A/N- This one's kinda serious. I was re-reading the book (I just bought
another copy) and I was at a certain part in Montreuil-sur-Mer and thought
"Ooh, what if..." and, since my computer was broken at the time, I wrote in
my handy-dandy fanfiction notebook. Here it is: a non-insane non-angsty
story! Whoa!
Andi;;- I know, right? Tom Bombadil frightens me. More than swans! And that's saying something, because a swan attacked my grandmother one time... it scarred me for life.
eponine-meliara- Laughter causes whatever's in your mouth to defy gravity. It's a rule. Fanfiction.net is three-fourths of my online life. The other fourth is Le Café at lesmis.com.
Elyse3- Yay! Delicious Vanilla Coke™ is amusing. How come so many people on fanfiction.net have their own trademark food? Lemon squares, grapefruits... I need to get a trademark food. Uh...
Mlle Verity le Virago- Yes, the poor dear. I actually wrote a ficlet here in which I attempted to keep the characters in Hugo character! That is, Javert. But I did sort of mess him up there at the end... but oh well.
The Death of a Horse
Javert frowned at the man as he passed.
Père Madeleine had no apparent background, no legal papers, and, oddly enough, more benevolence that any man he had ever encountered. A man such as this – rich, powerful, kind-hearted – must have a dark side... a secret in his past, perhaps.
That face... it was so familiar to Javert. It tugged at his memory... there was something that he should remember. Javert had the same feeling that one has when a lone moment of a song surfaces in his mind. The harder he thinks about the snatch of tune, the further the words retreat into his memory, dancing just out of reach. This face was to Javert what that bit of music is to others. He spent weeks with this shred of information torturing him, strange ideas sliding through his thoughts.
Another officer of the law?
Impossible.
Someone he had known in his youth?
Doubtful. Who had he seen in his childhood but that wretched band of gypsies?
Javert held that face in his mind for another moment. He was not a handsome man, this Madeleine. His eyes were set above deep, dark circles, and his hair was gray. These were signs of inner turmoil and, as Javert suspected, guilt. Perhaps he had known the man before he had suffered so greatly. Could age be hiding his face?
When a man comes to a locked door, his natural instinct is to look inside and see what secrets it may be hiding. He finds a key on the ground, covered in dirt and rust. At an attempt to fit the key into the lock, it is found that the rust keeps it from fitting. If the rust and age were cleared, the door could be unlocked and opened, revealing the secrets were inside.
Javert imagined Madeleine's face before him. He slowly changed the hair color in his mind from gray to brown, and as he did it became another face in Javert's memory. Again Javert paced up and down the chain gang in Toulon, watching the convicts breaking up boulders. His attention was drawn to the man halfway down the line, chained next to the con with the checkered suspender. This man swung his sledgehammer effortlessly, reducing a granite boulder to several manageable rocks. Javert skillfully hid his awe, but the man, sensing Javert's gaze, looked up at the inspector with dead, cold eyes.
This convict had committed a minor robbery, punishable by five years, but had increased his sentence to nineteen years with several escape attempts. Now Javert had seen this man again.
Madeleine was 24,601.
A boy had been crouching in the shadows nearby, watching Javert in his intense concentration. This boy was a Savoyard who had come to Montreuil- sur-Mer in search of a man who was rumored to always give a forty-sous piece to passing boys like himself. However, he was not sure where to find this Madeleine. It was getting late, and the boy was hungry. He had seen this man standing quietly on the corner, his chin tucked into his greatcoat and hands pulled into his sleeves, and considered him an easy target. He knew nothing of the vicious inspector – he simply waited for the man to expose one of his pockets.
The child was preparing to relieve the stranger of his purse just as Javert's grasping mind found the answer to his riddle. The little Savoyard had taken a step out of the shadows when Javert's eyes lit up with a horrible and passionate glare of victory. The inspector was suddenly holding a metal-tipped club in his hands and let out a devil's laugh. "C'est lui!" he hissed with a furious glee.
The boy, afraid that this fervor was intended for him, turned around so quickly that he fell into the dirt, scraping both knees. Scrambling madly to his feet, the Savoyard dashed into the muggy night and away from this demon.
Yet the glare of triumph faded from Javert's eyes almost as quickly as it had come. He, himself, was sure that this Madeleine was the convict 24,601. But how could he convince these witless and gullible townspeople of Montreuil-sur-Mer that their blessed angel came, not from God, but from Satan?
