By: Meh
Summary: Javert gets a letter, you moronic twats.
A/N: This is the third installment in the IDIOTIC JAVERT ADVENTURES and has a slightly different flavour than the other two. This one is a little longer. It also has a slight hint of pineapple.
Once again, we find the fierce and intimidating French inspector reading the morning paper, enjoying a pipe full of snuff. While an avid user of the product, Javert obviously hadn't quite figured out how snuff actually works.
But that's beside the point. This story is not about the pipe of snuff that Javert was smoking. Neither is this story about the paper he was reading, or the dressing gown he was wearing at the time (although, for the record, it was made of silk the colour of dark mahogany and smelled faintly of France). No, this story is about the letter that Javert received on that very morning.
But we haven't gotten there yet, so sit tight.
As previously mentioned, Javert was sitting in his mahogany dressing gown, smoking his pipe of snuff, and reading the paper (not that any of this matters, but the author feels it necessary to set the scene a little). As he was reading, there came a knock on his door. It was not the dot-dot-dash knock he had instructed his subordinates at the police station to use, and therefore Javert was a little suspicious. He grabbed his nightstick and headed slowly toward the door.
"Who's there?" he called once he had reached the door. There was no reply, so he repeated his question in a slightly louder tone of voice. Then he realized that the three inches of solid steel he had installed as a security measure may impede the hearing on anyone standing on the other side of the door, and he opened it a crack.
"What?" he demanded, irritated at this unnecessary exertion of his hitherto unstretched muscles (impressive though they might be).
A youth was standing at the door, clutching an envelope and looking terrified for his life. His fears were not entirely unfounded, he realized, as he stared up at the gargantuan man before him, whose whiskers seemed to be bristling with impatience. "I... I... I..." he stammered, his eyes enlarging to roughly the size of dinner platters.
"You are wasting my time," Javert stated simply, causing the boy to experience a slightly warm wetness in the general region of his pantaloons.
"Ihavealetterforyoupleasedon'tkillmeI'minnocentandIwanttolive," the boy said in a rush, thrusting the letter at the bristly inspector and running off to dry his pants.
Javert grumbled a bit and picked up the letter, which had fallen to the floor in the boy's hasty flight (he was actually running, not flying, but try not to listen to this story with too literal a mind, or the author will bite you). It was rather dusty and looked as though it was supposed to have been delivered some three months previous. Javert grumbled a bit more, closed the door, and returned to his armchair (the one in which he was sitting reading the paper, which will not be mentioned anymore, as it is unnecessary to plot or purpose).
Sitting down in the... bit of furniture, Javert tore open one side of the musty envelope and pulled out a bit of paper on which was written a short note in small, cramped handwriting. The note read thus:
"My Darling,
It has been long since I last saw you. You cannot imagine the torment in which my heart wallows without seeing your face each morning. Somehow I must find the courage to continue on without you, though it pains me deeply and unendingly."
At this point, Javert was less concerned with the fact that "unendingly" probably isn't a word than with the fact that he was reading what was, unmistakably, a love letter which had, inexplicably, been delivered to him by a boy who had, obviously, wet himself.
The knowledge of these facts, coupled with the mooky smell wafting from his snuff-pipe, caused a sinking, sickened feeling in the very pit of Javert's stomach. Against his better judgement, he continued to read the odious letter.
"I sincerely hope that you and I will be together very soon, my darling. I will be returning to Paris on the morning of April 17th, and hope to meet you in our usual place beside the fountain at the usual time.
All my love,
Wyatt"
Javert stared at the paper for a good ten minutes (during which time the snuff in his pipe burned out completely, but that doesn't matter) before finally blinking. He was shocked. He was stupefied. He was still in his night things.
He should probably change before heading to the park.
For of course he had every intention of going. It was, after all, the morning of April 17th, and the instinctive curiosity he had developed as an inspector requested (or rather, required) of him that he investigate further into this matter.
... Not that he was interested in this "Wyatt" character.
