Summary: What would have happened if Valjean had not stolen the bread? How would the other characters' stories play out without his influence? A series of short one-shots, one for each main character, quite dark in places.
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own them, especially Monsieur l'Inspecteur, these characters belong to the late, great Victor Hugo. The idea, however, is entirely mine…
Note: There will be chapters for Javert, Cosette, Fantine, Thénardier and Marius (not necessarily in that order) plus a pro- and epilogue from Valjean's POV. Erm, not much else to say other than enjoy!
Prologue
Valjean
Jean Valjean looked at the loaf, unattended in the kitchen window, and his stomach growled ominously and painfully. His face was pressed up against the glass, almost as if he was trying to inhale the goodness of the bread through the thin pane that separated them. It would be so easy to take it, he thought darkly. It would keep his sister and her children from death for one more day. The family who owned the house, and the bread, were more than likely to overlook its absence, just as they overlooked the poor that lived virtually on their doorstep. They hurried by; they showed no mercy. Valjean's face contorted against the glass in anger. Why shouldn't he take his revenge against the society that had shut him and his sister out with no-one to support them? He took a step back from the window and raised a fist to smash it, but then he stopped.
In all the time that he had lived, in all the hardships that he had suffered, he had always strived to remain an honest man. Poor maybe, but morally upstanding in the eyes of God and of the law. There had to be another way. There had to be another path. He could not resort to crime. The Lord had guided him so far, and He would guide him again.
Without taking his eyes from the loaf, Valjean lowered his fist, slowly uncurling his fingers. He paused by the window for a moment longer, just wondering…
Valjean put his hands in his pockets to avoid temptation and walked away, hunching his shoulders against the chill. There was always another way.