Yes, I am updating my silly parody before my serious one, cuz I need to put some more thought into the serious one. And not only have I posted a new chapter, but I've updated my previous ones, so yay! By the way, I have no idea where Javert actually lives, so I'm borrowing the street from the main Javert forum on this site. :) Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: (punches palm with fist)

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Chapter 4 – Merde, C'est Une Tornade!

The increasingly sinister weather did well in mirroring Javert's dark mood. Like an angst-fraught teen, he felt an immense, temporary hatred toward everything. He hated the Jondrettes, the students, the Prefect, Vidocq, that man that reminded him of and probably was Jean Valjean (judging by his current state of luck), the crowds that delayed his homeward walk, the bloody sky that made him even more bitter, and most especially himself. He hated indecisiveness in both others and himself. Indecisiveness was equivalent to weakness, an inability to act upon one's convictions. That angered him above all things.

Now he did not know what to feel worse about: that his inaction had caused Gavroche to be reclaimed by that horrid circumstance of abuse, or that his inaction indicated some doubt of the Law's absolute correctness. Had he let himself become too invested in this one particular case, just as (according to Gisquet) he was a little too obsessive about that one convict to whom hardly anyone else paid attention anymore?

Maybe Vidocq's right, thought the inspector ruefully. Maybe I do need a vacation from all this. But this is my life, after all. Is there really anything beyond the Law for me?

It was well into the night before Javert reached his flat on Rue Sainte-Anne. There were three flights to ascend, and considering how worn out he already was from the events of the day, he was understandably eager to drop into bed and achieve whatever amount of sleep he could. Even on the verge of utter exhaustion, the fatigued inspector took the time to hang his greatcoat on the rack, neatly fold and droop his waistcoat on the back of his desk chair, and remove his boots and place them at the foot of his bed perfectly side-by-side. Then, without further ceremony, he plopped onto the bedsheets.

His anxiety and guilt made his sleep fitful, and he occassionally woke up with a start, hardly knowing what time or day it was. He made every effort to calm himself and remove all thoughts of angry female juggernauts and frightened gamins pleading for his help from his restless mind. Nearly every time he closed his eyes, however, he thought he could here Gavroche's voice calling for him.

It's official: I NEED a holiday.

It was early in the morning when Javert heard a sound that, for once, was not caused by his wound-up brain.

In his somewhat spacious but still modest quarters, there was a fireplace in the wall opposite the bed, which was useful in the cold months. But being a warm night in late spring, there was no need for a fire, although there was still a good amount of ash that the chambermaid had neglected to clean out.

For the third time that morning, Javert was struggling through another unpleasant dream of giantesses and vicious storms and all types of fantastic chimeras and visions, when a loud crash made his eyes open. He sat up quickly and observed a cloud of disturbed ashes emerging from the unused hearth.

"What in God's name . . .!"

He heard a fit of coughing come from the belly of the absess before a cheerful voice called out, "Inspector! It's me!"

Javert got up and approached the fireplace with some caution, although he was quite certain he knew who had landed in the ashes. "Gavroche? What on earth . . . what are you doing here?"

"What do you think? I came to see you!"

Javert demonstrated another eye-roll. "My apologies, I thought you had decided to become Pere Noel and were practicing on my chimney."

"Ah, Inspector," replied the gamin with a soot-caked grin, "even in the wee hours of the morning, you are never without your sense of humor."

"Thank God," Javert grumbled while offering the boy a hand. "Now get out of there before you die from asphyxia."

"From what?"

"Nevermind."

Despite his disbelief at Gavroche's appearance, Javert knew he could wait to know the details until after the gamin cleaned himself up. He took a casual note of the soot tracks the boy left on the floor while heading toward the bathroom. It only served that lazy maid right.

"Now," began Javert after Gavroche had washed, the inspector had changed into fresh clothes, and both were sitting opposite each other – the lad in a chair and the older man on the bed – "how did you escape from your parents and find me here?"

"Oh, well, it was nothing, really," answered Gavroche coolly. "Mama gave me her usual earful, and Papa had his own to give regarding my bringing a cogne to their home and being a dirty snitch. 

Then, when we all went to bed, it suddenly occurred to me that rather than wait for Mama to batter me to a pulp and throw me back onto the street, I could just get away while everyone was asleep. Good thing Mama sleeps pretty heavily and doesn't take the kitchen to bed with her.

"As for your address, I just asked the other fellows around—"

"Fellows like you, you mean?" interrupted Javert.

