Warnings:
*This fiction depicts a relationship with a huge age difference. If it isn't your cup of tea, please move to another work without reading. There will also be some smut. Be warned.
*I am using book canon instead of movie or play. Javert is not handsome and Cosette is not blonde.
*English is my third language and I have no beta yet, but I learn when someone points out my grammatical mistakes. Please feel free to do so :)
*Rating is for later chapters.
Cosette's father took her to Jardin du Luxembourg every day. Raised in a convent, Cosette had had very few chances to observe other people: while she was in the convent school, she'd only met and spoken to the Sisters and the young girls raised in the nunnery on a daily basis, and uncle Fauchelevent and Cosette's father, both gardeners for the convent, were the only males present. In contrast, Jardin du Luxembourg was brimming with life: interesting outfits and attires; young men, young women, old men, old women, children, adult men, adult women; dogs, cats, birds, horses and carts to look at. Women in fancy gowns, men in handsome uniforms. Beggars rarely came here, the police saw to that, but Cosette had seen them too: Paris was brimming with them, and it was almost impossible to keep them out from any public place. Their home at Rue l'Ouest was close by: here, life brimmed, bubbled and boiled over.
They sat on a certain bench every day: they'd talk or simply enjoy the sun and the people and the company of the other: the deep affection between a father and his daughter. And Cosette would look at beautiful gowns: her father had bought her her own dresses, gloves, hats and silk shoes to replace the bleak uniform she'd worn at the convent.
The days were beautiful and she knew her father looked very handsome and respectable in his National Guardman's uniform. She was, indeed, very proud to share these walks with him, though she never said so: pride was a sin, and father was strictly against sin. Father and their servant Toussaint had told her she'd grown very beautiful.
There, one day, Cosette saw him. The Man.
The first thing she saw was the uniform. A high-ranking policeman in a fine-fitting uniform: it was immaculately cut, pristine and well-kept. His boots shone, and he wore his officer's hat. He was very tall, and every movement exuded power and confidence.
His hair was dark, slightly greying on the sides, and covered his forehead, pressed down by his hat so it reached his dark eyebrows. His face was square-shaped; his cheeks were covered by large, slightly greying sideburns, and his nose was very flat, with large nostrils; he had strong a jaw; he was older, though probably not quite as old as father — having had so little contact with other people, Cosette couldn't estimate his age. He was not a beautiful man, but he was very powerful, very tall, and very confident.
Cosette looked at him, her curiosity piqued: and then the policeman looked at her and seemed to freeze as their eyes met.
Cosette saw the man's eyes widen as they looked at each other, and his jaw fell slightly open. He'd stopped walking: he'd stopped moving completely. He looked like someone utterly amazed and stunned, and his eyes seemed like they were drilling a hole inside her soul.
Cosette dropped her gaze on the gravel path: surely it was a sin to look at a man like this? Was she behaving badly, displaying ill manners? Perhaps he was appalled? She dared to look up again through her long eyelashes and found him there: he was still staring at her. Cosette lowered her eyes once more, her rosy cheeks flushing.
Perhaps the policeman wasn't looking at her, but rather someone behind her? Or was something perhaps wrong with her outfit? Had she made a fool of herself in some way?
Cosette looked again. The man was still there.
"Cosette?" her father said.
"Yes, father?"
"Do you think we could head back home?" he asked. "I rather think I have had enough sun for tonight, and I wish to drop a few sous to the beggars at Église Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas."
"Yes, father. Of course," Cosette said, and rose to her feet. Father escorted her away, but a quick glance back told her that the policeman was still there. And he was still staring at them, his eyes following them.
It took Inspector Javert quite a while to get his body under control. In his fifty years upon this earth he'd never lost control like this. He'd been furious before, of course, outraged and raving, but it'd been different. This was something new, something unexpected. Uncontrollable, undeniable.
He'd only meant to stroll through Jardin du Luxembourg on a beautiful day, meant to see that no beggars and thieves were bothering the decent people strolling there. He hadn't meant to look at anyone, but she'd drawn his eyes: long, chestnut brown hair with streaks of gold running through it; graceful pose worthy of a queen on her tall, lithe frame; dark blue eyes surrounded by impossibly long eyelashes; graceful hands in small gloves, rosy cheeks, tiny feet in beautiful silk shoes. Well-dressed, a picture of a beautiful young maiden. She was fifteen, definitely no more than sixteen, and breathtakingly beautiful: but then she'd looked up, looked the frightening Inspector Javert straight in his eyes, and time itself seemed to stop.