For, as everyone in Paris and the surrounding suburbs (as well as a few people holidaying in Yorkshire) was aware, there was nowhere to be found a more heterosexual man than Inspector Javert of the Paris Police. No one's whiskers were manlier, no one's boots were trompier, and no one could swing a nightstick quite like Inspector Javert. He was masculinity personified, and masculinity personified had no intentions of keeping a date with anyone called Wyatt.
He was just curious. That's all.
As the (terribly, unarguably manly) inspector tromped up the stairs to change into his uniform (it was, incidentally, his day off, but he had no other clothes except his uniforms), his keen and investigative mind went to work on the subject at hand. He had several thoughts on the situation, as well as a few questions that needed answering.
The first of the thoughts was the fact that "unendingly" is in fact a word.
The first of these questions to plague him was the problem of which park he needed to visit. The letter had been infuriatingly vague with its details. Javert had no idea in which park Wyatt would be waiting, nor by which fountain. In fact, he did not even have the slightest notion as to what the "usual time" was.
Which meant that the poor inspector was probably going to have to spend the entire day wandering around the parks of Paris, looking for some lovesick weirdo called Wyatt.
We shall skip the (un)pleasantries of accompanying the inspector to his chambers and wait for him in the main hall, which he entered in due course, dressed impeccably in his (second) finest uniform. There was no sense, he reasoned, in wasting his finest uniform on a poor lad whose heart he was inevitably going to break.
For surely - SURELY - the previously encountered love letter could not have actually been for Javert.
Before setting out, Javert carefully consulted his map of Paris. There were a total of four major parks in the city: Le Parque, Le Parque Deux, Le Parque Trois, and Le Jeune Fille Beaucoup. One of the parks didn't seem to quite fit with the others, but Javert couldn't be bothered with that at the moment. The nearest park to his maison (see, the author knows French) was Le Parque Deux, so naturally he decided to try that one first.
After a well-thought-out debate as to whether or not he should take his map with him, Javert decided on the affirmative. It wouldn't do to have the inspector of police wandering about the city asking for directions. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. The fact that this reputation was one of a cold, heartless tyrant who would arrest a nun for praying too loudly made no difference.
In no time at all (the author begs you to not take this literally - remember the threat), Javert had reached his destination. Le Parque Deux appeared to be a large, stately park surrounded by white wrought iron fences. A large sign proclaiming, rightly, that the visitor had arrived at 'LE PARQUE DEUX" hung on the gates. Javert held his whiskered head high and entered. He stood at the entrance for quite some time, completely baffled and unnerved by what he saw. Within view there were three ornate fountains, each bubbling away merrily.
And at the base of each sat a young man, each holding a rose and each looking desperately lovesick.
Javert stared at the scene before him, very nearly open-mouthed with shock. It was impossible.
Actually, it was improbable, but Javert's normally keen mind was in no position to split hairs over symantics. Javert's normally keen mind was frantically attempting to formulate a plan to handle his current predicament.
He obviously couldn't just approach all three men, asking each of they were called Wyatt. The result of that tactic could only be deep embarrassment, and an entirely new reputation for which Javert had absolutely no desire. Try as he might, the inspector could only think of one solution that would not result in him possibly speaking to all three of the men. He positioned himself in a discreet corner of the park, then utilized his manly, booming voice.
"WYATT!"
Quickly turning away so as to look nonchalant, Javert glanced over his shoulder casually to see which of the men had raised his head. To his shock (and quite possibly his dismay), none of the men had responded to his general summons. Grinding his big, manly teeth, Javert took out his map and examined it. The next nearest park was Le Jeune Fille Beaucoup, some seven or nineteen blocks from Le Parque Deux. Sighing gruffily, Javert stowed away his map and made a manly exit.
Javert arrived shortly at Le Jeune Fille Beaucoup (which, henceforth, shall be referred to as LJFB, because the author does not want to type that big long name over and over). A far cry from the stately atmosphere of Le Parque Deux, LJFB was surrounded by dead and dying shrubberies and an ominous-looking black gate. The dreadful appearance of the place caused the inspector to wonder whether he ought to have a word with the mayor about the state of some of the recreational centers in Paris.
