There was a silence in the tavern, except for a faint jangling. The bandaged man was tossing the change in his hand into the air and catching it artfully. The change jingled.
And just like that, Valjean remembered what he was called.
Smiling at everyone present, Javert closed the door and suddenly walloped the latch on it with his hand twice. The men jumped. The latch bent.
"There! this ought to keep even more people from falling prey to that cellar," he said, placing a rectangular stone on the table by Valjean's fist. "A dangerous place, that cellar. Eats people right up."
"Are you hurt?" asked Valjean quietly.
"Not I. This is all from Barre-Carosse's nose. He was fixing to scream."
The young man had meanwhile whipped out his knife and was holding it out point first in the direction of the two men, as if expecting them to leap upon him. The point quivered in the air.
Babet concealed his shock better.
"Ah, Inspector Javert," he said through his teeth. "Proving once again the old maxim that turds do not sink. How did you find us?"
"It was Landot!" exclaimed the young man, blinking. Pomade mixed with nervous sweat was running down his forehead and into his eyes. "Landot brought the raille here!"
"Indeed," said Javert. "This is why it's a bad idea to build your business relationships on fear, Monsieur Montparnasse. No matter how scary you are, there is always someone your comrade finds scarier than you. Myself, for instance. And then your power over them is undermined."
Montparnasse ignored him. "You!" The point of the knife swiveled towards Valjean. "I remember you now, Mister Jean-the-Jack, Mister Grand Fanandel! You are that old fart that lectured me out in the fields by Austerlitz!"
Javert looked at Valjean quizzically. "What's this now?"
"This young man tried to rob me when I was out for a stroll one day," said Valjean. "He declared to me that he wanted to be a thief. I tried to dissuade him."
"Why not tell the whole truth, old man? You gave me a long boring sermon about why thieving was naughty, and then you went and stole the purse from my pocket!"
Javert burst out laughing. "You didn't!" There was admiration in his voice. "Did you?"
"Of course I didn't!" protested Valjean. "I was the one who gave him that purse to begin with. He must've lost it."
"Loo-ooost it," drawled Montparnasse. "Rii-iiight. Here's a purse, put it into your pocket, sonny, now watch the magician walk away, and presto! No purse! I broke my brains trying to figure out that trick."
"It's disquieting how tricky police spies are becoming these days." There was banked fury in Babet's voice. "I think you better sit down beside your friend, Inspector Javert." He gestured with the pistol in his hand. "Claquesous, search them."
The man in bandages tucked his own pistol behind the back of his belt, stepped up the bench and began patting down Javert.
"Your health, Claquesous," said Javert to him. "How's that abscess? Have you tried a peeled potato slice on it? Works a treat."
Claquesous said nothing and moved on to Valjean, in whose pockets he discovered the toy pistol.
"A little toy for the little boy," he mumbled and tossed the pistol to Montparnasse. Montparnasse caught it and cocked it, saying: "Oh, heavy artillery, that!"
And he aimed it playfully at Javert's head.
"Oh, come now, don't fire," Javert told him with a smile. "Your shot will miss fire."
"Go on! Do you really think you could pull that trick off twice?" said Babet, whose pistol was also aimed at Javert's head.
"Let him fire, and we'll see," said Javert, staring into Montparnasse's eyes the while.
"What are you two talking about?" asked Montparnasse.
Babet shook his head slowly. "Nothing." But he looked unsure. "He couldn't get that lucky again."
"So tell the boy to fire," said Javert.
"Why ask him? He's not my master. Good-bye, Inspector!" said Montparnasse and fired. The pistol clicked but produced nothing – not even a flame.
Javert turned to Valjean and said: "See? I told you that thing was a piece of junk."
"Impossible!" moaned Babet.
"Didn't you listen to what Bigrenaille said at the Gorbeau place?" asked Javert. "I am the emperor of fiends." To Montparnasse, he added: "I hope we're not boring you with our reminiscences. It's a pity you weren't there that day. Everyone had such fun."
Montparnasse shrugged and tossed the pistol aside. "What the gun couldn't start, the blade will finish."
"We've done that before, too, haven't we?" remarked Valjean. "I don't recall you faring very well."
"What do you hope to accomplish, Inspector?" asked Babet. "You are alone here. I still have two bullets left, and Claquesous as well. Montparnasse has his dague. You have your hearty grandpa, that is true. Let's reckon him for two. Your odds are still no good. You can't effect an arrest on us this way."
