No Worse Than Any Man

Cosette

The mayor was gone three days. When he returned, he was accompanied by a small figure, more waif than child. Noses pressed to store windows as the townspeople stared at the odd pair walking down the street, the girl's small hand completely enveloped by the mayor's.

"Good morning, Javert," said Madeleine as usual.

"Good morning, Monsieur Mayor." The small figure retreated behind the mayor.

"Javert, this is Cosette. Cosette, this is Inspector Javert." The mayor spoke tenderly; only three days and he already cared for the child. "He works for the police department. His job is to keep the town safe—when someone has done wrong, Javert makes sure they will not do it again."

Cosette did not speak, but she inched out from behind Madeleine to stare up at Javert with solemn eyes. She was terribly thin—no more than skin stretched over bones—and her cheekbones protruded almost grotesquely from her pinched face. There was something inherently frightened about her, like a lark afraid of the sky, and yet she gazed at Madeleine with utmost trust.

"Cosette," Javert repeated, careful to keep the distaste from his voice. He hated children, and they had no love of him. They were pests, but because of their very nature, he could not punish them. To jail a man for petty theft was one thing, but a child . . . still, they were quick to stay out of his way—they knew not to throw rocks at the birds when Javert was around, and all play in the street stopped when the inspector passed through.

But Cosette was no street urchin, that much was clear. She looked enough like one, despite the fine coat and black dress the mayor had clothed her in: her hair was lank and brittle, and she did not have the pretty face and rosy complexion so common in children. But there was no laughter in her. Those ragged children that roamed the street laughed raucously as they scampered along. The line of Cosette's mouth was thin and straight.

She carried a doll under one arm. It was a beautiful doll, as if to make up for its owner's homeliness, with thick hair and a sweet face. Only the painted eyes were as large and guileless as Cosette's. Now, she clutched it to her chest as she clung to the mayor.

"I am showing Cosette the town. Right now we are going to city hall, and then the factories," he said. "Perhaps we will stop by the police station later. Good day, Javert."

Javert tipped his hat, and the mayor moved off down the street. They were a strange trio—the dignified gentleman, small girl, and sweetly smiling doll—and yet somehow, they fit. The mayor looked more at peace than Javert could remember; the agitation and troubled manner he had adopted since the Champmathieu affair had vanished. He walked as a man who had found peace at last.

x x x

True to his word, the mayor returned that afternoon. The rapping on Javert's door was not as thunderous as Javert's own, but it was the knock of a confident man all the same.

"Hello again, Inspector. We have just come from the grocer's. Perhaps you will show us the station?"

Javert put down his pen. He was an officer, not a clerk; it should fall to the desk sergeant to usher them around. Still, he could not refuse the mayor—not when he had pardoned Javert for his insubordinance. He stood, unfolding to his full height.

"You have seen the cells?" he asked. The station had only two holding cells that were rarely occupied; those convicted by the municipal court were kept in the city jail. Serious criminals, of which Montreuil-sur-mer had few, were sent to the district prison in Arras.

The mayor winced. "No—but on second thought, perhaps not." For a moment, his eyes were haunted. "There is no need for her to see . . ."

Sheltering the child would do no good, Javert thought. Better she saw what became of those who defied the law—perhaps then she would not be tempted. Such had been the case with Javert; his earliest memories were of cold bars and stone. By the time his mother was released and they walked down that dismal hallway for the last time, he understood the importance of obeying the law. From then on, he was on the other side of those bars.

"As you wish."

Apart from the cells, the station was not much more than an office building, and it did not take long to walk through. During it all, Cosette clung to Madeleine's hand, her doll secure in the other. They stopped in the room off the main hallway. It was small and bare, with nothing more than a long table and a bench. This was where the arrested were brought for questioning. It was grim, with no windows and a single candle. Normally, Javert did not have to conduct much of an interrogation; most suspects were so petrified by the room and the inspector that they confessed quickly.

Cosette surveyed the room somberly, then looked at Javert. Her eyes were disconcerting. Not their color, or how they were too big for her face. It was their expression—they were empty. Yet as she looked at the mayor, they brightened.