Tromping up to the entrance, Javert pushed open the gate, which swung away from him with an ear-splitting screech. Shaking the muffle out of his ears and the flies out of his whiskers, Javert entered the park which could best be described as "ooky."
It was a horrendous sight that met the upstanding inspector's eyes (which, though this does not directly affect the story, are an icy, manly shade of blue). There were no fountains in sight; however, there was an abundance of young (and otherwise) women, all of whom were dressed in scanty, revealing clothing. They paraded around obscenely, stopping to speak to certain gentlemen who caught their eye. It was becoming increasingly apparent to Javert exactly what kind of park this was.
A women's park.
This park had obviously been set aside exclusively for the use of the young women of the city, and every single one of the four men he saw inside were breaking the law! Javert's inspector's heart bubbled with rage.
(It did not occur to him, in this particular line of thinking, that he himself would be breaking the law if this were the case; neither did it occur to him that these women just might possibly be WHORES.)
Taking his nightstick firmly in his hand (please excuse the author while she giggles), Javert strode up to the nearest man and tapped him on the shoulder. The man's knees buckled slightly from the pressure and he turned to face the intimidating man behind him.
"Sir," Javert said, attempting to retain some sense of calm, "What exactly do you think you are doing?"
The man (whose name, for the record, was Francis) gaped up at the inspector, obviously at a loss for words. Due to Javert's general impressiveness, this was hardly surprising; however, the reason for the man's temporary muteness seemed to stem from the fact that he thought he had just been caught soliciting a prostitute.
"I..." Francis stammered, "I was just... just talking to this young lady." He felt beads of sweat beginning to form at his hairline as the enormous whiskery man in front of him glared down at him. "I... I wasn't doing nothing wrong."
"ANYTHING wrong," Javert boomed, "And if I hear you using a double negative again, you'll be under arrest before you can say 'grammatical error'! Now, are you or are you not taking advantage of the services offered by this park?"
Javert, of course, meant that the young man called Francis was using the park for recreation, which, in Javert's mind, seemed to be a crime worthy of stiff punishment (I will not giggle). Francis, naturally, assumed that the inspector was accusing him of soliciting... favors from the young woman he had previously mentioned. Thinking it best not to lie to an officer of the law, lest the consequences be dire, Francis plucked up his courage and nodded.
"I thought so," Javert growled, taking out his handcuffs. As though a horn had sounded, every young man in the park looked around and saw poor Francis being shackled by what appeared to be a gigantic, whiskery bulldog. Not being completely idiotic (partially, butnot completely), they turned tail and ran for the exit. Javert smirked. "That'll teach you mountebanks to respect a lady's privacy,"he growled, and Francis proceeded to become even more confused than before.
As Javert led the lad to the police station, he was struck with a sudden idea. "Your name isn't Wyatt by any chance, is it?" heasked, attempting to sound casual. Poor Francis, who was baffled almost to the point of tears by this new development, merely shook his head. "Hmmm..." Javert hmmed to himself as they exited LJFB.
Once Javert had dropped Francis off at the station (which caused great befuddlement among the other members of the police force, due to the fact that A) it was Javert's day off and he shouldn't be arresting anyone and B) he had handed the youth off to them on charges of "using a women's facility"), he consulted his map once more and determined that he was nearest to Le Parque Trois. He smoothed back his hair (it had become slightly frizzled in his anger at the impudent youths of LJFB), he headed north. Toward the park. Because if north wasn't the way to the park, he would be heading in the wrong direction to go to the park, and that would be detrimental to our story.
He reached Le Parque Trois and was greeted with a large sign reading "CLOSED." Obviously, this was not a good place for a meeting, however ludicrous and mistaken-identity-induced it might be. Therefore, Javert turned back to his map and headed off to Le Parque.
The only parque left.
Now might be a good time for the reader to take a brief intermission, to attain any snacks or drinks needed for the remainder of the story. You are not going to want to get up from your seat until the end. Trust the author.
Everyone back? On to the exciting conclusion.
It is terribly exciting.
No, the author is NOT stalling for time while she tries to think of some way to wrap this thing up. The author is simply building suspense, so that the EXCRUCIATINGLY exciting conclusion she has concocted can reach its full potential.
