On the 22nd April, 1796, a chain gang left Bicetre bound for Toulon, This was not in and of itself an unusual occurrence and, although there is a story to be told here, it must be said that this transport of the 22nd was little different to any other. It concerned the same proportion of incorrigibles and unfortunates as usual. Some men wept while others sat in indifferent silence, much as always.

As is customary, the mens' heads were shaved to precluded the possibility both of lice and individuality. They were clad in their new red uniform which, although shameful, was considerably less squalid than the clothes of many of the prisoners. They then had iron collars riveted about their necks, for reasons of security during transport. At Toulon they would also acquire a shackle about the right leg, just to make certain.

In the north corner of the prison yard, towards the end of the fourth chain, one of the silent prisoners watched his neighbour, who was weeping noisily. As the collar was hammered about his neck the man mumbled thickly:

"I was a tree pruner in Faverolles."

He then raised his hand and, before the guard could slap it down, lowered it in seven descending stages as if to indicate a family group standing in order of height.

"Oh dear, oh dear," muttered his grim faced neighbour with a demon's chuckle, "What a lummox they've chained me next to! Poor lad."

At Toulon, as we have said, the convicts are fitted with their leg irons and one man is fixed to another, always one older to one younger. The weeping man, who could not have been above twenty-eight, was chained to his ironical neighbour from Bicetre, who would have been at least forty-five.

The older man winked at his neighbour as the irons were fixed on, but the younger man did not notice him.

One of the turnkeys, a lean sallow little fellow, approached and addressed the older convict with an amused expression.

"Back again, Griffon, I see."

"Y'know how it is, Chicken – can't keep away!"

"Well, it's always nice to see an old horse returned to the meadow. Now get on with you! I know you know your way but," gesturing to the gendarmes, "these gentlemen will show you anyway,"

The chain gang having arrived unusually late, due to a broken axle on one of the wagons, the prisoners were sent straight to their cells in order for work to begin on the morrow. Lying on his plank bed the young man began to weep again.

"Buck up there, young'un," said Griffon, "No need to go blubbing your ogles out! Carry on weeping like that and you'll drown us all in our beds. Which might be a mercy 'cept with circumstances willing I'll slip my chain and disappear before I've done much work here"

There was a silence in which the younger man could almost be heard questioning his chainmate's sanity.

'Well, at least he's stopped crying', though Griffon. Then he asked: "What's your name. Sonny?"

"Jean Valjean – I was a tree pruner in Faverolles."

"Yes, we know that," said Griffon dryly. "Well, my name's Andoche – though you may call me Griffon, since everyone else takes the liberty – and I am what you might call a fanandel, a rogue, a brother of the night. Say, what you in here for, Jean?"

"Theft"

"You and me both, mate. Though in my case we can add murder and recidivism – now isn't that a word that just rolls off the tongue? What did you steal?"

"A loaf of bread."

"Oh dear, you are a prize chump! There's an old English expression a sailor once taught me – 'might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb' – clearly you've never heard that one."

Valjean, for his part, felt a vague horror at being chained to a man that could admit to being a murderer with such joviality. He was also very tired and heartily wished his neighbour would shut up and let him sleep. Consequently he did not reply.

Receiving the distinct impression that he was being ignored, Griffon grumbled: "Fine. As you wish. Hoped I'd get chained to a ray of sunshine like you!"

He turned over and went to sleep as if he were at home in his own bed. Which, being a returned horse, he might as well have been.

The next day dawned as fine as any May morning might. Not that most of the convicts were aware of it. The new arrivals were, for the most part, too wrapped up in their own misery to notice much of anything. The old lags paid scant attention to the cavorting of Mother Nature. As far as they were concerned the sun was sent only to burn their faces and the wind to bring on chills and pneumonia, as if the weather conspired with their gaolers to render life as difficult as possible. However, Griffon, who had to be the exception to every rule, was whistling. He whistled until a stocky, red-faced guard cracked him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle.

"That's Delbecq – right nasty piece of work," Griffon advised Valjean in a pained whisper, "You want to watch out for him. He'll beat you for breathing amiss"

Valjean nodded curtly to show he understood, for he had no desire to experience either Delbecq's rifle or his meaty looking fists. Griffon straightened himself up and they began to follow the rest of their chain aboard the hulk Glorieux, which had clearly been named by someone with a sense of humour.

Jean Valjean soon found that he was able to grow used to the work which, although harder than the jobs he might have done as a free man, was not too different in character. There were other things that he did not get used to – but what of that? His tremendous physical strength was an asset to him, winning him both occasional privileges from his gaolers and esteem from his fellow inmates. Griffon taught him to stuff the length of his chain into his pocket to stop it trailing, how to trade on the prison's black economy for food or liquor, and made him a set of 'runners' to prevent his leg iron rubbing. Valjean at first grew to accept his eccentric chainmate, and then to like him. Eventually he let Griffon know, in his grim, taciturn way, that he considered him as a friend. At first he had been profoundly resentful of these feelings, having decided that he wanted no further dealings with humanity other than those which were strictly necessary. He began by simply being extremely grateful to his chainmate, by admitting that the beginning of his life in prison would have been infinitely more difficult without Griffon's adroit and streetwise guiding hand. He was also grateful for the patience and concern which the old returned horse had shown him. Other prisoners on their chain noticed this partiality and there were a few snickered jokes about 'Tantette' and 'La Reine le Cric'. The first, and indeed last, time Griffon overheard one of these quips he simply raised his eyebrow and said:

"Now, now lads – I'm a married man, remember."

The remark was made mildly enough but accompanied by a look which, although not overtly unpleasant, was commanding enough to create an uncomfortable silence. Eventually a youngish con, a petty theif named Varlet, had said:

"Speaking of, you do realise your son's in here?"

"Oh, which one?" Griffon remarked lazily, "Actually, it has to be Andre"

"No, the other one"

"What? Idiot boy? Really?"

"Yes really"

"What's he in here for. This should be a laugh – "

"He's a guard, serves under Blanchard."

"Ah," said Griffon, his manner suddenly devoid of all humour. "Well that's all very nice and I'm sure he has to get his bread somehow, but if you'll kindly get back to the job and help shift this before Delbecq sees."

Valjean had only a vague understanding of the jokes about 'aunties' and 'queens', but he was sure that mention of his son had put Griffon off balance. Since it was utterly unlike Griffon to be discomposed by anything, Valjean brought the subject up when they were back in their cells.

"Are you alright, Andoche?"

Griffon did not reply, simply looked at him then leant forward and brushed his lips across the corner of Valjean's mouth. It was little more than a friends might do in greeting but Valjean had an obscure sense that there was something in the gesture different and profound and . . . wrong? He looked at his friend with a mixture of astonishment and stupidity.

"I'm sorry," said Griffon matter-of-factly, "I don't know what came over me. But you know how it is . . ." He looked at the young man more closely, "No, you don't know how it is, do you? Ah well, no matter" He looked away and said quietly to himself, "No matter – circumstances were against us." The he smiled and was, for all the world, the some cheerful Andoche the Valjean had been chained to for two years.

It was this resilience, this belief that, circumstances being with you, anything was possible that Valjean most valued in Griffon. He managed to convince Valjean that whatever they had to endure was strictly temporary and, as such, not worth giving a bean for. Soon fortune would smile on them and they would escape.