When the meaning of what Javert said had finally sunk in, Fantine surmised
that warmth and fatigue must have put her to sleep, and that Javert's
strange words signified the beginning of her descent into an elaborate
nightmare.
"Pardon, Monsieur?" she felt rather than heard her dry, cracked lips say.
Javert's head jerked nervously, as if every muscle on the right side of his neck was momentarily overcome by a mild galvanic shock.
"I said, pull down your dress. And be quick about it. I don't have all day," he repeated, now sounding like his old confident self.
He turned away from the stunned woman, shrugged off in one fluent motion the overcoat that was draped over his shoulders, and threw it over the chair. The chair disappeared under the heavy folds of lead grey wool.
Fantine's benumbed mind took a momentary detour in time and space and found itself under the poplars of Jardin de Tivoli, where on bright Saturday mornings many years ago she and her friends used to watch a sorcerer amuse the bourgeoisie with magic tricks. The memory then morphed into an absurd desire to lift a corner of Javert's overcoat and see whether the chair was still in place underneath or whether it had perhaps changed into a cage with fat white pigeons.
"Bloody hell, woman, what did I just say? Jump to it!"
The hoarse oath snapped Fantine out of her reverie. Slowly, she reached behind and began to untie the back-straps of her gown.
She felt slightly faint and more than slightly nauseated. It wasn't quite that she feared the indignity or the pain of what was about to happen. Both pain and indignity had been her travelling companions on the road of life for so long that she could no longer imagine any personal relation without them. What truly shocked her was something else, something of which she herself had not been previously aware. Up until that point, Javert was the only man in her crumbling world that, despite his ill temper, made her want to believe in the existence of things like wholesomeness, honor, and decency - wonderful things that she herself had lost sight of a long time ago. Now that this last bulwark of hope was revealed to be a chimera, Fantine felt bereaved. What was about to unfold felt so cold, so overwhelming, and so utterly unexpected, that Fantine found herself unable to even express it in coherent thought: in response to Javert's impatient order to undress, her distressed mind produced only the mental equivalent of a pitiful sob.
The last hook was now undone, and the cool, damp silk of the flimsy dress pooled around Fantine's ankles. Javert was still facing away from her; his back muscles jerked slightly as he rolled up carefully the sleeves of his crisply starched white undershirt. Doesn't like to watch, thought Fantine mechanically. Her stomach was turning from revulsion.
All preparations seemingly finished, Javert turned back around to face his prisoner.
"Ey-heh-hey, that's quite enough," he exclaimed, noticing that the dispirited woman was making to remove her petticoats.
Fantine froze but did not lower her hands from the garment. Deciding that she must have heard wrong, she moved to undress fully once again.
Javert rolled his eyes and stomped his foot with impatience. "Will you listen to me? Let those damn things alone and come over here!"
Not knowing what to think anymore, Fantine obeyed the stern command.
"And stand up straight!" snapped Javert, sounding rather like a provincial schoolmaster scolding an unruly pupil. When Fantine didn't react with sufficient swiftness, he grasped her shoulders rudely and pulled upwards, straightening out her back. Not wanting to look at him anymore, Fantine shut her eyes tightly enough to make her eyelids hurt and prayed that the bastard would just get it over with.
She felt Javert's hand positioning itself above her left breast. The hand was large and perversely warm. It shouldn't be so warm, she thought bitterly. It should be cold and hard and...
"Say 'ninety-five.'"
Fantine's eyes snapped wide open.
No, she was not hallucinating. She was still half-nude in a municipal jail cell; Inspector Javert was still standing right in front of her; and the palm of his left hand was still lying flat on her chest. Javert's eyes were focused on a point in space somewhere above her head; he looked anxious and impatient.
"Pardon, monsieur?" asked Fantine once again, feeling stupid.
"Pardieu, would you stop playing the fool and just obey me for once?" growled Javert, shifting his cold, sharp eyes back to the woman's frightened face. "Say 'ninety-five.' Now!"
"Ninety-five," said Fantine in a small voice. Her head was spinning.
"Louder!" barked Javert.
"Ninety-five!"
Javert moved his hand more to the right and pressed down firmly just above her other breast.
"Again."
"Ninety-five."
Javert bit down on his lip with a thoughtful air and took his hand away. Bizarrely, the very next thing he did was retrieve from the bed his leather notebook, open it on the page where he laid the pencil, and hurriedly begin jotting something down.
"Now turn around," he ordered brusquely without stopping his scribbling.
Deciding not to argue with a madman, Fantine turned her back to him.
"No, that won't do," she heard his exasperated baritone behind her. Large, wiry hands covered her own and plucked them from her elbows, which she was gripping in fear. "Fold your arms across your chest, like this," said Javert softer now, crossing Fantine's arms over her breasts, palms flat, so that the fingertips of each hand touched the opposite shoulder. "And keep them like that."
"What is all this for?" finally managed to squeeze out Fantine, whose boundless hurt was starting to give way to similarly boundless confusion.
"It wouldn't do you any good to know," said Javert.
"But no, I do want to know," insisted Fantine and turned her head over her shoulder to look Javert right in the unblinking, unreadable grey eye.
Javert raised his eyebrows slightly and shrugged his left shoulder. "Very well. This is the optimal pose to ensure sufficient outward displacement of the scapulae most appropriate for dorsal examinations," he said with a hint of smugness.
Fantine's face must have been a sight, because the inspector suddenly coughed out a low-pitched, hoarse sound that in a normal person would have been a laugh.
