The next few weeks were torture. Valjean, it seemed, was everywhere, and Javert couldn't stop watching him, couldn't stop thinking about him...about what it would feel like to be held, touched, kissed...to see those dark eyes looking at him with warmth instead of hatred.
His own longings repulsed him. He wanted, above all things, to be a good man, a righteous man, and he knew God would never condone such desires--but he couldn't control them. No matter how hard he prayed, how desperately he begged God to take away his sickness, the dreams returned to him again and again. He was ashamed of how good they made him feel.
He had begun to wonder, madly, if Valjean was the devil himself, come to tempt Javert away from the path of the light.
As always, he hid his emotions from the rest of the world, keeping them locked safely behind a cold, rigid mask. Even so, the mask couldn't hide everything; when he saw Valjean, his mouth would run dry, his heartbeat quicken. He found himself praying that Valjean would not meet his eyes, yet hoping fervently that he would...and when those eyes did happen to meet his, his heart would tremble. He felt as if Valjean could see everything inside him, strip away his shields with a single glance.
At the end of a particularly long and hard day, he broke at last and went to town, to a tavern he'd seen other men frequenting. Javert had never been there himself, of course; he abstained from alcohol and revelry as strictly as he did from pleasures of the flesh. But he desperately needed the numbness that alcohol was reputed to bring. He was going mad.
Javert entered the tavern, feeling awkward and out of place. All around him, men roared with laughter and guzzled ale; scantily dressed women flirted shamelessly, their skirts hiked up to show off their plump, white thighs. Javert quickly averted his eyes, though he felt no lust. Not, he knew, because he was a better man, but because his desires ran toward something more shameful by far.
He sat at an empty table in the corner of the room, head bowed, trying to ignore the rampant sin around him. A serving-maid appeared, her generous bosom all but hanging out of her flimsy dress. "What can I get you, my handsome Monsieur?" She batted her over-long lashes and smiled.
"Ale," he said.
"Is that all?" She stepped forward, until her lightly heaving breasts hovered inches from his face. "Perhaps something else catches your fancy?"
"Just ale." He lowered his eyes, a flush spreading through his cheeks and into his ears.
"As you wish." She gave him a knowing smile, then walked away, hips swaying.
As Javert sat stiffly, staring into space, he overheard a whisper from a nearby table: "Never known a man to turn down Asceline before. S'pose he's worried he can't rise to the occasion?"
Chuckles greeted this comment.
Javert stiffened. Raising his head, he met the speaker's gaze. He was a beefy, thickly-bearded man with a mouthful of crooked teeth. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Monsieur," he said coldly. "I'll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself."
The man brayed laughter. "Ooo, ain't the young gentleman *proper!*"
Javert felt a wave of disgust. When the serving-maid placed a mug of ale in front of him, he pushed it away. "I've changed my mind."
"So our ale's not good enough for you, is it?" The man rose to his feet. His gut hung out in front of him. Judging from the size of it, he was one of the more well-to-do patrons, or perhaps the tavern-keeper himself. "You'd prefer some champagne, maybe? Well, just let me nip in back and get some!"
More laughter.
Javert said nothing. His face was still hot with embarrassment and suppressed rage. He stood and walked toward the door, but the potbellied man stood in his way. Placing his meaty hands on his hips, he scowled, bushy brows drawing together over small black eyes. "So, you think you can insult us and then just walk out, do you?"
Javert stared coolly into the man's ruddy face. "Do you know who I am?"
"No, and I don't care."
"My name is Inspector Javert."
For a moment, his sneer faltered, and fear flickered in the depths of his eyes...then his expression hardened. "Oh, is that so? I've heard things about you, Inspector."
"Have you?" he asked, his voice impassive...though his heartbeat quickened slightly. His first, foolish thought was that they somehow knew about his feelings toward Valjean. "Well, I hope they weren't unpleasant."
"Yes, they were unpleasant! I've heard you're a tyrant, a cold-hearted bastard who enjoys your power too much. Everyone's afraid of you; everyone treads lightly around the great Javert. Well, I'm not afraid! Go ahead and arrest me!" The smell of ale was thick on his breath, and Javert wrinkled his nose.
"Believe me, if I could arrest someone for drunken idiocy, I would," he said. "Stand aside, Monsieur."
The man held his ground. Javert tried to step around him, but the man followed his movements, remaining in front of him. The other patrons cheered, stabbing the air with their fists, whipped into a drunken frenzy at the possibility of a fight.
