After the events at the barricades, life in Paris quickly went back to being more or less normal. Summer rains washed down the blood from the pavements, families mourned their dead or pretended that they were never acquainted with the revolutionaries, parts of the barricades were picked up from the streets and finally none grim reminders of the events of that June night were left there. Months have passed and so have the memories of the revolution.

There were, of course, people in Paris who were still haunted by the ghosts of that night. Even though they seemed to go along with the rest of the city, which was letting memories wash away, they were not able to really do the some, still reliving the revolution inside of their heads. One of these people was inspector Javert, though perhaps his reasons for it were different than these of the others.

On that night back in June, he had found himself standing on the parapet of Pont au Change, with his feet at the edge, staring at the black abyss below, the roar of the river muting any sounds that might have come from the sleeping city. He took a deep breath. Then he turned around and stepped back to the bridge.

It was most certainly not just a dramatic act. He had come there with every intention of letting himself fall towards the flowing water. It was neither easy nor pleasant to turn his back to the river after having come there. But there would never be too late for this. Death always remained an option - an unavoidable one, at the end. He did not decide not to jump. He had only decided not to rush it for now. First, he could try living, and give himself time to decide. The river would wait.

The ones who had known a bit about him noticed some changes in his behaviour after that night. He had remained a police officer, but continued his work in a different manner than before. His usually focused gaze became more absent, sometimes he seemed to be staring through the person he was looking at, as if observing something invisible.

With that, his famous stern behaviour softened as well. If anything, he became more likely to listen to explanations of the arrested, often choosing not to enforce the law when it was questionable whether it was necessary. The accused, who had seen their certain futures in prison as soon as they recognised the inspector, often found themselves confused but free after having explained their faults, or lack thereof. While explaining, they were not even sure if the inspector was listening - he seemed to be far away despite standing right before them.

And so, his life went on. The local prisons turned a little bit emptier and some more people tipped their hats in a greeting when they saw him on the street. He seemed not to notice it, though he automatically tipped his own hat in response. Every once in a while, he also noticed a glint of familiar-looking white hair in the crowd. He would then pause, look away and quickly walk off in another direction.

Sometimes, he would stop during his patrols if he happened to cross a bridge. He would stand at the edge for a moment, watching the water flow below, before turning away and continuing with his work. It looked as if he was silently greeting the Seine.

Summer has passed quickly. His stops over the river were getting longer and more frequent. He has granted himself the time to think, but it did not seem to be working. Autumn came and passed, the river still awaited answers. Snow whitened the world around and then melted away, but he still had not moved on from this state, as if frozen in time. Only the sound of the roaring water in his head, that accompanied him everywhere, grew louder.

He still lingered in this absent state when on a chilling day in spring he strolled through the streets of Paris during a patrol. The temperature and the light fall of rain caused most Parisians to stay inside their homes. With only the ones who had to be there, the streets were rather empty. Beggars huddled in the corners, seeking shelter from the rain, and others walked as fast as they could to reach their destination and escape the weather.

He was pulled away from his thoughts by a soft thud before him. Looking up, he noticed that a man walking before him fell down and was now laying on the street. Some of the beggars looked up, but did not move from their spots. A few people passed next to him, not granting him a single glance in their rush.

With some reluctance, Javert walked up to the man. Did he seem like a drunkard? No, he recalled, the man did not walk as if he was intoxicated - he walked slowly, supporting himself with a wooden cane. Old age seemed like a more likely reason for his fall than alcohol.

He sighed. At the very least, he had to get him off the street - he was a distribution here. He kneeled next to the man and shook his shoulder. "Monsieur?"

The man made an attempt to support himself with his arms and get up, mumbling something inaudibly.

Javert froze.

He recognised the voice.

He recognised the white curls that he could now see underneath the hat.

And, as the man managed to push himself to a sitting position, he recognised the face as well.

Jean Valjean stared half-consciously at the ground as he wiped the dirt off his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket.

Javert realized why he had not recognised him earlier - it seemed that during the past few months Valjean has aged at least a decade or two. His skin had a grey tint to it, his hand were visibly shaking, all of his movements were unnaturally slow. In no way was he similar to the man who managed to carry a dying boy through half of the city's sewers not even a year ago - now he hardly seemed able to carry himself across the street.

