Valjean had finally arrived in Paris as the sun lolled upon the skyline. Paris! that pulsating centre which sang to all travellers flowing through her veins and laid claim to all who passed within her borders. Carriages, loners, families, and fellow stragglers all sought to lose and find themselves within the maelstrom of this grand city. Forged within this crucible, tempered by the river Seine and moulded by infinite encounters with their fellow Parisians, one could emerge a transfigured man.

Which is apparently what France wanted for Jean Valjean, yet again.

Once he got his papers signed and stamped with the final officer's approval outside the southern gates of Paris, Valjean saw that he had exactly three days before he had to check in with his permanent parole officer. He immediately set to work.

First, he went to procure lodgings for himself and Cosette. Due to his limited coin and overwhelming need to hide, he dispensed with the open air and potted windows of the more prominent neighbourhoods. He wove his way through the tangled streets, light grey paving stones steadily sliming over with muck as he dug deeper into the cancer of Paris' underbelly. Finally, he came upon the Gorbeau dwelling.

This tenement housing, decorated with dying elms and shambles of decayed lives, was the grandest of this specific street. Other choices in this festering sore included unattractive hovels and heaps of warming rubbish, all laid out in a buffet of uniform symmetry. Each house offered identical odds as the next. Every wall, artifice, and façade marched to the exact same dismal tune with the one shouldering it. However, like a demented jack-in-the-box, one could not be entirely sure of the contents of the individual buildings themselves.

Despite his stomach wilfully punching itself from within, Valjean inquired about the possibility of a vacancy. He made the mistake of mentioning a daughter. So upon receiving the key covered with an oily patina, he found himself with a mere 40 sous lodging in his inside pocket.

At least he was wise enough to ask about furnishings.

That same day, Valjean set out for the village of Montfermeil. He left right after his midday repast, even though it would take about five hours to complete the journey by foot. He needed to arrive under the cover of darkness to complete his last task before appropriating Cosette.

He arrived on the outskirts of town with the stars twinkling above and glowing windows leading the way. Striding through town, he avoided the square puddles of light bordering the walkway. He kept his eyes planted forward.

A group of men wobbled out of an inn and nearly collided with Valjean, who sprung backwards. He covered his face with his handkerchief as the stench of alcohol stung his eyes and assaulted his nose.

One of them called out, "Hey, new guy! Join us for a brew?" Coughs and rough gurgles indicated the approval of the flock.

Shaking his head, Valjean sidestepped the advancing party and tethered horses whickered as he came too close.

He immediately kicked up his pace and quitted the main street, avoiding any and all forms of life until he arrived at the front of a small two-story house. The window was dim, but a fleeting orange glow permeated the recesses of the dwelling, signalling to Valjean that the inhabitants had removed themselves to the back.

Checking once more the numbers nailed to the peeling doorjamb, he gave the door three sharp knocks with the backside of his hand.

He waited exactly three minutes before he repeated the procedure. As soon as his hand connected with the door for the third time, there was a sharp click, and it swung open to reveal a stooping man. The light crept atop his balding pate as he craned his scrawny neck to peer at Valjean.

"Say," he drawled, "yer the chap that stopped by last year. Can't forget anyone with a body like that!" He cackled.

Valjean doffed his wide brim hat and held it in both hands.

"The very same," Valjean affirmed. "Is there room for an extra lodger at this late an hour, Monsieur Claude?" At the mention of his name, the man cackled again.

"For a repeat offender such as yerself," grinned Claude, "ten sous."

"'Preciate it," muttered Valjean as he dug into his coat and fished the necessary amount out of his purse. He slapped it into the man's cavernous hand. The coins vanished.

"This way," he said, inviting Valjean in. He passed over the threshold, and the door clicked and locked behind him. The old man scuttled past and Valjean followed. They entered an empty kitchen much to Valjean's relief; he did not want converse with anyone else.

A small supper in various stages of consumption remained on the rough-hewn table and Valjean was invited to partake. Empty plates were stacked against the wall upon the table. Scrounging about the wood for leftovers, Valjean filled his plate with a half-eaten slice of bread and bits of cheese and poultry. A tin cup was thrust at him, filled with water. Valjean gave the man small thanks, received nothing in return, and drank thirstily from the cup.

"The water bucket's in the corner there," indicated Claude, picking at some stray hairs upon his face. "You will sleep in the room to the left of the window." And with that, he left. The creak of the stairs resounded over Valjean's head as he began to eat. He replenished his strength quickly, and soon joined the rest of the household in sleep.