Javert knew them. They were Fantine's eyes. They had sparked with hope three months before, in this very place, at the mayor's words: "Set this woman free."

And now her child was here with her eyes. Twice now he had seen them light up with hope, and twice that hope had been directed at the same man: the mayor. Now, as Javert observed the man's doting features and the child who regarded him so trustingly, a peculiar feeling overtook him. The girl's face faded into another's, just as thin, but older. When she smiled, her two front teeth were missing. But there was no mistaking the expression—Fantine was at peace.

Mayor Madeleine had kept his promise.

It was nearly three weeks before Javert heard Cosette speak. Every morning the mayor greeted Javert, but Cosette, nearly hidden behind Madeleine's coattails, never said a word. Javert began to wonder if she were mute.

The townspeople had quickly come to love the little girl. The baker gave her a fresh roll as they passed and waved off the mayor when he tried to press a coin into his hand. The hat maker made her a bonnet and a matching miniature for her doll. The matrons, who had at first raised their eyebrows and gossiped behind closed doors, now smiled at the father and daughter as they walked down the street. Soon, the story got out. The mayor was truly a saint; the girl was the child of the fallen woman, Fantine. When the poor woman died of sickness, the mayor adopted her child as his own.

Javert found a sick sort of amusement in how the women now ennobled Fantine when six months earlier they had condemned her. He did not laugh.

"Inspector Javert?" Only the desk sergeant's head poked into Javert's office; the rest of him looked ready to bolt. "There is a girl here . . . I didn't know what to do . . ." He trailed off hesitantly. Javert looked up.

Cosette stood in the doorway, small and pale in the same black dress she always wore. Without the mayor beside her she looked particularly frail, though she obviously recognized Javert.

"Where is Monsieur Madeleine?" he asked her.

Her lips moved as if she meant to speak, but no sound escaped. Javert sighed. Of course she would not speak now, when he had a question of her.

"Sergeant, go to the mayor's office. Tell him that the gir—that Cosette is here at the police station. How she found her way here, I do not know."

If the sergeant thought it was a strange errand, he didn't say so. He was not five minutes in returning. Cosette had not made a sound.

"The mayor is not there," he panted. "Claude Dumont, his clerk, says that he went to see the postman earlier this morning about stopping twice a week at Saint Pol, and then he was going to the parish church to talk with the curé. The stairs to the bell tower are rickety, and the mayor was going to see about replacing them—but he has not yet returned."

Javert frowned, and the sergeant stuttered nervously.

"Perhaps I can go back and have Dumont bring her back to the office? Or shall I send for the mayor?"

Javert's frown deepened. For all Cosette did not speak or fuss like the other children, she was just as great of a nuisance.

"No." He should send her outside and leave her to find her way back to city hall. The police station was not a lost and found; let the girl fend for herself. But then he thought of the mayor. "It is more trouble than it is worth. She can stay here for a while—I will bring her back myself when I finish this citation."

The sergeant left, and Javert cursed himself and debt he owed the mayor. He was an inspector of the police, not a nursemaid; it was not his duty to attend to wayward children. Even more, he was particularly ill-suited to the task, he thought—it would be much more fitting for the baker's wife to watch the girl, or perhaps the seamstress down the street . . .

But Cosette did not seem to mind. She sat quietly in the corner, content to watch him write. She did not fidget, as most children did, and after several minutes, Javert forgot she was even there. They sat in silence for a quarter of an hour, Javert working and the girl watching, until she spoke for the first time.

"What are you doing?"

Her voice was thin and high pitched—reedy, like a starving cat—and Javert started. Cosette flinched, as though he would strike her. Normally, he would not have bothered answering; he had more important business than the petty questions of children. But by brushing off the child, he insulted the mayor as well.

"I am writing up Pierre Chesnelong, the carter. He lost control of his cart this morning, and it almost ran a woman down in the street. It is the second time in six months that he has caused an accident—last time, it crushed a man, and Monsieur Madeleine was only just able to save him."

Cosette studied him with that solemnity so strange in a child. It was not until he returned his eyes to the paper that she spoke again.

