Chapter 9: In which a reputation is at stake

Dawn found Javert standing near a fishmonger's stall, his eyes sharp as a hawk's as he watched carefully all the comings and goings of early-morning shoppers. He held a solid wooden cudgel with a deceptive looseness in one hand; woe unto anyone who mistook the relaxation in his posture for inattentiveness, for if it came to a contest between carved walnut and bone, walnut would prove the victor.

He had arrived in the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville early, just as the vendors began to set out their wares for the day and the shops lining the street were starting to unlock their doors. By degrees, women appeared looking for bread or eggs, and small children paused in front of the toy store. Then there were men, sometimes seeking to trade, or to hire laborers. The Inspector observed all this from under the brim of his hat, looking for anyone feeling especially light-fingered, but even the gamins tended to steer clear when they noticed Javert standing in the square. There was something, he decided, to having a reputation.

As the market grew busier, the Inspector moved away from the fishmonger, walking along the perimeter of the stalls and in front of the larger shops. His vantagepoint gave him a wide view of the activity, which he processed and filtered with the ease of long years of practice. There was little to occupy him in business being honorably done, so he gravitated toward the edges of the square, searching for any sign of trouble.

Inevitably, there was an exclamation and Javert spotted the source immediately: a young boy, probably a gamin, running from an older gentleman as fast as his little legs would propel him. Clutched in his arms was a bun, clearly plundered from the man's bag of groceries. Javert fell into pursuit automatically, following the child as he ducked into an alley.

"Stop!" Javert called after him. "You, there, boy, stop now!"

Being both substantially taller and better-fed, the Inspector caught up to him with ease, catching the boy by the shoulder. The child, sandy-haired and dirty, spun around in panic and began babbling.

"Please, Monsieur, I didn't mean any harm, I never -"

"Quiet," Javert snapped, thinking hard. He had slid back into the role of Inspector more easily than he could have hoped, but this was a child. He could only imagine what Valjean would have to say about it if he heard Javert was arresting children, even ones who were thieves. It was precisely the sort of dilemma he had hoped to avoid. "You took the bread from that man, yes?" he asked brusquely.

"Monsieur, I promise I -"

"Yes or no?"

By this time, the man had reached the alley, adjusting his cravat and appearing deeply irritated.

"Monsieur l'Inspector, you caught the street rat, I see. Would -"

"Quiet," Javert repeated. To the boy, he said, "I'm waiting."

The child pouted. "Doesn't matter either way, you'll just lock me up, huh?"

Javert rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering not for the first time how Valjean managed to deal with anyone when people were so infuriating.

"I asked you a question," the Inspector said. "I'll give you one more chance to answer it."

Sullenly, the boy muttered, "Alright, so I took it. He doesn't need it, he's got money to buy more, but me? I'll go hungry tonight without it, and tomorrow morning, too."

"The bread, if you please," Javert commanded, holding out his hand. Looking more grieved about the loss of the food than anything hitherto, the boy placed the bun in the Inspector's palm, who then handed it to its owner.

"Keep a closer eye on your belongings," Javert advised sourly as the man went to leave with his groceries and a scant word of thanks.

Turning back to the child, Javert bent down to eye-level. "Listen," he said. "I haven't seen you around here before, and you were honest with me, so I am inclined to let you off with a warning. But -" He leaned forward, looking the boy in the eyes. "- do not think I will be so lenient next time."

The Inspector was not midway done with his speech before the boy was looking at him like he had grown a second head.

"You mean it, Monsieur? I can go?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Javert growled. "Don't make me regret it."

"Thanks, Monsieur!" exclaimed the child. He pulled away and had dashed down much of the alley when a thought occurred to the Inspector.

"Boy!" Javert called.

The child paused, evidently afraid Javert had changed his mind.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" When the boy nodded warily, Javert asked, "Do you know the church, St. Étienne?" The boy nodded again. "There is a man who goes there with his daughter to give away bread some days. I would imagine they are there now."

"For free, Monsieur?"

"For free," Javert confirmed. "God only knows why," he added under his breath. The child's expression split into a wide grin and with a wave of a grubby hand, he turned the corner onto the next street.

Alone, Javert groaned and rubbed his face more vigorously. It had been right to let the boy go, it had to have been. He thought he would feel prouder of making better choices, but he only felt vaguely nauseous. It was admittedly improbable that, had he brought the child to the station, the boy would have received a punishment more severe than perhaps a few lashes in the city square, but to let him off still felt like a further descent down a dizzyingly steep slope. He tried to content himself with the knowledge that the stolen property had been returned, but even that much felt like a hollow excuse.