Valjean awoke before dawn. Removing his knapsack from under his head where it had served as an acceptable pillow, he cautiously scooted to the edge of the thin mattress. The floor was strewn with them and on top of each rested a variety of male travellers. Careful not to wake his coarse faced companions, he picked past the sprawled bodies, avoiding all flung limbs and piles of linens.

Close to the exit, he toed some soiled clothing out of his way and froze as metal tasted his skin. He glanced down; a jackknife was smooching his foot. He swiftly flicked the weapon off and stepped over the last slumbering figure.

Once he made it to the door, he eased it open by increments and returned the gesture upon closing. He took the creaking stairs one at a time, clinging to the wall; stairs squeak if you step on their bellies. Slowly tiptoeing his way to the main door, he tapped the latch free and slowly opened the door. Crisp air played upon his skin, drying his perspiration. Before he entered the new day, he plopped a couple of sous upon the adjoining windowsill and left.

The sky had yet to be cleaned of its inky blackness, though the stars had been removed for another night. It didn't bother Valjean though; he knew where he was headed. He strolled to the edge of town and checked around.

Empty.

He then took to the woods slowly, as not to tramp his way with the grace of a lumbering giant, but quick enough to beat the dawn.

Swallows twittered overhead as they welcomed Valjean back to their residence. A crow cawed thrice and mice scurried through the dry leaves. He traversed the overgrown roots, dense shrubbery, and hidden fox holes with the patience of an outdoorsman.

Soon, he reached glade with the heap of round white stones and the chestnut tree with the zinc band. Removing his small spade, he then tossed his knapsack upon the ground. Plunging the tool into the earth, it crunched through years of decayed leaves and moss. He sliced a gigantic hunk of sod right out of the ground and ripped it out, making sure it remained intact. Setting it aside, he resumed digging. Roots tugged at the spade as he extradited the soil from its procession, and he responded with a few well-aimed whacks.

After a few minutes of uninterrupted digging and clawing, Valjean unearthed his prize. Nestled within the shelter of the massive root system was the little trunk that he had placed there a year before. He gripped the trunk and pried it loose. Dirt washed over his fingers as he wriggled it free.

Brushing off the top, he began to open the case. However, he instantly stopped and stood still. Trees whispered amongst themselves. A river gurgled. Somewhere to his left, he heard it again.

A small, consistent rustle.

He remained stock still, hugging the container. He continued to listen. The rustling was too consistent, too tinny to belong to his race.

He expelled a breath and placed the trunk once more upon the ground.

When he lifted the lid, he was greeted by the twinkling of antique silver as dawn's first light trickled from the branches. He gently removed the twin candlesticks, made beautiful by their simplicity, and set them upon his knapsack. A letter and a jingling bag were next and he instantly shoved them into one of his pockets.

Then he began ploughing through the stacks of money, shoving them this way and that. His movements became more frantic when all he encountered was more and more bills. He began tossing them upon the ground in his efforts to reach the bottom. He completely emptied the case before falling upon his heels.

It was gone.

The small circlet of silver was nowhere to be seen.

He racked his brain to a year past, to that day when he hastily packed the trunk while the police regained his trail. The ring had become loose upon his finger when he became embroiled in the Champmathieu affair and he had removed it. After that, he couldn't remember. But the obvious conclusion was that it was no longer in his procession.

Shaking, he pounded the clumps of money back into the trunk, bruising the crisp bills. He almost closed the lid before he took a wad of bank notes and shoved it into his coat pocket. He began to rebury the trunk.

Besides the candlesticks, that ring was his only reminder of the kindness that the Bishop had bestowed upon him years before. When the Bishop of Digne had died three years ago, he had dressed in black and crape to honour the man who had galvanized his life for the better. But what the nosy people of Montrieul-sur-Mer did not know was that he had a ring specifically made to remember him by. Made from the last piece of silver he had left, he had a silversmith craft the simple ring to fit his middle finger. After that, he wore it in private and fiddled with it inside his pocket while out in public.

The warm silver had always provided reassurance.

And now through his own carelessness and stupidity, it was gone for good.

He plugged the hole with the intact clump of sod, swept the loose dirt in place, sprinkled leaves on top, and left. Patting his hands and swiping them on his pants, he stomped his way back to Montfermeil.

When Valjean remerged at the small village, it was bustling, though it was incredibly early. Shop windows were being wiped, produce were placed in bins outside, and everywhere windows and doors were let open to breathe. Within a couple of doorways dust spewed out, sometimes accompanied by the peek of a broom.

Valjean began his search for Fantine's child by observing the inns and their inhabitants as he slowly walked past. Luckily for him, Montfermeil was a small village, so the odds were in his favour. More so in fact, as the harsh expulsion of the child's name suddenly barraged his ears.

