4. The Man of Mercy

It was just the kind of village inn Valjean had expected, a large framework building with an adjacent stable that formed one side of a square market place, with its sign, a cockerel that had once been painted golden but was now green with tarnish, creaking gently in the growing breeze. The massive oak door was half open, and to both of its sides, along the walls, stood wooden benches and tables, occupied by a handful of men and women in farmers' plain garments with wooden mugs and a few tankards before them. But most of the places were left free; Valjean assumed that they would fill once midday came.

"C'mon, travelling companion," said the boy, tugging at his sleeve and pointing towards the door. "In here."

"Who was it you were going to take me to again?" Valjean inquired, allowing Gavroche to lead him over the threshold and into the inn's cool, shadowy interior. The shutters were closed on most windows to keep out the growing heat, and though the room was rather too dimly lit for his taste, Valjean felt it was a comfortable relief from the burning sun outside.

"Hello everybody," Gavroche yelled once they were inside, not heeding the question, and Valjean sighed inaudibly. He had never liked being the focus of attention, and the boy's shouting made people turn their heads. Men and women, old and young, about fifteen assembled at wooden tables in a wide, low room, and four more standing at the bar, where a stout man in a green apron that had seen better days was polishing glasses. For a moment Valjean's eyes narrowed as he hastily studied the landlord's features, as if dreading to glimpse Thénardier's face, but the man was a complete stranger, red-haired and red-bearded and with a beak of a nose, his cheeks glowing just as red as his hair as he laughed. And so were the others around him, complete strangers.

Somehow he hoped very much it would remain that way. He had recognized the fair-haired young man Gavroche had taken him to just before, and he only hoped that the former rebel leader had not recognized him in turn. Eventually he would find out probably, since Gavroche knew who Valjean was, but Valjean hoped that this would be rather later than sooner. What was past, was past. If he really was to live here, in this place that seemed more like a dream than anything else to him, then he meant to start a new existence, an entirely new life.

Yes, if this was not a dream, after all. Maybe he would wake up and still be alone in an empty room. Maybe he would wake up and see Cosette again, only to lose her once more. His throat constricted at the thought. Or maybe… maybe he would find that this all, the barricades, Thénardier, Marius, had been nothing but a bad dream, and that he was still with Cosette, and that there was still only him and her, forever.

Forever… there was no such thing as forever. Happiness faded away, joy did not last. All too soon, grief would return to him to hold sway over him once more.

So he should be grateful for every happy moment, even if it was nothing but a snatch of a strange dream.

Strangers spoke their greetings, to him as well as to the boy, and he answered them as well as he could. Some gave their names, strange-seeming names mostly, but there were too many of them, and all at the same time, he could barely keep them in mind. Marten, Danil, Talir, Sophia, Jock… How was he to remember them all, let alone the faces belonging to them? Then the landlord came from behind his counter, not laughing anymore, but still beaming broadly, to shake Valjean's hand. His grip was firm and his voice booming, but his bright eyes were kind, and he pushed a biscuit into Gavroche's hand. Yorel was his name, so he said, and with him came a boy, a gangly lad of about seventeen with just the same untidy mane of red hair and a freckled face, whom he introduced as his son, Yossi. The boy laughed and tousled Gavroche's hair, his cheeks just as red as his father's.

"I'm taking him to see Orvar," Gavroche explained, drawing himself up importantly.

"Certainly a good idea, lad," the landlord agreed. "He's right over there in the backroom." And he pointed to an open door to the right of the counter. "At his usual place."

"So I can't miss him," Gavroche stated. "Come with me, travelling companion." And once again he gripped Valjean's jacket sleeve and tugged. "Come on! And I really wonder why you wear all this stuff on a hot day like this! I mean, a cravat! Nobody around here ever wears a cravat! You really need to get some new clothes." With this, he pulled Valjean after him into the backroom.

It was a small room and filled with the same twilight as the main one, but in comparison it seemed rather crowded. While one of the three tables it contained had been left empty, another was occupied by the group of young men they had met earlier on, part of those revolutionaries Valjean remembered. The one in the embroidered red vest – Bahorel, if he recalled correctly how Gavroche had called him – looked up and nodded at them, and so did the one who had spoken about some slight malady afflicting him. Valjean had forgotten the name, but he remembered the face and the brown wavy hair parted at one side. Gavroche nudged the bald one in the back, then his attention turned to the last table in the corner –

"Whiskers!" the boy yelled, at once letting go of Valjean's sleeve and dashing through the room, followed by the young men's laughter. "I had no idea you were here already!"