Very few people dared to look him in the eyes: those who did, usually cowered in front of him. This girl, however, had looked with gentle and soft curiosity and something more, and it had taken the air from his lungs: his chest had suddenly felt so very tight, his heart had tried to flee from his chest, slamming against his ribcage furiously. All sounds vanished and everything else blurred to inconsequential around him. She'd averted her eyes and Javert had realised he missed the contact: then she looked up again, and his ears had begun to buzz.
He had no idea of how long he'd stood there, just staring at her, until the old man she'd been accompanying had risen up and departed, taking the beautiful angel with him. Javert hadn't paid any attention to the man, only nothing he wore the uniform of the National Guard: his whole being was concentrated on the girl. Only after she'd gone he shook his head, amazed, disconcerted, shaken to the core.
He hadn't followed her: it probably would have been indecent to approach her, a complete stranger sitting innocently in a park with someone... a father? A grandfather? A guardian?
Javert managed to walk home, although he had to stop several times, for his knees felt weak and his hands shook. He wondered who she was, what was she called, would she be there tomorrow? Was he developing a cold, perhaps, feeling the way he did? Falling ill all of a sudden?
Poor Inspector Javert had lived fifty years without feeling love. Unloved by parents, feeling no affection for anyone or anything but the law. Now he'd been struck by a love, infected by the gaze of a young innocent girl, and poor Javert had no defence against that: he could not even truly recognise what ailed him.
For Inspector Javert had just fallen helplessly in love.
The next day Inspector Javert found himself back at Jardin du Luxembourg, but she wasn't there. He walked through the garden several times before he departed for his work, returning later only to find the park bench empty. He returned the next day, and the next, and became increasingly sad and ill-tempered, though he couldn't quite define why exactly it was so important to see the girl with the deepest blue eyes and long lashes.
The next day Cosette's father had hired a carriage to take them to Jardin des Plantes instead of their usual stroll to Jardin du Luxembourg, though the latter was close by. The next day father insisted on returning to Jardin des Plantes to see the ménagerie: Cosette found the animals fascinating, but she would have liked to have seen if the police officer in his uniform would return. On the third day father hired the carriage once more and insisted that while he was too tired to walk in a park, they could drive around a bit. From that day forward father didn't wish to stroll in Jardin du Luxembourg at all, and took Cosette to either on a ride in a carriage or to Jardin des Plantes, and Cosette was disappointed.
A week later father had them move to their things from Rue de l'Ouest to Rue Plumet once more. The house at Rue Plumet had a lovely, secluded and untended garden behind a large stone fence: the place was secluded and silent. No visitors came here; no letters or papers arrived to the letter box on the Rue Babylone-side.
Father then took her to Champ de Mars, where they would sit and walk. Cosette did not like it as much as she liked Jardin du Luxembourg, and she did not see the police officer in his handsome uniform, though she would have liked to have seen him, if only just for a while. A few times they drove around in a rented carriage, even though it was expensive, sometimes passing Jardin du Luxembourg but never stopping there.
And in a rented carriage Cosette saw the police officer the next time.
As weeks and then months went by, Javert had grown restless and uneasy. He'd never found great pleasure in dining, but now he only ate when he had to. He hadn't taken any snuff for weeks: it had been his only vice, and he'd taken it only when he felt very satisfied with himself: now he never seemed to feel satisfied. He dreamt of the girl in Jardin du Luxembourg and walked through the park daily, though in vain: and every time he did, he promised he wouldn't go again, only to return the next day.
