Jean Valjean had escaped on the evening of the 27th November. It is on the afternoon of the 29th that we shall pick up the threads of our story again. If, on that evening, you had been sitting by the side of a hillside track on the way to Grasse – which, since it was snowing, you would have been foolish to do – you would have seen a youth on a stocky little brown horse approach at a hand canter.

Both are familiar to us. The boy we have heard referred to contemptuously as 'Idiot Boy' and, most correctly, as 'Javart'.

Javart and his little brown horse (whose name, not that it is remotely important, was Havane) were part of the party searching for Jean Valjean. Javart had arrived back at the prison late, having removed both of Havane's front shoes for safety. Had entered the prison to the sound of the alarm gun and found his fellow officers in a state of brisk panic. He was informed that two prisoners had escaped and, upon learning that those two were 24601 and 57884, had requested to be part of the search brigade. The officer in charge of the expedition, Captain Villerat, had wished to concentrate on the main coastal roads connecting Toulon with Marseilles and Cannes. Javart had pointed out, with all due respect, that he though it unlikely that the fugitives would go that way. 57884, he believed, would have advised 24601 to head up away from the sea towards Grasse or Digne. Although not entirely convinced, Villerat acknowledged that the eccentric young officer seemed to have an instinctive understanding of his prisoners and had often been proved right before. He also noted that he demonstrated a particularly intense interest in these two escapees. So he had accorded Javart two men and told him to search as he pleased, returning in three days if nothing came up.

The two other officers had not been keen and had lagged behind from the start. Javart could not now see them. They were one of a number of things he had lost along the way. A few miles back his hat had been knocked off by a low branch. Irritating though this was, he had prioritised and sacrificed it in the cause of duty. In any case, he doubted his ability to make Havane turn around and go back. He had made a vague attempt to slow her up but the mare had simply lent on his hands and carried on much as before, evidently having no desire to be still in such biting weather. Fortunately for Javart, she was not a horse blessed with a disproportionate degree of enthusiasm, so she confined herself to a slow, loping canter that is, for many horses, less effort to maintain than a proper trot. Both horse and rider had been trained in the style of the army conscript, which can best be summed up thus: "Train horse to bear rider. Train rider to cling to horse. Most likely one or both of them will have been shot before they realise they need to know anything else."

Needless to say they made a rather comical picture. The horse was muddy and unshod, looking as if she had been taken straight from the plough. The boy, rather too big for his mount, bareheaded but for the squalid scarf he used to keep back his unruly hair and shivering, wrapped in a wretched garment midway between a cloak and a blanket, since he did not own a winter coat.

To Valjean, however, they were an imposing sight. He had heard the sound of hooves on the road behind him some time back and, understanding that his was most likely being pursued, had flung himself into the ditch by the side of the road to wait for them to pass. He had breathed easier when he had seen that the rider wore a filthy cloak rather than uniform and was hatless. He looked closer and his heart leapt – could it be? The build was the same and, on closer inspection, so was the face. He had said he would come this way, had said he would meet him! Valjean had half doubted his friend when he said that, he was sorry for doing so now. And the horse – it was the little cob ridden by the young guard for whom Andoche had a particular aversion! How clever of him to steal a horse – and how like Griffon to make a joke by stealing that one! Overjoyed, Valjean jumped up from the ditch and shouted:

"Andoche! Andoche! Stop! I'm here! I'm here – it's me, Jean! Your Jean!"

Both horse and rider started and, with what seemed like a great effort, the rider turned his mount about. Valjean saw with horror that it was not Andoche – only someone very like him. The same strong build, wide jaw, short nose. But it was a boy's face not a man's, the hair poking out from under the soiled grey kerchief was black rather than grey, and the rider wore an expression of ferocious disgust which Valjean was more accustomed to see on . . . the young guard nicknamed 'Gypsy', recently transferred from Blanchard's ward. Valjean began to run.

The ground on the side of the round dipped away sharply into a wooded bank, slippery with a combination of mud, dead leaves, loose stones and the new snow. It was down this that Valjean began to run. The guard kicked his horse on and they began to plunge down the bank after him at an alarming speed. Valjean began to panic and lost his footing, landing full out in the mud. He knew that there would be no time either for him to regain his feet or for the rider to pull up, but he made an attempt to roll clear anyway. It was too late. For a few terrifying seconds Valjean was under the horse, could see the flash of the stirrup irons and the mud caked hair on her belly. For the briefest of moment the mare even put the foot bearing all her weight down on Valjean's leg, which gave a sickening crack. Then, catching Valjean a glancing blow in the mouth that forced his head back into the mud, she was gone. She only lasted a few more strides before missing her footing too. For Javart there was an instant of clarity, an infinestimably small period of time in which he could both see what was going to happen and decide what to do about it. He chose wisely, kicking loose his stirrups and flinging himself clear as Havane somersaulted arse over ears down the bank.

Five minutes later, Valjean came to in the mud. He lay with his eyes closed for a good ten minutes more, not thinking of anything. The he noticed a figure moving about a short distance away. Remembering nothing after the point when he had jumped out of the ditch he called out weakly, "Andoche", feeling the blood and grit in his mouth as he did so.

He could hear a pained groaning noise that he was sure wasn't coming from him, even though his leg hurt like seven devils. He turned his head and saw the man he had taken for Andoche kneeling beside the lumpen, ungainly bulk of a fallen horse.

"Shhh," the man said in a quiet voice, "Shush up and stop making such a fuss, old girl."

There was a shot and the man began to walk back towards Valjean.

"I shouldn't worry – I've still got one left for you if you want it," he remarked.

"Andoche?"

"Louis," said the young man sullenly, "My name is Louis. Though not to the likes of you. To the likes of you my name's Monsieur Javart." He knelt down beside Valjean and continued in a gentler tone, "Is there anything broken? Can you sit up?"

Valjean replied in the affirmative to both questions, propping himself up on one arm and spitting out fragments of two of his bottom teeth.

"Well, that makes my job a bit easier." The guard brushed away some of the blood oozing from a large cut on his cheek and stood up

"Don't, er, go anywhere," he said with a feral grin, walking away unsteadily up the bank.

It was a further half an hour before the rest of Javart's party came by. The two men scrambled down the bank, gingerly leading their horses behind them. They picked up Valjean and roughly tossed him across the first horse's back, tying him on. One of the guards looked at Valjean, then at the carcass of Havane. "Returned horse, Horse not returning," he quipped. . Javart stared at him for a moment, attempted to climb onto the second horse, and then passed out.