He does not hesitate in his duty. As soon as he is relieved in the square, he directs himself to the mayor's factory. It is the end of the work day and the sky is darkening, laden with snow clouds that threaten a new spill at any moment. The air is tinted with the weather, and people hurry from their work to their homes, wrapped against it as best they can. He walks tall, impervious in his jacket of royal blue, the one splash of colour in the street. The citizens give him a wide berth, glancing at him from under hats and shawls. He does not acknowledge the nods he receives from men, nor the uncertain eyes of the women. He barely sees where he walks.

The letter is folded into his pocket - it had taken some effort to pry the twisted remains from his fingers, but it would not be proper to walk the street with his tumult on display. It sits there like a stone; he would have destroyed it utterly, but it is evidence of a crime. He will produce it, if Madeleine asks. Maybe even if he does not. His guilt is written in its lines, and he will stand next to them. He will urge the man to strip him of everything. It is just.

He does not falter as he enters the factory. The foreman leaves him standing while he goes to see if Madeleine will receive him. Javert does not pace. He stands, and waits. At the man's nod, he mounts the stairs, and registers the door to the place closing behind him. Even without that, he would know they are alone. Everything sits silent, but he feels the walls leaning in to listen, the tools and the benches attuned to the words they know are coming. The world seems to wait for his fall, suspended until he asks for the axe to drop. When he leaves, he will no longer be Javert. Not this version of him.

'One moment, Javert. I was not expecting you until later.'

Madeleine has papers open in on his desk. The fire is nearly gone, allowed to die along with the work day. The man wears his coat buttoned, perhaps against the chill, or perhaps he was about to leave also. It is of no matter. This meeting cannot wait.

'Of course, monsieur.'

If Madeleine has registered anything unusual in his variance from routine, it does not show. Javert stands, and examines the wall above his bent head. The thought has come to him, of course, that this turn of events has at least freed him from himself. The convict can no longer impose himself on his thoughts. And if he did not incorrectly interpret the mayor's stolen glance that day in his lodgings, then…he does not know what. He will never ask for anything. The freedom from that problem is of no consequence at this point. If he had been asked last night whether anything could release the torture he has been in, he would have said no. Now, he knows he was wrong. To lose everything he has built his life on supersedes the desires of his weak flesh, and troubled soul. There is no consolation to be found. He is a criminal. A lifetime of reaching to the stars, and still no better than his birth.

Madeleine puts his pen down, and looks up with a smile. His fingers lock together, his forearms rest on the desk. He is open, ready to listen, benevolent. Javert looks away, and swallows the tightness in his throat.

'Monsieur le Maire. I have a crime to declare.'

He lowers his eyes. Madeleine waits; he can sense it.

'I have disgraced my uniform, monsieur. I have informed on a magistrate, a man of honour. I allowed anger to colour my senses, and make me sure of something any simpleton would see as false. I have tried to blacken the name of a good man, and in doing so, have ruined my own. I have come to request that you begin proceedings to have me removed from the police.'

Silence closes in. He does not raise his eyes. The air of waiting has turned to one of confusion. 'Javert, what are you talking about? Who have you informed upon?'

'You, Monsieur le Maire.'

'Me?'

'You.'

When the man says nothing more, he risks a glance. Madeleine looks at him with genuine amazement, a deep furrow marking a line between his eyes. He appears locked in place by it, his mouth frozen into a pout of bewilderment. 'I don't understand.'

'It is quite simple, monsieur. Some weeks ago, I allowed a long-held suspicion to translate itself into words. No…that is not correct. It did not happen by itself; it was I, Javert, who made the decision to do it. You saved the life of the man Fauchelevent, and then intervened on behalf of the prostitute. I was angry. You know this. I wrote a letter to the Prefecture in Paris, denouncing you.'

'Because I would not let you take her to jail?'