Looking after him, Valjean froze. The man beside whom Gavroche was hopping up and down excitedly… He would not have needed the warning he had already received through meeting several men from his past; that face he would have recognized anywhere. He knew those grim, hard features with the characteristic somewhat flat-seeming nose and the strong jawline, that tight-lipped scowl out of dark eyes. He knew them only too well.

"Look here," Gavroche cried, beaming, "I need to introduce you to my friend –"

"That won't be necessary," Javert cut in coldly.

Valjean nodded glumly. When he had imagined Paradise, he had certainly imagined it without Javert. Of all the men he would avoid, this was the one he would flee from most. No, perhaps Thénardier would be even more unpleasant, or maybe some others, but all the same, knowing to have Javert near made him more uneasy than the presence of any other man. All the times he had run and hidden from him… Even if he told himself that his old persecutor would not be dangerous to him any longer, there still remained a restless feeling of unease.

"So, breadthief," Javert continued, with a cutting edge to his voice, "how do you like life around here? Has someone shown you the way to the baker's yet?"

God, such hatred! And that after he had saved his life. "What is past, is past," Valjean replied as calmly as he could, though those young men's gazes made him want to crawl under a table and hide with shame. Once a thief, forever a thief. Was there no absolution, no forgiveness after all he had gone through? "It was a long time ago, and I was a foolish boy then, and my sister's children were starving." It was no excuse, he knew, but at least an explanation.

"And if he turned you in for that, he's a right bastard," a voice from beside him suddenly said. Turning, he found himself face to face with one of those familiar-seeming young men, a tall, dark-haired fellow dressed in brown with a blue neckerchief tied loosely around his neck. There was a pair of glasses peeking out of his breast pocket, Valjean noticed, as if he kept it ready in case he found something to read. "Nicolas Combeferre," the lad introduced himself. "Currently in charge of this noisy flock."

"Flock you're calling us?" protested Bahorel as Valjean took Combeferre's outstretched hand.

"Yes, you goose," Combeferre said over his shoulder, to which his friends reacted with an outburst of laughter. "Anyway… this is a place where there's enough of everything, and where people take care of each other. You won't need to steal out of hunger ever again."

"It was a long time ago," Valjean murmured, moved by this open, kind speech and these earnest eyes. Combeferre. He would remember the name.

"Don't mind Javert. No matter what Orvar says, he still bears his old grudges." Combeferre laughed and shook his head. "You should hear him and Enjolras – one of my friends – together. They positively hate each other."

"Both stubborn as mules," another put in, a slightly plump fellow with a round face and sandy-coloured curls. "Say, isn't that our old friend Leblanc?"

Some chuckles answered, while Valjean shook his head. "My name's Jean Valjean." Heavens, where were his manners? He should have said so already when Combeferre had introduced himself!

"I think that's the nickname Courfeyrac gave you," Combeferre explained. "Now, Courfeyrac, don't be impolite."

"I never was," replied the one addressed as Courfeyrac with a wide-eyed look of innocence.

"You know", Gavroche suddenly piped up beside Valjean, "you should really go and extend your paw to Orvar now. Or else, with that lot, you'll end up drunk and rolling around under a table, you mark my words."

"Cheeky little monkey," Bahorel called as the others laughed.

Gavroche poked out his tongue at him. Then his little fingers once again clutched Valjean's sleeve. "C'mon, over there. Whiskers doesn't bite."

"That depends," retorted Javert, raising one eyebrow sarcastically.

Following the boy towards Javert's table, Valjean still felt uneasy, despite Combeferre's honest display of loyalty and Gavroche's attempt to calm him. Whiskers? Yes, Javert still had those dark sideburns he had had ever since Montreuil. Valjean only dimly recalled him from Toulon, a tall, bronze-skinned and very eager youth, but he had been clean-shaven back then, if he remembered it correctly. He had always worn his hair long, though, and he still did so now, caught in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. And his expression had not changed, either, that usual grim line between his eyebrows as they shifted together in a frown. How could Gavroche call him a friend? Did this man have any friends? Did he want friends at all? Despite the many times their paths had crossed, Valjean found that he hardly knew him.