The man lifted his chin proudly. "Come on, you great bloody government lapdog! Strike me, if you dare!"
Javert's hand tightened into a fist and flicked out, whiplash quick; there was a sound like a branch snapping, and then the man was on the floor, howling, blood running from his mouth and nose. Javert stared down at him. He placed the silver head of his cane atop the man's large belly and pressed down until the man gurgled. More blood ran from his mouth. "You fool. I could have you thrown into Toulon." He glared for a moment...then withdrew his cane. "But I'll let you off with a warning, because you're too stinking drunk to know what you're doing." He stepped over the man and walked out the door. The patrons stared after him in stunned silence.
A part of him enjoyed their fear; fear was respect, or at least, the closest thing to respect that these scum understood. A deeper part of him felt cold and sick, and very alone.
Then he thought of the man's drunken braying, and his nose wrinkled with contempt. So what if they did hate him? So what if they couldn't understand that it was people like him who protected them from the scum of the world, who maintained law and order so they didn't have to fear for their skins when they ventured outside their homes? Let them insult him; let them call him a heartless tyrant. He cared not.
He cared not.
Alone at home, he ate a small, late dinner. As usual, it took him a long time to eat, for before he touched his food, it had to be just so; potatoes in one corner of the plate, meat in another, butter spread thinly and evenly over his bread, napkin spread on his lap, silverware aligned. None of the food must touch.
It was one of his peculiarities, and one of the reasons he always ate alone. He knew it must look strange to others, but he found the ritual oddly comforting. His desire for order and regularity extended even to the dinner table.
He prayed, ate. Slept.
Dreamt.
Javert did not think much about his childhood--or at least, he tried not to. He had no interest in analyzing himself, and there were not many pleasant memories to dwell on.
As a boy, he had been small, thin, and quiet. He lived with his mother, who worked in a factory and whored a little on the side. There was very little to eat; what little they made, she drank away, and what little she did not drink, it seemed, was always stolen.
One afternoon, she sent him out to market with a few francs, and on the way there he was attacked by a group of older boys. They beat him badly, took his money, and left him bleeding in the street. He could hardly see; both his eyes were swollen shut. His arm hung limp at his side and refused to work. He struggled to his feet and tried to make his way homeward, but it soon became apparent that he was lost. He leaned, shaking, against the side of a building. Men and women hurried past, ignoring his cries for help. Evening came. Too weak to stand, he lay beside the street, now silent and convinced he would die here.
Then a hand had touched his shoulder, and a deep, warm voice spoke. "Can you hear me, boy?"
He opened one eye a crack. A man hovered over him. He was young, though he had a beard, and his eyes were blue. The boy tried to speak, but his bloodied mouth would only produce slurred, incoherent syllables. He had trouble forming the words in his head, as well; his thoughts felt woolly.
A hand slid behind the boy's head, carefully tilting it back. The rim of a canteen touched his lips, and he drank in great, eager gulps. The man pulled the canteen back, and he made a small sound of protest. "Shhh...not too much. You'll get sick." A strong arm slipped around his waist, helping him to his feet.
The boy staggered along at his side, supported by the man's arm. They came to a building with light in the windows. The man led him inside and had him lay down on a cot. There was another man there, one with gray hair, small eyes and a large, hooked nose. He looked the boy over and probed his injuries, making him whimper. The two men spoke quietly for awhile, said something about notifying his mother and father. Then the man-the first man-knelt by the side of the cot and took the boy's hand. His palm was broad, rough and warm. "It will be all right. We'll see to your injuries, and take you back home. Can you tell me your name?"
"Alain." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Alain Javert."
"And your parents' names?"
"My mother's name is Abelle. I...I don't have a father."
"I'm sorry." His voice was so deep, but so gentle; the boy was almost hypnotized by it. In his experience, deep voices were usually angry and rough, something to be feared. "We'll send someone to tell your mother you're here; I'm sure she's worried about you by now. In the meantime, this man is going to tend your injuries."
"Is he a doctor?" Alain bit his lower lip. "We can't afford a doctor. I...I don't want to put my mother in debt..."
"Shhh. Don't worry about that. I'll pay his fee."
"Out of the way," said the doctor. His voice was brisk, but not unkind. "If I'm going to treat this boy, I can't have you hovering over him." The man moved aside, and the doctor stepped forward, wrapping his hands around Alain's shoulder; they were thin, spidery hands, withered and laced with veins. They first probed lightly, then squeezed, making Alain gasp with pain. "The bone is dislocated," he said. "It needs to be reset. It's best if we do it right away."
