth had fallen open. “You almost sound as if you want me to.”

 Javert said nothing.

“Javert, what would be the point?” His voice was weak and tired. “Where would I go? I have nowhere left to run and no will to make my feet move. I cannot leave.”

Javert felt his mouth tighten to a line and spat on the floor. “Salaud! You have given up on yourself.” He shook his head. “This is not who you are.”

Jean drew back, looking shocked and a bit hurt.

Javert merely shook his head once more, disgusted, and left.

The long ride back from le Bagne was miserable for both Javert, who was still stewing in anger, and for the driver, who provided the outlet for said anger. It was a relief for both parties when they reached the night’s destination.

The hotel was cheap and the mattress hard, and Javert’s mood had not improved the next morning. The driver from the night before had fled, so he had to hire a new one to take him to Paris. His mood worsened.

His original destination had been the office of Chabouillet, but considering that the afternoon was still young and the workday still in session, Javert found himself walking in the direction of the Valjean residence.

“You’re unexpected,” Nicole said upon opening the door. “Did something happen?”

“May I come in?” He did so without waiting for a response. “Where is Cosette?”

Nicole locked the door behind him and put her hands on her hips. “She’s at school. Why are you here?”

“Jean Valjean is the most irritating man I have ever had the misfortune to come across,” Javert bit out. “The bastard hasn’t even considered trying to run. All those years I was the one that had to discover his absence and track him down, but now? Now, when there’s no one but I who would recognize him after a wash and a haircut? He has given up on himself.” He threw himself into a chair. The legs of it skittered on the floor and the noise brought him back to himself. He sighed. “He is resigned to die there. And it will be much sooner than it ought to be. That place eats men from the inside out.”

Nicole sat down in the chair opposite him. She moved slowly as if to not startle him. “You knew it would be a life sentence. You told maman as much.”

He scoffed. “It oughtn’t be. But what am I to do?” He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “The law would have it be so. Who am I to fault justice?”

Nicole frowned. “Justice,” she said, flatly.

Javert looked away. “There is nothing I can do.”

They sat in silence.

Jeanne Valjean returned after a while, and Javert made to leave after greeting her.

She would not have it. “Stay, monsieur! Cosette will be glad to see you when she returns, and there is food aplenty. Who is there to eat it but us?”

He had intended to refuse, but that sentence gave him pause. “Do you remember, madame, when you said something very similar to me once? It was many years ago, but I believe it was the first true kindness I had seen in my life. You fed me and asked nothing in return.” He almost smiled. “I owe you many times over for that.”

Jeanne looked confused. “I’m sorry, I…?”

“Jean saved me from danger, then you invited me to your table and your home. A little prison gamin, you fed and trusted.”

Her mouth had fallen agape. “I do – but how on earth have you come to be here? And how much you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, looking him up and down. “You weren’t shoulder height with Claude if I remember correctly! Oh! – how on earth?”

Javert cleared his throat. “Pardon my reminiscing, madame. I must be on my way; I have other business to attend to in the city.” He nodded his au revoir and left before madame Valjean could formulate a response.

He had not lied when he spoke of business, but this business was not particularly time-sensitive. Even so, he felt strange lingering in the Valjean household. He trusted that they could keep Cosette fit and well without his supervision.

The police prefecture was not close, but Javert found that he enjoyed the walk. By the time of his arrival, the work-day had nearly come to a close.

“Javert! What a pleasant surprise!” Chabouillet cried upon seeing him. “Sit down, child, sit down!”

He refrained from mentioning that he was certainly no longer a child. He thought that in this case, perhaps, age was relative. Chabouillet was getting very old indeed.

“You know you’re always welcome, Javert,” he said, “but I fear you never take up the offer lightly. What troubles you?”

He hesitated. And then – “Have you ever questioned the law? The justice of it?”

The man raised a brow. “Many a time, but rare is the day that I see you waver. What of it?”

“I do not…” he stopped for a moment, thinking. “I thought, once, that the law was structured such that penance, in the form of time or work, was paid for a crime, then a man would change and be freed from lawlessness. But I…I think that the crime sticks to a person long after the penance is paid. I think that, often, the law is good at catching good people back into its loop. Once a man is caught and recorded, there is no escape. Look at – ” my mother, look at Jean Valjean, he did not say. He fell silent.

