***chapter 10***

***Rats***

After the cold of the workhouse, sleeping in the stable felt like sleeping a palace to the boy. When he nestled down in the warmth of the hay it was almost luxurious. Of course by night the rats slithered over him and occasionally, if he moved suddenly, they nipped. But he had slept before where rats roamed in their hundreds, in gutters and cellars and ditches, nor had the workhouse been free of the rodents, and he knew he was safe enough if they didn't draw blood. The rats nipped only to defend themselves, or to check whether he was a source of food. Not because he was gypsy. Their harm carried no malice.

The servants were different.

They said a gypsy brought nothing but ill luck. They spat in the meals they were told to bring him or they seasoned his food with anything they could find to make it taste disgusting. Though to their disappointment he ate it just the same. Little Javert had known what it was to starve. He had eaten far worse.

But there was one servant, a lame, white-haired old man with a hooked nose and withered arm, who was particularly sadistic, who took any and every opportunity to beat, kick or pinch Little Javert, and who was cunning enough never to leave any marks that could not be easily explained away as accidents. Little Javert did not care that he was despised – gypsies were, it was natural as the sun rising in the morning – but he learned to dread the arrival of Tomas.

First, from a distance, above the cacophony of noise made by the horses, pigs, dogs, hens and cockerels that M. Laurent kept, he would hear his wheezing, coughing breath and the dragging of his crippled foot. Aware now he would have nothing at all to eat, his heart would sink. Tomas would fling open the stable door and hold the plate tantalisingly before him so that the smell of cooking penetrated the stable and gnawed at Little Javert's stomach.

"Hungry, gypsy whelp?"

He would ask with a twisted smile, his eyes shining with joy at the misery he saw etched into the child's face. And then he would come further inside, so that nobody saw, because not even Marie, who liked to curry favour with her gullible mistress by spreading gossip, lies and rumours, and who contemptuously called Little Javert b*****d spawn of the devil, would think of such a thing, to dig the fork into the meal, which he ate at his leisure, taunting him, remarking on how succulent the meat (for Jacques Laurent always ensured his servants ate well), how tender the potatoes, how the taste of peas lingered long on his tongue, savouring every morsel. Little Javert had learned long ago to hide his tears and so refused to give him the satisfaction of shedding any, but he hated the brute with such intensity that it frightened even himself. Although he had loathed his father and held no love for his mother, his terror of his parents had always been far greater than any hate. The Bible said it was wrong to hate yet still his hatred of Tomas burned within him like the all-consuming flames of Hell. Night and day he yearned for revenge, but he could do nothing to halt the cruelty. Tomas told him nobody would believe the word of a gypsy over a white man. Moreover Little Javert was afraid M. Laurent, whom he thought must surely be an angel biding his time on Earth, would banish him forever if he ever discovered he harboured such wicked thoughts.

And so came the first secret Javert chose to keep from God and man.

He was not however entirely unhappy in his new home. He could roam wherever he wished, provided he did not go near the great house, and as the servants avoided him and there was no one else to talk to, he played alone or with the farmyard dogs, choosing instead to confide in the animals, who never judged him. This made some look upon him even more warily, especially as Marie hinted he was no doubt muttering evil incantations, but it also meant they let him alone, in case they too were cursed. And, as Inspector Laurent had promised, he attended church with the family and was allowed to listen to the Mass through the open window. Winter still claimed the land and the sunlight sparkled like jewels on the thick snow while ice curtains hung on trees. Often the beauty of nature at her coldest drew his attention far away from the service, as he dreamed of how brightly his future beckoned now under the guardianship of M. Laurent.

One night however the rats found some of the work Little Javert was studying and nibbled the pages to shreds. Jacques Laurent sighed heavily and shook his head at the ruined Bible, the thick book the most torn of all, as if, like some human peddlers of religion, the scavengers had developed a particular taste for Scripture without digesting any of it, and consequently both, in spreading their own version of the holy words albeit in vastly different manners, left a trail of destruction in their wake.

"You must take greater care of your belongings, Javert," he advised, which rebuke pleased rather than disconcerted his protege as, until that moment, aware from an early age that everything gypsies had was usually regarded by others as stolen, he had never considered anything he was given as actually being owned by himself. "Be sure when you say your prayers tonight to ask God's forgiveness for being so lax in protecting the Good Book."

But Little Javert was grown careless too with his prayers and after the Inspector left for his comfortable bed and warming pan, thought he might or might not say any at all later. He loved the quiet of the night that was broken only by the occasional grunt or shuffling of the animals. He liked to wander alone then, drinking in the freedom of the air. The dogs knew him and never gave him away, only gazing at him hopefully, for he had trained them to silence with the simple command of pressing his finger to his lips. A pleading whimper or two and adoring eyes followed the small figure's silhouette and its refusal to open the large pound in which they were locked away when evening fell, but Little Javert did not turn around and allow himself to be swayed. He walked with his head held high, his tread more certain, his hands clasped behind his back, as he had often observed Inspector Laurent walk. Thousands of stars twinkled and shone in the frosty sky and he stared intently into the vastness, wondering exactly where Heaven was located, and whether anyone from above was looking down at him.

Perhaps because he had lived so much of his short life in darkness, brightness always fascinated Little Javert. It had been so ever since the day he saw the dazzling silver buttons of the policeman's greatcoat, the sparkle of the coin he bestowed upon him, the laughing shimmer of the Seine, all of which had combined to give him the courage to run away from his parents.* He had lost himself in contemplating Eternity when he was startled from his reverie by the murmur of voices close by. But there had been no footsteps. No warning, yet two shadows emerged from the gloom.

Rats did not scare him. Ghosts, however, were a different matter...

*see chapter 2, Paris