Chapter 1: In which mistakes are made
Grey light fell through the misty morning air, illuminating a quiet stretch of cobblestone street. Behind shuttered windows, not one of the inhabitants of the Rue Plumet stirred, still ensconced indoors, waiting for the early hours to pass.
Down the road, Inspector Javert was skulking in the shadows of an alley, and he was less than pleased about it. Another night had passed him by, and although he had been staking out the corner for what had just become his fifth day, he was no closer to accomplishing his mission than he had been when he started. With a huff, he tightened his arms across his chest and stepped further back into the darkness.
Beside him, his subordinate, a man called Beaulieu, noted his change of position and matched it.
"Monsieur l'Inspector," he murmured, breaking a silence which had gone uninterrupted for the past several hours.
Javert inclined his chin in the shorter man's direction, a tacit acknowledgment of his appellation.
"There's been no sign of anyone since an hour past midnight," said Beaulieu, a flicker of hesitancy in his voice. "The Prefect will be expecting our report - what are we to tell him?"
The Inspector took a hissing breath through his teeth, staring out and down the Rue Plumet with an expression of deepest concentration.
"We will tell him," he began slowly, "precisely what we have observed. The inhabitants keep to themselves; there is no way to be certain one way or another if the informer was telling the truth."
"Sir..."
Javert took another deliberate breath. There were few things about his work which he despised quite so much as having to keep a shift with a chatty officer. Chatty, to the Inspector, was any man who spoke for any reason other than to discuss intel. As a natural result, he worked nearly all of his shifts alone.
"If the informer is correct," Beaulieu was saying, "and your suspicion as to the target's identity is also confirmed, what are you going to -"
"Quiet." The Inspector held up his hand, cocking his head to one side as he listened. From some nearby place came the sound of a woman's exclamation. "Trouble in the streets," he muttered, turning down the alley. "Come on."
"But the stakeout -"
"- Will have to wait," the Inspector interrupted. "Prioritize, officer."
Javert strode down the alley, Beaulieu not far behind, and turned left when they reached the end. The main street on this side was almost as deserted, but from the other end of the neighboring building issued the sounds of a scuffle.
The Inspector drew his rapier from his side, rounding the corner into a small niche barking, "Halt!"
A tavern maid was pressed against the side of the wall, shaking, while a cloaked man holding a knife dug through her purse. He looked up, snarling, as Javert appeared in front of him.
"You, drop the weapon," ordered Javert, pointing his sword at the robber.
Rather than comply, the man sprang to his feet, waving his knife towards the woman.
"Lemme go, Monsieur," growled the man, "or I'll see that she gets it."
Javert raised one hand in a gesture which might have been placating had it come from anyone else. "It will go easier for you to surrender," he said quietly, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. "The punishment for petty theft is five years in prison. For murder, you will get a lot more than that."
Javert was aware of Beaulieu watching him curiously out the corner of his eye, but he brushed this aside easily. There was a crime at hand, and this the Inspector understood: stop the robbery, protect the innocent, maintain order.
The would-be thief showed no sign of standing down, however, and Javert was running out of options. If he attacked directly, the woman was sure to be hurt. Even as he was thinking this, the issue was taken out of his hands by one who, in Javert's mind, was the least likely of all parties.
The tavern maid, seeing her attacker was focused on the Inspector, lunged forward and grabbed him by the wrist clutching the knife. He let out a cry of surprise followed by a dozen curses, but her intervention gave Javert and Beaulieu the opportunity to come to her aid.
Jumping into the fray, the officers swiftly beat the man to his knees, but not before he was able, with a well-placed kick, to knock the tavern maid off of him.
Swinging his arm around, blinded by pain and by bodies, the thief lashed out with his knife. Javert stopped short, his hands clutching the man by the lapels, as cold steel dragged its way across his left shoulder blade. Beaulieu, seeing his superior falter, cracked the thief across his brow. The latter dropped to the ground, bruised to senselessness.
Breathing hard, Javert staggered to his feet. Where first he had felt nothing, there was a growing sting. This bothered him less than the hot liquid he could feel running in trickles down his back. Beaulieu held out a hand, but Javert fended him off.
"Leave it," he growled. "You -" he said, pointing at the woman, "Take your purse. Make sure you have everything of yours. You -" he added, turning to Beaulieu, "Take this man to the station at once. I will return to our post until the allotted time is up."
"But, Monsieur l'Inspector," argued Beaulieu, stepping closer. "You must go to the hospital, you are -"
Javert's nostrils flared, and the young officer backed up in alarm.
"One of us must take the thief into custody. As the uninjured party, it is most sensible for you to do this, should he wake up before you reach the station." Beaulieu, more daring than most, opened his mouth to interrupt, but Javert had none of it. "However, Officer Beaulieu, we were given an assignment by the Prefect, and I will see it carried out. The wound is not serious; I will tend to it when our job is done and not before. Call a fiacre. That is an order."
Beaulieu, appearing suitably cowed, ducked his head in agreement. He hoisted the unconscious man by one arm, securing shackles around his wrists. He then picked up the dead weight none too gently, turning to hail a passing carriage. It was a testament to his persistence that he called back over his shoulder, "I'll have a fiacre meet you here in an hour to take you to the hospital."
