Chapter Text
Javert slipped into the first level of the abandoned warehouse. Thénardier had not yet arrived. Above him, he could hear footfalls by way of creaking floor boards that let him know Chabouillet and the others had begun searching the second floor. If Montparnasse and Gueulemer were already here, then he knew the confrontation, altercation, and arrests would not take the full hour. What would happen then? Most likely, Chabouillet would assign Georges and Marcel to keep watch over the bound men and then come down to join him in capturing Thénardier. That would be the sensible course of action; it was what he would do as an inspector.
But Javert the Protector of Jean Valjean wanted nothing more than to have the gang members engage his colleagues for the entire duration of the operation. He would knock Thénardier unconscious if he needed to. He would also not hesitate to use his pistol if it became required of him—to prevent the furthering of crime, of course, and not for the purpose of silencing a man. Thénardier was already bound for the guillotine. Death would be just.
He chose not to ponder on the inconvenient fact that, were it not for the king’s mercy, Valjean, too, was once sentenced to death when he was rearrested after Arras.
Javert swept his eyes over an entirely empty first level. The warehouse was indeed abandoned. He supposed the Patron-Minette once used this space for the loading and unloading of illicit goods, taking advantage of the building’s proximity to the river for out-of-town transport. If the original configuration of either of the two conjoined buildings had not been altered, then both the connected second and third levels must have numeours chambers for the storing, sorting, and displaying of trafficked items. This was the reason why the Patron-Minette rose to such power. Thénardier, for all his proclivity toward criminal activities, remained at the core a shrewd businessman. Money bought weapons and power and his lackey’s loyalty. Though an independent criminal in name, Thénardier was by all accounts the leader of the Patron-Minette.
Javert allowed himself a rare sigh of relief. Cosette, then, was no more than another financial transaction to Thénardier. The extortion for money may simply be that, and the night may yet pass without Thénardier giving thoughts to a convict’s real name.
Besides, he seemed to have convinced the others that, once upstairs, it was unwise to come down. Javert knew his reasoning was full of fallacies: field operatives must always engage their targets in pairs—it was a rule that even a first-week gendarme would know. Further, as an inspector, he was trained precisely to engage with a target as a way of distraction so that reinforcements could infiltrate without being noticed. Chabouillet was a seasoned officer; it would be easy for him to come down to the first level unnoticed, with or without Théndarider’s presence. But his patron did not press the issue when they were discussing strategies and Javert pretended not to notice the sieve-like logic of his proposed plan, so he chose to cling onto the single remaining thread of hope that perhaps Valjean’s identity would not be compromised tonight.
His heart pounded faster as Azelma’s words rang in his ears: What’s going to happen tonight when my father blurts out who Fauchelevent really is? Can you still protect him then?
“I don’t know,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Truly, he did not know what he would do if Valjean was betrayed.
He did know that, for all that he could claim ignorance in living a life full of sin in the name of justice until this point, he was now consciously choosing to violate the law. Harboring a criminal was as unforgivable as being a criminal. Javert remembered his resignation letter in the pocket of his coat, the one he had left behind at the Rue Plumet house in exchange for Valjean’s plainclothes. After tonight, he told himself. After tonight.
A distant bell tower struck eleven; the sound jolted Javert from his thoughts. He surveyed his surroundings again. There was a small space near the entrance where a protruding wall provided the perfect cover for hiding. He walked past it. It would be foolish to secret himself inside the most obvious place where anyone would know to look. The moonlight was dim and offered many other shadowed alcoves for him to blend into his surroundings. Javert chose a small space to the left side, about halfway between the entrance and the far wall at the back. It must have been the dividing line between the two buidings before they were conjoined, where the two properties’ walls did not match up completely. Crouching down so he could disappear into the darkness, he resigned himself to torturous thoughts about Jean Valjean as he waited for Thénardier’s arrival.
-
The decrepit floorboards were making too much sound, Chabouillet thought each time either Georges or Marcel placed their weight rougher than necessary into a single step behind him. In the silence, each groan and squeak from old wood screamed of their intrusion. They may as well be announcing their arrival like an army heralded through the town gate with blasting trumpets. Chabouillet gripped his cudgel harder, though he didn’t think the gesture would help him much. If Thénardier’s remaining lackeys were indeed in the building, then the three of them were no more than sitting ducks, splashing about in a confined pond and at the mercy of hunters already pointing their rifles at them.