"That's Orvar," Gavroche whispered, pointing to Javert's companion with his chin. "Watch your language with him, he doesn't like it when people use rude words. And don't bounce up and down, he says it makes him nervous." Then he sidled up to Javert, dropped his fishing rod on the floor and punched him on the upper arm playfully.

For a moment Valjean just stood and stared. Javert would never allow this. He would never let the boy hit him and get away with it – let alone call him Whiskers where everyone could hear, when he considered it. What would he do, snarl at the child? Pull his ear? But none of this happened. Instead, Javert's hard features suddenly grew lenient, and he picked Gavroche up like a rag doll and placed him on the bench beside him.

Mystified, Valjean watched what could almost be called a display of affection. Did Javert secretly harbour a soft spot for children? Somehow this was hard to imagine. Or for this child in particular?

Suddenly he remembered that he was expected to greet another man, and hastily he turned to face the one who kept Javert company, bowing his head in greeting. So this was Orvar. He must be an important man, from what the others had said, but this was all he knew about him. Gavroche had not really explained where he was taking him.

"Welcome." Orvar's voice was deep and had a slightly rough edge to it. He looked just as grim as Javert, with a dark scar on his cheek seemingly tearing a bay into his black beard that otherwise covered his face from the middle of his cheeks down to his neck. His greying hair was wild, too, his face rough and lined, and his nose was a sharp beak, broken at least once. "You call yourself Valjean?"

"Yes…" Valjean was not sure with which title to address this man, so he simply held the gaze of those scrutinizing dark eyes and waited. He wondered if some of the young men at the other table were listening; there were merry voices talking behind him, but one or two might be trying to catch every word they exchanged.

"You knew Javert in your former life, as well as Courfeyrac?"

"Yes," Valjean answered simply. That stare did not make him want to yield any more information than necessary. Former life, Heavens above! It was an odd thing to imagine.

For a moment Orvar regarded him in silence, then he suddenly commanded, "Javert, tell me about him."

"He's a thief," Javert said simply, without looking up. Instead, he pushed his mug over to Gavroche, who accepted it gratefully. A verdict once spoken would never change for him. Then he fell silent for a moment, staring down at the table, and his large hands knotted into fists. "He'll take your pride and honour from you and call it mercy."

So this was Javert's perspective? His bitterness was like a blow that caught Valjean squarely in the chest. This was how he saw what Valjean had done for him? Valjean had meant to save him, that was all. He could not have let him die. So he had saved his life and given him back his freedom, and in Valjean's point of view, Javert had repaid him by helping him to get the injured Marius to his grandfather safely. It was all Valjean had asked of him, nothing more; he would have allowed Javert to arrest him without resistance. But Javert had shown him mercy that night.

And Javert had killed himself. At once Valjean understood. Just as he himself could not have lived with himself had he let Javert die, Javert had been unable to live with himself after he had given a convict his freedom.

My God… I would have been ready to trade my life for yours, only to involuntarily trade yours for mine. "It's my fault," he whispered. "I killed you. I'm sorry."

He saw Gavroche stare at him wide-eyed, the mug in his hands forgotten, and he thought to feel Orvar's gaze on him like a blade held to his throat. Yet Javert did not look at him, but at his fists on the table instead, and his knuckles were white.

"Valjean," Orvar said, his voice rougher than before, but still the young men laughed and chattered on behind them as if nothing had been said, "it's your turn. Tell me about Javert."

Surprised, Valjean struggled for words. As he automatically faced Orvar once more, those dark eyes seemed hungry to him, eager to hear what he had to say. Eager for the image to be completed… "He's… a man of honour, certainly… he takes his duty very seriously…" A memory struck him, that moment when Javert had come to ask to be dismissed, because, as he had believed then, he had accused Valjean wrongly of being who he was… "He's just as hard on himself as he is on others, if not even harder. He doesn't want anyone else to forgive him because he won't forgive himself his own mistakes." No, he had not allowed Valjean to wave away his offence as unimportant. He had insisted, proud and humble in one. "He rejects the mercy of others, and compassion means weakness to him."