The blunt club again disappeared into his greatcoat as did Javert's hands and chin. The inspector had resumed his attitude of intense of thought.
He stood like this, hardly even breathing, for what must have been an hour. It began to rain, and the street slowly turned to mud. Javert shook himself, frowned, and trudged back to the station.
Morning dawned with a new thought. How could this Madeleine give himself away as 24,601 without the obvious prodding from Javert? Could the inspector trick him into revealing his true identity as a con? What was something that would determine that this man was indeed 24,601?
The convict 24,601 was a strong man – extraordinarily so. If Madeleine could possibly do something that only the unnaturally strong man could...
But what? There was nothing.
Javert, again hitting a dead-end, buttoned his greatcoat to the collar, concealed his club inside, and curled his hands inside the sleeves, as was his habit. He left the station and walked slowly along the soggy morning streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer.
He stopped again to think on a muddy road deserted by all but the elderly Père Fauchelevant, who asleep in his cart. His old horse turned around and glared at Javert.
The inspector frowned at the animal.
Fauchelevant snored.
His cart was heavy...
Javert shook his head. That would be... something... there was certainly a law against the plan that was forming in his mind. Yes, of course... it was defiling another's property! And it couldn't work.
Oh, but it would work. This would prove Madeleine's guilt, and Javert would have reason to denounce him. There was no one around to see. This small crime would correct a much worse one... this was all the inspector had to do.
Javert made up his mind.
Again the heavy iron-tipped club was in his hand. Javert looked at it, then the gray morning sky. He took one step into the muddy, unpaved street and again looked to either side.
The street was still deserted.
Fauchelevant's horse snorted at Javert.
He glared at it, taking this as an insult. Checking to make sure that Père Fauchelevant was still asleep, Javert swung the heavy club.
The horse's eyes widened as her leg was knocked out from under her. Javert hastily retreated further down the road. The poor horse collapsed and Fauchelevant was thrown from the cart, which his struggling horse succeeded in pulling on top of him. As Fauchelevant cried for help, Javert, feigning worry, sent for a jack.
A crowd gathered.
Javert recognized a man running down the street from the other direction.
A child shouted, "Voici Père Madeleine!"
Javert suppressed a smile.
Andi;;- I know, right? Tom Bombadil frightens me. More than swans! And that's saying something, because a swan attacked my grandmother one time... it scarred me for life.
eponine-meliara- Laughter causes whatever's in your mouth to defy gravity. It's a rule. Fanfiction.net is three-fourths of my online life. The other fourth is Le Café at lesmis.com.
Elyse3- Yay! Delicious Vanilla Coke™ is amusing. How come so many people on fanfiction.net have their own trademark food? Lemon squares, grapefruits... I need to get a trademark food. Uh...
Mlle Verity le Virago- Yes, the poor dear. I actually wrote a ficlet here in which I attempted to keep the characters in Hugo character! That is, Javert. But I did sort of mess him up there at the end... but oh well.
The Death of a Horse
Javert frowned at the man as he passed.
Père Madeleine had no apparent background, no legal papers, and, oddly enough, more benevolence that any man he had ever encountered. A man such as this – rich, powerful, kind-hearted – must have a dark side... a secret in his past, perhaps.
That face... it was so familiar to Javert. It tugged at his memory... there was something that he should remember. Javert had the same feeling that one has when a lone moment of a song surfaces in his mind. The harder he thinks about the snatch of tune, the further the words retreat into his memory, dancing just out of reach. This face was to Javert what that bit of music is to others. He spent weeks with this shred of information torturing him, strange ideas sliding through his thoughts.
Another officer of the law?
Impossible.
Someone he had known in his youth?
Doubtful. Who had he seen in his childhood but that wretched band of gypsies?
Javert held that face in his mind for another moment. He was not a handsome man, this Madeleine. His eyes were set above deep, dark circles, and his hair was gray. These were signs of inner turmoil and, as Javert suspected, guilt. Perhaps he had known the man before he had suffered so greatly. Could age be hiding his face?
When a man comes to a locked door, his natural instinct is to look inside and see what secrets it may be hiding. He finds a key on the ground, covered in dirt and rust. At an attempt to fit the key into the lock, it is found that the rust keeps it from fitting. If the rust and age were cleared, the door could be unlocked and opened, revealing the secrets were inside.