But no cocked pistol or swinging fist greeted them. As they walked forward, leaving the stairway and the landing of the second level behind them and passing a second door to their right, Chabouillet could make out a dim outline of another stairway straight ahead of them. It was as if he were looking at a mirror reflecting the image of their present surrounding not at them but through them, and he understood at once that they were walking from one erstwhile building to the other; the wall that once separated the vast second level into three rooms per property had long since been torn down. This meant two ways of egress—two ways of ambush and two fronts of assault—now bounded them at the front and from behind. Chabouillet swallowed his rising alarm through a throat that suddenly went dry. Of course the Patron-Minette chose this place as one of its bases. Anyone careless enough to walk into the lion’s den would find himself situated like thus in the middle of a tactical tunnel, a trap.
“Stay close,” he whispered to the two young gendarmes, each syllable calm despite his unease. Decades of working for the police had taught him never to panic. This was most certainly not the worst position he had been in. “Our targets can approach us from the front or from behind. But there are only two of them. Their only advantage is the element of surprise. If we are careful, we will not let them have this advantage. Be prepared for them to emerge from either staircase.”
“And the rooms?” Georges asked.
Chabouillet nodded. “Yes, consider that as a possibility as well. There are six rooms to our right, two behind us and four ahead of us. Thus my observation still stands. They will appear either from before or behind us.” He considered the dim light coming through the windows on their left. “Be mindful of the windows as well. Though unlikely, we must not dismiss the possibility that our targets may choose to enter directly from the outside.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“We will have to search the rooms,” Chabouillet said. “I will open each door while you two stand guard in the event that someone attacks from within. As soon as I ascertain that a room is empty, return to observing the stairways. I will search for clues that may lead us to the whrereabouts of the missing girl. Alert me immediately if anyone should come up the stairs, even if it is Javert.”
“And if someone comes down from the third level?” Marcel asked.
Chabouillet paused before answering. “That is unlikely,” he said after sifting through what he knew of this place thus far and construing several potential scenarios. “They will not want to be caught using the stairs, for the stairway is narrow and only allows one person to take the steps at a time. Coming up from the first level is plausible because they woud not know we are here. But if they are on the third level, then our steps would have already alerted them of our presence. They will wait. It is to their advantage to force us to mount the stairs toward them.”
This raised the unsavory question of how best to go up to the third level after they cleared this floor, which judging by the lack of any sound aside from their whispers, appeared to be quite deserted indeed.
“We will wait here after we finish examining this level,” Chabouillet decided. “We have the time. Either we will encounter Montparnasse and Gueulemer coming up the stairs or we will try their patience and lure them into coming down to discover our reason for not continuing with our search. In both instances, we will hear their steps and learn which stairway they will use. Be prepared to point your pistols at the correct stairway to apprehend them as soon as they emerge.”
Both Georges and Marcel nodded, and Chabouillet felt satisfied at his plan save for the one regret that, unless the capture would be swift, none of them would be able to rejoin Javert on the first level to lend additional support. But Javert had proven himself to be a most capable officer over the years, and Chabouillet did not doubt his inspector’s assurance that he could confront and arrest Thénardier one-on-one. Javert’s insistence on being alone may have been a rash and, at the time, quite a non-sensible suggestion, but it appeared that the inspector knew what he was doing all along.
Having thus settled on this one detail that was troubling him, Chabouillet turned to the two gendarmes. “Let’s start with searching the two rooms that we passed. Should we locate Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, Marcel, you will keep watch over her while Georges and I proceed with the plan. Our priority is to capture the Patron-Minette. Understood?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” they both said, louder and no longer a whisper this time, and Chabouillet wondered whether their search would yield anyone at all, when this desolate place was so obviously abandoned.