"Actually, you are overlooking something," said Javert. "It's three against two, you are right - except the other way around. Or have you forgotten that one of you is a police spy?"
Babet's gun shifted to Montparnasse, then to Claquesous. Montparnasse's knife described an uncertain arc in the air. Claquesous produced a pistol out of his pocket as well, - the same kind as Babet's.
Javert stretched out his legs.
"While the three of you are standing there figuring things out, may I ask you something, Babet?"
Babet said nothing but shifted his pistol back to Javert.
"This tavern - did you acquire it by airing any of your fresh shiners?"*
"Are you playing charades now?" asked Babet.
"Oh, drop the act," said Javert. "I know it was you who did the widow Leon in."
At once, both Claquesous' pistol and Montparnasse's knife-blade pointed in Babet's direction.
"What is he talking about, Babet?" growled Montparnasse. "It wasn't you, was it? Swear that it wasn't you!"
"I swear on my children it wasn't me!"
"Answer me also this," asked Javert. "How much does a quarter of an ounce of gold cost? You know, to use for false teeth?" asked Javert.
"I'm afraid my days of dentistry are long past," said Babet. "I am no longer in practice."
"Come, Babet, you know this one. A quarter of an apothecary's ounce of gold. In the light of your haul, practically nothing. Three hundred thousand already in your pocket, but you couldn't hold back, could you? The poor old woman was lying on the floor in a puddle of warm blood, and you decided to be diligent. So you turned her over onto her back and pulled out her gold teeth."
"Traitor!"
"Fiend!"
Two cries that would no longer be held in, from Montparnasse and Claquesous respectively.
"I think this ought to close matters," said Babet and cocked his gun. "The priming powder is good. I loaded it myself. Had I known whom I would be facing, I would have had it blessed by a priest, but even so, it should not fail."
Javert glanced at Claquesous, then at Montparnasse, who was quivering with rage. Slowly, with a small groan of effort, he got up from the bench and walked up to Babet so that the barrel of the gun was flush against his chest.
Valjean felt his insides congeal. His ears rang with the pounding of blood. He wanted desperately to leap up, to overturn the table, tackle Babet, seize the gun barrel - anything but sit there and be forced to watch. Yet he remained where he sat, stiff, frozen - impotent. There was no outrunning a point-blank shot. One could not tackle a bullet.
"Don't do it, Babet!" he uttered, his tongue moving thickly in his mouth.
"Do it, Babet," said Javert simply.
"Monsieur, please..." moaned Valjean. His heart felt as though it was about to tear in half. "Anything you want! Everything I have, it's all yours! Don't..."
A deafening shot rang out.
Javert did not budge.
Babet lowered his shaking gun hand. Javert stood tall in the acrid cloud of smoke, his vest and shirtsleeves smudged by the powder. There was no blood, and no wound.
A scream to shame a banshee tore out of Babet's throat. Flinging the gun to the floor, the man ran out of the shack as fast as his legs would carry him.
At that very instance, Montparnasse leaped upon Javert but found his arms fixed fast behind his back. It was Valjean.
"Looks like you're on your own now, child," said Javert to the young man. "Now, you can either drop the knife and be a good boy, or we can do this the hard way. It would be better for you if you disarmed yourself voluntarily."
Montparnasse jerked in response, but Valjean held him fast enough to bruise. All the while, his eyes remained locked with Javert's over the boy's shoulder, flashing with triumph and fury, elation and reproach - he could make no sense of it himself. His entire being was in turmoil. Had they been alone, he did not know whether he would have shaken Javert like a rag doll or crushed him in an embrace.
Javert held his burning gaze for a few seconds, as if extending a mute apology. Then he pulled out of his pocket the small flagon of thick glass. Clear liquid sloshed inside.
"You know what this is?" he asked, showing the flagon to Montparnasse. "This is vitriol. Do you know what happens to human skin when vitriol is poured on it?"
Montparnasse was silent.
"Shall I drip a little onto your lovely face?" suggested Javert sweetly.
The knife clattered to the floor.
"Good boy. Is this all of them?" asked Javert.
"All of them," echoed Claquesous, who had been standing there so still and quiet that Valjean had lost sight of him.
"Then I guess we're done here."
"I guess we're done," echoed Claquesous.
"So go give the signal already." Javert's voice was different now, softer.
Picking up a ceramic plate from the table, Claquesous stepped over the threshold of the tavern. Cocking his pistol, he threw the plate into the air and fired at it.
The plate shattered midair.
* Airing = spending; shiners = gold pieces
