Monsieur Madeline was saddened by the loss of one of his factory girls, Fantine. The foreman had sent the girl away and stated that she was a lightskirt. Apparently keeping a bit of business on the side, so to speak. When asked to explain himself, he had enthusiastically described the fight that occurred before and after Madeline left to attend to mayoral duties.
He ran a hand through his greying curls, trying to remember the face of that particular girl.
He just couldn't have that in his factory though, with the impressionable young ladies that worked there as well. To make sure, he interviewed some of the older women, and they reinforced exactly what the foreman said.
Madeline could provide the tools, the means of lifting oneself out of the heap, but he couldn't force one to do so. He could only hope that one day she would see that her choice wasn't the right one.
Walking around the workbenches, he inspected the rough-hewn wood. He picked and collected stray beads here and there, cupping them in his left hand. The cool jet black beads quickly warmed on his exposed flesh as he scuffled around the floor gathering more of its lost company.
A bauble was kicked up by Madeline's boot and skittered over to the foreman's desk. He strode over and getting on his hands and knees, snatched up the errant piece. Wiping the cross on his coat, he inspected it for any dents, finding none.
He put the pieces into his coat pocket, saving them to practice with later. He needed to add another design to his wares, and he would experiment later that night.
In the silence of the work floor, the receiving hall's door could be heard, the opening bravado for an exchange between a deep baritone and a higher pitch accompaniment. The new inspector was here.
His hand found its way back into the pocket of his greatcoat and tumbled the beads between his fingers.
Click. Click. Click.
His gaze instantly became transfixed upon the window as old worries pecked their way into his brain.
They said that this new inspector was extremely competent and fierce in his duty to uphold justice. A guffaw had popped from the messenger's lips when he came two weeks ago. He quickly explained he had first-hand experience of this particular man's tactics, but stared at his shoes the entire time.
A fellow wrong-doer.
And this concerned Madeline. Everyone agreed that the town needed an addition to their small police force to protect the growing population. A man with experience in the great city of Paris, as well as his vast credentials, was a blessing.
But Madeline had enhanced this town, and with one wrong move, he could eventually destroy it.
A small, imperceptible whoosh followed by the staccato of military boots fell upon the Mayor's ears, pulling him out of his reverie.
He turned.
"Monsieur le Maire, good afternoon."
The newcomer's dark hair, now peppered with strands of grey, brightened as it passed through a patch of light.
Madeline's heart began pumping madly. It felt like someone had plucked it out of his chest and was now fisting it with both of their hands.
That strong face, a little more weathered than before, still displayed that visage of aloofness.
His tongue battled the dry domain of his mouth, trying valiantly to return the greeting, but his lips only twitched into a passable smile. He held out his hand.
"Monsieur Madeline, at your disposal."
The man's uniform was different, but it was impeccable.
A strong grasp seized his unprotected hand in an exchange of shared greeting. The inspector took two steps back.
My name's Javert.
Monsieur Madeline's new colleague.
Jean Valjean's old guardsman.
Do not forget my name.
"I have only heard of the good deeds you have brought to this small town," continued the man, posture crisp and erect, "but seeing it first-hand, no one else could have done better." With a small nod, Javert brought his gaze squarely upon Valjean's blank face. He looked nowhere else.
Silence reigned for a few seconds as both men assessed each other.
The air tasted stale upon Valjean's tongue, as he regulated his breath.
Belatedly, he responded with a muted thank you. When Javert still did not move his eyes, Valjean casually put his hands in his pockets.
His throat worked around the jumble of words he wanted to say.
"Yes, well, all I did was to help bring new industry to Montreuil-sur-Mer, so you cannot give me all the credit." He gave a small shrug as he issued a small laugh. "It is our townsfolk that supply the work ethic and drive that keeps my business running, so you should thank them."
"Monsieur le Maire is correct in that regard, but you ensure their success."
Click. Click. Click.
The warm beads ambled over Valjean's hand as it spasmed in his pocket.
Javert's face had not changed.
"Would you like a tour of the workfloor?" He swept his arm out.
"If you permit it."
And with that same nod, Javert began looking around Valjean's factory. He studied the overhead ceiling and the balcony that oversaw the workers below. His boots scrubbed the floor, looking for traces of dirt amongst the flags.
Sharp eyes glanced at the numerous trays upon the tables, taking in the neat organization of the tools and materials. Valjean, being a meticulous man himself, made sure all his workers kept their work spaces tidy. Pliers, clippers, and pencils found their homes in ceramic cups, while beads and spools where ordered in compartmentalized trays.
He did not touch anything.
Valjean had followed Javert's perusal at arm's length but nearly collided with the man as he suddenly halted at the end of the last row. Javert spun upon his heel and regarded Valjean once more.
"This town can do no wrong with a man such as yourself in office," His rigid stance broke as he indicated the tables, "Your factory runs in an organized and efficient manner."
Only the slight widening of his eyes exposed his bemusement at hearing such praise issue forth from Javert. The very man who exclaimed him to be a dangerous addition to society. The permeating anxiety that electrified his limbs was subdued.
His palms escaped from the confides of his pockets to wipe themselves on his coat.
"If I may inquire?"
A nod from Valjean allowed him to continue his thought.
"How do you run your business?"
Valjean clasped his hands before pulling several beads from his pocket. He stepped close enough to allow Javert to review the small specimens.
"I found an easier and more cost-effective way to manufacture and produce these jet beads as well as the bracelets that use them." When Javert made no move to examine the beads closer, Valjean abruptly tossed them back into his pocket.