Orvar nodded slowly, his scar seeming even deeper as he pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "So he would sooner die than accept another man's mercy." For a moment he looked down into the half-empty tankard before him, then he raised his head again and held Valjean's gaze directly. There was a wary intelligence in his eyes, and a sudden understanding. "Valjean, the man of mercy. I shall remember that."

Javert made a sound like a snort, but Valjean could not quite be certain, it was half drowned out in a sudden gale of laughter from Combeferre, Bahorel, Courfeyrac and the others. If it was as it had just appeared, Orvar had been able to deduct more than just that from their descriptions of each other.

"And you, boy," Orvar continued suddenly, nodding towards Gavroche, who almost dropped the mug and dribbled apple juice down over his chin, "I distinctly remember giving the order to bring every new man to me as quickly as possible, not dawdle about on the road. Yes, Joly and Bahorel informed me that you were taking a new one for a walk. No use to argue. You will do as you're told, boy."

Gavroche swallowed, wiping his chin with his sleeve, and nodded hastily, avoiding everybody's eyes. Surprisingly, Javert said nothing, neither words of reproach nor of defence.

It seemed that Orvar wanted to address Valjean once more, maybe even offer him a seat at his table, for he already gestured towards the chair opposite him, but then he suddenly rose to his feet, just as Valjean heard someone approaching behind him. "Yes, Sophia?"

A spark of suspicion all those years on the run had planted into him now made Valjean turn swiftly, ready to fight or run, and it took him a moment to calm himself. Really, he was being foolish! Who would come after him in here? Except Javert, perhaps, but Javert was seated where he could see him. No, it was only the landlord, Yorel, and one of the women he had seen earlier on in the other room, in a dark skirt and white linen blouse and a gentle, yet somehow attentive face. Sophia, yes. This was the name she had given when she had introduced herself.

Orvar slipped past him, and they met between the tables, exchanging a quiet nod for a greeting. Valjean had automatically assumed that Orvar was tall, yet only his being a lean man had conveyed that impression. In fact, he was neither short nor tall, about Valjean's own height, while Sophia was by more than a head shorter. "Hubert is here," she informed him briskly. "He brings news from Stonesend, and he asked for a word with the two of us."

"He waits upstairs in the room at the end of the corridor," Yorel added. "I'll have my son bring you drinks."

"Thank you." It seemed to be addressed to both of them. "Valjean, if you'll excuse me. Javert, I'll see you after you're done at Master Wenslow's." Orvar gave them a curt bow, then turned on the heels of his knee-high black leather boots and marched after Sophia.

Only Yorel stayed behind, tending to his duties as an innkeeper. "Anything else to drink, gentlemen? Another beer, Lèsgles? Apple tart, anyone? My wife just got it out of the oven." A chorus of sounds of appreciation was the answer. "Fine, I'll bring you a whole plateful. Yes, and your iced spicewine, Bahorel. Oh, and if Grantaire turns up, let me know, I'll fetch him a barrel." He laughed, and so did the group of former students and rebels. Then he turned to the other table. "And you, do you have any wishes?"

"C'mon," Gavroche piped up, waving to Valjean, "sit down! New ones always get a drink on the house, and I'd recommend the apple juice."

"That's right, of course," Yorel agreed. "They usually are thirsty, but never have any money on them."

Automatically Valjean patted his pockets, but apart from a handkerchief they were indeed empty. He had not gone out, so he had not taken his purse with him, and there were no coins left in his pockets.

But if he had found something, would it have been the kind of money they accepted in this place?

As Gavroche's gesturing grew more resolute, he complied and sat down beside the place where Orvar had been sitting, opposite Javert. What else should he do? He had nowhere else to go. His throat felt dry, and he gratefully accepted the landlord's offer. Later on he would surely be able to pay for himself; in this village at least someone would certainly have use for a gardener or a stablehand.

Or the forge, perhaps? From what he had heard he could deduct that Javert had found employment there. Maybe, if nobody else needed him, they would hire another strong man.

"Now, Gavroche, it's your turn," Yorel said. "Anything I can bring you?"