"Oh, come now, I did warn you. Didn't I tell you that it wouldn't do you any good to know?" he said almost playfully. "Now look ahead and relax. Don't worry. This won't hurt, I promise."
"Pardon, Monsieur?" she felt rather than heard her dry, cracked lips say.
Javert's head jerked nervously, as if every muscle on the right side of his neck was momentarily overcome by a mild galvanic shock.
"I said, pull down your dress. And be quick about it. I don't have all day," he repeated, now sounding like his old confident self.
He turned away from the stunned woman, shrugged off in one fluent motion the overcoat that was draped over his shoulders, and threw it over the chair. The chair disappeared under the heavy folds of lead grey wool.
Fantine's benumbed mind took a momentary detour in time and space and found itself under the poplars of Jardin de Tivoli, where on bright Saturday mornings many years ago she and her friends used to watch a sorcerer amuse the bourgeoisie with magic tricks. The memory then morphed into an absurd desire to lift a corner of Javert's overcoat and see whether the chair was still in place underneath or whether it had perhaps changed into a cage with fat white pigeons.
"Bloody hell, woman, what did I just say? Jump to it!"
The hoarse oath snapped Fantine out of her reverie. Slowly, she reached behind and began to untie the back-straps of her gown.
She felt slightly faint and more than slightly nauseated. It wasn't quite that she feared the indignity or the pain of what was about to happen. Both pain and indignity had been her travelling companions on the road of life for so long that she could no longer imagine any personal relation without them. What truly shocked her was something else, something of which she herself had not been previously aware. Up until that point, Javert was the only man in her crumbling world that, despite his ill temper, made her want to believe in the existence of things like wholesomeness, honor, and decency - wonderful things that she herself had lost sight of a long time ago. Now that this last bulwark of hope was revealed to be a chimera, Fantine felt bereaved. What was about to unfold felt so cold, so overwhelming, and so utterly unexpected, that Fantine found herself unable to even express it in coherent thought: in response to Javert's impatient order to undress, her distressed mind produced only the mental equivalent of a pitiful sob.
The last hook was now undone, and the cool, damp silk of the flimsy dress pooled around Fantine's ankles. Javert was still facing away from her; his back muscles jerked slightly as he rolled up carefully the sleeves of his crisply starched white undershirt. Doesn't like to watch, thought Fantine mechanically. Her stomach was turning from revulsion.
All preparations seemingly finished, Javert turned back around to face his prisoner.
"Ey-heh-hey, that's quite enough," he exclaimed, noticing that the dispirited woman was making to remove her petticoats.
Fantine froze but did not lower her hands from the garment. Deciding that she must have heard wrong, she moved to undress fully once again.
Javert rolled his eyes and stomped his foot with impatience. "Will you listen to me? Let those damn things alone and come over here!"
Not knowing what to think anymore, Fantine obeyed the stern command.
"And stand up straight!" snapped Javert, sounding rather like a provincial schoolmaster scolding an unruly pupil. When Fantine didn't react with sufficient swiftness, he grasped her shoulders rudely and pulled upwards, straightening out her back. Not wanting to look at him anymore, Fantine shut her eyes tightly enough to make her eyelids hurt and prayed that the bastard would just get it over with.
She felt Javert's hand positioning itself above her left breast. The hand was large and perversely warm. It shouldn't be so warm, she thought bitterly. It should be cold and hard and...
"Say 'ninety-five.'"
Fantine's eyes snapped wide open.
No, she was not hallucinating. She was still half-nude in a municipal jail cell; Inspector Javert was still standing right in front of her; and the palm of his left hand was still lying flat on her chest. Javert's eyes were focused on a point in space somewhere above her head; he looked anxious and impatient.
"Pardon, monsieur?" asked Fantine once again, feeling stupid.
"Pardieu, would you stop playing the fool and just obey me for once?" growled Javert, shifting his cold, sharp eyes back to the woman's frightened face. "Say 'ninety-five.' Now!"
"Ninety-five," said Fantine in a small voice. Her head was spinning.
"Louder!" barked Javert.
"Ninety-five!"
Javert moved his hand more to the right and pressed down firmly just above her other breast.
"Again."
"Ninety-five."
Javert bit down on his lip with a thoughtful air and took his hand away. Bizarrely, the very next thing he did was retrieve from the bed his leather notebook, open it on the page where he laid the pencil, and hurriedly begin jotting something down.
"Now turn around," he ordered brusquely without stopping his scribbling.
Deciding not to argue with a madman, Fantine turned her back to him.
"No, that won't do," she heard his exasperated baritone behind her. Large, wiry hands covered her own and plucked them from her elbows, which she was gripping in fear. "Fold your arms across your chest, like this," said Javert softer now, crossing Fantine's arms over her breasts, palms flat, so that the fingertips of each hand touched the opposite shoulder. "And keep them like that."
"What is all this for?" finally managed to squeeze out Fantine, whose boundless hurt was starting to give way to similarly boundless confusion.
"It wouldn't do you any good to know," said Javert.
"But no, I do want to know," insisted Fantine and turned her head over her shoulder to look Javert right in the unblinking, unreadable grey eye.
Javert raised his eyebrows slightly and shrugged his left shoulder. "Very well. This is the optimal pose to ensure sufficient outward displacement of the scapulae most appropriate for dorsal examinations," he said with a hint of smugness.
Fantine's face must have been a sight, because the inspector suddenly coughed out a low-pitched, hoarse sound that in a normal person would have been a laugh.
"Oh, come now, I did warn you. Didn't I tell you that it wouldn't do you any good to know?" he said almost playfully. "Now look ahead and relax. Don't worry. This won't hurt, I promise."