Javert stalked the streets, alternating between offering supplications to God in Heaven and allowing torrents of curses to issue forth, tainted with the smell of liquor. He was not usually one to imbibe in the spirits, but tonight was different. Tonight, he had allowed an escaped convict to slip through his grasp, to slip into the bowels of Paris. The case of Jean Valjean had troubled Javert for years, and just as he stood on the precipice of victory, he again stumbled into the depths of defeat. It was then that he devoted himself entirely to smoking out Valjean; the man had broken the law, the only constant in life. And he would pay.
As he felt the liquor wearing off, Javert decided to return home and sleep off his drunkenness. He would visit the priest in the morning – a confession was in order, a price to be paid for tonight's sins. Turning, he slipped between the buildings, hoping to return home without being noticed. It would not do to have the physical embodiment of the law seen publically intoxicated. As he reached the gates of his house, Javert felt a sudden tug on his jacket – and in his slightly paranoid state, becoming increasingly frightened of being discovered wallowing in sin and failure – the inspector turned and let one heavy boot fly in the direction of the tug. Seconds later, he regretted it as he heard the crying begin – it was a child. Sighing, Javert crouched down to the huddled child, now holding her head with dirt-stained hands.
"Let me see," Javert ordered the child, as if speaking to a subordinate. Naturally, the child, already frightened by the sudden assault, only sobbed harder and curled further into herself. Knowing that the child's increasingly louder cries would soon alert neighbors or passerby, Javert did the only thing he could think of – he knelt, scooped the child into his arms, pushed open the gate with his back, and brought the child into his home. Setting her down as gently as his partially inebriated body would allow, he tried to speak to the girl again.
"I apologize, mademoiselle, for injuring you. May I please help you with your wound?" Javert asked, attempting to look the girl in the eyes – a difficult venture, considering she held her hands over her head and buried herself in the back of the chair.
Perhaps noting his change in demeanor, however, the child stopped crying briefly and beckoned Javert closer, as if sharing a secret. He shuffled forward on his knees and bent down to the girl.
"My name is Alexandria," she spoke softly, "and my mother told me to come here. She said 'find the Inspector. He will help. He is a good man, a man of God and a man of order.'"
Javert started, a number of questions forming in his mind, clouded by a fog of whiskey. Who was this girl's mother? Why did she think so highly of him? Clearly this child was of the streets, one of those he hunted ruthlessly. Why would her mother tell the girl to seek him out? Most importantly, where was her mother?
Yet Javert asked none of these things. He sat back on his heels, staring at the girl, and asked a question he would regret moments later.
"Alexandria, can you take me to your parents?" he asked softly. He was feeling the beginnings of a headache and had no desire to deal with a screaming child. But Javert's fears were without ground – the girl had already begun to drift off to sleep, cushioned by the soft pillows of the chair surrounding her. Her eyes fluttered at his words and she gave another whispered response, softer than before so that Javert had to lean in even closer.
"No, monsieur, I cannot. They are with God." And with that, the girl drifted off to sleep, leaving Javert with unanswered questions, a raging headache, and an empty bottle of whiskey.