Chabouillet eyed him, and Javert felt as though the man could see through his flesh and bone and was looking directly to his soul. It did not make him fidget. “I think,” he said carefully, “that you have grown very distant from the young boy I met all those years ago. There are two sides to every coin, Javert. The law protects the righteous, yet damns a man for one mistake. This much is true.”

“Then why – what is our purpose? Why do we do what we do – why do we serve the law when it cannot even serve its people well?” It felt as though his world was spinning, and Javert was certain that, without help, it would drive him to despair and madness.

Chabouillet leaned forward, elbows onto his knees, and looked Javert in the eye. “We work to serve the people, to serve France. We watch some be damned, but how many do we save? How many murderers, brutes have you apprehended? In your time as a spy, how many gangs have you brought down? That is what we serve. The law is unjust.” He shrugged. “Then change it. You have the position, the influence. Speak to the people, to the leaders, the writers of the law. Just look how oft the law has changed in these past hundred years, hm? It can be done.” He leant back and folded his arms across his chest.

Javert felt as though his reality had been unhinged. He sat in silence.

“Would you take some tea?” Chabouillet asked. “You look as though you might be sick.”

“Non, merci.” He blinked to clear his head. “I was only thinking. And, whilst the world is already on its head, I have one more thing to ask of you…”

Some weeks later, in the Bagne of Toulon, Jean Valjean was rotting away. His days slipped into weeks and months and years, even – he could have been here for a week or a decade, for as much as he knew of the world outside the high, guarded walls. Javert had not visited. He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into a shell that he wouldn’t be able to return from. And then –

A letter.

Brief.

I am working to obtain a pardon for the convict Jean Valjean, sentenced to hard labor for life.
T. Javert

World-changing.

His weeks seemed longer, now, but brighter, distinguishable. He knew how long it had been since he received the letter, and since he last ate, and since someone last attempted escape. He did not offer advice, did not note that the day shift-change is slower than the night by exactly 3 minutes, did not recommend digging rather than climbing.

Instead, he preached. He spoke of patience and love and completing the sentence as directed, to lengthen the life of the man. They laughed at him, the old green-cap who never made it free and babbled madness, but there were some…there were some who heeded his words. The red-caps, short sentences for petty crimes such as his once was. They listened, and he thanked God that he was put in this place to share his own suffering in order to lighten theirs.

Knowing that someone was working for his benefit, even if nothing would come of it, gave him back the ability to see the good in his situation, the potential to aid his fellow men. He felt, truly, blessed.

It was this Valjean that greeted Javert when he walked through the gates, pardon in hand. It had been signed by the king himself, for “exceptional goodwill and honest service to the community and to France.” It had not even been difficult to obtain, once the right people had been made aware of the situation, or, rather, the charitable acts that Valjean had done as Madeleine.

Javert requested an audience with Valjean, as he had done many a time before.

The man sat before him, very carefully not allowing himself to hope. Javert felt a weight lessen when he saw that the light had returned to Jean Valjean’s eyes.

“I thought that you should see it,” he said, sliding the pardon across the table. “Before anyone else.”

Valjean did not raise his hands from his lap, nor did he make any move to unfold the paper. He seemed frozen, looking down at it.

Javert stood and slowly walked around and to Valjean’s side. He gently took hold of the paper and unfolded it, smoothing it out on the table before him.

He knew that Valjean had read it when his shoulders began to shake and he glanced down, only to see the man silently sobbing, hand over his mouth.

Javert carefully, gently touched Valjean’s back with the lightest of hands. At the contact, the man collapsed into him, sobbing full force into Javert’s hip.

They stayed like that for quite some time.

When the sobs had subsided, Valjean straightened his spine, took the pardon in both hands, and smiled. “Thank you, Tomašis.”

“No one has called me that in a long time,” Javert said, with the smallest of smiles. “You might be the only one who still remembers that name.” A pause. “Let’s go.”

Javert would never admit, but he took great joy in presenting the pardon and escorting Valjean out of le Bagne. The (now ex-) convict walked with his head high, but close enough to Javert that he hid in the shadow of the man’s great stature.

