So... basically I'm obsessed with Javert's gypsy heritage and the struggle this must have meant for him. A strange idea occurred to me today: Javert probably didn't look much like his fellow officers; he probably more closely resembled a lot of the people he was arresting. That idea seemed really profound to me, and it sort of evolved into this story. Please bear in mind that I understand that gypsy (or in the more recent and politically correct form, "Roma") are members of a diverse ethnic group worthy of respect, and I am not in any way attempting to say that they are by nature criminals. This is just a stereotype that would have existed very widely in Javert's time and undoubtedly caused him a lot of problems, so I'm using that as a tool to examine his character.

This takes place after Javert completes his officer training but before he gets assigned to guard duty over the Toulon chain gangs - so I'm putting him at about twenty-three years old. Javert, of course, belongs in the Les Mis universe, which belongs to Victor Hugo. r/r!

Toulon Town Square
October 1803

Javert stood at attention on the street corner, silently gazing across the sea of people spread out before him. It was market day in Toulon, and that meant the criminal population of the seaside town was double its usual number - at least. The outskirts of town had filled up with caravans during the previous night. Over the course of the morning the carts had unloaded, their occupants ready to descend on a bustling crowd of people - all of whom would have their senses overwhelmed and their purses at the ready.

Gypsies, of course.

The captain who had assigned Lieutenant Javert to his position knew that the young man stood less than no chance of preventing pickpocketing from happening in a group this thick - someone was going to go home with a slit purse whether Javert stood still or mingled in the crowd or even just sat in an office somewhere doing paperwork - and he had even communicated this to the overly-ambitious officer. However, the captain had also explained that the presence of a police officer in uniform might well deter some would-be perpetrators of violent crimes. The market and the mass confusion it provided created a perfect stage for kidnapping and assault.

Having been informed of all this, Javert took it upon himself to paste on a stern and uncompromising expression and stand at the fringe of the crowd, listening to the cries of shopkeepers who hawked their goods to passerby and watching as children in many-colored rags shot in and out of the mass of people.

As he scanned across the crowd for the fourth or fifth time that morning, the lieutenant's eyes fell on a particular young man, his own age or thereabout, wearing a motley-looking vest and a pair of stained yellow trousers. The man wasn't really any different from all the other gitan that swarmed amidst the pavillions; he had the same dark complexion, black hair, and unkempt appearance. However, one thing about this particular man gave Javert pause: the man was staring directly at him. Javert was unsure for a moment how to react, particularly once he had taken into account the man's expression. There was something meanacing about it. As strange as it seemed, it appeared as though this stranger was wordlessly attempting to threaten the young officer.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Javert gave the man a stern look and deliberately moved one of his gloved hands to the nightstick on his belt. But the man still didn't avert his eyes. If anything, he even began to smile a little.

Javert decided that it was better not to encourage this person - whoever he was - so he broke eye contact with the man and continued to gaze around at the different displays and market-goers. Finally, when it seemed as though enough time had passed, he cast a furtive glance back in the other direction, certain that the connection would have been a strange instance of happenstance and the man would have moved on.

However, when Javert looked toward back, this was not the case. There was now a group of gypsy-looking men clustered around the first man, and they were all looking in Javert's direction and talking amongst themselves. A bit of laughter traveled on the wind to where the police lieutenant stood.

Javert's breath caught; something wasn't right.

He stood even more rigidly at attention than before, and his heartbeat picked up as he saw movement among the group. His worst fears were soon confirmed: the three men had begun to walk toward him.

They were actually approaching him, he could see them out of the corner of his eye...

Lieutenant Javert couldn't lose his composure. He was better trained, better armed, and most importantly of all, he had the law on his side. Besides, these men were the dregs of society, they were less than nothing to him. He had put actual criminals behind bars; men with ten times the renown of these ragged troublemakers.

He told himself this and made an effort to keep his expression stern as he watched the group approach. Even so, it seemed as though no time had passed at all before they had made a semi-circle around the lone officer.

"What's your purpose?" Javert demanded harshly.

The yellow trouser man - who was apparently their ringleader - was the first to speak.

"We just wanted to come over and see exactly what we've got here, is all," he said, licking his lips and leaning into Javert's face. "And I think it's a cop."

One of the others - a smaller man - gave a reply.

"He might dress like a cop, but he don't look like any cop I ever seen. "He's got the uniform and all that, but I look at him and I think to myself... he looks like one of us."

Javert's breath caught in his throat and he devoted all his energy to suppressing the color that rose to his cheeks. Of all the things for them to bring up. He knew very well that his mother's gypsy looks dominated his own features - from his coarse dark hair to his sharp facial structure - and that fact had already caused him his share of trouble over the years. Others men at the academy had whispered behind his back and even taunted him directly, and he had watched in silent disappointment as promotions that he himself deserved went to gallic, fair-haired colleagues.

These things were unfortunate, but they were to be expected. And they were something Javert had learned to endure out of discipline and respect for his superiors. However, he couldn't - wouldn't - allow these brigands to use his appearance to undermine his authority. Javert opened his mouth to speak up, but he was interrupted before he could.

