Cosette woke with a start. She had been sleeping heavily and had overslept. It must be quite late, she had not done her chores and now Madame would beat her for her laziness. She was in such a panic that she did not notice the unaccustomed motion of the coach at first, all she knew was that she was still in bed even though her chores were not done and that she would be beaten for it. She also had a dim, uneasy recollection that something had happened the night before - had she upset one of the customers? - and that Madame had not been best pleased about it. If so she would not be in a good mood this morning.
It was then that she noticed something unusual - she was warm. Cosette was never warm in winter no matter how small she curled herself up. Not only was she warm but there was a strange jolting movement beneath her - how could this be?
Cosette put her head out from beneath the blanket - not her tattered filthy rag but a fine, warm woollen cloth. She opened her eyes. She was in a coach! At first the excitement of this almost took her breath away - she had never ridden in a coach before. Nor had 'Ponine and 'Zelma and the were fine ladies - Madame had said so. Then, on the other side of the seat she was lying on, she noticed a figure looking out the window. It was the m'sieur from the night before, the one she had covered in stew. So - she had not imagined it! He really had said to Madame that he would take her. Cosette drew a sharp little intake of breath.The man leaned towards her.

"So, you're awake then." he said, his face twitching in an ironic almost smile. Neither his expression nor his tone were altogether reassuring. Cosette was too surprised to answer, she simply sat up further.
"How do you feel?" the man continued stiffly, "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, M'sieur. We're not in Montfermiel are we?"

"No child"

Cosette's mind raced. Why had this man taken her, Madame alwaystold herthat she was so worthless not even her own mother had wanted her. Could it be that she had changed her mind and sent this man to fetch her. Cosette had never had a family like the other children and hitherto she had accepted this as natural, but now . . .She decided to hazard a question.

"M'sieur, are you - are you my father?"

"No child"

"Are you going to take me to my mum sir?"

"I don't know" said the man, gazing back out the window.

"Are you going to take me back to Madame then?"

"Certainly not" he said emphatically, "I can promise you that."

His vehemence both surprised and reassured Cosette. She began her questions again.
"If you're not my father then are you my . ..Can I call you grandpapa?"

"My name is Monsieur Javert and that is what you may call me." He paused for a beat and then continued, speaking seemingly more to himself than to Cosette, "In perfect honesty I have no idea what I am going to do with you. I do not know your mother, but I will try to find the woman. Until then - or until alternative, more appropriate, arrangements can be made - you will have to remain with me. Yes, that's it. Get the next few weeks in Montreuil over with then we'll decide about you."

Cosette had never seen this man before but instinctively she trusted him. He seemed stern and harsh, yet he treated her with more kindness than she had ever been shown before. Most importantly, he had saved her from Madame and Monsieur, from the inn and cold and ashes and she would never have to go back there again.
Cosette flung her arms about the man's neck. Javert was greatly taken aback, totally at a loss. He did not move his arms to embrace the child, but she did not seem to notice

At about seven in the evening the diligence stopped in St Dominique du Bois as it always did. It would stop there for about an hour and a half to change horses and give the passengers a chance to recuperate from a day of fast travel over bumpy rounds.
Anyone who had watched the passengers leaving the coach on the particular evening would have seen a tall, well dressed man in his forties lifted down a little girl of about five, the squalor of whose appearance contrasted strongly with the smartness of his own.
Paquette Medaud, who kept the tavern in St Dominique, watched the arrival of the coach and noted the strange pair with disapproval. The child was skinny and plainly very cold - she hadn't raised four strapping sons herself not to recognised a child that was sickening for something when she saw one.
The man strode into the inn, removed his had and splendid greatcoat to reveal an equally splendid grey topcoat.
'Arrogant pig', Paquette thought, pursing her lips and leading the pair to a table, deliberately selecting one close to the fire.

"What will Monsieur take?"

"Some wine and a slice of bread and cheese thank you Madame."

"And for your little one?" she said pointedly

"Cosette, " said the stranger with a softness that surprised her, "what would you like to eat?" The child looked confused and widened her eyes "What do you normally have at home?" the man prompted.

"What Madame says no-one else wants."

"Well now I'm asking you what you want."

Againthe childlooked confused.

"I, I don't know M'sieur."

At a loss, Javert turned his attention to the innkeeper, "Madame, what do you recommend for a little girl who has had no breakfast?"

"Warm milk, some soup and bread and, perhaps, a palmier."

"Very well," said the man. Paquette had half expected him to complain of the expense. She walked off shaking her head: this was very odd indeed andshe couldn't quite fathomit. Shesuposed that she ought to be worried, really, but there was somethingin the tall fellow's manner that allayed her fear, a sort ofsimplicity that rather disarmed her.
When it came Cosette wolfed the food down as if she had never seen so much together in one place. Javert noted with displeasure the state of her table manner - much worse even than his own. Sighing, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the child's top lip clean of milk

"M'sieur, will you tell me a story?"

"I don't know any stories." This was not strictly true. Javert was, in fact, a born raconteur who had kept his fellow guards at Toulon endlessly entertained. It was just that most of his stories were not really for the ears of children, and that his strange, candid little audience rather mad him panic. He looked around the tavern in desperation as if hoping to find a tale chalked up along with the menu and bar prices.
Then a woman's voice whispered in his ear, "La Fontaine, Sir. I find the fables are always the best place to start."
Javert gave the innkeeper a look of extreme gratitude and began, soon finding his rhythm