"Cosette!"

He walked briskly towards the middle of the street, and arrived in time to see a small bony child leap out the doorway of the Sergeant of Waterloo inn, large hay broom in her hands. Even before her tiny feet alit upon the earth, the broom swept to and fro, kicking up dust.

Valjean halted a few yards away, aghast. His lips consumed each other as he took in that little waif sweeping the street with a trained air. His hand, hidden within this thin coat pocket, squeezed Fantine's letter.

Every once in a while she would stop and stare into the shop window across the street. A magnificent pink confection of a doll nestled there amongst the unlit candles and ribbons. His throat constricted.

He slowly walked up to the little girl. She instantly took notice of him even as her eyes were screwed to the ground.

"Good morning, Monsieur," she greeted. Her voice grated at Valjean's heart.

"Good morning," replied Valjean as he bent down to observe her more closely.

Terrifyingly, the child resembled her mother. Dirt clung to her with the tenacity of an overprotective guardian and her ill-fitting rags would have been considered scandalous if she was twice her age. She squeaked when her bare feet crunched a snail; her top front teeth were missing. Her sunken eyes lit up as she fought to rid herself of the deceased creature. Valjean was relieved to note that the dark colour of her long hair was attributed to it being her natural colour.

However, he also noticed the swelling and bruises when she bent to peel the snail's remains off her foot. Valjean marched right up to the chop-house, and began searching for her keepers, the Thenardiers.

He didn't have to look at all for the Thenardiess; her very presence shoved itself into his line of vision. Her critical eye at once took in this threadbare yellow coat and his round, bent hat and she scoffed. She returned to wiping down the tables, with both hands and bosom.

"We are full for today, good man. May Day is a very busy time of year."

"I am just passing through."

"Well then, on your way."

"I'm here for information," stated Valjean with that presence he practiced as Mayor. The Thenardiess threw him a questioning glance through her mess of red hair.

"Yes?"

"The child?" He gestured to the reaching figure of Cosette outside the window. She had scuttled under the eaves and began to fish for cobwebs. "She is not yours?"

"What's it to you?"

A tingling jumble emitted from the confines of Valjean's pocket. He kept his face impassive even as hers quickly rearranged itself in a frightening array of obscene begging and monstrous pleasure.

"That thing? Oh no, she's a cast-off that we had the goodness to take in. However, you can see that we are not well off, Monsieur"—Valjean flinched—"and because of that we can hardly feed her. Why, that little bag of bones eats us raw!" wailed the Thenardiess, as she sidled closer to Valjean. He inched closer to the doorway.

"Say then," suggested Valjean, "what if you were relieved of her?"

"What do you mean?"

"I will pay to take the child off your hands." His tongue had to wrangle the sour taste off itself.

"Oh my good sir! Please, take the little slut! She's yours! Take her, beat her, stuff her, eat her! I care not!" she shrilled, clapping her meaty paws in glee.

Valjean took another step a back to relieve the ringing in his ears. He had to exercise the very fibres of his being not to allow his aversion to etch itself upon his face. His insides writhed with the effort.

However, the other player entered upon the scene, wringing his vulture's hands as he made contact with this 'woman'.

"Dear, our little ones are waiting to break their fast," he said in a sugar-sweet nasally tone. "Make sure you don't forget to set a place for our hardest little worker!"

At this, the Thenardiess gaped upon her husband's smiling face with a thoroughly befuddled look. But not receiving any further guidance, she shrugged her huge shoulders and left.

Upon seeing this innkeeper cast a look that rifled through his pockets and patted down his person, Valjean emitted grunt of dislike. The thin man broke into a leer that ate his entire face. He clasped his hands together.

"A very good morning to you Monsieur," whistled the man through the gaps in his teeth. "I am Thenardier, the master of this establishment. How may I help you today?"

Cosette's broom thumped the window where it fell from her chapped hands. Thenardier's eye twitched.

Ah. Valjean knew his kind as soon as he clapped eyes upon the worn sergeant's coat and the peasant's attire. He loosened his stance and slumped forward a bit, hands still in his pockets. As expected, the man relaxed.

"I am looking to take the girl off your hands," replied Valjean. Thenardier sighed.

"Well, my good sir, I simply cannot do that," he shrugged, and tossed a small smile to the window where Cosette was beating the shutters.

"You see, I love that child so much." He placed his bony hands upon the spot where his heart should be.

"It would break my heart to see her go."

Valjean instantly turned his head to gaze out the window and he exhaled into his coat. He didn't trust himself to watch Thenardier anymore.

"How much?" he inquired.