"Say, you're right!" the ringleader of the group exclaimed. "Look at how dark he is - and those eyes! He could be your brother, Tobar."

"But a man can't be one of us and one of them, can he?" the last man - Tobar - spoke up. "So tell us, cop, which are you?"

"I'm an officer of the law, and you'll do well to go about your business," Javert said evenly, not lowering his gaze to meet that of the man to whom he spoke. "Any move you make against me is grounds for arrest, and I'll wager that it wouldn't be your first offense."

The group laughed, undaunted. The small man even smirked.

"He's got a temper, don't he? Maybe he's ashamed of what he is, and that's why he's got hisself this job? Is that what it is?"

"If it is, I think we should teach him a lesson."

The first man's arm shot out, but before the knife he held could so much as glint in the morning sunshine, Javert had grabbed him around the wrist and wrenched his arm backward into an unnatural position. His two friends stepped forward to help, but Javert was prepared for them, too. He shoved the first attacker aside, fairly confident that the man had been disabled, and sharply elbowed the small man in the face. That left only the third assailant, Tobar, whom Javert doubled over with a powerful punch to the gut.

"You broke my arm, you bastard!" the leader wheezed from the ground. "You'll pay for this, halfbreed!"

Javert was about to respond when, suddenly, he heard what sounded like a distant thud and felt an incredible pain on the left side of his head. Resisting lightheadedness, he managed to focus his vision and realized that Tobar - whom he had punched in the stomach - had managed to stand upright again and strike him on the head with a cobblestone. Javert didn't have time or capacity to think as he reached for the revolver on his belt. He could only function enough to pull out the gun, aim it, and pull the trigger.

The cobblestone fell from the man's hand, and the man fell to the ground.

Javert's world and all of the colors that made it up began to swirl more and more quickly, and he had to brace himself against the building in front of which he had been standing. In front of him, the once-bustling market had fallen absolutely silent. A thousand pairs of wide, startled eyes focused on the young policeman and the group that had advanced on him mere moments before.

Gazing upward in horror, the man in the yellow trousers - the one who had instigated the whole sordid event - whispered a curse in an unfamiliar eastern-sounding language. He held his limp right arm in his left one, struggled to his feet, and ran away to be lost in the crowd. Sometime before then, probably during the struggle, the small man had stumbled away with his broken nose and what remained of his dignity. That left only Javert alone with the last man, the one who had raised a stone against him. However, Tobar wouldn't be brandishing stones against anyone else ever again.

He was lying face-down in an expanding puddle of blackness, his limbs spead out motionless on the grey stone.

Javert was still staring when he felt two people - one on either side - take him by the arms. He tried to resist for a moment, until he realized that the hands belonged to men wearing the blue coats of fellow officers.

"Merde, look at that wound on his head," a familiar voice said. "Lieutenant Javert, can you hear me? Lieutenant!"

"Check his pulse," another voice suggested.

Javert felt a gloved hand near his neck, pushing sharply into the soft skin under his jawbone.

"It's there, alright - his heart is pounding."

"Well that's something, at least. Someone get a cabriolet, we're going to have to get him back to the station, the sooner the better. And you - go fetch a doctor to meet us there."

After this order was stated, Javert heard footsteps sounding on the pavement - moving away from him and the group of officers. He could feel every footfall resounding in the space behind his eyes, and the pain of it made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Javert, say something!"

"I'm not one of them," Javert whispered, his unblinking gaze still fixed on the man on the ground. "I'm not one of you."

"Well, he's not making any sense, but at least he can hear us."

Javert passed out in the cab on the way to the station. When he awoke a day later, he was told that he had a gotten a terrible concussion and was lucky to have escaped with his life. To his frustration - but grudging acceptance - he was given two weeks of paid leave to recover. In a stranger turn of events, he was also invited to the precinct to meet with the divisional commissaire, who congratulated him on having fulfilled his duty despite his injury.

"There aren't many officers of your rank who could have found the courage to shoot - and indeed, could have shot straight - in your circumstance," the ranking officer had said, shaking Javert's hand. "We wish you a smooth recovery, and we anxiously anticipate your future contributions on the force."

A few weeks later, a letter came in the mail, and Javert found out that he had been assigned to a new post in Paris. He packed up his few possessions and left with little ado. The others had told him over and over how envious they were, how excited he should be to have recieved such a coveted position, how much he must have impressed the higher-ups - but Javert only nodded and repeated in a monotone how appreciative he was that the commissaire noticed his contributions and how he hoped that he would effectively fulfill his new duties.

Though he never said a word to anyone then or in the years to come, Javert silently lived with the knowledge that his advancement had been purchased with blood-money. Every time he put on his new uniform with its silver embroidery and the brilliant crest of the city of Paris, he didn't see the glory and the recognition.

He only saw a blank expression and heard the clatter of a cobblestone hitting the ground.

And all he felt was the empty gaze of a pair of wide, startled brown eyes that looked as though they could have belonged to his own brother.