His thoughts were interrupted by the man attempting to stand up. He supported his weight on his cane, but his legs seemed to give out.

Before he fell again, Javert grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him up to a standing position. He bent over to look at his face. Perhaps it was not Valjean after all, just someone who looked similar? But the more he looked, the more he was certain of the man's identity. He shook him lightly by the shoulders. "Valjean?"

The old man blinked at the sound of his name and looked up at him, squinting and furrowing his brow. It did not seem like he recognised him - or that he was aware of anything going on around him, for the matter of fact.

Javert let go of his shoulders. Well, what was he supposed to do now? Arrest him? No, he did not decide not to do that all these months ago just to do it now, so randomly. Besides, arresting someone in that state was rather irrational. Leaving him here also felt wrong. Wherever he was headed, he was in no state to get there. And if he had already lifted him off the street, was he supposed to just let him continue lying here?

Then perhaps he should escort him to the hospital? He most certainly was not healthy, after all. But, he thought, a private doctor would be far more effective in this case. Though this would possibly force him to stay there as well. He did not fancy spending the day dragging barely conscious Valjean across the city - his sole presence now made him uncomfortable enough; he wanted to resume his duties as soon as he could.

Then it dawned on him - he knew his address on Rue de l'Homme Armé. Though not written down anywhere, it has preserved itself in his head along with memories from the barricades. He recalled the map of Paris in his head. It was only a few streets from their current location - of course, after all how far could have this man gone? It was closer than any hospital or doctor that he knew of. This made him decide - he would get him there and let whoever will be there take care of calling the doctor instead - that was the best option.

Did this man even live with anyone? Well, he probably had at least one servant. He briefly wondered why did they even let him leave the house unaccompanied in such state. It was surely not something that he gained during the past few minutes.

So it was decided. He felt like trying to discuss the matter with Valjean would be utterly pointless - the man did not seem awake enough to even hear anything - so he just tugged at his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of the address that he knew.

To him, Valjean was walking annoyingly slow - as if he was sleepwalking. In an attempt to speed him up, Javert soon switched from tugging on his sleeve to walking next to him, supporting him by his shoulder, then he wrapped his arm around him and half-dragged him through the streets.

By the end of the walk, he was wholeheartedly sick of this situation. To make it worse, some people on the streets watched him curiously. Surely it must have looked like he was escorting some drunk friend.

He greeted the sign marking the beginning of Rue de l'Homme Armé with relief. He wanted nothing more than to drop the man off here and leave as soon as he could.

He dragged Valjean towards the same building that he left him in back in June. He knocked on the gate and pushed it as it opened almost immediately. He looked around, but the porter was nowhere to be seen.

With a sigh, he looked at the stairs before him. Could he really not have lived on the ground floor?

Getting Valjean to walk upstairs took what seemed like aeons, but having accomplished it, he stood before what he supposed was the door to his flat. He raised on his hand and knocked.

There was no reply.

Louder, he pounded on the wood.

Again, he was met with silence.

Looking down, he realized that the key is in the door - they were unlocked. If there was nobody home, why would they leave the key here?

He supposed that dragging the owner here granted him the right to enter the apartment. He opened the door and pulled Valjean inside.

Looking around, he had to acknowledge that this was rather a modest place to live in, considering how rich the man was. But what puzzled him more was the lack of any signs of life. On the wooden table there was a plate of some uneaten food, but other than that the room hardly looked like people lived here.

His eyes locked on the armchair in the corner. He nearly tossed Valjean onto it, glad to be finally free of him.

Having done that, he looked awkwardly around the apartment. Well, what now? His daughter obviously was not here. Was he supposed to just leave? Perhaps she would return soon - maybe she went outside to search for her father?

What troubled him was the lack of any normal objects that he would expect to find in a house inhabited by a girl and most likely a servant. There was just not a single item that would suggest it. He frowned. Over half a year has passed - what if Valjean has not even lived here by now?

He glanced at the door leading to other rooms. He could check there for signs of life but the idea of searching people's bedrooms did not appeal to him at last. Perhaps he could ask the porter?

He looked at Valjean who was now curled up in the armchair, apparently asleep. He wondered if he would be of any help anytime soon.

He walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind him, and headed downstairs. He approached what was probably the door to the porter's door and knocked, hoping for a better result than that in case of the apartment upstairs. He could hear the door unlock and a small, old woman opened them.