One day, months since he'd seen the beautiful girl who wouldn't stop haunting his dreams, he was walking from Jardin du Luxembourg when a carriage drove past him and some instinct drew his eyes to it. And in that open carriage sat the beautiful girl he'd seen so long ago: her lovely brown hair, her lovely deep blue eyes staring at him, and that delicate hand in a glove clutching the side of the carriage as she looked straight at him. The carriage had already almost passed him, and the girl turned in her seat to look at him as the carriage swept past, keeping her lovely eyes on him. Javert's feet walked towards the carriage of their own volition: he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. Next to her in the carriage sat a white-haired old man, but he was looking the other way, and before Javert thought of looking at anything but the girl, the carriage had turned a corner and was gone.
He could have ran after it, but how could he have justified it, chasing a civilian carriage on foot because the most beautiful girl in all of France happened to sit in it? He was an officer of the law: he couldn't chase an innocent civilian like that.
The carriage had been a rental carriage, and for a police officer it was easy to find the stable and the driver. The man, when questioned, remembered the white-haired man and the pretty girl with brown hair: he told Javert he'd picked them up and dropped them off close to Eglise Saint-Sulpice, and Javert began to patrol in that area, hoping that he'd see her there.
The carriage driver, a man named Maurice, sneered when Javert had departed. He hated Javert with all his heart: the deplorable man had once chided Maurice for being very drunk on the job on a cold winter day — but winters could be mercilessly chilling when a man drove a carriage for hours around Paris. The horse could run for warmth, but the driver could only sit in the bad weather and freeze, and wine kept a man warm. He'd also once arrested Maurice's best friend, who'd been so drunk he'd fallen off his carriage, and the man had been heavily fined so that his family had to go hungry for days on end. No, Maurice had no sympathy for the cold and cruel Inspector Javert, and so he'd lied and sent the sneak to a wrong direction. Maurice had driven the white-haired gentleman and his sweet daughter before, and had always been paid fairly for his effort. Maurice would never assist a police.
In the darkness, Marius Pontmercy clutched one of the two pistols given to him by Inspector Javert. He'd debated long and hard whether or not he'd help the old man and his daughter, who were threatened by his shady neighbours, the Jondrette-family. In the end he'd ran to the police, deciding that he couldn't live with his conscience if the old philanthropist with the pretty daughter would be hurt, possibly even killed. He'd recognised the pair from Jardin du Luxembourg, though they'd stopped coming there months ago. The girl was very beautiful and well-dressed, and the old man looked very decent. They'd come to the criminal family bearing wares and promised them money to pay their rent: instead, the criminals intended to rob them. Marius didn't want anyone hurt, and though the Jondrettes were without a doubt poor and miserable, wrong was wrong and right was right.
Marius had expected the old man to arrive alone, for the hour was late and he'd said he'd take his daughter home, but to his shock the young girl was with him: wasn't he supposed to escort her home? The girl was carrying clean bandages and blankets as well as a large loaf of bread. "Would you please let me see the poor, injured girl? I've brought fresh bandages for her," she requested: she had an extremely soft and sweet voice.
"My daughters are outside looking for something to eat, mademoiselle, but they'll return shortly," Jondrette replied smoothly.
The Jondrettes were obviously shocked to see the girl return, but the husband quietly sent the wife to send away their carriage, and various other men entered the room, all of them obviously with bad intentions. Then, very suddenly, the criminals attacked the old man and his daughter, and in a matter of moments they were caught and subdued: the old man seemed strong, but the girl was helpless, and one of the men threatened to hurt the girl unless the man gave up: he'd picked up a chair and was about to hit one of the men with it, but when they threatened his daughter, the old man looked desperate and the chair fell from his hands that had gone limp. One of the men hit the brown-haired girl on the face when she screamed and struggled against them. The others were quickly tying the old, white-haired man down.
Marius shook himself out of the shocked state and aimed the other pistol to the roof. He pulled the trigger, and the gunshot made his ears ring in the small room.
The men and Jondrette's wife in the second room had frozen in their tracks: in a matter of moments the police came barging in. Some of the criminals tried to flee through the window in the back, but they fought each other to get out first, and the voices outside indicated that the way was also blocked. Then Inspector Javert himself strolled in through the door, laughing at the criminals, who tried to take a defensive formation, armed with their various metallic weapons. Javert seemed to find it all quite humorous, until his his eyes landed on the girl, who'd fallen on the floor as the man who'd been holding her down let go. She'd turned her face to Javert, and Javert's face suddenly grew very pale.