"Papa says you are very good policeman, and that people do not need to be afraid when you are there."

"Does he?" Pleasantries were awkward on his tongue.

"He says that people are afraid of you because they think you are cruel—but they are wrong. He says you are not cruel, just very honest, but sometimes they cannot tell the difference."

Javert could not contain a snort. The mayor was right in one respect—the townspeople did fear Javert—but his responsibility was to the law, not the people. The mayor thought the best of everyone; Javert's opinions came only from what he observed.

"Monsieur Madeleine sees much." Javert knew the mayor thought highly of him, even if they disagreed more often than not. In turn, Javert had always nursed a grudging respect for Madeleine. Once he knew for certain that he was not Jean Valjean, he had no reason to mislike him. "Though he is too lenient for his own good."

She was silent for a few more minutes.

"What are the cells? Papa would not let me see them."

It seemed that now she had started talking, she could not stop—or maybe she was making up for those weeks of silence. But at her words, he hesitated. He remembered how agitated the mayor had become at the mention of cells, how insistent that Cosette not see . . . but the mayor was not here.

"I will show you."

For once, the holding cells were not empty. Jacques Bertrand had been caught yesterday evening stealing liquor from the tavern; he sat on the cold stone, dirty and unshaven. The stench of alcohol still clung to his clothing.

"Why is he here?"

"He stole from the innkeeper. He will stay here until the court decides what to do with him."

Cosette stared at the man somberly. "I stole some bread from an innkeeper once," she said gravely. "I did not finish mopping the floor, and so I did not get any supper. But it was cold, and I was very hungry, so I snuck some bread from the kitchen." She drew back from Javert, as though he would seize her right there and throw her in with Jacques Bertrand. "Must I stay in the cells? I hope not; Papa is kind and lets me eat as much bread as I want."

Iron bars would have to wait until she was older.

"You are but a child, and jail is no place for a child." It had certainly not been kind to Javert as a boy. "Come, let us go. Monsieur Madeleine has probably returned by now."

The chill in the summer air promised autumn, and Cosette shivered. She wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, and as she did, the sleeves fell down her arms. She was quick to cover them against the cold, but still Javert saw the faint yellow and purple marks near her elbows. They were bruises, though fading. For a moment, he wondered about the innkeepers in Montfermeil, but he stopped himself quickly. It was none of his concern; inside a home, he had no jurisdiction. One thing was certain, though—the mayor would not allow anyone to lay a hand on her. Whatever horrors she had known had passed; that part of her life was over.

Cold fingers brushed against his own, and he recoiled. Cosette had reached for his hand, no doubt out of habit—Javert often saw her walking hand in hand with the mayor. But he was not Madeleine, and her arm dropped back to her side. She said nothing, but there was a hint of reproach in her big blue eyes.

That surprised him. She did not fear him—or at least, she seemed no more frightened than usual. The other children ran at the sight of him; she had not yet learned to. Once, Javert had caught the florist's little boy putting a stick in the axle of the farmer's wagon. The boy had nearly fainted with fright before Javert had even said a word. But Cosette walked beside him willingly, eyes dry and placid.

They must have been a strange sight, the big inspector taking small steps to match the child, but no one dared call to them. Halfway to the mayor's office, he felt a tug on his arm. Cosette had reached for him again, though this time she grasped only the fabric of his coat sleeve. When he shrugged her off for the second time, she did not try again.

x x x

The mayor was frantic. Javert had barely made it through the door before he rushed to the child.

"Cosette!" He lifted her into the air, as though holding her up to the light to make sure she was unharmed. "My God, are you alright? Where have you been?"

"I'm fine, Papa." Winter turned to spring when she looked at the mayor. "When I could not find you, I remembered the police station and I went there. Monsieur Javert took care of me."

"He did?" The mayor studied Javert for a long moment. Javert shifted awkwardly. To be commended for apprehending a criminal was one thing—to be praised for watching a child . . . "Indeed, you could not have been safer with anyone else."

The mayor looked thoughtful.

"It is nearly midday. Javert, won't you stay for lunch?"

