Chapter 2
The human mind has rather peculiar mechanisms for dealing with great shock.
A man goes to bed and dreams that he had become a gargoyle on the bell- tower of Notre-Dame. In this dream he wants to button his coat to protect himself from the piercing winds; however, no matter how hard he tries to push the buttons through the button-holes, he does not succeed. In the morning he wakes up tired, chilled, and supremely frustrated - not at having spent a cold night as a gargoyle on Notre-Dame, but at not having been able to perform such an ordinary and casual maneuver as buttoning his coat!
It would be an understatement to say that Valjean was surprised to see the Inspector alive and well after having read his necrology in the Moniteur. Valjean's nature was far too impressionable, one might even say puerile to react so mildly. The old man was completely floored. Astonishment, terror, and a peculiar, wild, incomprehensible joy roiled in his heart in equal measure. And because the human mind can only take so much excitement at one time, Valjean's attention became fixated on the sole detail that seemed safe to analyze and ponder as he observed his own personal Nemesis re-tune the guitar in his lap.
Javert was in a state of déshabillé.
In all the time that Valjean had worked side by side with Javert in M.-sur-M., he had never seen him so much as undo the collar of his coat in public. Now the man was practically undressed. Both the short blue jacket and the red vest were thrown open; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow, exposing surprisingly dark and thin arms. Add to this olive velveteen trousers, a loosely knotted red cravat, and a dark red waist-wrap, and Javert looked no different from any other laborer in the cafe. Only his boots spoiled the impression somewhat: they were almost knee-high and made of soft leather, in the style which used to be very popular among dragoons in days of the Empire. The military tint they added to the ensemble made its overall negligence appear somehow illusory, like the necessary disarray of a bivouacking soldier.
As Valjean watched the late inspector of the police Javert exchange greetings and hand clasps with the men who were fast filling up the room, he realized, somewhat to his surprise, that he no longer wondered how Javert came back to life, or whether he died at all, or whether he was really Javert and not some clever impersonator - although how clever could someone be if they tried to impersonate the fearsome and austere inspector Javert by playing guitar and singing prison songs?
Now he only found Javert's outfit strange.
"I think it's ridiculous that they are turning the General out," said the neighbor, tactfully pinching a slice of Valjean's bread from the platter.
"Hmm," offered Valjean without turning his head. The vague tone could have meant anything from light skepticism to tacit agreement.
The neighbor took it for agreement.
"I mean, I have nothing against the Pharaoh, mind you, except that he is not the General, you know? I'd understand if he actually wanted to retire, mind you, then there'd be no argument - the Pharaoh is his heir, no one's arguing with it. But to throw a man out of his own organization after three and twenty years of perfect service, and that while he's still fit and willing to do his duty? It's plain unfair if you ask me."
"Oh, quite!" said Valjean, shaking his head with not entirely fake discomfort. Talk of firing innocent people did not sit well with him.
The man sighed and sunk his chin back into his hand like an odd parody of Raphael's contemplative cherub.
"I suppose it won't be so bad. The General wouldn't simply off and abandon us. He'll be around if we need him."
Valjean felt a tic stealing over left cheek and squeezed his eyes shut to kill it on arrival. His table-mate interpreted it in his own way.
"Oh, there now, really, it won't be so bad, I'm sure. The Pharaoh knows what he's doing."
Even through the haze of confusion and frustration, Valjean felt an odd warmth towards the man for being so ready to contradict himself just to make a stranger feel better.
"Have you talked to him yet?"
"Not yet. I don't really speak much with him," went on Valjean. "We have... a history between us."
The man laughed once. "Haven't we all!"
"Oh?" said Valjean with genuine curiosity.
The man chuckled. "Pharaoh used to be attached to our chain gang in Toulon some five and twenty years ago. Flayed my back famously once."
Valjean sifted his mental catalog for the man's face but came up empty. Of course, he would've been quite young, and Valjean was never one to examine the new arrivals for fresh beardless boys.
"Not that I was quite innocent," went on the man. "I was new at the galleys, with three years ahead of me, and he interfered in a fight between me and this one fellow from another chain... A very big fellow - I don't know what came over me to challenge him. A fit of madness. I started the fight, but he didn't see that. He must've thought the other fellow was forcing himself on me. He and this other guard pulled us apart. I was so scared of appearing weak in front of my mates that I began pummeling him instead. He was so stunned he didn't even return the first few blows. Exacted his due at the whipping post from me the next day, of course..." The man sighed. "And what about you? What's your story?"
The question caught Valjean with his mouth full, for which fact he was profoundly grateful.
"You must be one of the infantry, like myself. Are you new? I've never seen you on any assignment. Whose group are you in?"
"I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge," blurted out Valjean, hoping his voice sounded steadier to his interlocutor than it did to him.
The man nodded. "Say no more, then. I suppose you'll be leaving right after the Pharaoh makes the address?"
"Yes, that would be for the best. When do you think he will start?"
"Not until the General shows up, certainly. Although he may already be in the back room, I am not sure. In that case, quite soon." The man looked around. "We seem to be mostly accounted for." He scratched his chin absentmindedly. "Well, why don't you go ask him yourself?"
"Ask whom?"
"What do you mean, 'whom'?"
Valjean followed the man's line of sight and found himself looking directly into Javert's face.
Javert was grinning.