"Actually," Gavroche replied, grinning, "I was hoping for second breakfast."

"That would make it two slices of white bread, some butter, a piece of cheese, a little bowl of honey, half an apple and a glass of luke-warm strawberry milk," Javert provided with an expression that came surprisingly close to amusement.

"What? Hey! You remember!" Gavroche beamed. "You did listen to me while tending to the horses!"

"I always listen."

"Let's hope I'll keep all that in mind," the landlord said, already bustling off towards the door. He must have a good memory, Valjean assumed, or otherwise he would have written it down somewhere.

And then they were left alone together. Valjean saw that Javert was gazing at him quite openly, his features grim as ever, and he mustered him in turn. The inspector had not changed much since he had last seen him, except that his hair was of a complete near-black now, without its former flecks of grey. He also wasn't in uniform, but in a plain rough linen shirt which might have been white once, held together with thin leather cords over his chest.

And there was something else noteworthy about him: For some reason, his hair was slightly moist, despite the hot sun outside.

It seemed Gavroche had noticed just the same thing, for he asked, "Have you gone swimming without me?"

"What? No. Just scrubbed off all the sweat before I came here."

"That suspiciously sounds like a bath."

"Rather like splashing myself at the rain barrel."

"Is the rain barrel large enough for two?"

"Talk sense."

"That's boring."

Javert sighed. "What have you been up to, anyway?"

"Fishing." Gavroche pointed to the fishing rod beside his seat. "But the fish wouldn't bite. I think your worm was no good."

"Fine, next time I'll bite a bit off to see if it tastes rotten." They looked at each other, their expressions serious, but then Gavroche started snorting with mirth, and Javert's thin lips twisted into what might be considered a hint of a grin for a moment.

So the friend Gavroche had been talking about at the bridge was Javert? The friend who had made him the fishing rod and placed the feather on his little cap, the one who was very accurate in throwing stones and – Valjean practically choked at the idea – could spit amazingly far? Was this the same Javert Valjean had come to know? Of course, he had never known him well, but the outer façade the inspector had always shown, even back at Toulon already, had never encouraged such ideas, to say the very least.

"I'll tell you something funny," Gavroche said happily. "I think the worm's drying out."

"Well, we won't," Javert muttered. "Because it's raining."

"Raining? You must be imagining things. But I can get you the lid of some big pot to wear on your head if that makes you feel drier."

"Outside, of course. Prick up your ears. Or clean them out, either one might do you some good."

Ignoring Gavroche's lecture on how one could make little yellowish-green crumbs out of earwax and flick them around, Valjean listened to the sounds coming from outside. A horse's hoofbeat on cobblestones, fading away… and then only the soft, steady beat of raindrops. Soon those unpaved, dusty little roads out there would be turned to bands of mud, clinging to men's boots and later on, if it continued raining, trapping cart-wheels… Memories stirred, long-banished memories of Toulon, of heavy rain falling in sheets, whipped by an angry wind blowing from the sea, and him and the others toiling in the storm, plodding through puddles and stepping over slippery rocks jutting out in some places as if to catch the unwary, more stumbling than walking, eyes half closed against the onslaught of raindrops, shivering in their drenched clothing. They were long past the cursing stage, now they struggled on in silence, dragging themselves on by concentrating on the next step as if it were the last, and the next, and the next… The only sounds heard were their ragged, heavy breathing, the squishing noise their feet made in the mud, and the gentle clinking of the chains, a constant, unceasing reminder of their place, their punishment… One foot suddenly catching on a jarred piece of rock hidden under the brownish surface of a deep puddle, Valjean stumbled, desperately trying to regain his balance, the chain tightening painfully around his left ankle, when suddenly a tall figure loomed out of the gathering gloom, one of the guards in their dark uniforms positioned along their way. For a moment he glimpsed a stranger's features, a beardless boy's, his lips grimly pressed together, his chin thrust out defiantly, doing his best to ignore the rain streaming down his face and gluing long strands of dark hair to his bronze-coloured skin… Out of nowhere, Valjean received a blow to his shoulder, catching him before he completely toppled over and throwing him back on his feet, and on he staggered, his head lowered. A new boy, then. Under which category to place him? It was hard to tell yet, but he already was certain he'd rather work under that one's supervision than under, say, Bourin's or even Corporal Manelle's. Those two would not have pushed him back on track had he come stumbling towards them. They would have stepped aside and let him fall, and then used the lash as he was struggling back to his feet, gloating over him. And as he considered it, he did not doubt that they had made sure they were off duty during a storm like this, pushing the new ones forward, just like this tall, dark boy, to do the unpleasant work for them. And at once he felt almost sorry for the lad. He had been rough, but friendlier than others…