Fear gripped Alain's heart, and his insides felt cold. The big man's hand closed gently around his, and Alain clung to it.
"I'll need your help," the doctor said, looking at the man. "Hold his arm, like so. Now, push. Push!"
The pain began. He heard his bones grinding against each other as the man slid the dislocated shoulder back into place. Alain screamed until merciful blackness swallowed him.
When he woke, someone was wiping his brow with a cool, damp cloth. He tried to open his eyes; the lids were still swollen, but he managed to get one open halfway. His arm had been bandaged, and the blue-eyed man sat by his bedside.
"Ah, you're awake," he said. "Here; the doctor said you're to drink this." The man held a mug of something hot to his lips. Alain wrinkled his nose in anticipation of something foul, but he was surprised to find that the medicine-if that's what it was-was sweet, as if someone had mixed in honey.
Once he'd finished drinking, the man set the mug aside. "How do you feel?"
"I'm fine, Monsieur," he replied automatically, and flushed when the man chuckled.
"You've a stout heart, young Javert, but if you feel fine after a beating like that, then I'm a wood-pigeon. The drink should help, though. I'm Inspector Cloutier, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you." He hesitated, feeling awkward and shy. "Thank you for helping me. I thought I was going to die. I think I might have, if you hadn't come."
"I thank God I happened to be passing by, then," the man said, his blue eyes grave. "Who did this to you?"
"I don't know. Older boys. I'd never seen them before." A dull, hopeless anger flashed inside him, making his chest tighten. "They took my money. We worked so hard for it, and it was all we had, and they just...took it. I tried to fight them, but..." He shrugged with his good shoulder, staring at the wall.
"Can you remember what they look like?"
"I guess so. Why?"
"If they hurt you and took what was yours, they ought to be punished. I'm a constable; it's part of my job to see that that happens. To protect the rights of innocent people like you. If I find those boys, they'll go to prison for what they did."
Alain looked up at Cloutier with wonder. In his eyes, the man had suddenly become a sort of knight. He'd never thought of constables like that; never thought of them at all, really.
"Can you describe them for me?" Cloutier asked.
"I...I think so..." Alain closed his eyes, thinking, trying to bring an image of his attackers into his mind. He trembled a little at the memory. "One of them had black hair and a scar on his face. Or maybe it was the blond one." He bit his swollen lower lip, frustrated; the memories danced just out of reach of his pain-muddled mind. "I know *one* had a scar. A-and he was kind of tall...damn! Can't remember..."
"Easy." He laid one large hand on Alain's uninjured shoulder; the gesture calmed him, and his pulse stopped jumping in his throat. "You can tell me later, when the pain's not so bad."
Alain nodded. His shoulder throbbed dully. He wouldn't be able to work for some time; he'd be a burden. And he'd been carrying a lot of money, almost a whole week's pay. They were up to their necks in debts as it was, and now they wouldn't have any food for the next week. They'd have to beg crusts from the neighbors. Tears stung his eyes, and he closed them, ashamed. "I wish I *had* died," he said without thinking.
"You mustn't say that," Cloutier said quietly, firmly. He dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and wiped the fresh pain-sweat and tears from Alain's face. "We are all put on this earth for a reason. Our lives are given to us by God; to throw that gift away is a sin."
"What's my purpose, then?" The question was half a challenge, half wistful pleading.
"That's not for me to say. It will be revealed to you; truth is given to us all in our time. Would you like something to eat? Some soup, maybe?"
Alain's stomach rumbled. How long had it been since his last meal? A day, at least. "I can't pay..."
"Don't worry about it." He winked. "Consider it part of the medical bill. Then, once you've got some food in your stomach, we'll take you back to your mother and f-to your mother." He cleared his throat. "She's already been notified; she knows you're safe."
"Father," he murmured. "You were going to say 'father.'"
An awkward pause. "If it means anything, I know what it's like to lose a father."
"I didn't lose him. I never knew him." The heat of shame rose into his face. He was afraid he might see disgust in Cloutier's face, but for some reason, he felt compelled to tell him the truth. "I don't even know who he is."
"I'm sorry for that. Every child ought to have a father around...but it's no fault of your own."
Alain swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "I wish you were my father." He immediately wished he could take the words back; it was a silly, babyish thing to say.