-
And so Inspector Javert cleared his mind the best he could as he waited for Thénardier’s arrival, while Chabouillet, Georges, and Marcel proceeded to examine each of the six rooms on the second level of the building. It should be noted that time seemed to be passing differently for the two levels’ respective occupants. After what felt like enough time to burn up an entire length of a candle, but which in reality was no more than several minutes, Javert stood from his hiding place to stretch out his legs, warding off the impending pins and needles that he knew would start assaulting his calves if he were to remain crouching for too long. Guilt pricked at his conscience. There was time yet, and he knew the proper course of action was to join the others to expedite the searching of the upper levels. But the half-truths he had spoken rendered him useless, confining him to an empty space under the constructed illusion that only he must wait for and confront Thénardier.
Javert looked out a window, careful to stand to the side of the opening so he would not be spotted from the outside. In his nearness to the river, he could hear the crashing and foaming of turbulent waters. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs until they hurt and then exhaling forcefully through his nose. He shouldn’t be breathing, nor should his heart be pounding shame deep into him with each traitorous beat. He wondered what he would be required to say should his plan go awry. I wasn’t able to find your daughter, and now I must arrest you. Should he add “by order of Monsieur le Secrétaire” or explain that it was due to Thénardier’s slip of tongue? But that would be cowardly. No amount of diverting blame unto others would absolve him of his guilt. And for sending a good man back under the chains, he deserved no reprieve, no mercy.
But his plan hadn’t yet gone awry, and so Javert continued to wait, willfully ignoring his policeman’s instinct urging him to go lend support to his colleagues. Instead he stood, looking at the moon and stars in a gesture of platitude, nursing a sliver of hope that tonight would come and go without any mention of the name Jean Valjean.
While the inspector fretted over what was to come, time seemed to pass by in double speed for Chabouillet. The room search was proceeding too slowly for his liking—each chamber was stuffed to the brim with contraband items that made searching for clues nigh impossible. Squinting under the refracted moonlight coming through one of the windows, Chabouillet checked his pocket watch. It was now past eleven, and any time now Thénardier would appear to prepare for his meeting with M. Fauchelevent. He cast a glance down the corridor. Two rooms searched, four more remained.
By now, Chabouillet very much doubted that anyone would appear either from the stairways or from one of the rooms. If the Patron-Minette was already in this building, then they would most likely be standing guard outside or within the first level. Surely Thénardier wouldn’t be so foolish as to appear alone.
Chabouillet motioned to the two gendarmes. Hurry. Four more rooms, and then he would reassess their progress and decide whether to head up to the third level or down to the first to provide backup for Javert.
-
At half past eleven, Thénardier entered the warehouse. Not five minutes later, two men emerged from what seemed like the back door of the building, as if they had long been here and were approaching only to await further instructions from their leader.
Javert remained still. The building must have at least two back doors. He reminded himself that this used to be two separate structures, so that the one he entered and found to be empty could very well be just one of many other doors that led to the inside.
“You two took your sweet time.” There was a frown in Thénardier’s voice, as if he were displeased. It was not yet midnight. What other crimes had the two been sent off to commit?
“It’s done.”
“Good.” Thénardier’s mood lifted. Javert could tell by the trace of insincerity that always laced his every word. There was a mock sigh. “It’s a pity. I didn’t want to get rid of such a pretty face.”
Pretty face? Did he mean Cosette? But he was sure Azelma spoke the truth when she said they had lost her…
“Ah, never mind,” Thénardier continued. “So are we all clear on what will happen tonight?”
“Yes,” A deeper voice said, “we hide in the alcove for the old man to arrive. He gives you his money, you pretend to fetch his daughter from the alcove, and we attack.”
“Good.”
Javert frowned. Montparnasse and Gueulemer planned to remain near Thénardier, which meant he would be outnumbered. Should he yell for the others to come down when midnight approached? That would undo everything he tried to set up. Perhaps he should wait and pray that he would remain undiscovered. Thénardier would surely grow anxious when there would be no Valjean. He may then send the others up. Yes, this would be a better plan. The two Patron-Minette members would walk into Chabouillet’s trap and he would be free to dispose of Thénardier. Patience, Javert reminded himself. He must not give into his nerves now.
Just as his heart grew calm again, however, Thénardier cackled as if he suddenly spotted something highly amusing. The lack of other voices joining in told Javert that Montparnasse and Gueulemer were as confused as he was. Javert suppressed the urge to sneak a view from his hiding place. What was it that Thénardier suddenly found so funny?