Instinct conquered surprise. "A mayor does not dine with a spy. And I have been no better than a spy—or have you forgotten?"

The mayor regarded him bemusedly. "Heavens, Javert, you are not still frothing over that misunderstanding? I tell you once again, nothing came of it. Put the matter from your mind."

Javert would do no such thing. There was no pardon for his crimes, whatever the mayor insisted.

"Now, then," the mayor continued. "We are going to the café down the street. Will you accompany us?"

Some of the other officers took their lunch at the café. They were only given an hour, but often they stayed for two, sometimes half the afternoon. They were flippant and made jests when they should have been working. Javert was never so neglectful of his work, and he watched them with irritated disapproval.

"I cannot. I must return to the station."

The mayor did not press the matter. He nodded. "Thank you for bringing me Cosette. You have again gone beyond your duty, and for that I am in your debt."

"No matter. It . . . was not much trouble."

The strange thing, Javert thought as he left, was that it was almost true.

Rarely did Javert leave the station before dusk, but on that particular night he could find nothing more to do. His citation of Pierre Chesnelong was finished, his daily report drawn up, his recommendation to the magistrate concerning Jacques Bertrand sent. There was only one pile of papers on his desk that night: processed.

To fill the time, he extended his nightly patrol of the town. The main street was deserted, and so he turned down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc. The houses there belonged to the wealthy; they were large, with well-manicured gardens and elaborate gates.

The mayor lived in the very last house. It was smaller and older than the others, and it looked a little out of place among the bigger houses, as though it did not quite belong on that street. The garden was plain, surrounded only by a simple rock wall, and there were no rosebushes or climbing vines, just vegetables. Javert wondered why the mayor did not hire someone to tend to it—he could very well afford it.

The door opened as he passed, and a slight figure flew down the steps to the street.

"Hello, Monsieur Inspector." Ten hours earlier, he had never heard her voice.

He slowed, though he did not stop altogether. She fell into step beside him.

The door opened again.

"Cosette!" An old woman stood in the doorway, her grey hair falling out of its bun—the housekeeper, he assumed. "Come back here! You'll be chilled to the bone, child!"

Cosette stopped in her tracks. She glanced between the woman on the stairs and Javert. Her eyes were no longer fearful as she looked at him; indeed, she seemed to have taken to him since that afternoon.

The door opened a third time. This time it was the mayor.

"Cosette? And Javert as well. We seem destined to cross paths today."

Javert thought he saw faces appearing in the windows of the neighboring houses. As a policeman, he detested scenes in the street—to be the cause of one was doubly distasteful. He regretted turning down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc at all.

But while Cosette dared to defy the housekeeper, not so the mayor, and she ran back to him. Madeleine turned to Javert.

"You did not join us for lunch, Inspector, but perhaps for supper? Madame Moreau has made a fine stew; we can easily set the table for three."

Stale bread and cold meat awaited Javert at his apartment. Rarely did he have hot meals, and the night was growing chilly. His two rooms were dark and cold; he did not see fit to light a fire except on the most dismal of winter nights. But he could not set foot inside the mayor's home. Houses were foreign to him. A house was for happiness and a family. Javert had never known either.

"I must finish inspecting the streets. By the time I am through, your plates will be cold," he said, and took his leave.

And yet from that night on, he detoured down the Rue du Garraud-Blanc before returning to his apartment. In reality, the street did not need to be patrolled; most crime took place down the main way around the shops. Still, something drew him to that little house with the plain garden and simple stone wall. He did not understand why; it was no more than some strange whim. But Javert did not suffer whims—to himself he justified that he was simply concerned for the mayor's safety. Not even for the sake of the mayor; Madeleine was an integral part of Montreuil-sur-mer, and the entire town would suffer should some harm befall him.

Only a single candle was ever lit in the mayor's window, but even that seemed almost painfully bright to Javert. He could see the silhouettes of the man and girl as he passed. They were a strange family, the dignified mayor and orphaned child, and yet obviously happy. Together, they had found their place, content and warm in the little house. And Javert observed them from his, the station he had held all of his life: from the outside in the cold street, looking in.