Cloutier looked at him quietly for a long moment. Then he took something from around his neck--a little silver cross on a silver chain--and placed it in Alain's hand, folding the boy's thin fingers around it. "I want you to keep this," he said. "It will remind you that there is a purpose to all this, though it may not seem so at times. It will remind you that you *do* have a Father, even if you can't see Him." He stood. "I'll get you that stew."
He brought a bowl of rich, steaming broth, which Alain ate. Just moments after he'd scraped the last bite from the bowl, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones from outside the window.
"Ah, here they are now," said Cloutier. "Come on; let's take you home."
Several weeks passed before Alain could work, or do anything remotely useful, again. The doctor had given his mother strict instructions that he was to take it easy while his injuries healed, and that he was not to use the arm, or the shoulder-joint might slip out of place again. As a result, he was left alone for long stretches of time while his mother worked. He'd developed a slight fever, and his sleep was often troubled by nightmares. When he woke from these, sweating and shaking, he would clutch the tiny cross that Cloutier had given him; warm from his body, the metal burned its shape into his palm, and strength seemed to seep from the cross into his arm and throughout his body. He often fell asleep with it clutched tight in his fist.
One evening, he woke to the feeling of someone prying his fist open. "Why, what's this?" said his mother's voice. "What have you been hiding from me, Alain?" She took the cross and studied it, fingering the chain. "By God, is this real silver? No, no, it can't be, but still...where did you get this?"
"Inspector Cloutier gave it to me," he said warily. "It's mine."
"We could get ten francs for it, at least. Maybe even enough to make up for what you lost."
*What you lost...* The words stung, but he refused to bend. "It's mine. You can't sell it." He gripped the chain, trying to pull it from her.
"Don't be a fool. Would you rather starve? Would you rather eat the moldy stew the neighbors leave out for their dogs?" Seeing the unwavering look in his eyes, she tried again: "Do you think God would want you to let your mother go hungry? Your own mother, who brought you into the world, who always made sure there was a roof over your head and clothes on your back, even though she had so little money?"
"We'd *have* money if you didn't drink so much!" he burst out.
Her eyes widened in shock...then rage slowly twisted her face. "Give it to me, you little bastard!" She tangled her fingers in the chain, yanking; the chain bit into his neck, half-strangling him.
Alain pulled back, blinded by tears. "Yes, I'm a bastard!" he shouted back. "And whose fault is that, mother? Whose fault is it that I was born in a dirty cell in Toulon and never even met my father?"
She struck him with the back of her hand; the blow landed on his swollen, bruised right eye, and a horrible red pain exploded in his head. His mother yanked the chain so hard that it snapped, and silver links flew through the air. With the cross clutched in her hand, she ran from the house.
Alain broke down into tears.
His right eye quickly swelled shut again. When it finally opened, weeks later, it saw nothing but dim shape and movement, and remained that way until the day he died. He hid this from the rest of the world, as he hid all the things he perceived as weaknesses, and no one (save a single man) ever found out.
And to the day he died, Javert never knew whether his small disability was the fault of his mother or his nameless attackers.
As for Inspector Cloutier, Javert saw him only once after that. Alain was walking to his job at the factory, and Cloutier had happened to be on patrol. Alain's face lit up like a firefly at the sight of him. He waved; Cloutier looked up and smiled. Alain ran toward the inspector. His first impulse was to hug him, but he stopped himself. "Good morning, Monsieur," he said shyly.
"Good morning, young Javert. How's that arm healing up?"
"It feels much better. I can lift it without pain."
"That's good to hear." His face grew serious. "We haven't caught those thieves yet, I'm afraid, but we won't stop looking. Rest assured, we'll see them behind bars. And now, I'm afraid, I must go; I'm on patrol."
"Yes, Monsieur," said Alain, though his heart ached with disappointment.
Cloutier walked on, and that was the last Alain ever saw of him. A few weeks later, when he gathered up the courage to inquire about him at the police-station, they told him he had been killed while trying to subdue a mob. Alain listened expressionlessly, thanked them for the information, and walked out of the police station. Later that night, as he lay alone in bed with his face buried against a pillow, he sobbed until his throat was raw and his chest hurt from trying to hold it in.
He clung to his memories, few though they were, but even the most powerful memory is not immune to time...and gradually, the inspector's face grew dim in his mind. He remembered the eyes, though; enough to feel a bone-deep shock when he saw them staring back at him, years later, from the face of a convict.
It could not be the same man, of course. If Cloutier had lived, he would be old by now. It was unlikely to be a relative, either, for the two men came from entirely different stock. Still, the resemblance was there: the eyes, and the beard, and the familiar quirk of the mouth on the rare occasions when he smiled.