Now. Onto the conclusion. Which will excite the pants off you, you suspicious bastards.
Javert stood at the entrance of Le Parque. He realized suddenly that his palms were slightly sweaty, almost as though he was beginning to show signs of nerves. Being a cold, emotionless inspector, this certainly could not be the case, but Javert was slightly disturbed just the same. He was about to meet the mysterious Wyatt who, so many paragraphs ago, had written a love letter that had arrived at Javert's doorstep (via a little boy with a bladder control problem).
Javert knew what he had to do: his mission was to acquire the target (Wyatt) and deliver the message ("Your letter found the wrong person and your sweetheart isn't coming."). Once he had thought of it in these militant terms, Javert was marginally more light-hearted about the matter. It was just a simple matter of search and destroy. Er, deliver.
Entering Le Parque, Javert was relieved to see only one fountain, with - eureka! - only one young man sitting beneath it. He was not holding a flower, but looked euphorically anxious... just as a man might look if he was waiting to see his lover, whom he had not seen for a very long time. This MUST be Wyatt.
The inspector cleared his throat and apparoached the young man (to whom we shall henceforth refer as Wyatt, as that is undoubtedly who it is.) Wyatt smiled up at him, oblivious to the fact that Javert was scary. However, Javert was not particularly in "Javery-scary" mode at that moment, so perhaps it was not quite as noticable.
"Are you Wyatt?" Javert asked as kindly as he knew how (which was not very, but he did not cause Wyatt to urinate uncontrollably, so he must have been doing all right).
Wyatt nodded, looking slightly apprehensive for the first time. "Can... can I help you?" he asked. His voice was the honey-sweetened voice of a lover in love, and it was soft-spoken and delicate enough to make Javert wish he was in a position to vomit. Being of a slightly higher station than would allow such behavior, Javert contented himself with clearing his throat again and standing up a bit straighter.
"I believe this letter belongs to you," he said, making his voice slightly more booming and business-like than the situation warranted.
He held out the musty envelope and Wyatt slowly took it, staring at Javert as though he had never seen a seven-foot whisker monster before.
"My... my letter? You found it?"
"Actually, it was delivered to me. I am not sure whether your slightly moist delivery boy made a directional error or if your sweetheart previously lived in my house, but either way this letter was certainly not meant for me, I am sure." Wyatt smiled at this, and Javert felt an even stronger twinge of nerves. He sincerely hoped that Wyatt was not under the impression that he, Javert, was trying to make a joke. Reputation!
"No," Wyatt agreed, "It certainly was not." He smiled up at Javert, who averted his eyes. "It was meant for my mademoiselle, Angelinamolinabombina." Javert's brain attempted to wrap around the practicality of this name as Wyatt continued. "Like you, I am not sure how the letter came to be delivered to you, but I sincerely apologize. I suppose I had better hasten on to find her, and deliver it myself" With another hazy smile at Javert, Wyatt departed.
Javert stared after the young boy and briefly wondered what it might be like to be in love. Javert had never known. No matter what CERTAIN PEOPLE implied about his obsession with the criminal Jean Valjean. Javert's infatuation with the case of Jean Valjean was not, and had never been, caused by anything but a professional desire to capture a criminal.
"And that's ALL!" Javert declared out loud, causing several patrons of Le Parque to look around, alarmed. Javert glanced around, embarrassed,
and swiftly left the park. He thought he heard a giggle as he departed.
See how exciting that conclusion was? What? No? You was something MORE exciting? Well, the author anticipated this and is prepared.
With an EPILOGUE.
The day was growing dark as Javert ascended the steps to his front door. He was tired, or would have been if he had not been made of solid steel, and wished very much to settle down with his snuff-pipe.
After changing from his uniform into his dressing gown (we will, once again, give the inspector his privacy and wait in the drawing room), he sat down in his favourite star-patterned chair and reached toward the table next to it. When his hand groped at nothing but thin air and tabletop, he came to realize the terrible truth.
HIS SNUFF-PIPE HAD BEEN STOLEN!
Eat your excitement, little piggies.
THE END.