He did not have time to ponder for long, for the answer came almost immediately after Thénardier regained his composure.
“Ah, but our plan is only good if we are dealing with a single old man, isn’t it? I do believe we need some modifications,” Thénardier said, and Javert was overcome with a dreadful feeing that this place was suddenly illuminated with only him left in the dark, and that Thénardier had seen through the shadows and was now speaking directly to him. “For who would’ve thought that an ex-con would enlist the help of the police?”
-
When they finished searching all the rooms on the second level, it was just after half past eleven.
As if on cue to help him decide the next course of action, Chabouillet heard voices downstairs. Thénardier’s voice was easily distinguishable. He could also make out two other voices.
“The Patron-Minette, they’re here,” Marcel whispered.
Chabouillet nodded. His earlier conjecture was correct. There was no one else in the upper levels. He didn’t know how long Thénardier would keep talking to his accomplices or how long he would be willing to wait until he realized Fauchelevent would not appear. But now was their chance to quickly check the third level for any sign of the girl.
“Quick, upstairs.” He turned to the gendarmes. “The others have entered and they are all downstairs. We will search for the girl on the third level. We no longer need to be stealthy and must hurry, but be careful still. If we find the girl, Marcel, watch over her. Otherwise, we will reconvene on this level. The two of you will stand ready by the staircase on the far side and I will take this staircase here. Be prepared to rush to the first level when the Patron-Minette attacks. The inspector will need reinforcement.”
Two voices piped up. “Yes, Monsieur.”
“There is another half an hour until midnight. That is how long we will have to search the third floor.” Chabouillet looked to ensure the gendarmes had understood. He nodded once, then gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
-
“A change of plan: we get rid of the coppers before we go find the old man. Fancy baiting some railles?”
“You bet, Boss!”
“Those damned roussins!”
Fear was Javert’s first reaction. Had he been discovered? But Thénardier and his men weren’t yet looking his way, so he pushed down his instinct to attack, for even if he could take out one of them through surprise, he would still be outnumbered two to one. He still needed the other two to get away from Thénardier.
His mind raced as the gang burst out in laughter. Azelma, then. In her attempt to get her father to abandon his plans, she must have let slip that the police was now involved. And why wouldn’t she? What she did was inconvenient for Javert, but entirely sensible as a daughter. What better way to deter a criminal by mentioning Inspector Javert?
Silently, he pulled out both his cudgel and his pistol.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Thénardier continued, “We should just shoot into the shadows and get rid of them now. But that wouldn’t be wise. For if the coppers have that old con’s money with them, I wouldn’t want the bank notes drenched in blood. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, no blood on the money!”
“Of course not!”
Javert hid further into the shadows, trying to look for a way of escape. There was only a handful of hiding places inside this building that was so devoid of furniture. If he came out now, then all would be lost. Yet if they began shooting indiscriminately, he would be hit.
“So what do we do, Boss?”
Thénardier gave no answer. There was a series of shuffing noises, then the sound of a flint being struck, and suddenly the place was alit with lanterns. Javert sank further back into the protruding wall, careful not to as much as breathe too loudly. He was barely concealed now that the shadows were gone.
“Now, we chat with our visitor.”
Confident steps first sounded away from him, then toward the back of the room. Javert gripped his weapons tighter. There weren’t many hiding places. He would soon be found. It was too early yet for Chabouillet to realize he needed to come down. He stifled a laugh bubbling up from his chest. So this was his end, caught like Absalom dangling at his place of death. It was fitting: Absalom was a traitor to both his fellow men and to the law. Just like him.
The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. He had been found.
“Ah, what an honor it is to have Inspector Javert himself grace us with his presence!”
The first thing Javert saw was a pistol aimed at him. The second, Thénardier’s face. Thénardier jerked his pistol in an upward motion that said come out, and under the circumstances, Javert could do nothing but comply. “The guillotine awaits you,” he spat. “You won’t get away this time, Thénardier.”
“Why, hello to you too, Inspector. I’m surprised that the Prefecture tolerates such rudeness in its officers.” He tilted his head toward the center of the floor. “Drop your weapons, then walk with your hands raised. Go stand over there. No tricks, Javert. Or I will shoot.”