They walked in silence up until the coach doors were closed and they were en route to Montreuil-sur-Mer. At this point, Valjean exhaled, and it seemed as though all the tension ran from his bones.

He collapsed into Javert, sitting at his side, and began to pray.

He did not stop until he succumbed to exhaustion, mouth still mumbling the words he knew so well. Javert, who had never had the unique experience of having one’s rival-turned-closest-friend fall asleep on one’s lap, was quite unsure what to do. He settled on gently wiping the tear tracks from Valjean’s face, lest they dampen his trousers, and laying one shaking hand on the man’s shoulder.

It made his chest ache to see Jean Valjean sleep, knowing he was free and safe. Strange sensation.

The ride was a long one, and, upon arrival, both passengers had to be shaken awake by the driver. Javert thanked Valjean’s god that the sky was dark, for there would be none of the mayor’s former associates around to see the man like this, nor to pester him.

Javert led him to the mairie, despite Valjean’s protests.

“The portress will be glad to see you,” he said. “Hush.”

Indeed, she was, once she recovered from the shock of seeing her former employer on the stoop that she had so carefully guarded in his absence. So overjoyed she was that she hardly minded being disturbed in the evening, and by Javert nonetheless.

Valjean would not allow her to call him le maire nor Madeleine, and made to re-introduce himself. He fell into a low bow. “Madame, I am Jean Valjean,” he said, respectfully.

The portress fussed until he stood straight, then took his hand in her own for a firm shake. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Monsieur Valjean.”

The mairie had been cleaned and the furnishings restored to like-new in preparation for a new mayor, the search for whom was ongoing. The portress, however, revealed that she had sequestered away some of Madeleine’s belongings, some clothes, several books, and a pair of candlesticks, which Valjean nearly collapsed into tears (again) upon seeing.

She would not allow them to leave without first drawing a bath for Valjean, who looked, in her words, pathetic.

Javert wandered through the halls as he waited. He hadn’t realized how much Valjean had altered the place in his stint as mayor. Now that it had been returned to its prior condition, the building seemed bare, lacking something. The library, which had been home to many a late-night discussion over glasses of wine and games of chess, seemed almost a different place. He supposed it was fitting, after all, that the warmth of the home had left it when Valjean did.

Valjean wouldn’t be returning here, anymore. Even with the pardon, it was unlikely that he would be allowed to resume his position as mayor, if he even wanted to. It was unlikely he would even want to stay in M-sur-M, knowing that his name had been on so many lips these past months. The townsfolk were not likely to forget anytime soon what had transpired, pardon or not.

Javert was shaken from his thoughts by a light knocking, and turned to see Valjean, clean, shaven, and dressed in his own clothes, standing in the doorway. He looked tired but had a fond smile on his face.

“You look well,” Javert said. “Much better than before. That shade of green didn’t suit you.”

He wasn’t quite sure if it was meant as a joke or not, but Valjean seemed to take it as one, for his smile grew. “I don’t suppose it did.”

Javert looked around again. “This place has changed.”

“It was never my home. Not really.”

Valjean seemed so carefree. Javert bit his tongue to stop from saying what he was thinking. That, for him, this house had been as much of a home as he had ever had, that his heart lay within these walls. But, then, it didn’t. Not really.

“Ready to go?” Valjean asked. He held his elbow up as if for Javert to take.

He nodded, but carefully did not see the invitation. “I fear that it’s too late to hire a room tonight, but, of course, you can stay at mine,” Javert said. He did not meet Valjean’s eyes.

“Of course,” Valjean echoed. “Thank you.”

The portress bid them adieu with kisses to both of Valjeans cheeks and a pat on the shoulder for Javert. Even that much surprised him, really. He must have grown on her.

It was quiet for a moment.

“I thought that, tomorrow, perhaps, you ought to go to Paris. To see your family.”

Valjean came to a dead stop in the street. “My family.”

Javert raised a brow. “Yes.”

Valjean took a short breath and exhaled. “Alright. Will you come?”

They were walking again. “If you would like me to.”

“I would.”

“Then I will.”

“Good. That’s… good.”

They took the stairs to Javert’s apartment in relative silence. When he made to unlock the door, however, he felt a sudden rush of embarrassment.