'No, sir. Because I believed you to have once been a convict. A man by the name of Jean Valjean, who broke parole eight years ago. He disappeared. I knew him when I worked as adjutant-general of convicts in Toulon. There are similarities in your looks, in your remarkable strength, in the way you drag your leg. I allowed these similarities to gain strength under my anger, and made a grave error. I do not ask forgiveness, Monsieur le Maire, but I beg your pardon. And request that you have me removed from my position.'

He says this to the floor. He can only imagine the anger that must be on Madeleine's face, and has no wish to see it. No matter, it is evident in the clipped tones with which he receives his reply. 'I assume you have received your answer from Paris?'

'I have.'

'And?'

'And they say I am mad. They are right.'

'Because you harboured suspicion?'

'Because the real Jean Valjean has been found.'

Madeleine's hands twitch on the desk. The movement in his peripheral vision forces his glance to move upwards. The mayor has turned red with anger. He lowers his gaze once more.

'The real Jean Valjean has been found.'

'Yes, monsieur. He had been hiding under the name Champmathieu. He was arrested for stealing apples, and recognised by another convict who had shared time with him in the galleys. Others have come forward. I have been called to Arras to provide evidence of my own recollection, but there seems no doubt. Jean Valjean has been found. He is not you.'

'You are sure of this?'

'I will not swear it until I lay eyes on the man, but the Prefecture appears convinced. His trial is tomorrow. I will carry out my duty by travelling there this evening, to give testimony in the morning.'

'And in the meantime, I am to have you dismissed?'

'It is just, Monsieur le Maire.'

He has said what he came to say, and falls silent. The mayor seems stunned, and also says nothing. Javert feels a ridiculous urge to fidget, and worse, to offer an apology. Obviously he has let the man down, insulted him gravely – in law, in thought, in deed – but a personal apology would not be appropriate.

'Javert-'

There is a set to the man's shoulders that looks like defeat. But as he is not defeated, perhaps it is disappointment.

'-you have surprised me, I admit. But I will not ask for your dismissal.'

'Monsieur…monsieur, you must.' He cannot keep the quiet plea from his tone.

'Why?'

'I have insulted you, sir. Committed a libel. Suspected a magistrate to have the lowest character.' Madeleine blinks at this last, but Javert presses on. 'I must be punished. I have punished in my life, and would not hesitate to do so in your place. I must hold myself to my own standards, otherwise I am a false man. Monsieur, do not make me so.'

'You are not. Javert, you are not. It is the last thing you are.' Madeleine passes a hand across his forehead. 'I cannot, in good conscience, do what you ask. You have suspected a crime, and reported it. There is no shame in this; no, sir! No shame at all. You deserve a promotion, not dismissal. If every man were as conscientious, there would be less crime in the world.'

Javert feels his collar tighten, a now-familiar flush of heat begin to rise. Not in pleasure though, this time. 'Monsieur le Maire, you must.'

It comes out as little more than a whisper, but Madeleine shakes his head once, decisive. 'No. We have all made misjudgements in our lives, and this is but a minor one. You will return to your post immediately.'

He cannot make his feet move. Madeleine is staring at him with an expression of defiance, as if daring him to argue. The man's fist clenches and releases; a move normally linked with aggression, but in this case, seems to betray some other emotion. Javert forces himself into a bow. The movement tips his balance, and he is allowed to turn. Still, he waits. And though it is not his place to add more, cannot help but say, quietly, 'you do me an injustice, sir.'

He walks without seeing, his world turned upside-down. The mayor shows charity! It is not correct. Yet he, Javert, cannot help but feel glad at retaining his post, no matter how hard he told himself he could work the fields, and it would not matter. His relief is so strong, he does not hear the footsteps that hurry behind him, and only pauses when a hand grasps his elbow.

'What do you mean?'

'Monsieur le Maire?'

'How have I done you an injustice?'

The man is close, his hand tight. Javert glances down at it, but does not shake it away and the mayor does not remove it. 'As I have said, monsieur.'

'No. I don't understand. Explain it to me.'

