From his spot assumed well in the depths of the cellar, Valjean heard the lock jangle, then watched as the door was thrown open with a bang. A very tall, very drunk man with a huge unkempt beard stumbled through and began making his way down the slippery stairs, his right hand bracing himself against the wall and his left one holding a candle.

Behind him, the door closed noiselessly.

When Javert laid out the plan before Valjean earlier, he thought at first that it could never work. It was simply too vaudevillian. But now, as he watched Guelemer descend, he had to admit Javert had been right. When Guelemer threw open the door, he had concealed Javert from his own sight. And when he began cursing under his breath religious ninnies and slippery steps, he concealed Javert also from his own hearing.

The light of the candle flickered ominously on the faces of both the hunter and the hunted. For every step the man took down, Javert took one with him, like a shadow made flesh.

A coil of rope hung off Guelemer's right elbow. A coil of rope was clenched in Javert's right hand.

Everything in Valjean tightened in anticipation. His heart pounded. "Here I am!" he said hoarsely to Guelemer when the latter finally stepped onto the cellar floor. "Here! Come." And Valjean raised his hands, as if offering them to be tied together.

At that moment, Javert threw the rope around Guelemer's throat from behind. The candle fell to the ground and sputtered out.

Valjean had been in many fights in his life. Growing up in his village, most of the fleeting friendships he made almost invariably grew out of brawls during fairs or holidays, when young men wandered around soused to the gills and ready to accuse even their own reflection in a puddle of looking at them funny. Later, in Toulon, it became almost a matter of course for some new inmate to try and measure his strength against that of the famous Jean-the-Jack. As a consequence, Valjean learned relatively quickly the art of subduing an opponent without causing him too much irreparable harm.

Admittedly, he had never wrestled with anyone quite as large as Guelemer, but that was where Javert's rope came in handy. Once he had Guelemer on the floor and underneath him in a lock, Valjean had little to do but wait. Half a minute of wheezing and croaking, and Guelemer's body went slack, his eyes rolled into his head, and he was, so to say, "spitch-cocked."

Shortly after, Guelemer lay flat on his belly, with all his limbs tied together behind him and the knotted rope still tight around his throat.

"Good show," rasped Javert, who was sitting against the wall holding his stomach with one hand and pulling the rope taunt with the other. Guelemer had elbowed him hard in the gut and he was still catching his breath. "Very nice. It's always… always difficult to do anything against big guys. You don't want to break anything of theirs, but you don't want to die either. A problem. But you! you're one tough old bird..."

Rising to his feet with a grunt, Javert checked the tightness of the noose around Guelemer's throat by sticking a finger behind it, then re-lit the candle and set to searching him. First he pulled off Guelemer's shoes, shook them out, then flung them into the opposite cellar corner. Then he went through all his pockets in his cotton velvet waistcoat and duck trousers. One of them yielded a blackjack covered with soft leather, which he examined and took.

Next Javert picked up his wig, which he had flung to the floor prior to the grapple, unknotted and pulled off the kerchief from around his neck, and wrapped it a few times around the crumpled wig. Then he sat down on the floor by Guelemer's head, crossing his legs like a tailor.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," replied Valjean.

"On the count of three. One… two… three!"

Valjean carefully loosened the knot around Guelemer's neck. At the same time, Javert opened the man's mouth, stuffed the gag into it, then tied the ends of the kerchief around Guelemer's face. Several seconds later, Guelemer's eyes opened a slit - then wider, then wider still when they saw Javert smiling down at him.

"Hello, old pal," said Javert, watching Guelemer struggle furiously against his bonds and gag with terror in his eyes. "Nice to see you in good health and still bucking like a mustang. Still as stupid as ever, though." Javert showed Guelemer the blackjack. "If you're going to go in somewhere armed, best to hold the weapon ready right away. Otherwise, it's at best useless to you and at worst, it's the other fellow's weapon. Say, does Montparnasse know you've nicked his favorite blackjack? Nod yes or no."

Guelemer was still growling audibly behind his gag. His face was quickly filling up with blood. Valjean half feared the man would have an apoplectic attack right there on the spot, and all their efforts at a bloodless take-down would have been for naught.

"What, you don't want to answer? Fine, remain uncooperative. That's how I'll write it down later in my report: 'Tah tuh tuh tuh, and Sieur Guelemer remained throughout un – co – o – perative.'" Javert mimed writing for a while, then stopped. "Sure you don't want to tell me anything?"

Guelemer jerked violently against his bonds and inadvertently hit his head on the crate Javert had moved close to him.

"Well, I guess we're done then. What do you think, Jack? Is he tied well?"

"As long as I've spent working on ships, he better be," said Valjean, casting a satisfied eye at his own rope work.

"Fantastic." Javert got up and, to Valjean's surprise, moved another crate over to tower over Guelemer's head, then a third one next to it. Now Guelemer's head was walled-in from three sides, and his body stuck out from between the three crates like the stem of a gigantic clover.

"What's that for?" asked Valjean.

Javert shrugged. "A little extra touch of disorientation."

Valjean walked up the steps and put an ear to the door. Everything was quiet.

"I don't think anyone heard us," he said.

"Or perhaps they heard us quite well and are sitting there with their guns pointed at the door, waiting to see who comes out, if anyone." Javert kicked the wall lightly. "Although the walls of this place are something to be marveled at. The stone doesn't even reflect back echoes. A perfect dungeon."

"I'm going out," said Valjean. "I don't think there's anyone there." He pulled the massive key out of the lock and cracked open the door.

"What are you doing, you worm-eaten old tree-stump!" hissed Javert. "Come back this instant!"

But Valjean was already out of the cellar and closing the door behind him.

The tavern was empty, save for Barre-Carosse. He was sitting at the table and staring into a soup plate. Three empty bottles stood before him; two more could be seen under the table.

"G'emer?.." he mumbled, raising his bloodshot eyes to Valjean.

"Afraid not," said Valjean.

A movement outside the window caught his eye but it was too late. The door opened and a small, diaphanous man walked in holding a gun. A newspaper was rolled up under his right arm.

"Oh, we have guests!" he said, sounding mildly pleased.

Behind him, Valjean saw a slightly taller figure swathed in bandages and a young fashionably dressed man with black curls. Both looked familiar, though Valjean could not shake a feeling that this was the first time he was seeing them together.