Hmm, I still only have a vague idea of where this story is going but hope you enjoy reading anyway…I guess I've taken poetic license with the word gorgio as I couldn't find the French word for non-gypsy. Same with the chocolate bon-bons; I think it was sold in slabs back then.

After leaving Jean Valjean, planning to throw himself into the River Seine, Inspector Javert thinks back to his childhood.

***chapter 3***

***Adele***

No, he was not alone. And it was the first time he fell in love.

A little girl in a rose pink dress, her toffee-coloured ringlets decorated with rose pink ribbons, knelt on a long bench, a large picture book open on the table before her, a box of chocolate bon-bons at her elbow, reading aloud to a doll almost as pretty as herself. Her eyes flew open wide when she espied him and she drew a breath to cry out.

"Police!" He whispered urgently, and he pressed his fingers to his lips.

She was to the sun as he was to the moon yet perhaps there was something pleading in Little Javert's look or in his whisper that touched her heart, for instead of shouting she snapped her mouth shut and listened closely too. It was easy to tell the policeman's tread. Like the man on the Pont Notre Dame, his boots were heavier than the common workman's and owned a more confident stride. The policeman paused nearby. They heard him question one of the market sellers about the fruit she sold and the market seller's deferential answers. The conversation lasted only a few minutes; the policeman being satisfied with the woman's explanation, but all the while Little Javert sat still as a statue and white as a ghost. It was only when they parted that he dared once more steal a glance at his companion.

He had thought he detected a sliver of amusement when he warned her of the policeman but, for him at least, being unafraid of policemen was so alien that he quickly dismissed the idea. Yet there it was again. The girl's rosy lips curved into a smile though she turned her head quickly to try and hide it.

She was not like other children he knew. She dressed like a princess with brooches and bangles and wore shoes with buckles and smelled of flowers on a summer evening freshened by rain. Her skin was not rough and tanned, but porcelain and pink like a lady's, and her small hands were soft and unused to work. A clatter sent a warmth to his face. The little girl had risen to her feet and caught him studying her. She surveyed him curiously over the head of the doll she clutched to her chest.

"Why do you stare so? What is your name?" she demanded imperiously. He couldn't answer either question and so remained tongue-tied. He never had a name and how could he tell her he stared because she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen? Even his little sister, the one sold to be a dancer, was not half so lovely.

"Well, I am Adele and if you will not tell me your name I must call you gypsy boy because that is what you are, is it nor?" she said, looking him up and down and wrinkling her delicate nose. "How old are you, Gypsy Boy?"

Awed by her fairylike prettiness and the shining hair he longed to touch, he shrugged and shuffled. "Five or six." How could he know? What child knew his or her age and why must this beautiful girl ask such questions? But he had heard someone say recently he was five or six and so he must be.

"Ho! How can the dolt not know his own name and age, Isabelle?" She asked scornfully of the doll. "Five or six indeed! Isabelle and I are seven. And yet I am so much taller than thou!" Pleased and amused with the discovery, she placed her hand on top of her curly head and then stretched it out palm downwards to demonstrate how he barely reached her shoulders, adding contemptuously, "Gypsy Boy!"

Had any other child mocked him as this girl chose to, Little Javert would have felt bound to defend himself. A boy, even a boy bigger and stronger, he would have boxed in anger till one of them fell down; a girl he would have laughed at, unconcerned by a mere girl's taunts. But Adele was different. Her disdain wounded him deeply and though he longed to win her approval, how could he justify his ignorance to those sparkling brown eyes, laughing at him, curious about him, seeing deep into his soul?

Little Javert had been taught by his own kind, albeit not by his parents, that gypsies were an ancient and fiercely proud race that it was an honour to be born into. Their traditions had been passed down through the centuries in music, dancing and story-telling, and even the very smallest of gypsy children could lisp some of their long, colourful history, be it only in simple song. Others might claim a gypsy's blood was tainted, he heard the older gypsies say, but, poor and despised as gypsies were, they were also free as the wind, at one with nature and rich as kings in a culture that gorgios, with their pale skin, pretty manners and pampered lives, could only dream of. It was this knowledge he was special kept Little Javert warm even in his thin rags on the most bitter winter nights. Yet suddenly he was ashamed of his gypsy birth. Few gypsies, he knew, were wicked as his parents and long ago he had sworn never to be like his mother and father. But how could he be otherwise? His blood was dirty; his heart black. Gypsies lied and cheated; they stole and they killed; they were lazy and workshy. This is what the gorgios said, and though gypsies themselves denied it, it must be the truth because he saw it all now in Adele's beautiful eyes.

Unable to meet her disdainful gaze any longer, and with the delicious smell of chocolate assailing his nostrils as it had done ever since he crawled through the canvas, he switched his attention once more to the tempting box on the table. He was still hungry. He was always hungry. Little Javert had never known what it was not to be even when he had been lucky enough to have a little food to eat. Sometimes he was so famished it was as though his stomach touched his back, but today he had found a stale, half-eaten loaf of bread that some fool had discarded and once he had brushed it free of ants it had been very edible. He had devoured it as a wolf would, carrying it off to a quiet lair, stuffing it whole into his mouth, slobbering, snorting, watching with greedy wariness lest anyone came by and tried to snatch it away. Adele would have been disgusted to see him and he was ashamed to remember. It was not so special, after all, to be gypsy. What it must be to be born into the bourgeoisie, to have a full belly, to sleep quietly in a soft bed and not like an animal outdoors with hard stone for a pillow and rats running over his body, to think nothing of having books to read and toys to play with, to know the luxury of eating bon-bons!

"Ah! So you wish for a chocolate, Gypsy Boy?" Adele said, with a mischievous flash of her dark eyes. "I wonder you do not steal them. It's what your kind do, I am told."

Little Javert's face burned. Why did he not simply push her aside, take the chocolates and go? He had nothing to fear now. The policeman had long gone. Yet he knew why. He wanted Adele to think well of him. He wanted her to smile, not laugh, at him.

"I have money!" He cried, holding out the precious sou. "If you would sell one or two, I would buy."

"No. Isabel and I do not wish to sell," she said, shaking her head so vigorously that a ribbon loosened and dangled prettily on her shoulder. "You may take one, Gypsy Boy, and then you may kiss me to say thank you." She pointed to a place her cheek just below her merrily laughing eyes.

Little Javert's heart sang. He had never kissed a girl before but, from the moment he saw her, he had longed to kiss this beautiful girl. Nor had he ever eaten chocolate though once he had crept into a chocolate house and stolen three sips of hot chocolate before he was caught and soundly beaten for his pains. But he had never forgotten the magic flavour that lingered on his tongue and always yearned to taste it again. He grew bold enough to smile shyly at Adele as he timidly reached his hand into the box, unaware she meant to play a cruel trick on him…