The Inspector turned and left the alley, stepping out into the bright sun, just in time to see a pair of what looked to be students vanishing into the back of a tavern. Javert narrowed his eyes. It seemed unlikely that the insurgents of his reports would be making moves here, near the very heart of Paris, but it was not impossible. Casually, he walked along outside a trio of building façades until he stood across the street from the tavern. Then he slunk back down another side street, sticking close to the wall where he could see without being seen.

Hours passed, and Javert carefully noted every individual who entered or left the establishment. The two he had seen go in did not come out, though a handful of other students exited by way of the main entrance. No one at all used the back door.

Though Javert considered going in to investigate further, in the end, he decided against it. He would look immensely out of place in his uniform, and would look all the more so as he was not inclined to drink. Better, then, merely to report the incident, and have another officer investigate. Drawing a pad of paper from his pocket, Javert scribbled down the name of the tavern and the date, as well as what little description he could give of the students.

A bell tolled the hour, shaking the Inspector from his concentration. It occurred to him that he was hungry, and also that if he meant to meet Valjean at the church before he left, then Javert would need to be on his way. Javert spared a final glance for the tavern before walking down the side street and doubling back to the market by a different route. If there was indeed something illicit going on there behind closed doors, then a clever student would have lookouts posted. The Inspector had no intent of tipping them off to the fact that they were being watched.


Walking through the city, a recently-purchased bit of smoked fish in his hand, Javert neared the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève hill, atop which stood the Panthéon with its oculus. Turning the corner, he heard the sounds of a fountain running and a rush of voices. The street, along with a few others running parallel to it, opened onto a small plaza. On the far side stood the church, dedicated to St. Stephen. Its rambling mixture of Greek and gothic styles soared upward to terminate in a bell tower, while innumerable carvings and delicate sculptures looked down upon the people below.

Valjean stood between the church and the fountain. The white-haired philanthropist held a basket, from which he distributed bread loaves and buns to those waiting, a dozen more such baskets at his feet. His smile was serene as he spoke to each person. A long line of people trailed around the plaza, chattering, each of them apparently waiting their turn. People of all ages and in varying states of health and cleanliness had turned out to wait upon the generosity of "the man from St. Étienne".

Javert stood to the side of the street where he wouldn't be noticed, merely watching. Cosette, he saw, was sitting with Toussaint on the fountain's edge. There were fewer gathered around them, but those there were cycled past more slowly. Eventually, Javert realized that these were the wounded, and that Cosette and her servant were doing what they could to bandage their injuries.

How long he stood there, the Inspector could not have said. It was both utterly perplexing and impressive how Valjean managed to keep the crowd orderly, even though many of the assembled had to be starving. The sky was just beginning to change color when all but the last couple of people had been fed. Leaving Toussaint to clean up the excess gauze, Cosette went to help her father finish giving out food, and then the plaza was empty but for the three of them.

Javert stepped out into the open. Cosette, seeing him, startled, but Valjean just waved.

"Hello, Javert," he called. "I wondered how long you were going to stand there."

Crossing the plaza to speak to him, Javert folded his arms. "You knew I was waiting?"

Valjean nodded, full of amusement. "I saw you when you came down the street."

The Inspector wrinkled his nose. "You are irritatingly observant."

"Said the pot to the kettle."

Javert rolled his eyes in response. "You seemed to have quite the crowd. I felt like I might not be entirely welcomed by some of your... petitioners."

Valjean hummed. "I have done my utmost to make it clear to everyone that I will welcome anyone of good intent."

Shaking his head, Javert sighed. "Still," he said, "I thought it would be rude to cause a panic, and I'm in little mood at the moment to send anyone to debtor's prison, so I was content to stand to the side. Can I help you clean up?"

"Certainly." Valjean knelt and began picking up baskets, some of which he handed off to the Inspector. "Father D'Amboise has done us the courtesy of letting us keep our baskets in the cellar of the church. Are you hungry? There is a little bread left."

Javert frowned. "Keep your charity."

"If it displeases you." Valjean stood with his arms full of baskets. "Though I hardly think that would constitute charity."

"What am I to do with the baskets?" Javert asked before Valjean could say more.

"Follow me." Valjean climbed the church steps to the grand center door, which was opened by a man Javert presumed to be Father D'Amboise.

The Father in turn led them around the baptistery and sacristy to a small, arched door. Behind it was a flight of stairs leading to the basement, where the two men stacked the baskets amid dusty pews and crates of wine.