“It’s not much,” he warned, “but there is a fire to keep the air warm, and…” he trailed off. That was about all there was. What a step down from le mairie.

“Already better than in le Bagne,” Valjean said with a warm smile. “You offered your home to me. I am in no position to comment on the décor.”

There is none, Javert thought, but held the door open for him to enter. “There is a sofa,” he said. “You may take the bed.”

Valjean turned abruptly. “I’ll take the sofa. I won’t turn you out of your own bed, Javert.”

Javert shook his head. “Please.” He did not know how to express that he could not take the bed knowing Valjean would be on the sofa. The man nodded, though hesitantly.

“Oh!’ Javert remembered, suddenly. “This belongs to you,” he said, taking from his desk drawer a lock-box containing the rest of the money that had been sequestered in the secret drawer in the mairie. “As well as this.” And the book, from his own night-stand, La Belle et la Bête.

Valjean accepted the book, but protested the money. “I cannot – ”

“You will need it, to start a new life,” Javert pointed out.

Valjean’s shoulders sagged a bit, but he accepted the box. “I confess I am quite tired of starting new lives.”

“But this will be the last.”

He hummed a bit, then set the bag of his belongings (the portress had been thorough and included soaps and a few candles, as well, though he was as of yet unaware) on the floor beside the bed. He sunk slowly to sit on it.

“Did you get far?” Javert asked, uncomfortable with the silence that had fallen.

Valjean looked up, his expression blank.

“The book – did you get far?” He gestured to the book on the man’s lap, which he seemed to have almost forgotten about, despite only just putting it there.

“Ah, no. No, I hardly managed the first chapter. I suppose that I can finish it, now.” He made no move to do so. Javert was unsure if he meant now as in right this moment or now as in in the foreseeable future.

“I ought to let –”

“Can I ask you something?” Valjean interrupted. Javert nodded, just once. “Why? Why do this all, go to such lengths for me? What did I do to deserve it?”

Javert looked away. “The situation was unjust.”

“Yes, but…” he seemed utterly lost. “But why? You went and, and – you obtained a pardon from the king…for me?”

He was being taunted. He must be. “You know why,” he grit out. He had gotten over his bitter assumption that Madeleine had used his affection against him, but he could not believe that Valjean was unaware of it entirely, especially after his drunken mistake all those years ago.

Valjean looked shocked, eyes wide. “I do not.”

“You do,” Javert said, finally looking up. “Must you make me say it?” He scoffed. “You own me, Valjean, my heart and soul. I’ve done nothing but that which I must.”

There was a moment of silence, and Javert turned to leave. He would have none of this. As he made for the door, a hand caught him about the wrist.

“Wait,” said Valjean. He tugged gently until Javert had turned to face him. “Wait,” he repeated, softer this time. He stared up at Javert for a long while, and from this close, the difference in their heights seemed greater than before. “When you…do you mean to say that…”

“Yes.” Javert did not hesitate.

Valjean’s eyes widened. His mouth fell open as he said, quieter than a whisper, “Oh…” And then, clearer, “Can I – ?”

Javert could hardly believe what he was hearing, but there was no mistaking the expression on Valjean’s face. “Yes.”

In the end, it was Javert who leaned down, as Valjean still seemed frozen with surprise. When their lips touched, it seemed to spark him into motion, and one hand went to the back of Javert’s neck, the other to his hip.

They broke apart only for a moment, in which Valjean asked, “Are you sure this is what – ”

And Javert interrupted, quite rudely, in fact, “Yes, of course, yes.” And they continued.

Valjean walked them backwards until they fell into the bed and – well. Neither one of them slept on the sofa that night.

Javert awoke the next morning feeling warmer than usual; most nights, the fire died out sometime in the pre-dawn hours and he woke to a cold room. Today, however, he woke to find Jean Valjean, human furnace, tucked into his chest.

It was a pleasant awakening.

He had just closed his eyes and resolved himself not to move until Valjean woke up naturally, when the man himself stirred. And froze. He looked up and, upon seeing Javert’s face, relaxed once more. That was good.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. Javert liked it.

“Good morning.”

Valjean, apparently not a morning person, tightened his hold on Javert and drew himself closer, eyes closing once more. Javert just smiled and pulled the blankets higher.