The man, of course, was Jean Valjean.
His own longings repulsed him. He wanted, above all things, to be a good man, a righteous man, and he knew God would never condone such desires--but he couldn't control them. No matter how hard he prayed, how desperately he begged God to take away his sickness, the dreams returned to him again and again. He was ashamed of how good they made him feel.
He had begun to wonder, madly, if Valjean was the devil himself, come to tempt Javert away from the path of the light.
As always, he hid his emotions from the rest of the world, keeping them locked safely behind a cold, rigid mask. Even so, the mask couldn't hide everything; when he saw Valjean, his mouth would run dry, his heartbeat quicken. He found himself praying that Valjean would not meet his eyes, yet hoping fervently that he would...and when those eyes did happen to meet his, his heart would tremble. He felt as if Valjean could see everything inside him, strip away his shields with a single glance.
At the end of a particularly long and hard day, he broke at last and went to town, to a tavern he'd seen other men frequenting. Javert had never been there himself, of course; he abstained from alcohol and revelry as strictly as he did from pleasures of the flesh. But he desperately needed the numbness that alcohol was reputed to bring. He was going mad.
Javert entered the tavern, feeling awkward and out of place. All around him, men roared with laughter and guzzled ale; scantily dressed women flirted shamelessly, their skirts hiked up to show off their plump, white thighs. Javert quickly averted his eyes, though he felt no lust. Not, he knew, because he was a better man, but because his desires ran toward something more shameful by far.
He sat at an empty table in the corner of the room, head bowed, trying to ignore the rampant sin around him. A serving-maid appeared, her generous bosom all but hanging out of her flimsy dress. "What can I get you, my handsome Monsieur?" She batted her over-long lashes and smiled.
"Ale," he said.
"Is that all?" She stepped forward, until her lightly heaving breasts hovered inches from his face. "Perhaps something else catches your fancy?"
"Just ale." He lowered his eyes, a flush spreading through his cheeks and into his ears.
"As you wish." She gave him a knowing smile, then walked away, hips swaying.
As Javert sat stiffly, staring into space, he overheard a whisper from a nearby table: "Never known a man to turn down Asceline before. S'pose he's worried he can't rise to the occasion?"
Chuckles greeted this comment.
Javert stiffened. Raising his head, he met the speaker's gaze. He was a beefy, thickly-bearded man with a mouthful of crooked teeth. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Monsieur," he said coldly. "I'll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself."
The man brayed laughter. "Ooo, ain't the young gentleman *proper!*"
Javert felt a wave of disgust. When the serving-maid placed a mug of ale in front of him, he pushed it away. "I've changed my mind."
"So our ale's not good enough for you, is it?" The man rose to his feet. His gut hung out in front of him. Judging from the size of it, he was one of the more well-to-do patrons, or perhaps the tavern-keeper himself. "You'd prefer some champagne, maybe? Well, just let me nip in back and get some!"
More laughter.
Javert said nothing. His face was still hot with embarrassment and suppressed rage. He stood and walked toward the door, but the potbellied man stood in his way. Placing his meaty hands on his hips, he scowled, bushy brows drawing together over small black eyes. "So, you think you can insult us and then just walk out, do you?"
Javert stared coolly into the man's ruddy face. "Do you know who I am?"
"No, and I don't care."
"My name is Inspector Javert."
For a moment, his sneer faltered, and fear flickered in the depths of his eyes...then his expression hardened. "Oh, is that so? I've heard things about you, Inspector."
"Have you?" he asked, his voice impassive...though his heartbeat quickened slightly. His first, foolish thought was that they somehow knew about his feelings toward Valjean. "Well, I hope they weren't unpleasant."
"Yes, they were unpleasant! I've heard you're a tyrant, a cold-hearted bastard who enjoys your power too much. Everyone's afraid of you; everyone treads lightly around the great Javert. Well, I'm not afraid! Go ahead and arrest me!" The smell of ale was thick on his breath, and Javert wrinkled his nose.
"Believe me, if I could arrest someone for drunken idiocy, I would," he said. "Stand aside, Monsieur."
The man held his ground. Javert tried to step around him, but the man followed his movements, remaining in front of him. The other patrons cheered, stabbing the air with their fists, whipped into a drunken frenzy at the possibility of a fight.
The man lifted his chin proudly. "Come on, you great bloody government lapdog! Strike me, if you dare!"