"Yet they remain of extremely good quality."
"Yes, I would not discredit a town known for its beadwork by introducing shoddy craftsmanship," responded Valjean, gut clenching.
"Nor would one expect it from the man who saved the children of the police chief." Javert, who was currently examining the foreman's desk under the windowpane, threw a glance over his broad shoulder.
Valjean averted his eyes, fixing his stare upon the wall opposite.
"I did what any man would have done," he muttered, ears warm. Luckily, his hair was long enough to hide the evidence.
Javert turned a bit to scrutinize the esteemed mayor further. Hands opened and closed slowly as he remained rigid, save for the small flush that could be perceived under his white collar.
"You said that they produce bracelets here?"
And with that, Valjean relaxed the hold upon his body, and released a small huff of breath from his slightly open lips. The cold of autumn prickled his neck where the heat from before had threatened to strangle him.
Valjean coughed once.
"Actually, as you can see, this is the floor where the women string the beads to create the bracelets. The men are housed in a different wing, and they are the ones that sand and polish the beads. They are kept separate for reasons of virtue and integrity."
"An excellent manoeuvre," lent Javert, "Prevention is key to reducing future problems and crimes."
Valjean winced.
"Your skill in managing your business has been a welcome asset to the town since you became mayor," said Javert, "It has been proclaimed to me by no less than five people ever since I have arrived."
It was minute movement, insignificant in others, but upon this man, it was a strange sight to see.
He smiled. Not a smirk, or a triumphant grin, but one of those genuine smiles that connotes an interchange of shared meaning.
"The pleasure is mine, Inspector. I have heard of your own accomplishments and dutiful nature, and have been awaiting your arrival ever since."
Javert blinked a couple of times.
"Our town will be much safer with such a devoted policeman on the force."
Javert cocked his head to the side subtly, brown eyes considering him.
Gripping the piece of furniture closest to him, Valjean willed his façade to remain neutral.
"Is something the matter?" he queried.
"Nothing is wrong," replied Javert, abruptly. "Though I hope it will not be remiss to point out the slovenly state of your overseer's workspace."
Looking at the foreman's cluttered desk, he made a note to rebuke the man for his sloppiness. One cannot expect those under you to uphold standards you yourself do not hold!
Bits of broken jewellery inhabited the area, alongside personal items, and tools of various sorts. Papers were strewn about, including a half-finished report of Fantine's dismissal. Which was due on his desk today.
Valjean frowned.
He gave the desk one final glance before alighting upon a set of beads, protruding from beneath a mess of unclean quills and rags. Picking it up, he realized it was the model rosary he discussed with the foreman earlier that week.
He must have forgotten to retrieve it.
He pulled the rosary out from its constraints and examined the orderly pattern of the beadwork he had designed himself. The beads on this one were cut sharply, more like rough gemstones rather than smooth glass. He had liked the naturalness of the flawed rock and refused to have these polished completely smooth. Since it was a sample, there was no need to make this one perfect.
Also, unlike standard rosaries, this one had a connection piece that brought the two ends together before it reached the apex in which the Crucifixion dangled. The gems flowed effortlessly across his fingers as they sought the piece that unified the whole.
The connector was a gift from a traveller that needed a place of refuge in the night. After offering a room in the hospital Valjean funded, the man sought to repay his kindness with a token he had crafted when in his youth.
It was a minuscule icon with a carved likeness of Saint Michael, made of silver alloy. Interestingly enough, it had three rings instead of the usual two for a bracelet or one for a necklace. The man explained that the centre ring was for an extension, to hang a figure of the Lord. The other two, however, were to connect two halves of a whole.
Like a clasp? Valjean had asked.
No, the clasp is in the back, else why would the Lord hang here? the man had laughed.
No. Those two links bring the piece back together here in the front. They represent the binding of two souls before God.
Rubbing the engraving, Valjean remembered the sad look on the old man's face when asked why he never had completed the ornament he described.
I lost the need to.
Closing his hand around the heated bits of metal and jet he regarded his new colleague once more.
"Thank you, I will be speaking to my man-of-affairs soon about this matter. I can see that he has been falling behind in his duties and I cannot have such problems within my force."
Javert nodded and clicked his heels.
"I must ask my leave Monsieur le Maire, as I am to report at precisely 5 o'clock to check in with my new police commissioner."
"Before you go, take this." Valjean held out his left hand, palm upwards. The silver crucifix gleamed in the cup of his hand.
Javert remained exactly where he was, head down as he observed the gift. His nostrils flared as if scenting out a threat.
Valjean stepped over, hand still outstretched.
"I made this. Here, it's for you, Javert."
Slowly, from the protection of his body, Javert reached out and removed the rosary, the covered grip upon bare hand once more.
He ran his gloved fingers over the beads. Their sharp contours and glassiness complimented the dark lustre of the leather. He studied the charms before enclosing them within his grasp. He pulled himself once more into his customary stature.
"I am honoured to serve under a man such as yourself, Monsieur le Maire."
Javert bowed so that the crown of his head was level to that of Valjean's.
"Even if he has a bit of dust upon his person."
Glancing down, Valjean finally noticed the streaks of grey that assaulted his trousers as he groped around for lost beads on the floor.
When he was done slapping the dirt off his slacks, he stood up as Javert removed his right hand from his inner breast pocket.
With a wave, Javert excused himself from the factory floor.