"Right. Finally one of 'em told me that a man that looked like you walked into here really late last night, so I figured you were lodging here."

"Then how'd you know which room was mine? And how on earth did you get on the roof?"

"Some painter left up his ladder a few doors down, and the buildings are so close together that I could jump from one to the other no problem. As to the right chimney . . . well, I just guessed, really. Boy, wouldn't that have been embarrassing if I had landed in the wrong room? Haha!"

"That is . . . quite unbelievable."

"I know! Pretty lucky, huh?"

"Unfortunately," broke in Javert, "luck isn't going to guarantee your continued safety. Technically, as an officer of the Law, I'm supposed to return you to her. If I don't, your mother could claim that I kidnapped you." He groaned deeply. "What a nice fix."

"But you won't hand me over to her, will you?" Gavroche's eyes grew large with fear and pleading.

Javert pressed his lips in thought. "Well . . ."

The wheels began to turn within his head. What was the one place where a person may be untouched, even by the Law? If only there were such a sanctuary . . . just until Javert could address the Prefect again and set this business aright . . .

The lightbulb finally went off – well, the 19th-century version of a lightbulb, which would probably be a gas lamp or something. "Of course! Why had I not thought of it sooner? Come, we had best hurry."

For once, Gavroche was not able to put in a word or form a question before the inspector had them walking out the door and half-strolling, half-jogging down the street.

Javert had thought it best not to waste time explaining to the boy his idea or where they were going. (Besides, it's nice to keep the readers in suspense.) They wound through the cobbled streets, eventually coming within sight of the Seine and le Pont Notre-Dame. The figurative lightbulb – or gas lamp – in Gavroche's head did not go off until they had crossed the bridge and approached the impressive façade of Notre-Dame de Paris.

The gamin gasped in realization. "Of course!" He looked up at his companion. "Inspector, you're brilliant!"

Although he felt himself beam a little at the boy's compliment, Javert knew that he ought to feel at least a little guilty about hiding his friend . . . well, in the broadest sense . . . from the Law, he who believed that the Law was always right. Then again, it wasn't that the Law was wrong in this case, exactly, but justice was certainly being obstructed by these other problems caused by the criminal community.

See? Javert reassured himself. It always comes back to the criminals.

Javert returned to reality in time to see the doors swing open and behold a splendid view that was the cathedral's interior. (Unfortunately, due to the late time at which the author is writing this chapter, she shall not go into futher Hugo-esque detail about said interior.)

To the great fortune of the policeman and the gamin, there was a man of the cloth tending to some task at the altar. They eagerly approached the sanctuary.

"Pardon me, monsigneur," said Javert with all politeness, "but there is a matter that I wish to discuss with you. We are in great need of your assistance."

The robed man looked up with a congenial smile. "You are, are you? Then by all means, I am at your service. And what may your name be, my friend?"

"I am Inspector Javert, First Class, and my companion here is Gavroche Jondrette. It is he who comes to seek your help."

Casting a benign glance over the boy, the man in papal attire descended from the altar to join the two aid-seekers. "I think I must inform you first, my children, that I am in fact only a visitor in this splendid hall of worship. I came here from Digne, at the request of some official whose name I am unable to recall, regretfully. You may call me Monsigneur Bienvenu."

Javert's widened in both recognition and disbelief. "Monsigneur Bien– . . . wait a minute . . ."

Then he turned away from the clergyman and the street urchin, looked up toward the ceiling and . . . uh-oh . . .

"What do you think you're doing?! Bishop Bienvenu is supposed to be dead!"

JAVERT!! NO BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL!

"Umm," interrupted Gavroche, "how exactly do you know about that?"

Javert looked at him. "About what? Bienvenu or the fact that we're in a mediocre fanfic?"

Hey!

"Both, I suppose," replied Gavroche unsurely.

"I can't really answer to the second. It's the author's own doing that I am breaking the fourth wall, which makes her yelling at me utterly irrational. As to Bienvenu . . . well, I guess I can't answer that either. Again, it's the author's fault. Authors and criminals! They cause nothing but trouble!"

You wouldn't even exist if those two didn't! So stop griping!

"Pardon me," broke in the bewildered bishop, "but do you still wish for my assistance?"

Javert grumbled something under his breath along the lines of, "You will regret this," (but you never know) and stiffly turned back to Bienvenu. "That would seem to be the case."

"Then tell me of your ordeal."