When they re-emerged, Valjean brought with him what remained of the bread. He handed it solemnly to Father D'Amboise, who bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"Father D'Amboise will see that it goes to those who need it," Valjean explained as they left the church. "There are beggars sometimes, or lost children, who come to the church seeking shelter. They will receive it."

Javert regarded him quietly. "You are... very passionate about this."

With a quirk of his lips, Valjean replied, "I thought you already knew that."

"Knew it? Yes." The Inspector laughed humorlessly. "I still do not understand it."

"Hmm." Valjean stopped at the top of the steps and stared across the street. "I found solace at a place like this once. If I can help other people find the same, then I will do so."

"Papa," Cosette called from near the fountain. "It will be dark soon."

"We're coming, my dear," Valjean called back, descending the stairs. "Will you join us again this evening?" he asked over his shoulder.

The Inspector pursed his lips in annoyance. "Unfortunately, I cannot. The Prefect has insisted that I see the doctor again tonight to check I am not 'over-exerting' myself."

"I am glad he is concerned for your safety," Valjean said quietly.

"It is a waste of my time," argued Javert. "Over-exert myself, indeed. I am not dying."

They reached the spot where Cosette and Toussaint stood waiting.

"A lot of people came today," Cosette remarked as the group began walking.

Valjean nodded. "Things are worsening," he said. "The Father's new hospital has yet to open, and already the beds are overflowing with the sick. We must give them hope."

The Inspector stared at the ground as he walked. "This cannot end well," he said quietly. "Some of them are even championing revolution now."

"Why shouldn't they?" Cosette asked. "If the government is not hearing its people -"

"The government hears," Javert interjected. "And they will respond as they must - with force. There will not be another French Revolution. Anyone who attempts it will be killed."

Cosette made a soft exclamation at the same time as Valjean's cry of, "Javert -!" but Javert stopped walking, standing in front of a side-street.

"This is where I must leave you," he said. "Goodnight."

"Well," said Valjean, and it turned into a sigh. "Will we see you tomorrow?"

"I should expect so."

"Good. Sunday dinner will be later, if you cared to join us."

"That would not be -"

"Please?"

Javert paused, struck by the honest invitation in Valjean's eyes.

"Are you sure that's wise?" he asked eventually, a tip of his head indicating Cosette. "Surely I am too... rough a character for your dining table."

"Please," Valjean repeated, and Javert knew himself to be lost. "It would do me good to have a friend dine with us."

"If it is so important to you," Javert replied, "then I will be there."

The tender smile on Valjean's face cut like a knife.

"Wonderful," he said. "Goodnight, Javert."

Javert could not speak, so he nodded, tipping his hat to the women before he went his way. He had not separated from Valjean by a displacement greater than a block before he collapsed against a cool stone wall, rubbing his temples firmly.

Asking himself what had overcome him, Javert took a seat on a stone slab, drawing one of his knees up to his chest. It was undignified, and he was thankful the narrow street was deserted. All of Valjean's little kindnesses were too much for the Inspector, and everything now brought itself to bear on him - the smiles, and glances, and once or twice something like a smirk; the food, and the invitations, and the hospitality; his overtures of friendship, his forgiveness, and above all his damned mercy - every bit of it was torturously confusing.

It had not at first been too difficult to allow it, back when he could tell himself that he was merely repaying a debt by not reporting the man, but events had rapidly spiraled out of his control. He was now even degraded to such a point that he wouldn't arrest a simple pick-pocket. Was that to be his new reputation? Javert, the once-feared, once-terrible, was now permitting even lowly street urchins to run rampant.

He let out a groan of something like despair. The worst of it was that he was far too invested now to stop. His fellow officers would certainly make something of it if they knew he left the station every night to sit and chat with an unmarried father; if anyone ever found out the real truth of the matter, he would be fortunate if losing his position was the worst to come of it. For all that, however, the very notion of ceasing his visits to the Rue Plumet was agonizing. Valjean provided warmth and camaraderie, both of which he sorely lacked, and like a shaded plant finally opened to the sun, he drank it in. It was selfish, even greedy of him, but it filled an emptiness he had never been aware of having.

Down the street, someone poured their dishwater out the window. Javert stood, lest someone else do the same on top of his head. He trudged the rest of the way to the hospital, where he permitted the doctor to poke and prod him with more grace than usual; he was too distracted to care, unable to shake the feeling that he was being pulled slowly apart.