Javert's hand tightened into a fist and flicked out, whiplash quick; there was a sound like a branch snapping, and then the man was on the floor, howling, blood running from his mouth and nose. Javert stared down at him. He placed the silver head of his cane atop the man's large belly and pressed down until the man gurgled. More blood ran from his mouth. "You fool. I could have you thrown into Toulon." He glared for a moment...then withdrew his cane. "But I'll let you off with a warning, because you're too stinking drunk to know what you're doing." He stepped over the man and walked out the door. The patrons stared after him in stunned silence.
A part of him enjoyed their fear; fear was respect, or at least, the closest thing to respect that these scum understood. A deeper part of him felt cold and sick, and very alone.
Then he thought of the man's drunken braying, and his nose wrinkled with contempt. So what if they did hate him? So what if they couldn't understand that it was people like him who protected them from the scum of the world, who maintained law and order so they didn't have to fear for their skins when they ventured outside their homes? Let them insult him; let them call him a heartless tyrant. He cared not.
He cared not.
Alone at home, he ate a small, late dinner. As usual, it took him a long time to eat, for before he touched his food, it had to be just so; potatoes in one corner of the plate, meat in another, butter spread thinly and evenly over his bread, napkin spread on his lap, silverware aligned. None of the food must touch.
It was one of his peculiarities, and one of the reasons he always ate alone. He knew it must look strange to others, but he found the ritual oddly comforting. His desire for order and regularity extended even to the dinner table.
He prayed, ate. Slept.
Dreamt.
Javert did not think much about his childhood--or at least, he tried not to. He had no interest in analyzing himself, and there were not many pleasant memories to dwell on.
As a boy, he had been small, thin, and quiet. He lived with his mother, who worked in a factory and whored a little on the side. There was very little to eat; what little they made, she drank away, and what little she did not drink, it seemed, was always stolen.
One afternoon, she sent him out to market with a few francs, and on the way there he was attacked by a group of older boys. They beat him badly, took his money, and left him bleeding in the street. He could hardly see; both his eyes were swollen shut. His arm hung limp at his side and refused to work. He struggled to his feet and tried to make his way homeward, but it soon became apparent that he was lost. He leaned, shaking, against the side of a building. Men and women hurried past, ignoring his cries for help. Evening came. Too weak to stand, he lay beside the street, now silent and convinced he would die here.
Then a hand had touched his shoulder, and a deep, warm voice spoke. "Can you hear me, boy?"
He opened one eye a crack. A man hovered over him. He was young, though he had a beard, and his eyes were blue. The boy tried to speak, but his bloodied mouth would only produce slurred, incoherent syllables. He had trouble forming the words in his head, as well; his thoughts felt woolly.
A hand slid behind the boy's head, carefully tilting it back. The rim of a canteen touched his lips, and he drank in great, eager gulps. The man pulled the canteen back, and he made a small sound of protest. "Shhh...not too much. You'll get sick." A strong arm slipped around his waist, helping him to his feet.
The boy staggered along at his side, supported by the man's arm. They came to a building with light in the windows. The man led him inside and had him lay down on a cot. There was another man there, one with gray hair, small eyes and a large, hooked nose. He looked the boy over and probed his injuries, making him whimper. The two men spoke quietly for awhile, said something about notifying his mother and father. Then the man-the first man-knelt by the side of the cot and took the boy's hand. His palm was broad, rough and warm. "It will be all right. We'll see to your injuries, and take you back home. Can you tell me your name?"
"Alain." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Alain Javert."
"And your parents' names?"
"My mother's name is Abelle. I...I don't have a father."
"I'm sorry." His voice was so deep, but so gentle; the boy was almost hypnotized by it. In his experience, deep voices were usually angry and rough, something to be feared. "We'll send someone to tell your mother you're here; I'm sure she's worried about you by now. In the meantime, this man is going to tend your injuries."
"Is he a doctor?" Alain bit his lower lip. "We can't afford a doctor. I...I don't want to put my mother in debt..."
"Shhh. Don't worry about that. I'll pay his fee."
"Out of the way," said the doctor. His voice was brisk, but not unkind. "If I'm going to treat this boy, I can't have you hovering over him." The man moved aside, and the doctor stepped forward, wrapping his hands around Alain's shoulder; they were thin, spidery hands, withered and laced with veins. They first probed lightly, then squeezed, making Alain gasp with pain. "The bone is dislocated," he said. "It needs to be reset. It's best if we do it right away."
Fear gripped Alain's heart, and his insides felt cold. The big man's hand closed gently around his, and Alain clung to it.
