Someone knocked. Javert turned his head away from the sobbing woman in front of him and, narrowing his eyes, peered into the grated window in the upper part of the door. It was the sergeant. Javert fought down the urge to growl. At least in Paris he'd had a decent interrogation room, with proper locks and a stairway, where private conversations remained private, and no one disturbed him and his... what was it Isaac used to call them? Interlocutors.
"Her...Come in!"
Javert winced at the sound of his own voice. 'And if thy tongue offend thee,' he thought, utterly annoyed with himself, 'cut it off and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to walk around this city dumb than to risk undue questions about why the hell you call out to people in German.'
The door opened and admitted the pimply sergeant, now slightly disheveled, with his cheeks red from the cold and snow clumps in his straw-blonde hair.
"I think they're all gone now, sir. I told them over and over but they just wouldn't go, sir, but I think they're all gone for good, sir," rattled off the youth in a single breath and attempted to click his heels. However, due to the thick layer of wet snow on them, his boots made no sound. What they did make was a rather unsightly pile of slush on the floor.
"Good job," graciously offered Javert.
"Awaiting further orders, sir," declared the youth, straightening out his back and puffing out his chest.
'Take a glass of warm milk and go take a nap,' Javert almost blurted out, biting back his treacherous tongue at the last moment. Instead he said:
"Go down to the cells and make a thorough inspection of the stove in each one. Note the disrepairs, should you find any, on a sheet of paper, then bring the sheet back to me. Here," he added, rummaging once again blindly behind him and tossing the sergeant a thoroughly chewed-up pencil stub. The sergeant looked at it doubtfully, then at Fantine, who was still sniffling pitifully on her chair, then back at the pencil.
"Did you hear me all right, Sergeant? Off you go!" barked Javert and watched the kid scurry off down into the basement.
Once again they were alone, and only Fantine's whimpers and the crackling of the stove broke the silence. Javert observed the woman for a few seconds, then pulled a large, monogrammed handkerchief out of the left pocket of his coat.
"Here, dry yourself off," he grumbled.
Mechanically, Fantine took a hold of the handkerchief and dabbed her red eyes with it.
"I'm afraid this has gone too far now for me to be lenient."
Fantine's fearful, tearing eyes followed Javert as he leapt off his desk and sat behind it in the proper fashion.
"You simply leave me with no choice," he murmured, opening the lowest drawer of the desk, peering briefly inside, then closing it and opening the one directly above it. "Aha, there we are," he said and pulled out a stack of slightly yellowed forms bearing ominous black municipality seals. Extracting one, he laid the rest back into the drawer and pushed it into the table. The drawer shut with a loud click that reminded Fantine of a pistol being cocked.
Picking up his pen, Javert paused and once again looked Fantine directly in the eyes.
"I know there's much flowery talk of mercy and compassion and whatnot going around these days, and I am not entirely averse to the idea," he said. "But as it often happens, the people who speak most ardently on the subject of crime are the ones least acquainted with it. Their idea of a criminal is their old scullery maid who used to pinch oysters from the kitchen. As for me, I have been with the police, in one way or another, some two and a half decades now. I have come to realize something so important and so simple, that the salon public can never hope to understand it. To save a drowning man, it is not enough to simply extend your hand to him. He must also grasp that hand in return."
The pen was dipped into the inkwell.
"You will have six months for it."
"Her...Come in!"
Javert winced at the sound of his own voice. 'And if thy tongue offend thee,' he thought, utterly annoyed with himself, 'cut it off and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to walk around this city dumb than to risk undue questions about why the hell you call out to people in German.'
The door opened and admitted the pimply sergeant, now slightly disheveled, with his cheeks red from the cold and snow clumps in his straw-blonde hair.
"I think they're all gone now, sir. I told them over and over but they just wouldn't go, sir, but I think they're all gone for good, sir," rattled off the youth in a single breath and attempted to click his heels. However, due to the thick layer of wet snow on them, his boots made no sound. What they did make was a rather unsightly pile of slush on the floor.
"Good job," graciously offered Javert.
"Awaiting further orders, sir," declared the youth, straightening out his back and puffing out his chest.
'Take a glass of warm milk and go take a nap,' Javert almost blurted out, biting back his treacherous tongue at the last moment. Instead he said:
"Go down to the cells and make a thorough inspection of the stove in each one. Note the disrepairs, should you find any, on a sheet of paper, then bring the sheet back to me. Here," he added, rummaging once again blindly behind him and tossing the sergeant a thoroughly chewed-up pencil stub. The sergeant looked at it doubtfully, then at Fantine, who was still sniffling pitifully on her chair, then back at the pencil.
"Did you hear me all right, Sergeant? Off you go!" barked Javert and watched the kid scurry off down into the basement.
Once again they were alone, and only Fantine's whimpers and the crackling of the stove broke the silence. Javert observed the woman for a few seconds, then pulled a large, monogrammed handkerchief out of the left pocket of his coat.
"Here, dry yourself off," he grumbled.
Mechanically, Fantine took a hold of the handkerchief and dabbed her red eyes with it.
"I'm afraid this has gone too far now for me to be lenient."
Fantine's fearful, tearing eyes followed Javert as he leapt off his desk and sat behind it in the proper fashion.
"You simply leave me with no choice," he murmured, opening the lowest drawer of the desk, peering briefly inside, then closing it and opening the one directly above it. "Aha, there we are," he said and pulled out a stack of slightly yellowed forms bearing ominous black municipality seals. Extracting one, he laid the rest back into the drawer and pushed it into the table. The drawer shut with a loud click that reminded Fantine of a pistol being cocked.
Picking up his pen, Javert paused and once again looked Fantine directly in the eyes.
"I know there's much flowery talk of mercy and compassion and whatnot going around these days, and I am not entirely averse to the idea," he said. "But as it often happens, the people who speak most ardently on the subject of crime are the ones least acquainted with it. Their idea of a criminal is their old scullery maid who used to pinch oysters from the kitchen. As for me, I have been with the police, in one way or another, some two and a half decades now. I have come to realize something so important and so simple, that the salon public can never hope to understand it. To save a drowning man, it is not enough to simply extend your hand to him. He must also grasp that hand in return."
The pen was dipped into the inkwell.
"You will have six months for it."