So for the fifth time in twenty-four hours, Javert and Gavroche took turns explaining the entire plot of this story up until this point. Javert worried for a while that due to the length of their tale and the age of the should-have-been-deceased bishop, he and his companion would put said bishop to sleep. The robed sage, however, was sharp as a politician half his age, and imbibed the story without a yawn. (Never underestimate the power of the elderly.)

"This is most fascinating indeed!" smiled Bienvenu when the pair had finally finished. "So now you wish to keep the boy here until the matter can be settled."

"Exactly," answered Javert with a grateful sigh that left him nearly deflated with relief. "So, do we have an arrangement?"

The bishop had been kind enough to lead Javert and Gavroche to a confessional where they would have plenty of privacy. He now leaned back in his seat for a moment and gave this some thought. The delay in the clergyman's response made Javert uneasy again. What was there to think about? Surely the bishop could not have any scruple against protecting the child. Or perhaps he was considering the fact that he was only a guest, and that arrangements for the boy's stay would have to be approved by the archdeacon or someone (Javert was not very well acquainted with the hierarchy of holy orders). At last, when the inspector's confidence in this seemingly foolproof plan began to falter, the bishop spoke. "M. l'Inspecteur, there is no doubt in my mind that you are very concerned about the boy's well-being."

"I'm glad you understand that, monsigneur," Javert responded reverently.

"I am also certain that you are a hardworking, conscientious man who is deeply devoted to his duty."

"Thank you again, monsigneur."

"Your soul, however, seems quite troubled by the problem that you face, such a violent internal conflict I have rarely seen in another man."

"Precisely, monsigneur, which is why we have come to you for help."

The bishop paused again. Javert was not certain how much of this he could endure. He would have to resume his duties at some point today, and the sooner he could go, the better.

When the bishop spoke again, it was the last thing the policeman had expected to hear. "How is your relationship with your mother?"

Javert nearly fell out of his seat. "My mother?"

"Yes. Have you had a bad falling out?"

He gulped quietly and replied, "Well, if that's what you would call her giving birth to me in a prison cell, dragging from town to town for the first ten years of my life, abandoning me on the steps of the same prison I was born in, and being a cheating fortune-teller and whore at the same time, which thus resulted in my promising to return her to that same prison should she ever break her parole, then yes, we've had a bit of a falling out."

"That sounds like a painful experience, my son. And forgiveness of such trangressions can be as difficult as enduring them. But it is possible."

Javert blinked a few times at this odd turn of conversation, then said, "Forgive me, monsigneur, but I don't really see what any of this has to do with Gavroche's situation."

The bishop nodded. "It is true that it doesn't have a direct affect on him, but it could help you see what you must do."

"What?! I already know what I'm going to do! I'm leaving him here, where he will be safe until I can ask the prefect again for a warrant."

"Is that really what's going on?"

"YES!"

An unnerving smile crossed the bishop's soft, wrinkled face, which was made more unnerving by being viewed through a metal screen. "I think, my son, that you know that his staying here isn't the solution. Moreover, I think you do know what is the solution. You are simply afraid to admit it."

"THAT DOES IT!"

With a forcefulness that would have made the hardest criminals shudder, Javert kicked open the door of the confessional, crossed over to the opposite box, extracted Gavroche without a word, 

and began to walk out. The bishop calmly emerged from the middle booth. "You will not have him stay, then?"

Javert glanced back with burning eyes. "That seems out of the question, don't you think? That is, if you think it's not the solution." It took all his will to not utter a few curse words in the midst of his last sentence.

"Never you fear, my children," called out the bishop good-naturedly, "God likes to reveal the answers to our troubles in unexpected ways. Take heart, and godspeed."

Too enraged to speak, Javert merely fixed his eyes on the double-doors and dragged the street urchin behind him. Gavroche, with legs too short to keep up with the inspector's now speedy stride, was resigned to be towed along the floor while his mind tried to wrap itself around all that he had heard and witnessed.

Bad relationship with his mother? Hmm, that IS interesting . . .

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The wind began kicking into overdrive when Javert and Gavroche had crossed the same stone bridge. It did not help that the water, which was rough in that patch anyway, what now growling and splashing violently just under the bridge's girth.

"Not to put you on the spot, Inspector," piped up the gamin, "but in wind such as this, maybe we would have been better off staying in the cathedral. It's hundreds of years old, as I recall, and made of stone, so it's got to be steadier than that flimsy garret of yours, or even the prefecture."