"I'll need your help," the doctor said, looking at the man. "Hold his arm, like so. Now, push. Push!"
The pain began. He heard his bones grinding against each other as the man slid the dislocated shoulder back into place. Alain screamed until merciful blackness swallowed him.
When he woke, someone was wiping his brow with a cool, damp cloth. He tried to open his eyes; the lids were still swollen, but he managed to get one open halfway. His arm had been bandaged, and the blue-eyed man sat by his bedside.
"Ah, you're awake," he said. "Here; the doctor said you're to drink this." The man held a mug of something hot to his lips. Alain wrinkled his nose in anticipation of something foul, but he was surprised to find that the medicine-if that's what it was-was sweet, as if someone had mixed in honey.
Once he'd finished drinking, the man set the mug aside. "How do you feel?"
"I'm fine, Monsieur," he replied automatically, and flushed when the man chuckled.
"You've a stout heart, young Javert, but if you feel fine after a beating like that, then I'm a wood-pigeon. The drink should help, though. I'm Inspector Cloutier, by the way."
"Pleased to meet you." He hesitated, feeling awkward and shy. "Thank you for helping me. I thought I was going to die. I think I might have, if you hadn't come."
"I thank God I happened to be passing by, then," the man said, his blue eyes grave. "Who did this to you?"
"I don't know. Older boys. I'd never seen them before." A dull, hopeless anger flashed inside him, making his chest tighten. "They took my money. We worked so hard for it, and it was all we had, and they just...took it. I tried to fight them, but..." He shrugged with his good shoulder, staring at the wall.
"Can you remember what they look like?"
"I guess so. Why?"
"If they hurt you and took what was yours, they ought to be punished. I'm a constable; it's part of my job to see that that happens. To protect the rights of innocent people like you. If I find those boys, they'll go to prison for what they did."
Alain looked up at Cloutier with wonder. In his eyes, the man had suddenly become a sort of knight. He'd never thought of constables like that; never thought of them at all, really.
"Can you describe them for me?" Cloutier asked.
"I...I think so..." Alain closed his eyes, thinking, trying to bring an image of his attackers into his mind. He trembled a little at the memory. "One of them had black hair and a scar on his face. Or maybe it was the blond one." He bit his swollen lower lip, frustrated; the memories danced just out of reach of his pain-muddled mind. "I know *one* had a scar. A-and he was kind of tall...damn! Can't remember..."
"Easy." He laid one large hand on Alain's uninjured shoulder; the gesture calmed him, and his pulse stopped jumping in his throat. "You can tell me later, when the pain's not so bad."
Alain nodded. His shoulder throbbed dully. He wouldn't be able to work for some time; he'd be a burden. And he'd been carrying a lot of money, almost a whole week's pay. They were up to their necks in debts as it was, and now they wouldn't have any food for the next week. They'd have to beg crusts from the neighbors. Tears stung his eyes, and he closed them, ashamed. "I wish I *had* died," he said without thinking.
"You mustn't say that," Cloutier said quietly, firmly. He dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and wiped the fresh pain-sweat and tears from Alain's face. "We are all put on this earth for a reason. Our lives are given to us by God; to throw that gift away is a sin."
"What's my purpose, then?" The question was half a challenge, half wistful pleading.
"That's not for me to say. It will be revealed to you; truth is given to us all in our time. Would you like something to eat? Some soup, maybe?"
Alain's stomach rumbled. How long had it been since his last meal? A day, at least. "I can't pay..."
"Don't worry about it." He winked. "Consider it part of the medical bill. Then, once you've got some food in your stomach, we'll take you back to your mother and f-to your mother." He cleared his throat. "She's already been notified; she knows you're safe."
"Father," he murmured. "You were going to say 'father.'"
An awkward pause. "If it means anything, I know what it's like to lose a father."
"I didn't lose him. I never knew him." The heat of shame rose into his face. He was afraid he might see disgust in Cloutier's face, but for some reason, he felt compelled to tell him the truth. "I don't even know who he is."
"I'm sorry for that. Every child ought to have a father around...but it's no fault of your own."
Alain swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "I wish you were my father." He immediately wished he could take the words back; it was a silly, babyish thing to say.
Cloutier looked at him quietly for a long moment. Then he took something from around his neck--a little silver cross on a silver chain--and placed it in Alain's hand, folding the boy's thin fingers around it. "I want you to keep this," he said. "It will remind you that there is a purpose to all this, though it may not seem so at times. It will remind you that you *do* have a Father, even if you can't see Him." He stood. "I'll get you that stew."