Javert could barely believe his eyes. He could, in fact, barely breathe: he'd dreamed of her for months every night, seen her face in front of his eyes when he'd tried to work, woken up hot and wanting and miserable; sometimes he'd woken up shouting in helpless ecstasy into the empty room as his body reacted on its own, and now, quite suddenly and unexpectedly she was there, on the floor of the filthy room, an angry red mark on her face where someone had hit her hard, and a few tears in her frightened blue eyes. Her lip was bleeding, and the world turned red in Javert's eyes.
Thénardier — or Jondrette, as he preferred to call himself now — aimed a pistol at him and pulled the trigger, but Javert could not have cared less: the pistol wouldn't work, and Javert did not fear death. He only had eyes for her: the most beautiful girl, the perfect, lovely being was in the room, and she was hurt. His eyes held hers as he ordered his men to restrain the ruffians: he approached her, took her hands and helped her up carefully, holding her like the most precious treasure on Earth. His men were restraining the Patron-Minette; Thénardier's wife put up a fuss, but Javert could do nothing but hold those small, lovely hands and look into those beautiful, beautiful eyes. Her lips were close to his, and everything in him screamed for him to kiss them, even though her lower lip was red with blood.
Javert wanted to wipe off some of her tears with his fingers, mesmerized by the colour of her blue eyes, but touching her face would have been indecent. He wanted to twine his fingers into her thick and silky hair. He could smell the sweet scent of her, and he struggled to hold propriety and not pull her into his arms, lest she be frightened. Though it wasn't exactly acceptable, he kept hold of her small hands, unable to let go.
"Are you all right, mademoiselle?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, monsieur, thank you," the girl replied, and Javert felt hot and cold shivers at the sound of her soft, sweet voice.
"They struck you," he could only say quietly. "Did they do anything else?"
"No, just that one strike," she replied, her face sombre and yet so very beautiful.
"May I ask your name, mademoiselle?" Javert asked quietly. He knew he should have concentrated on the arrest, and he knew he should have remembered something else, but right now nothing else seemed to matter: she was here, she was finally here, and she was so close, and he was touching her...
"Ah! my name is Cosette, Cosette Fauchelevent, monsieur," she replied.
"Cosette," Javert breathed reverently. "I am Inspector Javert. I am honoured to meet you, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."
She smiled at him: Javert thought he might do anything to have her smile again like that.
"Did we get them all?" Javert asked one of his men, aware that he ought to let her hands go, still utterly unable to do so.
"Yes, sir, quite a catch for one evening!" the man replied, smirking.
"Very well. Put handcuffs for them all and take them away. I shall escort this young lady and her father home. Cut his bindings loose. Monsieur Fauchelevent, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, please wait while I write my report." He allowed his thumb to caress her hand before he let it to slip from his grasp, and when she smiled, he could feel heat pooling from his toes to his face, where he could feel the skin underneath his sideburns flare hot. An inspector should most definitely not blush like a girl, not on duty and not when a pretty young girl was smiling at him. His trousers felt all too tight and warm.
Javert wrote the official report, but it took him an inordinate amount of time, because he simply could not keep his eyes on the paper: they seemed to wander to the beautiful girl of their own accord.
And instead of the usual 'thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump', his heart said 'Co-sette, Co-sette, Co-sette.'
Cosette waited patiently as the inspector finished his paperwork. The policemen and the gendarmes held and tied down the prisoners with chains and handcuffs and released father while the man, Inspector Javert, wrote down on his papers. Father held himself back and did not approach her, but Cosette felt quite safe here, although the prisoners frightened her and her face still stung and her lip throbbed in pain. Up close, Inspector Javert was much larger than she'd even though: he was tall, practically towering over her, and his hands were so big they had covered hers easily. He could have been considered quite intimidating, but she liked the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, and she'd liked the way his admittedly thin lips had twitched, like he'd wanted to smile but wasn't quite certain how one would go about doing such a thing.
Soon enough the policemen led the criminals away, and after giving some quick orders to his men, Inspector Javert approached her. Cosette wanted to offer him her hand again, but it would have been wholly inappropriate. The inspector stood close to her, though.
