The other officers at the station often ignored Javert when he launched into a tirade "his man". It was the only way to survive the speeches on, what was assumed to be, an ex-lover. Some would even dare to roll their eyes, where the Inspector could not see them of course, or would a pray for this Valjean fellow to return to Javert's bed and save them all this grief.
One man, Durand, a fellow Inspector, had gone so far as to hint that it was time to find another to warm his bed. It was a thought born of desperation and the faint hope that Javert may be more willing to listen to man of equal rank. He had not. As a consequence Durand had received a stern dressing infused with a yearning reminiscent of a besotted youth.
There had been a brief attempt to track Jean Valjean down, organised by the tired man who had had to suffer through nightly patrols for six weeks straight with Javert. Needless to say, Valjean had never been found in the half-hearted man-hunt: half hearted not because of want of trying, but because it was difficult to find a man only described as having the "strength of great Atlas" and "soft hair the colour of snow". No, all that was left of Jean Valjean were vague recollections of mystical strength and a tender heart that could encourage even Javert's to beat.
Soon all hope was lost in the Parisian Police Force of ever finding this Jean Valjean, or of finding the Inspector a new man to warm his bed, and all, no matter their ranking, learned to deal with Javert's mutterings about a man as strong as an ox.
Precautions were taken with new recruits: every gangly new officer was ordered to not even utter the name of Javert's long lost lover, and those cursed with the name "Jean" were told not to go near the man at all. It was exhaustive, but functioning.
The shock, then, was reasonable when Javert, his feral smile smug, dragged a stumbling white-haired man with bands of muscle wrapped around his frame and manacles fitted to his wrists. There was no doubt as to who it could be, not with such a smile carving Javert's face. The words ran through the ranks as all rumours were want to do: Javert had found his Jean Valjean.
But this also begged the question - why had Javert brought him here, of all places? The more crude minds had jested that maybe the good Inspector desired to combine his two loves - Valjean and the Law - in his office, but the idea had been dismissed with a laugh and a fair bit of disgust. For as glad as the officers were that Javert may have "his man" back, the thought of them sharing tender touches on top of files they would later have to handle proved to be disturbing.
"Monsieur le Prefet, I have caught the criminal."
Gisquet's eyes glanced up from the paper on his desk, his pen now neatly placed on his desk when he saw the man to barge into his office was Inspector Javert. His lips pursed - Javert was a good officer: ruthless, intelligent and hard-working, but to be so consumed by work that a man would discard propriety and enter without knocking was absurd.
There the man stood, so proud a heat seemed to radiate off his very form, but he was not alone. If Gisquet peeked at the wooden floor, he could see a man bound by handcuffs slumped at the Inspector's feet - a man with "eye-catching" white hair and "impressive" and "dangerous" muscles.
His stomach sank and a throbbing pain began to form in his temples. Javert could induce a headache on a good day, but where Jean Valjean was involved, murder became a brief temptation. It was pitiable, having Javert as an ex-lover. An unforgiving bloodhound such as Inspector Javert on your tail for a crime was awful, but to have him chase you down on a personal matter would surely make your life unbearable.
"Inspector Javert," He sighed, "Whilst I am glad you have finally found your man, personal business is hardly any reason to interrupt and walk in here unannounced."
Javert's chest deflated. "My apologies Monsieur, but I have him! The criminal! The wanted man we all believed dead!" He gestured wildly at the man - this Jean Valjean everyone knew about whether they wanted to or not - who seemed to be sinking further in on himself the more Javert spoke.
Gisquet's eyebrow raised of their own accord. He was not usually one to listen to the officers' gossip, but Javert was rarely one to have any sort of, well, personal life, were he to be frank. It would be a lie to say he was not interested in knowing more, and he was sure the audience outside his door were curious as well.
"Criminal, you say Inspector? On what grounds?" The man looked like a perfectly respectable gentleman, despite the air of infinite desolation surrounding him that was more at home on the desperate of the streets.
Javert seemed to sputter for a brief moment, as if the very idea that another would not recognize Jean Valjean on sight was odd, nay, inconceivable, and the final breathe of prideful air in his chest finally left him.
"That I know him as Jean Valjean, Monsieur! And as Monsieur Madeleine, the man of quality he disguised himself as! See for yourself!" Before Gisquet could protest, Javert's hand yanked back Valjean's shirt and cravat, revealing marks he could not disagree with. There upon Valjean was scarring that went hand in hand with prison shackles, and an ugly brand on his chest the colour of coal. There was no doubt about it, this Jean Valjean was certainly a criminal.
Distant memories floated nearer to the surface of his mind. There was a trial, years ago, something about petty theft and the disgrace of a good mayor, and later the man's death in the bagne. He nearly snorted. No doubt Javert had ranted about how "his man" could not be dead, as well.
However, Javert had never seemed the type to get romantically involved with a convict (nor with anyone for that matter, but evidently he had misjudged the man on both accounts).
This, the Prefet realised, left him with a dilemma. The rearrest of Valjean would be a simple matter. The brand on his chest would close the case immediately and there would be one less criminal on the streets of Paris. Unfortunately there was the love-sick Inspector to consider, as well as the sanity of every police officer in Paris. If this man were sent back to the bagne - Gisquet's headache worsened at the thought of even more obsessed rants from Inspector Javert. It was hard enough to find a man who could patrol with Javert for more than a few months at a time, but now the man would talk constantly of how he had found the man. It reflected badly upon all of them if one of their top Inspector's could not get through a day's work without whining about his prison ex.
"Tell me Inspector, is there any evidence of Valjean being the perpetrator of any crimes in recent years?"
Javert seemed to hesitate for a brief second, "No, Monsieur."
Valjean was still slumped by the pair of polished boots of Javert, stomach no doubt aching from a well-aimed kick or two. The man's coat was gone, and the white of his shirt was sullied with a few faint boot marks. Even if the man was still in possession of a coat, it would not have hid the trembling in his shoulders nor the heaving of his broad chest.
"Tell me, Jean Valjean, is there anything you wish to confess to?" Gisquet asked, and his felt frown more prominent than before. Valjean's head snapped up and he stared in utter disbelief at Gisquet, as if he could not believe that anyone who worked in law enforcement could be merciful.
"No Monsieur, I live a quiet life with my daughter now." The man's voice was a quiet rasp, stilted by his shock and amazement. Gisquet stared at him, and Valjean shifted uncomfortably, but otherwise did nothing.
Yes, that was it. Less headache's would benefit them all and thus increase the productivity of his officers. There was no need for prison this time, but he could not legally allow the man to go by unpunished. Though, Gisquet mused, maybe Inspector Javert's presence would be punishment enough to be considered a form of community service.
None of the officers saw Jean Valjean for months - no quick passings in the street, no visits to Javert's office. Not after Inspector Javert had marched him out after meeting Gisquet. Both had seemed rather perplexed, and Valjean was no longer in handcuffs, though he willing trailed after Javert.
However, it would come to pass that if you were brave enough to venture into Javert's den on Rue Plumet (or, more likely, a superior forced you there with a notice) it was likely that there would be Jean Valjean who, despite his "imprisonment" was welcoming of the officers. He was a stark contrast to the Inspector, a sweet relief from the scowls and cutting remarks.
On night patrols there were far less obsessive rants on Jean Valjean, because Inspector Javert was not there to give them. He was busy obeying Gisquet's orders and keeping "his man" in confinement.