Javert imagined Madeleine's face before him. He slowly changed the hair color in his mind from gray to brown, and as he did it became another face in Javert's memory. Again Javert paced up and down the chain gang in Toulon, watching the convicts breaking up boulders. His attention was drawn to the man halfway down the line, chained next to the con with the checkered suspender. This man swung his sledgehammer effortlessly, reducing a granite boulder to several manageable rocks. Javert skillfully hid his awe, but the man, sensing Javert's gaze, looked up at the inspector with dead, cold eyes.
This convict had committed a minor robbery, punishable by five years, but had increased his sentence to nineteen years with several escape attempts. Now Javert had seen this man again.
Madeleine was 24,601.
A boy had been crouching in the shadows nearby, watching Javert in his intense concentration. This boy was a Savoyard who had come to Montreuil- sur-Mer in search of a man who was rumored to always give a forty-sous piece to passing boys like himself. However, he was not sure where to find this Madeleine. It was getting late, and the boy was hungry. He had seen this man standing quietly on the corner, his chin tucked into his greatcoat and hands pulled into his sleeves, and considered him an easy target. He knew nothing of the vicious inspector – he simply waited for the man to expose one of his pockets.
The child was preparing to relieve the stranger of his purse just as Javert's grasping mind found the answer to his riddle. The little Savoyard had taken a step out of the shadows when Javert's eyes lit up with a horrible and passionate glare of victory. The inspector was suddenly holding a metal-tipped club in his hands and let out a devil's laugh. "C'est lui!" he hissed with a furious glee.
The boy, afraid that this fervor was intended for him, turned around so quickly that he fell into the dirt, scraping both knees. Scrambling madly to his feet, the Savoyard dashed into the muggy night and away from this demon.
Yet the glare of triumph faded from Javert's eyes almost as quickly as it had come. He, himself, was sure that this Madeleine was the convict 24,601. But how could he convince these witless and gullible townspeople of Montreuil-sur-Mer that their blessed angel came, not from God, but from Satan?
The blunt club again disappeared into his greatcoat as did Javert's hands and chin. The inspector had resumed his attitude of intense of thought.
He stood like this, hardly even breathing, for what must have been an hour. It began to rain, and the street slowly turned to mud. Javert shook himself, frowned, and trudged back to the station.
Morning dawned with a new thought. How could this Madeleine give himself away as 24,601 without the obvious prodding from Javert? Could the inspector trick him into revealing his true identity as a con? What was something that would determine that this man was indeed 24,601?
The convict 24,601 was a strong man – extraordinarily so. If Madeleine could possibly do something that only the unnaturally strong man could...
But what? There was nothing.
Javert, again hitting a dead-end, buttoned his greatcoat to the collar, concealed his club inside, and curled his hands inside the sleeves, as was his habit. He left the station and walked slowly along the soggy morning streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer.
He stopped again to think on a muddy road deserted by all but the elderly Père Fauchelevant, who asleep in his cart. His old horse turned around and glared at Javert.
The inspector frowned at the animal.
Fauchelevant snored.
His cart was heavy...
Javert shook his head. That would be... something... there was certainly a law against the plan that was forming in his mind. Yes, of course... it was defiling another's property! And it couldn't work.
Oh, but it would work. This would prove Madeleine's guilt, and Javert would have reason to denounce him. There was no one around to see. This small crime would correct a much worse one... this was all the inspector had to do.
Javert made up his mind.
Again the heavy iron-tipped club was in his hand. Javert looked at it, then the gray morning sky. He took one step into the muddy, unpaved street and again looked to either side.
The street was still deserted.
Fauchelevant's horse snorted at Javert.
He glared at it, taking this as an insult. Checking to make sure that Père Fauchelevant was still asleep, Javert swung the heavy club.
The horse's eyes widened as her leg was knocked out from under her. Javert hastily retreated further down the road. The poor horse collapsed and Fauchelevant was thrown from the cart, which his struggling horse succeeded in pulling on top of him. As Fauchelevant cried for help, Javert, feigning worry, sent for a jack.
A crowd gathered.
Javert recognized a man running down the street from the other direction.
A child shouted, "Voici Père Madeleine!"
Javert suppressed a smile.