"I would now escort you and your daughter home, Monsieur Fauchelevent, if you would allow it", he said, addressing Cosette's father but keeping his eyes on her. He was now wearing a long coat over his uniform, but it suited him well.
"Thank you, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," father said quietly and with a very soft voice, "Although I'm sure you are a busy man, and you needn't bother. My daughter and I can easily take a carriage on our..."
"It is of no bother at all," the inspector interrupted quickly. "My work here is done for now. I'm afraid we did not catch the entire Patron-Minette, and several members are on the loose. I'm afraid they sent your carriage away, but I have sent one of my officers to secure one. I will escort you home and return tomorrow to take your statements. Do you need medical assistance?" Javert's eyes searched her face: he didn't even seem to look at her father.
"No, I'm fine, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," she replied. "I think rest and some ice will suffice."
"Good. May I assist you?" he offered, giving her his arm like a gentleman. Cosette placed her small hand on his arm, and he walked by her side, his posture rigid and straight, out of the dismal and dark rooms, through the corridor and out into the street. The policemen and the gendarmes were shoving and pushing the criminals into carriages especially built to transport prisoners: sturdy and large, reinforced and heavily guarded, unlike the smaller and lighter rental coaches Cosette and her father used frequently.
The coach for them was waiting. "Monsieur Fauchelevent, would you please give the driver your address," Inspector Javert said quietly, as he escorted her to the carriage and opened the door. Father quickly gave the address and slipped some coins to the driver, who nodded. Inspector Javert waited by the door, gesturing for her father to enter the carriage first when father hesitated for a moment. The inspector then supported her for balance as she stepped in, and entered behind her when she'd sat down safely next to her father.
Sitting down across them, Inspector Javert closed the door and the carriage took off. His eyes were still on her, relentlessly searching her face and eyes for something, though Cosette knew not what.
"Thank you for saving out lives, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," she said as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, and felt quite young and silly and awkward. Here was the man she'd only seen twice, only for a very short time each, and she really knew nothing about him, with the sole exception of his last name and rank. Was he married? Did he think she was beautiful? He was a very high-ranking police officer, Cosette guessed: and it was obvious that even the criminals who had captured her and father had feared him: all the other policemen and the gendarmes were very respectful of him, and the man who'd hit Cossette had cowered in front of him as he'd glared at him.
"I am glad we got there in time, and saddened that we reached you too late to prevent them front striking you, mademoiselle," Inspector Javert said gravely. "It was a dangerous place. Those men are hardened, cruel criminals with no remorse and no respect for the law. Like all lawbreakers, they'd have just as easily killed you as they struck you, and taken your life just as easily as they would have taken your money."
Cosette shivered.
"We got a fortunate tip merely hours before the deed," he continued. "A young neighbour overheard their plans of robbery and was able to warn us, as well as give us a warning by shooting a bullet with a pistol when they could be caught in the act. Unfortunately the tip was partially wrong, for we were only expecting one, male robbery victim."
"Father was going to take me home, but I felt pity for the poor, injured girl, and decided to bring her bandages and some clothes..." Cosette stopped, for Inspector Javert had turned to look at Cosette's father. His face had grown very pale and he stared at him mutely, his lips thin and closed, his eyes narrowing. Father looked back at him, and Cosette could have sworn something unsaid passed between them, but neither of the men said anything.
"Father?" Cosette tried in vain. "Monsieur l'Inspecteur?" The man looked at her instantly, his expression strange, his eyes disturbed. Just then the carriage halted with a jolt: they'd arrived to their destination, but neither of the two men made any movement to open the door.
"Father?" Cosette tried again, "I believe we're home?"
Father nodded. "Yes, Cosette," he said, his eyes still on Inspector Javert, who, after a small hesitation, slowly opened the door and exited the carriage. He gave his hand to Cosette and helped her out of the carriage, his eyes again searching her face or looking deep into her eyes: only this time he looked at father again and again, then returning to Cosette. He looked disconcerted and troubled. He told the driver to wait for him.
"Which floor do you live in?" Inspector Javert asked Cosette's father.
"Third floor," father answered.
