"I honestly don't know why you put up with him, Monsieur le Maire," Mme Paradis remarks, exasperated. Not, I must add, the first time she has made such a remark, either this morning or within the past three years. You see, my concierge is a woman of strong and passionate opinions and once her displeasure is incurred . . . well, may the Good Lord preserve me and keep me mindful of my blessed state in not being Javert

"Uncouth, that's what he is!" she continues, setting down my coffee, "Barging in here at the Heaven alone knows what time it is, tracking mud through the house and demanding to see you before I've even so much as set the fire and laid out the breakfast things! I ask you?!"

"He was only doing his duty, Madame Paradis. It was a matter of some urgency – "

"That's as may be, Monsieur le Maire, but there's no need to be rude. Sweeps in like the Emperor himself without so much as a 'may I?' let alone a 'Good Morning' or 'Thank you very much, Madame'.

"I'm sure Javert goes about his duty in the best and most efficient way he knows how – "

"Monsieur Taillefer was never rude, poor man. Always so pleasant that you quite forgot what he was. Not like this one! And the way he looks at you, Monsieur Madeleine. I'm surprised you're not more sensible of that. Impertinent, the way he looks at you – that's what I'd call it."

Mme Paradis has been in my employ for nearly five years now. She is a good woman but when she gets something like this into her head it's like watching a dog with a bone. I shan't get any sense out of her until at least lunchtime. And Javert was rude – is rude – no possible way of denying that. For not the first time in my life, silence seems to be the best policy.

"Would it be any trouble for you to fetch me another pot of coffee, Madame Paradis?"

She bobs her head and makes off to the kitchen in that peculiar way the women of this town have – a busy flurry that manages to achieve precisely nothing. I suppose it would be fair to say that the women move the way their menfolk talk. She forgets to shut the door behind her and the occasional word or phrase – "Badly licked bear" . . . "Rudeness" . . . "Not so much as a 'by your leave' – floats back to me as I linger over my bread and lukewarm coffee.
Mme Paradis is the only person who ever asks me why I put up with Javert. Plenty of people in Montreuil wonder how I put up with him, infuriating creature that he undoubtedly is. It's much as they wonder how they put up with him, or the rowdy soldiers from the garrison, or bad weather or taxes or any of the other impositions life can make on a small provincial town. There is great curiosity, I know, as to how I've not had a cross word with him in three years whena goodhalf of them have called him bastard and blackguard at least once, either to his face or behind his back. It is interesting to note that virtue, in some of its incarnations, can upset people far more than any amount of vice. And this is how I in fact do put up with him, by reminding myself that there is, essentially, no real harm in the man. There are plenty of worse men in this world than Inspector Javert.
The question of why I put up with him is, to their minds, obvious: I am Pere Madeleine after all, who never has a harsh word for anyone. This, I suppose, is part of the reason and good enough

Javert arrived in our town in the New Year of 1820. It was Epiphany, now I come to think of it: I was coming home from a mass at the chapel of the orphans' hospital that afternoon and the town wore the most ordinary aspect in the world. And yet, when I turned the corner into the rue Boulanger I honestly thought my heart would stop. I do not wish to sound hysterical. It was simply a question of surprise. After all, the living do not expect to see the dead and no more do the dead expect to encounter the living.
I do not think I was ever superstitious, even when I was wholly uneducated. If anything, education has broadened my mind to the possibility of spectres – after all, since there is a Holy Ghost why shouldn't there be ghosts unholy? Also, I have lived as one of the dead for so long myself . . .Anyway, at half two in the afternoon of the sixth of January, year of Our Lord 1820, on the corner of rue Boulanger, I became convinced that I was seeing a ghost, the spirit of one long departed and sorely missed.

"Andoche?" I said to myself, obliged to stop and rest a hand against the wall for support.

Here is what I saw. Outside the Joli Coeur stood a sad little cart drawn by an equally sad little horse, not one of Scaufflaire's, but evidently hired, which Roux the ostler was trying to coax round into the back yard without any great success.
Pere LeClerc was standing outside the inn, surrounded by an assortment of trunks and boxes – too many for a visitor but rather scanty to be someone's worldly goods – and deep in conversation with a ghost! He was a tall man in a grey coat and I presumed him to be the proprietor of both the boxes and the sorry little cart (Were these too supernatural? I wondered).

What did I feel at that moment? Curiosity of the most ardent sort, surprise and . . . fear. Certainly. Fear of the tall figure and his uncanny appearance in Montreuil. Dazed, I began to walk towards the Joli Coeur, no longer certain that I could trust the evidence of my senses.

Mme LeClerc had come out of the kitchen and was trying to tempt the horse into the coach yard with a crust of stale bread in her outstretched palm. The creature, however, was having none of it. Roux looked flustered, his soft, stupid face gone as red as his hair. The spirit made a gesture of excuse to Pere LeClerc and walked over to the embarrassed looking boy. He spoke a few words to the horse, then another few to Roux, who stepped forward and took the animal's bridle again. The spirit raised an enormous hand and fetched the pony a ringing slap on the flank. Thus startled into movement, the Roux was able to lead it away.
The stranger shrugged dismissively and turned back to LeClerc, and all of a sudden there was no ghost. I knew exactly who this man was, though he was no less terrifying for being rendered mortal.
He was saying something to LeClerc about Poullin's boy being round for the cart within the hour and Pere LeClerc was saying something about the baggage in the street.
I turned on my heel and walked home the long way through the fields, considerably perturbed

I was introduced to Javert properly three days later, and since have come to know him well enough.
On that first meeting I was principally struck by just how unlike he was: he's a bigger, taller man for a start, his bearing more rigid – straight backed and arms folded where I had expected to see a lithe, easy slouch. In nature too he could not be more unlike the man I had mistaken him for. But then, I already knew that, having been acquainted with him in a former life.
And yet there are times, little things, which produce an almost unbearable, unbelievable similarity. Something as slight as the raising of an eyebrow to a certain angle, a humorous inflection placed on certain words, a habit of flexing the fingers like a farm cat going into a barn. Many a time a small, unconscious gesture of that kind has served to make me forget myself. Many a time I have had to bite my tongue to stop myself calling him Andoche.
Surely it is not so great a crime to call a man Andoche instead of Louis? Particularly when the circumstances are so . . . extenuating? One would think not, but that name, once pronounced, would expose me. Javert would hesitate to throw himself on me and devour me was I to pronounce that name in his presence. I am close enough to exposure as it is, for I really believe that he does suspect me.

So, I treat him with every kindness and consideration, as any sensible man might, although often I think this irritates him more than if I treated him with the rudeness to which he is doubtless accustomed.
There is logic in that which the good people of Montreuil would doubtless understand. The logic of keeping one's enemies close and catching flies with honey is not unknown to them. However, there are other reasons for it too. I am kind to Javert because I feel obliged to be kind to him. In my kindness to Javert I am repaying a debt. I see this as my duty (not my religious duty). Lord knows there are times when I wish I could just throw up my hands in despair like Mme Paradis. I'm sure anyone else would. And then there are times – when he says something especially droll, when I nearly call him by the wrong name – that I know I never shall.