That night, Javert did not sleep. He sat across from the sleeping girl, one leg crossed over the other, with his elbow resting on his knee and his head in hand. He held an open Bible and occasionally glanced at the girl before returning to the readings. Her hair fell tangled around her face, dark brown hair that held all the markings of life on the streets. Her tiny face was gaunt, even for a homeless and orphaned child, and Javert noticed a dark bruise forming around her left eye – he assumed from his boot. Sighing as he noted the rising sun illuminating another sin from the previous night, Javert closed the Bible, rose, and strode over to the girl.
"Alexandria," he said firmly, "wake up. It is morning."
The girl's eyes immediately shot open. Bolting upright, she swung her head in all directions, her tangled hair whipping Javert in the face.
"Alexandria! Mademoiselle, you are safe. Do not fret," he begged, not wanting to upset her again. She stopped, staring at him intently before falling back into the cushions.
"Oh monsieur! I apologize. I had forgotten where I was," she replied, a smile playing on her face. "Do you have any other children, monsieur? I should like to play with them."
Javert stood back, confused. Did this child think he was an orphanage, taking in every lonely child on the street?
"No, Alexandria, I do not. Today, I shall take you to the Sisters of Mercy. They will take you in and raise you, seeing as though your parents have passed on," Javert answered. "Come, we shall go now."
The child looked up at Javert with deep brown eyes, just moments before playful, now brimming with tears at the edges.
"But…wait monsieur please!" she cried as Javert turned to collect his heavy jacket. "My mother said – "
"Your mother told you to find me, and so you have. She likely knew I would bring you to the Sisters," he replied, shrugging on his coat and reaching for his hat.
"No monsieur! My mother wanted me to find you so that I may give you this," she said, her voice quivering with fear. She reached into her pocket – pants, Javert noted. The girl did not wear a dress, but pants and a blouse. From there she fished out an envelope, dirty and crumpled, and held it preciously, as an offering to him.
"Please," she whispered, "it was the only thing she gave me before she died."
Javert took the envelope, turning it over to the address. On the front, it simply said 'Etienne.' His head shot up to the child. He stalked over, bent down, and grasped her chin, looking deeply into her eyes and examining her face. The child tried to wrench away, but Javert held on firmly. Eventually, he let go, allowing her to retreat back into the cushions.
Javert sank to his knees in front of her chair. He scarcely needed to open the letter; he knew its contents already. There was only one other living person – now dead – who knew his first name. Six years ago, she had been his. Six years ago, she left, returning to the streets that she could not, would not leave, returning to the life that called her back. And now, six years later, she had returned to him with her final confession – and had sent it in the hands of their daughter.