Valjean blinked. Yes, Javert had looked a lot younger back then, and defiant instead of grim, but his features had remained the same more or less. The one now sitting opposite him was the very same stubborn policeman from Montreuil-sur-mer who had become a constant reminder of the respectable mayor 's past, the past Valjean had so desperately been trying to escape from.

In his past life and in this, it seemed that he and Javert were fated to meet in pouring rain. But it was good to be out of the rain this time.

Yorel returned balancing a large dish, first distributing plates and drinks among the students, then he came over to bring Gavroche his second breakfast and placed a glass of apple juice in front of Valjean. Then he disappeared again, already going to bring two more tankards of beer for the students' table. Whatever Javert had revealed about him earlier on, Valjean was not rejected here, wherever they were.

He might have asked Orvar what kind of place it was, but Orvar was away with Sophia to listen to some important news that might not be all too pleasant, especially when remembering what Gavroche had mentioned on their way through the village… It had sounded like rumours to scare the fearful, yet now, when sitting in a darkened room that had grown even darker when outside clouds had consumed the sun, listening to the wind howling and the rain beating down… It seemed real now, so very real.

"I'll be soaked before I return to Master Wenslow's," Javert stated, watching Gavroche enthusiastically spreading butter on his bread.

"You think you have a problem? That's nothing compared to me!" Gavroche complained. "I meant to go and pick mushrooms in the forest, and some herbs perhaps, and then ride around a little –"

"You could have picked your mushrooms yesterday already, instead of lying in the sun all day. I don't have a problem, you do."

"And you might as well stop gloating, because you'll be getting wet as a sodden rag just as well." There was a hint of satisfaction in the boy's voice as he nibbled his cheese.

"Doesn't bother me. Once I get back to the forge, I can hang up my shirt somewhere to dry. It's hot enough in there."

"So when you're properly soaked and then go back to the forge, you'll be steaming," Gavroche concluded. "I'd like to see that."

It seemed that Javert had decided to ignore him, Valjean assumed, and this did not bother him much. Instead, he tried his juice, which was cool and refreshing. But somehow he would suddenly have preferred something to warm him up, after those dark thoughts had returned to him.

There was a little commotion as a thin, dark-haired girl of about seventeen or eighteen slipped in, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and the landlord hurried after her with a mug of something hot and steaming. Readily the young men made room for her, and she huddled in among them, still shivering slightly, but smiling.

"That's my sister," Gavroche said, nodding towards her. "Eponine. Always running around outside and never telling anybody where she's going. She'll go wrong, you mark my words." To this he waved a slightly buttery finger in the air. "You mark my words," he repeated in the tone of an old woman who has seen enough of the world to know all about girls who went wrong, in whichever direction.

"You eat your breakfast," Javert told him coolly. "Valjean knows more about that than you can possibly imagine."

The boy, who had been about to try his strawberry milk, put the mug back down with an audible plunk, so that the slightly rosy-coloured milk sloshed up and almost out over the brim. "Stop being so mean to him!"

"I'm merely stating a fact." His arms crossed over his chest, Javert was leaning back against the wall behind him, watching Valjean just as warily as he had watched him back at Toulon.

Gavroche sighed exaggeratedly. "I told you, don't mind him. He's a grumpy old dragon, is Whiskers." As Javert slowly and threateningly began to sit up straight, he ducked his head. "I didn't say a thing!" he squeaked. "Oh, did I mention evil-tempered? Vindictive?" A large hand caught the back of his neck. "Lacking all sense of humour whatsoever!" he squealed as Javert shook him. It was not a violent shake, though, Valjean noticed, just a playful kind of reasserting one's authority, like a large dog would nip a cheeky puppy.