There is a sensation not unlike his stomach trying to crawl out of his skin. For a long moment, he cannot bring himself to speak. But the mayor has asked, and he is no position to refuse. 'I have made an error. I have tried to rectify it, but you deny me. Now people will be correct in their assessment of me – when I am called a blackguard…well, from the mouths of criminals, this is no bad thing. Before, they would be wrong. But now, I will have to agree; yes, I am a blackguard. The fault is mine alone, and though I have tried to right my wrong – or at least, take just punishment for it – I am disallowed. Well. So be it. If I must bear this dishonour, then so I shall.'

He says this without looking at Madeleine, though he is very aware of his proximity, so close he can feel the man's breath on his cheek. The hand still holds his elbow; half an inch closer, and the mayor's front would be pressed along his side. The thought makes something turn over in him. He is in no state for pleasure, but it will remain, he knows, to be visited later.

'Javert, you are too hard on yourself. Your fault does not warrant your dismissal, and I will have no part of it. It is I you have reported against, so it is I who may decide what to do about it. I do nothing. Your service does you credit, sir. I wish you would believe it.'

Madeleine finally steps back, just a little. His voice raises from its tone of quiet calm, and takes a more jocular air. 'Come and dine with me this evening. Consider it punishment enough, if you like.'

Javert looks to him, incredulous. 'Monsieur le Maire, that is not a punishment. It is too generous.'

'Nonsense. I will eulogise on the merits of charity, and you will be cross. Come now, let us put this behind us.'

'I cannot. No, sir – please, do not misunderstand. I would accept your wishes, of course. But I must go to Arras this evening.'

'Ah, yes. This trial.'

'I will be back tomorrow, monsieur. If you wish to punish me then.'

Madeleine laughs, short and dry, and turns his head so their eyes meet. 'Tempting as that is, I may have business tomorrow.' He steps in once more, and Javert feels the buttons of his coat brush his arm. It can be no accident. 'Come in an hour, for tea. It will fortify you for your trip. And I should like to speak to you further on this.'

He swallows, his throat dry once more. He is aware that it is probably for a different reason. 'If that is what you would have me do.'

'I would.'

'Then…I will see you in an hour, Monsieur le Maire.'

Madeleine does not step back. Javert holds his gaze, pinned by it. There is something odd in the man's look. Not just his face, but his body. He looks calm; the remnants of a smile eases his face, and warms his eyes. But there is tightness to his jaw, and his shoulders are up. His frame speaks of anticipation, while his face is all amused patience. And of course, there is the solidity of his body, just inches away.

'Yes. An hour.'

'Yes.'

A sound from outside breaks the moment. He sees Madeleine swallow as he glances away, and takes the bare second to look over the tension in the other man. It is strange. But his insides tremble, and he knows there is red on his cheeks. If he is not mistaken, there is a shake to the mayor's hand. Forcing himself away takes physical effort, and it is all he can do not to lean on the wall outside the front door when he can finally escape.

One hour. He uses the time to arrange transport for the journey to Arras, and put his affairs in order at the police station for when he is away. There is some time to spare; he returns to his home, and for the first time in weeks, examines his face in the mirror. Examines in detail, not the perfunctory glance he uses as he shaves. He looks the same as ever, which seems odd. Every time he is near Madeleine, he is sure his filthy desires must be written on every line of his face, etched into his skin to be mocked and pitied forever. He takes heart from the fact it does not appear so; that, if this shame will not leave him, at least it is not as visible as he thought. He can still appear outwardly respectable, even if his soul is gradually being dragged from him, under the surface.

He must go. He turns the small mirror to the wall, and straightens his uniform jacket. This time tomorrow, his duty at the trial will be done. He can come back to Montreuil and be easy. Valjean will be where he belongs, and out of his thoughts forever. The man will die, either by the executioner's hand, or at the chain in Toulon. Either way, it is no concern of his. Out of mind, and he, Javert, free to resume his work under Madeleine. The prospect is…better. Not easy, by any means. But with his suspicions now gone – well, it is one less thing. The mayor should not have been so kind, but with his refusal to turn him out, the only amends he can make lie in redoubling his efforts to be a good servant. To the law, and, of course, the man.