Javert wondered briefly if he should risk the pistol’s chance of misfiring, but thought better of it. The cocking of the pistol had given the correct click. This time, he wouldn’t be so lucky.
Dropping his cudgel and pistol, he raised his hands above his head, rose from his crouching position, and walked.
“Oho! Inspector Javert, obeying my orders! Now this is a moment to savor. Too bad you won’t live long enough to remember this.”
“You will not live long enough to further break the law,” he snarled, and Thénardier only laughed.
“Inspector Javert, always droning on and on about the law! I must say, I absolutely won’t miss you when you’re gone. Good riddance, I say.” Thénardier’s eyes narrowed. “But first, let’s tend to business. Hand over the money. I know you have it, you’re here in that old criminal’s place—oh dear, was that a slip of tongue? You do know, don’t you, that Fauchelevent is a convict?”
Javert growled. “He’s a good man!”
“A convict, and he has you fooled!” Thénardier clapped his hands as he spoke, and Javert stood still. The random movements of a pistol waving about at him were more dangerous than when it was aimed at him with precision. Several long seconds passed before Thénardier’s hand was once again steady, but he was excited still. There was a gleam of utter glee in his beady eyes. “I did research, Inspector. Fauchelevent is really Jean Valjean. Does the name sound familiar to you? Ha! You’ve been helping a convict. Now hand over the money!”
“He’s a good man!” Javert shouted. He didn’t know why it mattered, now, to defend Valjean’s honor. Thénardier was not the sort to know goodness, and most certainly he would not know the power of a changed life. But seeing the pistol pointed at him, realizing that he was trapped of his own device by sending his reinforcements away, it felt significant somehow that he needed to declare the virtue of Jean Valjean before this truth would be lost to the world forever.
“Denial won’t get you any favors, Inspector. Let me guess: he had you feeling bad for him with his tale of a lost daughter, and you failed to do the proper research on the man’s identity. Oh! To think that I once thought you aren’t swayed by appearances! Just because someone looks gentlemanly and kind doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a rotten core. You’re just like the rest of them coppers. Oh, how I’m disappointed…”
“Shut it!” Javert yelled, and Thénardier gasped as he pretended to wipe away nonexistent tears, wiping away also all emotions from his face. It appeared that his patience was running out.
“The money,” Thénardier demanded, his voice cold and all traces of mock amusement gone. Javert felt the presence of two men approaching from behind, cutting off any chance of escape. He darted his eyes around the deserted place. So this was the end. As soon as he handed the money over—or spat his refusal and have the notes forcibly taken from him—he would become fodder to the pistol.
Javert allowed one last hope to flare in his heart. Perhaps Chabouillet would realize the error of his plan and would come to his aide. They never spoke of what should happen after the Secrétaire finished searching the upper levels. If he stalled, if he could wait until help would come…
“I want answers. Where is the girl?”
“Stalling, Inspector? It won’t help. We already know there are other coppers searching this building. And we’ve prepared quite a surprise for them, didn’t we, boys?” Laughter, or what passed as sounds of amusement, assaulted his ears from behind. Something wasn’t right. The voices were deep. Too deep. And for the duller one, his earlier words were too coherent… “They won’t make it down here until it’s too late. Haven’t you realized yet, Javert, what you’re standing in?”
He looked down. Under the firelight, he could see it. The floor was wet. And it wasn’t water. Horrified, he spun around by instinct, seeking to find a way to the door. He was met with two faces.
Jeering at him was a thin, propery dressed man—the former head of the Patron-Minette—and a tall, dark-skinned man.
They were not Montparnasse and Gueulemer.
-
By the time he broke into a third empty room, Chabouillet was resigned to the possibility that they would not be able to recover the girl tonight. It was consistent with Javert’s deduction and his own conclusion drawn from reading Thénardier’s second note to M. Fauchelevent. He paused at a window to check his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes had past.
“Next room.” He motioned to the boys standing guard outside the door. He heard them kick open the door of the adjacent chamber.
“Monsieur le Secrétaire!” one of them shouted, and he rushed toward the door. The voice was shocked, with a hint of alarm but no panic—so neither gendarme was in danger. Could they have found the girl?
Whatever he was expecting, whether Mademoiselle Fauchelevent or some other hostages that the Patron-Minette had captured, it wasn’t this.