He brought a bowl of rich, steaming broth, which Alain ate. Just moments after he'd scraped the last bite from the bowl, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones from outside the window.
"Ah, here they are now," said Cloutier. "Come on; let's take you home."
Several weeks passed before Alain could work, or do anything remotely useful, again. The doctor had given his mother strict instructions that he was to take it easy while his injuries healed, and that he was not to use the arm, or the shoulder-joint might slip out of place again. As a result, he was left alone for long stretches of time while his mother worked. He'd developed a slight fever, and his sleep was often troubled by nightmares. When he woke from these, sweating and shaking, he would clutch the tiny cross that Cloutier had given him; warm from his body, the metal burned its shape into his palm, and strength seemed to seep from the cross into his arm and throughout his body. He often fell asleep with it clutched tight in his fist.
One evening, he woke to the feeling of someone prying his fist open. "Why, what's this?" said his mother's voice. "What have you been hiding from me, Alain?" She took the cross and studied it, fingering the chain. "By God, is this real silver? No, no, it can't be, but still...where did you get this?"
"Inspector Cloutier gave it to me," he said warily. "It's mine."
"We could get ten francs for it, at least. Maybe even enough to make up for what you lost."
*What you lost...* The words stung, but he refused to bend. "It's mine. You can't sell it." He gripped the chain, trying to pull it from her.
"Don't be a fool. Would you rather starve? Would you rather eat the moldy stew the neighbors leave out for their dogs?" Seeing the unwavering look in his eyes, she tried again: "Do you think God would want you to let your mother go hungry? Your own mother, who brought you into the world, who always made sure there was a roof over your head and clothes on your back, even though she had so little money?"
"We'd *have* money if you didn't drink so much!" he burst out.
Her eyes widened in shock...then rage slowly twisted her face. "Give it to me, you little bastard!" She tangled her fingers in the chain, yanking; the chain bit into his neck, half-strangling him.
Alain pulled back, blinded by tears. "Yes, I'm a bastard!" he shouted back. "And whose fault is that, mother? Whose fault is it that I was born in a dirty cell in Toulon and never even met my father?"
She struck him with the back of her hand; the blow landed on his swollen, bruised right eye, and a horrible red pain exploded in his head. His mother yanked the chain so hard that it snapped, and silver links flew through the air. With the cross clutched in her hand, she ran from the house.
Alain broke down into tears.
His right eye quickly swelled shut again. When it finally opened, weeks later, it saw nothing but dim shape and movement, and remained that way until the day he died. He hid this from the rest of the world, as he hid all the things he perceived as weaknesses, and no one (save a single man) ever found out.
And to the day he died, Javert never knew whether his small disability was the fault of his mother or his nameless attackers.
As for Inspector Cloutier, Javert saw him only once after that. Alain was walking to his job at the factory, and Cloutier had happened to be on patrol. Alain's face lit up like a firefly at the sight of him. He waved; Cloutier looked up and smiled. Alain ran toward the inspector. His first impulse was to hug him, but he stopped himself. "Good morning, Monsieur," he said shyly.
"Good morning, young Javert. How's that arm healing up?"
"It feels much better. I can lift it without pain."
"That's good to hear." His face grew serious. "We haven't caught those thieves yet, I'm afraid, but we won't stop looking. Rest assured, we'll see them behind bars. And now, I'm afraid, I must go; I'm on patrol."
"Yes, Monsieur," said Alain, though his heart ached with disappointment.
Cloutier walked on, and that was the last Alain ever saw of him. A few weeks later, when he gathered up the courage to inquire about him at the police-station, they told him he had been killed while trying to subdue a mob. Alain listened expressionlessly, thanked them for the information, and walked out of the police station. Later that night, as he lay alone in bed with his face buried against a pillow, he sobbed until his throat was raw and his chest hurt from trying to hold it in.
He clung to his memories, few though they were, but even the most powerful memory is not immune to time...and gradually, the inspector's face grew dim in his mind. He remembered the eyes, though; enough to feel a bone-deep shock when he saw them staring back at him, years later, from the face of a convict.
It could not be the same man, of course. If Cloutier had lived, he would be old by now. It was unlikely to be a relative, either, for the two men came from entirely different stock. Still, the resemblance was there: the eyes, and the beard, and the familiar quirk of the mouth on the rare occasions when he smiled.
The man, of course, was Jean Valjean.