Tone of twelve in the great gaol of Toulon.

He strides like a shadow, like a wisp of a phantom, back straight, arms crossed, the dark of his eyes and all identifying features hidden by the hat that he wears low across his forehead. His chin is tucked into his cravat as if in protection against the cold, his posture rigid and erect and almost arrogant with that humble arrogance that is so remarkable in fanatics. The stones upon which he treads are his, and his boots are thin enough in the soles that he could have walked blind through the treacherous pathways of Toulon and known exactly where it was that he stood. This walkway, this archway, this cell, this ground, all of it belongs under the sovereign power of the Law, and as the Law's servant, they are also his. He knows every passageway and every hiding place, as if Toulon is in him as he is in Toulon, and there is no escaping the blackguard, the phantom.

How many have started at that shadow, that unstoppable tread that outraces even Death itself? When the earth is at a boil, and Death has long since died in his perpetual slumber, still would those survivors clinging to life on the edge of Humanity's failings hear the tread of those leaden boots upon the flagstones of Toulon. Those that he seeks out wait, for few would run, understanding the terrier's obsession for the chase that dwells within the heart of the phantom, and the contrary feline pleasure in outstretching his claws just far enough that his prey would bolt for the clear. It was then, after the starting, and perhaps then, when his prey was run to ground, that his quarry would glimpse the details of that sinister figure by moonlight. His back would be straight and he would be silhouetted with the faint light of the stars behind him, the stars that watched so much, and said so little. The dark eyes would flash in that face that now shone with the terrible gentility of an angel, and the cudgel that he carries would seem not a cudgel but a sword, sweeping down to smite the wicked of the earth.

Woe be to the poor creatures that saw him then.

This is the way of the phantom, the wolf that bares its throat before the altar of the truth of Man. But even this man, the most loyal guard-dog and the purest of miscreants, retains the wildness in his blood.

And even he, for all his striving, will fall.

Better then, to have seen him in the day. In the day, he is a still a Gypsy child, thin for his age, upright, and of stone. His eyes are steady but not a little afraid when he thinks no one is watching him. The best of the convicts remember how he was at the first in Toulon, and how his name had been Etienne. His strikes had been half-hearted, then. But something in the Gypsy boy had hardened, and his first name had been forgotten, tossed away like a coat that he had no use for. The strikes that he gave now were strikes to the deserving and he counted them in a measured tone devoid of either mercy or hate.

The lash would fall regardless if the crime had been committed, and it would fall without the sting of hatred behind it. Twenty lashes and then the whip would be withdrawn, and he would fetch water for the recumbent himself, not out of fondness but out of necessity.

They must keep them alive in this hell before their procession into the next one.

First the lash, and then the water, and finally the makeshift infirmary, if he had grievously mistaken his force. But that happened rarely, and through the hatred and the fear that made them little better than animals some of the convicts began to bear him a kind of grudging respect.

For he is fair.

He is the balancer of the scales. He does not lie, and he does not tolerate the tellers of lies. He joins no guards in their carousing, is mediate in his punishment, and trustworthy in his actions. He does only what the Law commands, whether that is for good or for ill, and that rebellious heart that pulsates beneath his uniform is besides the matter. The Law is his saviour, love, and God. What does it matter what views he might possess in that most servile of hearts? What does it matter what the Gypsy boy thinks good or thinks ill? He is not an authority on the nature of good and evil, nor is he even educated. All of what he considers his meagre gifts are laid out for a single purpose, that he might serve the Law.

But what truly of this gypsy boy, this boy that becomes the phantom? What remnants of this fearful, loving heart exists when he has run his prey to ground?

Embody again those trembling wretches that see the demon, that foaming hell-hound with the tread of Death himself, close in upon them. Remember again that lupine smile, and those eyes that are serene as the moon, as an innocent Madonna, in their convictions. What traces of Etienne could you find? There, in the darkness, the glimpses of that face, revealing itself from shadow like the flash of a fish in the deep-a nose, wide and flattened like a muzzle of a beast, a structured jaw, a forbidding brow-a ghastly vision! But the eyes-his eyes are always so lost before the cudgel comes down, as if for an instant he remembers what he was, and what he has become.

Etienne is dead.

So it is Javert then, the Gypsy of Toulon.

It may have surprised the hapless wretches that he catches at their sport, but he is still a man, and like a man retires and sleeps. Not a prisoner save for one, much later in his life, would have confessed that they thought of him outside of his duties at all-if you would have asked an average prisoner where the Gypsy retired, he would have expressed incredulity, thinking perhaps that he vanishes into air, or disappears into the stones. What else would such a creature do when there was no longer any use for him? He is not any manner of man, but a phantom, an elemental force. Who knew where Death hangs up his scythe after the evening's reaping is done? Where then, does a mountain seek to lay its head?

Observe there as the huntsman throws open the door, returning from his night shift in Toulon. He is tall and broad-shouldered, and upon the cudgel there is a matting of hair, no doubt from some hapless head. In his other hand, he carries his hat, which is battered but well cared for, and his dark hair, tied fiercely to the back of his neck, gleams like the head of a seal breaking water. It has been raining, and the greatcoat is soaked through, drops of water sparkling in the wool. The dark eyes are shrouded, his posture erect. There, with the rain behind him, he might be some immovable Titan, or some unknowable Angel Michel, back from the edge of the world and retribution.

Observe closer, as the figure steps into the dim room and begins to light a candle, which spreads its feeble light over his surroundings. It is a spartan room containing only the essentials: a bed, a trunk at its foot for storing belongings, a desk, a chair, an end-table and off to the corner, a washbasin and mirror. All of this furniture is somewhat worst for wear-the trunk is scoured in several different places, the chair leans precariously-but it has all been scrubbed to the point of fanaticism and gleams tiredly in the light of the narrow window and candle . The door has been shut behind him, all pretense and all masks have been set away. The broad shoulders sag with exhaustion, and the hands as they grip the candle tremble.

He is a man again.

The phantom-turned-mortal places the candle by the side of his bed upon the end-table. He stands with his back facing the door, and removes his boots and his greatcoat, taking several things from its pockets which he puts methodically, one by one, upon his desk. Here is a ledger, with the names and information of the convicts under his care written neatly, and a stick of writing lead. Here is a wooden snuff-box, which he places beside the ledger. Finally, he removes from his pockets a handsome brass pocket-watch and he places this beside the snuff-box. Finished, he folds the greatcoat and drapes it over the trunk to dry.

He readies himself for bed, folding the rest of his sodden clothes to dry in the air as well, and, in a night-shirt, his hair untied, unfolds the single blanket and crawls into its warmth. Adjusting himself until his position is perfect, he at last closes his eyes and falls into a restless, troubled sleep.

You have been granted a closer look than any other of the Angel Saint Michel, the plague of hypocrites, the phantom of Toulon.

Tell yourself, then, that this is not a man.