"Very well... Mademoiselle Fauchelevent," the inspector said finally, "Monsieur Fauchelevent. I shall return in the morning. I bid you good night." He was still holding Cosette's hand, the one she'd extended to him when she'd risen from the carriage, and the inspector lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the air above it, bowing politely. Cosette felt her knees go weak, and she smiled at him again.
"Until tomorrow then, Monsieur l'Inspecteur," she said. Father did not comment: he nodded curtly, which was unusual, for father was usually very polite. Father guided her through the gate, greeting the familiar porter. Inspector Javert stood still, watching as they entered: father ushered Cosette inside.
Only when the door had closed behind them she realised that father had brought them to the Rue de l'Ouest. They moved apartments frequently, and they'd stayed at Rue de l'Ouest several times, but most of their things were now at Rue Plumet, along with their housekeeper Toussaint.
"Father, I think you made a mistake. We live at Rue Plumet now," Cosette said and giggled.
"Oh, so I have. I must be very tired, little one," father replied, massaging his eyes.
"Toussaint will be worried," Cosette remarked.
"She will. You shall rest for just a moment, and I shall gather some of our things. Then we'll leave."
"But Inspector Javert will be returning here in the morning," Cosette said.
"No matter. I shall go and meet him tomorrow," father said.
"But father..."
"Enough, Cosette," father said gently but sternly. "Go and rest while I pack a few things."
Cosette never argued. In less than an hour father had packed several things into a bag, after which they took another rental carriage. Father had the driver leave them several streets away from Rue Plumet, claiming he wanted to walk. Cosette was tired but she didn't wish to argue with her father.
That night, as she went to bed, she lay awake for a long time, remembering the horrifying moments at the hands of the thieves, and meeting the mysterious police officer, and wondered if she'd meet Inspector Javert ever again.
Javert was not a man who liked to think. He was not a stupid man: he'd simply learned that thinking about things made him think of his place in the society, his miserable beginning as a son of a fortune-teller and a galley convict; two people the likes of whom he despised and detested: criminals. He'd been taught the difference between good people and bad people: the teachings had been beaten into his skin with a stick and a leather belt with a buckle, and he still bore the scars on his ugly body. There were the criminals, who broke the law and were little better than animals, and there were those who respected the law and chose to uphold it. The good people and the bad people.
He'd allied himself with the law, kept well away from any and all temptations to the other side; he'd tortured his body with hunger and his mind with abstinence and asceticism until it became a tool for the law. He was a righteous man, a tool in the massive hand of justice. To be anything else, he'd reasoned, was to fall below into that other category of people, and end up like the man who sired him and the woman who birthed him; to fall below that line was to be less than a man, less than a respectable citizen of the realm.
When Javert thought, he thought of the law. He thought of ways to apprehend criminals; of his work; of what was best for the law and thus for France. To think of anything else usually meant torture of the worst kind, remembering what his blood was, his own worthless beginnings, of how difficult it had been to get where he now was, and of how easy if would be to fall down again. In his worst nightmares he'd see himself as one of the prisoners in the galley, in chains, hungry, bleeding, dirty and worthless. An animal in the guise of a man.
Ever since he'd heard Cosette's name from her sweet lips he'd thought of her: how he wished she could be his wife, the wife of a respectable police Inspector Javert. Madame Javert, she'd be, Madame Cosette Javert, and she'd greet him every morning and allow him to kiss those sweet smiling lips every night. She'd fit to his side and perhaps give him a son who'd one day be a police inspector too and make his father proud.
When the young lawyer had come to him with information, he'd recognised the familiar address, Boulevard de l'Hôpital, house No. 50-52. When he'd seen Cosette like that, fallen on the floor with a cut on her lip, he had stopped thinking. He'd barely been able to concentrate on apprehending the ruffians of Patron-Minette, and his thoughts had been consumed by the most lovely of creatures who was finally there, finally where he could touch her hands. The feel of her lovely, small and graceful gloved hands in his large ones had been almost unbearably good, and so he'd lost focus. But then, when he'd laid eyes on the man Cosette called father and he'd realised just who he was sharing the carriage with, his world had come to a halt.
Jean Valjean, the fugitive, an escaped convict, a thief. A man who had evaded the law for years, made a mockery of justice and of Javert himself. A criminal. And father to Cosette, though not by blood.