"Sir, I cannot—"

Valjean swung around. "Your wife mentioned hard times. How much to settle the little one's debts?"

Thenardier licked his thin mouth. Then he chewed it as his beady eyes swept Valjean from crown to the soles of his shoes. When his eyes caught his, Valjean furrowed his brow and ghosted a smirk across his lips. He straightened his stance and in doing so blocked the entire doorway.

"Fifteen hundred francs."

Valjean raised a bushy brow.

"The child was sick Monsieur, you see," he swallowed. "And of course, it was such a harsh winter…"

Valjean removed his hand from his pocket, three crumpled bills fisted in it. He grimaced when he saw how Thenardier instantly crept closer, his whole gaze fixated upon the banknotes. He shoved his hand back inside. Thenardier eyed him closely, as he wiped his hands upon his woollen trousers.

Valjean looked him straight on and stated, "I will take the child, and you will not see her again. You will not follow us; you will not know where we will stay."

He removed the slips of paper once more.

"Are we clear?"

"Completely."

"Call the girl."

Thenardier frowned, and yelled for her. She appeared behind Valjean, who immediately moved aside. She did not step over the threshold.

"Yes, sir?" She rolled the broom handle between her hands and a few strands of cobwebs clung to her matted hair.

"You're going with this man now, so wash up and pack your things," barked Thenardier.

Cosette looked upon the scrunched face of Thenardier, who looked as if he had a bad itch, then to Valjean. He smiled gently. Since he was facing her, Thenardier did not witness this exchange. The broom fell from her lifeless fingers.

"Wha-what?"She looked back at her keeper. "Is this true?"

"Yes! Now hurry along!" he wheezed.

She looked once more at Valjean and he gave her a kind nod. He replaced the bills in his pocket to free his hand, shouldered the rucksack off, and bowed down to the child's level. She folded her arms together and shielded her quivering frame. He never took his eyes off her face as he reached in and pulled out a fine black dress, a pair of matching shoes and stockings, and a large bonnet. As if synchronized, both her and Thenardier's mouth fell open with every new article magicked out of that coarse sack.

He gently took the child's two clasped hands with one of his own, and pried them loose with one of his thick fingers. Once open, he used his other to place the gifts into her awaiting hands.

"Go, my child," whispered Valjean.

Immediately, she scampered into the recesses of the inn. Exclamations of wonder and envy erupted from the back. Valjean stood and leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed. He checked on Thenardier through his lowered lids and noted the man remained where he left him, trembling slightly like a man bereft of his tobacco.

Valjean removed himself and ordered, "I'm going pick up some provisions and hire a coach; I'll be back."

Thenardier's mouth snapped open in protest but Valjean interrupted, "You will receive payment upon my return and when I obtain my end of the bargain."

He turned and exited the building, crossing the street. The innkeeper's grasping eyes bore upon his back as he entered the shop with the doll. Refusing change, he left the store with the large figure tucked under his brawny arm and walked to the end of the lane. There he procured the best conveyance he could.

Upon his return, he was greeted by Cosette and the entire Thenardier clan. They apparently wanted to ensure that he kept his word.

Cosette was outfitted in all black for mourning, but her deplorable condition made it seem as if she was lamenting herself as well. It was a stifling contrast to the other two girls, who though messy and still in their nightclothes, were healthy and pink.

He kneeled.

"Come, Cosette," he called and she emerged from the mass.

As she inched closer, he pulled the doll from underneath his arm and presented it to her. She halted and to Valjean's dismay, began stepping backwards. The Thenardiers were slack-jawed, and the other girls, eyes aglow, began to tug at their mother's skirt.

"Here," he coaxed, "this is for you."

Her footsteps halted, and she clasped her hands so tight, they turned white.

"That pretty lady cannot be for me, Monsieur," she murmured.

Valjean released a strangled chuckle.

"Well, she isn't for me, and—"he gave the 'lady' a glance—"I wouldn't want her to be lonely. Would you like to be her friend?"

And with that, Cosette flew to the doll and hugged it with all her might, pink muslin kissing black. Valjean's hands, now empty, fluttered in the air around the embracing pair.

"Her name's Catherine!" she exclaimed, wonder radiating off her frame. She wiggled with excitement.

Meanwhile, Thenardier broke free from the pack and scurried to them. Valjean stood up, and without a word removed the dirty money from his pocket and deposited in his outstretched hand. As soon as the paper touched his skin, his fingers snapped shut. He immediately brought the trapped bills to his damp face and began examining them.

Revolted, Valjean held out his large hand to Cosette, who accepted it without question. Hand-in-hand, they evacuated the premises.