"Now I'm going to fall into my plate face-first," Gavroche proclaimed, his mouth already full again, "and it's all your fault." Snatching up one of the two quarters of a green apple lying before him, he bit off a large chunk and chewed noisily. "You'll go wrong, Whiskers, you mark my words."

"You sound like an old crone, boy."

"And I love you too." Gavroche pushed the other quarter towards him. "Here, have something that'll make you big and strong. Not that you need it, beanpole."

Javert accepted it, just as over at the other table one of the young men rather loudly called one of his friends a mixture between a snail and an elephant.

The landlord's son came in to light the lanterns on the walls, and soon a comfortable yellow light filled the room, while outside the rain kept hammering down and the wind kept howling. At some distance, there was a long-drawn growl of thunder.

"Sounds just like your stomach when you're hungry," Gavroche told the former inspector, gracefully offering him a bite of bread too, which he declined. "Blimey, the sky must have a huge stomach, when you think about it. No wonder it rumbles like that."

Over at the other table, someone called another the son of a rhinoceros and was compared to a shaved walrus in return. The girl's giggle was distinguishable among the others, loud and clear and merry.

For a little time they sat in silence, Gavroche greedily devouring his meal, Valjean sipping his apple juice and feeling a little uncomfortable. Where was he to go now? Where should he find a place to stay? Maybe he should ask the innkeeper.

Finally Gavroche wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then sank back against the wall with a contented sigh. "Aaaah. Now I feel full and fat and lazy."

"Now you get back to your feet and run along home," Javert informed him. "Because I'll be going back to Master Wenslow's."

"Already?"

"He won't wait all day."

"What are you doing that's so important?"

"Working the bellows, silly." Javert nudged the boy off the bench, ignoring his protest.

"No! I mean, what are the blacksmiths doing that's so important?"

"You know the traders are due any time now," Javert replied, getting up and rising to his full impressive height.

"But surely not only bracelets and rings and pendants and stuff? You can't possibly tell me that's all you ever do, working overtime?"

"You're forgetting the horseshoes. You can never have enough horseshoes. Come on, get going. You there, Valjean, come along."

Valjean had already hesitated if he should follow them or not, but now he rose to his feet. "Where to?" he demanded. No, Javert would not treat him like some kind of animal and order him around, not this time!

"Oh, you're bound to like it." Was it mockery in his voice, or disdain? "Gavroche, I said move."

"But can we just wait 'til –"

"No."

Muttering, Gavroche trudged ahead, out into the main room. Valjean was the last to go, nodding goodbye to Combeferre as he went. Yorel was nowhere to be seen, probably busy in the kitchens, and a woman had taken his place behind the counter, short and plump and with a merry round face. While Javert counted out a handful of coins into her palm, Valjean had some time to study his attire. Obviously he was dressed according to the sense of fashion here, with his shirt not tucked into his trousers, as Valjean would have expected, but worn hanging over it, held together by a belt around his waist, on which he wore a small pouch and a sheathed dagger. The knee-high boots were nothing new on him, only that those were made of a softer leather, as it seemed, and laced up along the front. And were these the tight brown breeches Gavroche had spoken of? Well, in this case they were not as bad as Valjean had imagined them, not those peculiar tights he had pictured. Apparently there were some who wore those, too, like Bahorel for example, and Valjean had shuddered a little at the idea of wearing such a thing, but what Javert wore… well, he could certainly live with that.

As they stepped out into the rain, Valjean felt he was soaked immediately. The light of a beautiful summer day had faded to sleet grey, and heavy curtains of water pouring out of the sky clouded their sight. The streets were deserted; there was no living soul out in this weather. Did Javert really have to get back to the forge, or did he do this just because Valjean was with him?

Forked lightning flashed, casting a garish white sheen over the square for a moment before letting it fall back into gloom again. After what might have been a second, thunder roared, like the hunting cry of a wild creature long gone from this world and only remaining alive in the nightmares of men, a dim memory of an ancient terror, as old as the world itself.

Gavroche had jammed his cap back onto his head, and already the little feather was drooping sadly. "Where are we going, anyway?" he called over the growing song of the wind.

"Home, but past Roses' End," Javert replied, not heeding the rain at the slightest. "This way."