"Gavroche," Javert yelled, both from vexation and to be heard over the wind, "for just a few minutes, would you refrain from putting in your two centimes? I need to think."

"Sorry," grumbled the boy, "no need to be sore. Where are we headed now?"

"Back to the prefecture," answered Javert, his mood growing darker with the sky. "I have to report for duty."

"What about me? You said so yourself that if my mother sees us, she'll say that you kidnapped me!"

"I don't know what to do with you, kid! That's what I'm trying to –"

The pair had hardly acknowledged the terrified air of people all about them until one fellow, a butcher who was running towards his shop to batten things down, approached them and said, "You two blokes better run for cover! It's a tornado!"

Gavroche looked up at Javert, once more confused. "Tornado?"

"It's a giant funnel of wind," Javert explained, "although I can't believe that there would be one in Paris."

"Well, you better believe it!" the shopkeeper cried, then resumed his sprint down the street.

Javert took half a minute to contemplate. "I think the prefecture has a cellar purposefully built for such emergencies. It's the best place we can go for protection."

"But what about the prefect?"

"I'm not going to worry about him right now! Let's just go!"

Gavroche's urge to argue decreased as the wind blew louder and louder around his ears. He became somewhat afraid (just somewhat) that the wind might pick him up off the ground, so head held tightly to Javert's coat while Javert held tightly to the boy's wrist.

By the time the pair reached the prefecture, everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have safely retreated into their homes. Javert was afraid for a moment that the door to the prefecture would be locked, but by some stroke of luck, it had been neglected by the authorities. The two rushed inside, slammed the door shut, and began to look around frantically for some way to the lower levels.

It soon hit Javert that if he had to keep dragging Gavroche around like this, they might not find the cellar door in time. His eyes quickly scanned the room. The desks were still covered in papers and inkbottles, but the room was utterly deserted except for the two of them. Thinking as rapidly as possible, Javert grabbed Gavroche by the shoulders and shoved him into a nearby desk chair. "Don't move," he said sternly. "I'll be back soon."

Javert hunted the entire ground floor for the correct door, and after passing it two or three times, he finally realized that the one with the impressive bolt had to be the one. He grabbed the door's handle, but it was locked. He shook and pounded and yelled with all his might, but after minutes of waiting, there was no response to show for it. He cursed under his breath at the luck.

Must have all bundled up at the first sign of it. Wait! Maybe there's a bulkhead somewhere along the building's perimeter. It's a bit of a long shot, but what else is there to lose?

The long-legged lawman dashed back to the main hall, only to find that the chair designated as Gavroche's waiting spot was empty. This time Javert cursed aloud and called the boy in no soft tones.

"Gavroche! Dammit, boy, you better come back here if you know what's good for you!"

He searched around the ground level and found nothing, so he sprinted up the large staircase to the second floor, unable to comprehend why the boy would have thought of going up there at all. Room after empty room, Javert searched in vain, and his nerves were nearly pushed to their limit when he glanced into one of the conference rooms and found the urchin standing near a large, double-sash casement window, nose and hands pressed up against the glass.

"Gavroche! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The boy whirled around half-startled, half-relieved. "Sorry, Inspector, but you were gone for so long, and so I thought that maybe you went to have a look outside. I'm glad you didn't, though, it looks really bad out there. And I think this window –"

"Enough! Even just the ground floor would be better than being up here! Now come on before you get hurt!"

However, the inspector had grown too anxious and impatient to wait for Gavroche to come to him on his own accord, so as he spoke, he approached the boy, roughly grabbed his shoulder, and began to lead him away. But in the midst of grabbing him, Javert carelessly knocked a hard shoulder against the window pane. Had he allowed Gavroche to finish speaking, he might have realized that the latch of the same window was nearly ready to fall off, and any rough knock as it just received would have been enough to render the old latch officially useless.

Javert and Gavroche had only gone a few steps when a particularly powerful gale whipped against that side of the building, and not only did it fling open the window, but it completely ripped off one of the sashes.

"Javert! Look out!" Gavroche screamed.

Javert barely turned his head when he felt something hard whack him on the back of his skull. Next he was aware of himself falling to the floor very quickly, and another indistinguishable cry from Gavroche. Then there was nothing.

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I'm gonna work like the dickens to get a few more chapters up this week. Also, I tried to find an argot term for cop, but I only found "flic" which may or may not be just a modern slang word. UPDATE: LesMisLoony has enlightened me on the issue. Thank you! :)