“To the first level! Now!” Chabouillet barked.
He didn’t need a second glance. Even darkness couldn’t mask what he knew to be two dead bodies. The moonlight shining through the winow showed him what he needed to know: if someone had deposited Montparnasse and Gueulemer here, then the two other men downstairs with Thénardier could not possibly be them.
-
“You think I didn’t see that boy’s naked ambition, that good-for-nothing Montparnasse? I get rid of my rivals, Inspector.”
“Ah, do not think me stupid. I know when to bring backup. Babet here, now he’s a loyal one. And here’s the creole. Homère Hogu, this is Inspector Javert. Have you met?”
“Oh, Gueulemer? A pity. But a battle must have its casualties, don’t you agree?”
“Enough! Where’s my money? I don’t suppose that Jean Valjean is foolish enough to send you here without the ransom?”
“Why should I be quiet? Oho! Is what I’m thinking true? Inspector Javert, hiding a criminal in secret? So you do know Jean Valjean’s true identity!”
“Now hand over the money, or I drop the lantern!”
-
Fire. Fire everywhere. What words he could make out from the first floor were now swallowed by the crackling of dry wood being licked up in flames. Chabouillet could hear Thénardier’s cackles—they were getting farther away—and the handful of pistol shots that punctuated the air let him know that the boys had managed to make it ouside and were engaged in scuffles with the Patron-Minette. Someone screamed. The voice was thick and deep. His heart eased a little. Not Georges or Marcel.
“Javert?” he shouted. He couldn’t see anything. Smoke was spreading toward him, advancing from the stairways on both sides. There was no way down; the first level was engulfed entirely in flames. He looked out the windows. The second level wasn’t too high above-ground. He must jump out now, or he would be overtaken by the fire.
“Javert!” he tried again. No answer. Could sound penetrate the dense smoke and roaring flames? He pulled out his cudgel and broke a windowpane. Glancing down, he could see Georges and Marcel taking down a Patron-Minette member—Babet, if he wasn’t mistaken, so Thénardier had recruited him back into his fold—and a larger, dark-skinned man was lying in a pool of blood, groaning. Further away from the building, a white-haired man had Thénardier pressed to the ground by the shoulders with one hand. The man then landed a blow to Thénardier’s skull using his other hand, merciless and sure and with the ferocity of a provoked bear. He recognized him at once: Fauchelevent. Suddenly, the mild-mannered gentleman transformed into the very definition of hatred in the blink of an eye, and Chabouillet shuddered, disbelieving. Could even the rage of a parent boil over into such violence? Fauchelevent struck Thénardier once more, and this time, the struggling man went limp. The old man then rose to his feet, lifting Thénardier and swinging his body over his shoulder as if he weighed but a single stone. His steps were sure but for a slight drag of his right foot as he approached Georges and threw Thénardier down next to the injured Patron-Minette member. Chabouillet frowned. A man of his age, with such strength and physical prowess…. A criminal. Thénardier’s voice rang in his ears. Jean Valjean… true identity.
He knew that name, remembered a very stubborn inspector harping on the escaped convict’s case, insisting that Jean Valjean was alive and evading the law. Could it be? Could Fauchelevent be Jean Valjean? Did Javert find him at last?
At the thought of the inspector, Chabouillet yelled out his name again. No answer still. He coughed, his lungs seizing with the sudden inhalation of smoke. He couldn’t wait any longer. Stepping onto the window sill, Chabouillet looked to the ground below. Babet was down and Georges was in the process of cuffing him. Marcel was yelling. He followed the boy’s eyes. Fauchelevent had ripped Thénardier’s clothing and wrapped it around his mouth and nose; he then stripped Babet of his fine outercoat—with such force that the sleeves ripped through the manacles—and blanketed himself with it. Then, without even a moment of hesitation, Fauchelevent ran toward the building, toward the fire.
“Stop it, Monsieur! You’re going to get yourself killed!” Marcel shouted. Chabouillet’s heart sank. So it was true. Javert was still inside…
Heat was creeping up from behind him. He must jump now. Javert perishing was already a great loss to the Prefecture, he must not also die in the line of duty.
He glanced to his right. Not far from the window, there was a tree.
Chabouillet jumped.