Before she could say anything, he held up his police badge. "Inspector Javert of the Paris Prefecture of Police. Does monsieur-" it took him a moment to remember what name the man was using, "-Fauchelevent reside here at present?"

Looking at the woman made him realise that perhaps it would have been better not to speak as a police officer - she seemed rather startled by the situation. "Oh- yes, he most certainly does, but- I don't know- did he-" she started stuttering nervously, then shook her head, regaining control of herself, "Oh, my deepest apologies, I thought that it was him knocking at the gate, but was it you then, monsieur? Then I suppose that he's not to be found here now. Would you-"

"I have already deposited him in the apartment upstairs," he interrupted her. "I only wanted to make sure that it still does belong to him. But madame, do you perhaps know where I can find- well, whoever lives there with him? I have not found anyone at the apartment."

"Deposited?- Ah, I suppose that you are looking for his daughter, monsieur. Madame Cosette no longer lives here - she got married a few weeks ago," she explained. "But may I ask, monsieur - deposited? Is monsieur Fauchelevent unwell? Is that why you are here? I thought-"

Javert waved his hand impatiently."Yes, he is, but madame, please do answer my questions first. If his daughter..." he stopped for a moment and frowned. Daughter? A married one, too? It has been no more than nine years since he was a mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer; he definitely did not have a daughter then. Unless he was hiding one from the public - enough time has passed since he left Toulon for him to have a daughter this old. Well, it is no use wondering about it now. "...is absent, how can I contact anyone else who lives there? A servant perhaps?"

"Monsieur, I'm afraid that you won't be able to find anyone like that. Their servant moved away together with madame Cosette - monsieur Fauchelevent has been the only resident here lately."

"Oh." That complicated the situation. "Then I suppose that his daughter should be notified. Hopefully she has not left Paris?"

"To the best of my knowledge, she hasn't, monsieur. Her husband lived in Paris, though I don't know his address-"

"His name then?" Javert interrupted her again, feeling his patience running out. "Or any details?"

"Ah yes, I do know it, madame Cosette spoke about him often! Pontmercy was his name, if I'm not mistaken, Marius Pontmercy."

Javert frowned. The name seemed familiar to him, though he could not pinpoint where he had heard it. Anyway, name should be enough to find the man. "Thank you," he said to the portress, nodding. "Now, may I ask you a favour in monsieur Fauchelevent's name, madame? It may be crucial for him to see the doctor as soon as possible. Please do call for one. He will cover the costs."

The portress starter chattering in response but his thoughts have already drifted away. Pontmercy. A picture of a piece of paper, taken from a seemingly-dead body, with a few lines scribbled on it, appeared in his mind. Of course. The boy who Valjean has carried from the barricade. So he was right - he was alive after all, and somehow survived.

That was... fortunate. He knew his address, at least. He could simply contact the Pontmercys and free himself from this situation.

Now that he thought about it... Marius Pontmercy has participated in the revolution. Did he kill anyone there? He was not sure, but he could get arrested for just taking part in the fights.

He could just send a letter. But why not have a word with the young revolutionary?

The portress' rambling reached his ears again. The old woman clearly recovered from the initial shock of being questioned by a policeman - recovered too well, Javert thought bitterly. He was already sick of her gossip session, even without having listened to half of it.

"...and perhaps this is none of my business," the portress went on, "but it has been ages since we have seen madame Cosette around! That is so cruel of her, not to visit her old father at all! And she seemed like such a good and loving child! You know, monsieur, I would have never expected that from her. Oh, but perhaps it's fault of that husband of hers! I always had a bad feeling about that boy, I did! And now monsieur Fauchelevent's health has been getting worse, but these two rascals are still nowhere to be seen! It really is so horrible of them - such a nice old man. But he has been looking so pale lately, I suppose his time has come, oh well. And-"

"Madame, please," Javert interrupted her, suddenly more uncomfortable at her words. Was Valjean dying? The thought seemed somehow surreal. He shook his head. "There is no need for the entire story now. We have more urgent matters on hand. Please do contact a doctor as soon as possible. And, if you excuse me, I will try to get the Pontmercys to pay a visit here."

The old lady agreed vigorously and Javert removed himself from the range of her sight before she could resume her chatter.