"That will not be necessary," the Inspector said tightly. "I will speak with you later about this." He faced the tavern maid, who had been watching this exchange warily. "Mademoiselle, kindly follow Officer Beaulieu, so that you may file a report of the incident."
She nodded, skirting where the imposing Inspector stood and ducked behind the younger, friendlier Beaulieu.
Having said and done all which he deemed necessary, Javert turned and headed back down the alley, grimacing when the wind brushed against the open wound in his shoulder. He reached their post, standing stiffly once more in the shadows and trying to repress the pain he could feel jangling down his spine. The Prefect was expecting him in less than an hour, and he had nothing to report, a fact which stung just as intensely as his injury.
On Sunday, a police informant had stumbled into the station with a tip regarding a certain philanthropist who was rumored to live on the Rue Plumet, a man who dressed in rags and yet was often seen going out among the locals, distributing food, blankets, and coins. Inspector Javert was reminded immediately of a man he had once known to do the same, The Beggar Who Gives Alms, or so some called him. Javert knew him by another name, and also by a number. On a hunch, he had petitioned the Prefect for the opportunity to investigate, citing money laundering as a principle concern.
Considering the man's faultless record as Police Inspector, the Prefect could hardly refuse him, but perhaps guessing at some of the frenetic obsession masked beneath duty and loyalty to authority, had insisted that Javert be accompanied by one of his subordinates, "should a situation arise".
Over the course of the last several days, Javert grudgingly allowed Beaulieu to assist him in tracking residents' comings and goings, noting who spoke to who, and when, and if money changed hands. The Rue Plumet was a quiet street. There was little to record. There was even less to confirm the informer's story.
The Inspector was a smart man, and well-versed in policy and procedure. He did not have to guess at what would happen when he told his superior he had seen neither hide nor hair of the purported philanthropist. The Prefect would take down his report, file it, and reassign him somewhere he thought more useful. Javert would never again have the chance to learn if he were right, if the suspect in this matter were a reneged convict.
This thought sat poorly in his stomach, and he tried to ignore the logic telling him that blood loss was unlikely to be sitting well with him, either. Every second counted. If he could only find some shred of evidence, the Prefect could be persuaded to extend the length of his assignment.
Even as he began to despair of learning anything worthwhile, a flash of movement caught his eye. Not quite halfway down the Rue Plumet, a gate swung inward on its hinges, and a man slipped out. Javert narrowed his eyes. He had seen a dark-haired woman - a servant, presumably - issue from the house, but no one else.
This man had white hair and broad shoulders. The Inspector tried to match the reality with his memory, and found the two seemed to converge. He stepped forward, hoping to get a better look, when the man raised his head.
Inspector Javert smiled a smile which was at once vindictive and vindicated. There was no mistaking the weary features of his quarry. The man in the street was most assuredly Jean Valjean.
Pausing a moment, Javert pondered the wisest course of action. The Prefect would want him only to observe, to return at a later date to make an arrest. The state of his shoulder was another factor in favor of merely watching. Experience, however, told him that Valjean was not to be trusted; for all the Inspector knew, his current departure could easily be him fleeing the scene.
Javert's palms itched in his desire to see justice done. He could not stand the thought of the convict slipping through his fingers yet again, and this settled him. Pulling his sword again from his side, Javert stepped out of the alley onto the street.
"Valjean!" he shouted.
The Inspector did not think he had ever seen someone whirl around quite so quickly at the sound of their name as Valjean did just then. Seeing who it was, Valjean's face paled by degrees.
"Inspector Javert," he said, his voice remarkably even. "I must confess, I had not expected to see you here."
"You'll have more than that to confess," proclaimed the Inspector. "You have decades' worth of crimes to answer for."
Valjean glanced sideways at the house from which he had just exited, number fifty-five.
"Perhaps you could keep your voice down?" he suggested. "It would be rude to wake the entire street."
"Certainly," replied the Inspector. "Surrender quietly, and there will be no need to cause a scene."
"About that," Valjean interjected, taking one step closer. "I have no intention of returning to prison. I have too much to do here."
Javert extended his rapier in warning. He gauged the distance between the two of them, reasonably confident that he could catch him if the convict tried to run. Meanwhile, Valjean pulled up short, staring at the blade with distaste.
"I do not wish to fight you, Javert."
"My title is 'Inspector'," the taller man said icily. "Kindly see fit to use it."
"You can only lose," Valjean continued as if he had not heard. "Better for everyone if you forget you ever saw me."
"As if I would let you go," Javert scoffed. "How many years have you evaded capture? No, Valjean, it is high time you returned to the galleys."
Valjean's eyes darted around him, doubtless seeking something to use as a weapon. Javert had no intention of letting him find one. He lunged forward, sword raised, and with nothing in hand by which to parry it, Valjean was forced to jump to the side. The Inspector spun to face him, striking a hit across his opponent's arm, but Valjean scarcely seemed to register the blow.
Instead, the old convict ducked again out of the way, springing to the Inspector's left and catching him by his unarmed hand. With a twist and a jerk, he pressed Javert's wrist up between his scapulae, and Javert stifled a cry as the motion wrenched the knife wound in his shoulder.
He tasted bile in the back of his throat, and did not know if it were a response to pain or to the bitterness of his regret that he had not waited to act. Patience was more generally one of his virtues, and now it seemed he was to pay the price for not exercising it.
The Inspector was already seeing spots, when with a swing of his fist, Valjean rendered him unconscious.