Cosette. The name he'd heard twice before this day: first from the lips of a dying prostitute and then read from a newspaper when she'd been taken from the Thénardiers. He'd seen Jean Valjean from a distance at the Pont d'Austerlitz years ago, while he entered the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, and a little girl he'd had with him before they'd disappeared without a trace into the streets of Paris when he'd chased them, hoping to trap them. Javert had been so frustrated, angry and humiliated then.
The Thénardiers, who'd captured her and her father tonight, though they used various names. They must have known: Javert had known they were lying back then, felt it with every instinct of a seasoned policeman and prison guard.
Cosette. They'd called her The Lark. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, though the last name was obviously a lie. She was obviously well cared-for, and Javert was absolutely certain she was innocent of whatever crimes the man she called 'father' had done. So beautiful, so very beautiful, so lovely...
And the man who cared for her was a criminal. It was Javert's duty to capture him and take him back, charge him with theft and the years of evading his punishment. It was the law, and the law was correct, right and just.
And yet there was Cosette. Javert knew without a doubt that Cosette would never care for him if he'd arrest and take away her father. Worse than that: the man seemed to be the one who cared and provided for her, and what would happen to her without him? A horrifying thought crashed through his mind as he imagined Cosette in the place of the dying prostitute: missing teeth, her hair cut, thin, sickly and then dead. He watched Cosette's life fade from her eyes, saw the blame in them, and he wanted to howl with the pain of it all. It would be his fault.
But the law was his to uphold. He'd chased after Valjean for years, dreamed of the day when the gates of the galley would slam behind Jean Valjean. He'd especially dreamt of this moment since the man had humiliated him personally: he'd gone to confess a wrongdoing to the so-called Monsieur le Maire, the respectable Monsieur Madeleine: the criminal had taken Javert's humble apologies, pretended to be a law-abiding man, and then tossed aside his mask of respectability and fled, leaving Javert embarrassed and humiliated in the eyes of his superiors.
And Cosette depended upon this criminal. Javert could do his duty and capture the criminal, and he'd be awarded and lauded, but Cosette would detest him, and she would fall like the woman who'd given birth to her. Could he live with that?
In one hand he held the law, the justice. The other hand only had Cosette, her beauty, the way she'd smiled at him.
Javert was tortured, severely tortured.
And so he'd left, though he knew Valjean had realised that Javert had recognised him. He couldn't help it: he had to go, had to flee, to think though it pained him to do so. He now questioned himself, and it hurt. He'd be back tomorrow, early, at dawn, and then he'd have a solution. There had to be one, a reason, something to fix everything.
'You idiot!' his mind screamed at him, 'You left Cosette with a criminal!' But Valjean had cared for the girl for years: he'd raised her like a daughter, and raised her well.
The carriage took him home, but he could not sleep: he fell on his bed, restless, tired and yet unable to sleep, his head filled with the sight of her beautiful blue eyes, her lovely face, the hair that looked so silky, her tender lips, her hands, oh those tiny little feet, her body that made his body ache with need and want, his ears straining to hear her say his name again and again, and his heart tortured with lust and love and law.
Javert rose up before dawn. He washed himself, changed into clean clothes and ate a little before he took a carriage to Cosette's home again. They certainly lived there, for he'd seen them enter with a key, watched as the porter greeted them, and watched as candles were lit on the third floor. His stomach felt tight and his throat dry as the carriage halted at Rue de l'Ouest: he'd see Cosette soon. He could not send the man to prison, could he? He couldn't do it to Cosette, could he?
But the porter told him the owners were not at home. They'd left during the night: the man had been carrying a large bag, and they'd taken a carriage somewhere, the porter said, looking at Javert crossly, clearly unwilling to divulge information to a policeman. They'd left no other address, the man claimed. Javert demanded he be let in, and grumbling, the porter opened the door: the apartment still held some furniture and belongings, but it was obvious Valjean had once again fled and would not return.
Only this time he had taken Cosette with him. He'd taken Cosette away from Javert who could not bear the thought of going through the day without seeing her, and who'd waited all night for this moment. Somewhere Jean Valjean had Cosette.
Javert howled with unrestrained fury and rage and frustration.