Over breakfast, they discussed it.

“What now?” Javert asked.

“I would like to stay with you,” Valjean said. He made it sound like a question.

Javert smiled, just a bit. Then, “Not here.”

Valjean frowned. “No, not here.”

“You know,” he began, “I don’t think that it would be unreasonable for me to request a transfer back to Paris. After all, the reason I was brought to M-sur-M was to lower the crime rate, which has been done. The police here are competent now and the city is no longer growing so rapidly. I am no longer needed.”

He glanced up from his coffee to see that Valjean was looking at him as though he had hung the stars. “There’s a house. In Paris. It might have sold by now, I don’t know, but I…I had looked at it, before. In the case that I…well. It isn’t very large, but it has a garden and several bedrooms, and – ”

“Yes.”

Valjean laughed, just once, then smiled. “Alright then.”

Important decisions made, the ride to Paris was filled with chatter and comfortable silence and laughter. Valjean seemed to find any excuse to touch Javert – his hand on his arm as he pointed out a spectacular bird flying by, a nudge with his knee after a break in conversation, a foot wrapped around an ankle.

So different, yet so similar to what could have been between himself and Valjean as Madeleine. Not much had changed, truly. The dynamic, the situation, yes, but Valjean had always been his true self, if not under his own name.

Javert watched with an emotion that made his throat tight as Valjean laughed in unbridled joy when the wind blew leaves and cherry blossoms in through the open window. He looked so happy. He looked lighthearted, which was something Javert had never seen in Madeleine, even at his most content.

The happiness was still there, though joined with nerves, when they arrived in Paris.

“What if they don’t want to see me?”

Javert shrugged. “Then we will have to leave, I suppose. They do,” he said when Valjean looked up at him, worried shock on his face. “I promise.”

They ascended the steps together, but Javert made Valjean knock on the door alone. He stood a ways back, to watch.

A little girl’s shrieking laughter came through the wood, muffled but still loud. That meant that they were likely all home, as he had hoped. He knew nothing of their usual Sunday routine, but had hoped that early afternoon would see them all present.

The door opened to reveal Cosette, nearly up to Valjean’s shoulder, now. She looked a little confused upon seeing the man. “Hello, Monsieur. Can I help you?”

Javert saw Valjean’s lower lip tremble, just slightly. “Hello. Are you Cosette?”

Before the girl could answer, a woman’s voice was heard from the apartment: “How many times have I told you, Cosette, not to answer the – ” she stopped short upon seeing Valjean. “…door.”

He smiled and said with a watery voice. “Hello, Jeanne.”

Jeanne Valjean looked stunned. She took several gasping breaths, unsure what to say. “Jean, wha…how...Jean?”

He nodded, face crumpling as he truly began to cry. “Yes. Yes, it’s Jean. I’m here. I’m here and I’m – I’m free, there’s no hiding, no parole, I…I’m here.”

Jeanne seemed overwhelmed and took her brother into her arms, holding him close as he cried. She kept saying his name, repeating it, as if to confirm that he was truly here.

Her head turned and she caught sight of Javert, lingering in the hall. He smiled slightly and nodded, which was all the confirmation she needed. Her eyes closed and her head dropped onto Jean’s shoulder and she wept.

“Why is everybody crying?” Cosette asked, still standing beside the siblings in the doorway. “Did something happen?”

They pulled apart, and Jeanne knelt down, pulling Jean with her by the hand. “Cosette,” she said, “This is my brother, Jean. He’s the one who made sure you ended up here and sent me money for all your lovely dresses and dolls.”

Jean smiled and Cosette looked at him for a moment, head turned to the side as if evaluating, then gave him her biggest smile and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Oncle Jean.”

She offered her little hand to shake, which he did with care, then Jeanne led them all inside. “You too,” she said, gesturing for Javert to follow. “Family is more than blood.”

His mouth fell open in surprise, but he had long since learned not to argue with Jeanne Valjean, and followed them inside. Family.

He looked around at Jean on the sofa, Nicole beside him, formally holding out her hand to shake in introduction, and Jeanne helping Cosette pour tea for them all, and his heart filled with a warmth that he didn’t know existed.

Family.