Jean Valjean awoke to the crunching of wagon wheels upon the dusky gravel roadway and the baying of cattle grazing beyond his sight. There hasn't been a time in years that he woke because of his body's own desires. Recently, it had been to the harsh call of the jailor or before then, to the whims of his townsfolk. Though several stones had embedded themselves into his aching back and a couple of insects crawled upon his arm and tickled the hairs, he never felt so awake and rested before.
Patting off any unwanted visitors, he surveyed the landscape. Large wooden hay wagons ambled along the path, half-filled with straw or bushels of berries. A small family were making their way south, small dog and children gambolling about the spring grasses.
He wondered if Cosette would run around like that. Having no experience with children personally, he wasn't sure. However, according to the missive he had received from the Thenardiers before his arrest and the state of Fantine, he had a strong instinct that Cosette was not well off.
Stretching in the sunlight, he popped his back and warmed his legs for the journey ahead. Snatching up his rucksack, he pulled out a handful of dry seeds and began eating them as he re-joined the path.
For the most part, he walked alone, passing a couple or two but mostly wagons and carriages on their way north. Simple greetings were exchanged and Valjean reeled at how simple it was to jump back into daily life, but to tread it was a different matter entirely. He would often bow his head, as if the chain still weighed upon his neck, and greet travellers with "Good day Monsieur or Madame". The ladies often got a kick out of it, tittering to their companions about the kind gentleman.
At noon he was still strolling along. Sweat dipped down his skin causing the coarse linen to stick to his broad chest and back. He had not even stopped for a small repast.
The rumble of gravel echoed behind and an empty hay wagon pulled alongside him. Its team of mules snorted as their pace slowed.
Valjean looked up to see a beaming old man grinning toothily at him. He doffed his straw hat and immediately wisps of hair steamed off his balding head. The hat was quickly replaced.
"Good day to you, Monsieur!" he greeted. He clicked to his mules when they tried to regain their quicker pace. "You look well-travelled. May I inquire to where you may be headed?"
Valjean scratched behind his ear, contemplating his answer.
"Well, sir, I am on my way to Aix-en-Provence for today, but my journey completes itself in Paris." He chewed a bit before adding, "I'm looking for work there."
"Ah! I see!" happily replied the man, " I am on my way there myself today, and I was thinking-as my team seems eager to haul this cart all the way to hell and back-if you wouldn't like a ride? You can lie in the back and rest up, I tell you!"
Though already walking at a leisurely pace, Valjean began to slow down, much to the annoyance of the mules. Valjean didn't know what to do about the man's offer; he didn't want to weigh down the wagon with his massive bulk. Now that he gave voice to the thought, he realized he was pretty fatigued, as Toulon did not allow for one to hone their endurance in footwork.
"Sir, I cannot impede upon your goodwill," he answered, and he gestured towards himself. "I am actually quite heavy, and I wouldn't want to impose that upon your beasts, though they seem quite energetic."
At this, the old man's face folded upon itself to belt out a peal of laughter enhanced by the hearty slap of his bony knee. Valjean jumped to the side in alarm while the mules grunted.
"Oh dearie me," he exclaimed, "I haven't had a good laugh in ages…heavy indeed!" He wiped his crinkly eyes.
"You see, I am travelling to pick up my granddaughter, her husband, and her three children for tomorrow." He gave a small chuckle. "So unless you are hiding the weight of an entire family behind that body of yours, it ain't going to be any trouble!"
Valjean stopped completely and regarded the old man as he ordered his team to halt. Valjean slung his pack onto his other shoulder.
"But you don't even know who I am, sir."
The old man smiled. "Well, that can be easily remedied." He held out his weathered hand.
Valjean gazed at that hand, thrust out precariously over a precipice that he didn't know existed until this very moment. The whisper of growing grass faded and the chirping of the birds no longer played. He drove out all external distractions in order to focus on obtaining that fragile sign of a stranger's trust.
He appropriated it, and was instantly enveloped in a warm but firm handshake.
"Name's Pierre Dupont."
"Jean Valjean." His name, often spoken with bitterness or resignation, hobbled out as he released it once more.
Their hands broke.
"Jean Valjean, eh?" repeated Pierre. "Flows nicely, don't it?" He clicked to his mules as they became fed up with their master's vacillating whims and began to graze.
"Well Monsieur Valjean, if you would very much like to, you can hop up in the back before I call the team back to arms!"
With his encouragement, Valjean left the driver with his team and crawled into the back. As soon as he flopped down upon the loose straw, the motion of his body rocked the small wagon and the mules lurched forward.
"Ah, I see, you rascals!" exclaimed Pierre. "You pull for him, but for your master, you bury your face in grass!"
The team ignored his rebuke.
"Monsieur Valjean, please make yourself comfortable. We will arrive at Aix-en-Provence by twilight, if that's the same farmstead I used as a marker from last time!" And with that, he left Valjean to his own devices.
Valjean lay back upon the bed of warming straw and breathed in the crisp scent of the stalks as they crackled beneath his bulk. A couple of errant stems jabbed him in the back, but it only served to remind him that he was a freed man.
Vastly different from a man free from prison.
How strange that it took only the word of one man in France to set him at liberty. Valjean sighed and closed his eyes. The sun beat down upon his upturned face, colouring the inside of his eyelids vermillion.
Yet, no stranger than the word of the other that sent him there.
As they drove along the dusty country road, Valjean drifted off to sleep under an azure sky. Before he was completely unfurled in sleep, his mind whirled around thoughts of a golden-haired child and a grey ruffed dog that chased her.
In the April of 1824, Paris had wrangled itself a warm spell that its citizens quite enjoyed. Coats were aired and stored in cedar chests, and fresh laundry draped over railings, ropes and posts throughout the bustling city. Winter had been banished once again. Earthy sustenance and hot beverages gave way to cooler and fresher fare. However, this did not curb the Parisians' penchant for coffee.
It is the elixir of the working class, that intoxicating brew which could coax alertness in the most wary of labourers and students alike. Yet it came in enough varieties and variations to please even the pickiest of connoisseurs. Every café in Paris laid claim to this drink, and because of this, one would often find themselves in the midst of the longest running pursuits in Paris: the search for the perfect cup of coffee.
And this was a hunt that Inspector Javert of the Paris police force relished every single morning.
On this particular day, the coffee had been good. Javert, in breaking up a youth's fight in one of Paris' smaller walkways, had to detour to get to work on time. Because of this, he took his habitual morning coffee in an extremely tiny and non-descript café. If the smudged chalk signboard had not been out front declaring its intentions, Javert could have sworn he had taken his coffee in a strange old lady's home.
Finally arriving at the façade of his police station, he mounted the stairs and nodded to the few men that had gathered on the steps.
They tittered.
Frowning, Javert shot them a glance. The men turned away from his scowling countenance, but they could not stifle the baubles of amusement that fell from their lips. Javert immediately quitted the area.
When he strode into the vestibule, he stopped. It was as if he walked into a giant womb, the air of expectancy and excitement pulsating throughout the entire building. Sergeants and officers fresh off their beat coagulated throughout the receiving floor, passing well-thumbed newsprint between them. Laughter and exclamations of disbelief mixed together to create a noisome buzz.
Javert tugged a bit at his leather cravat before proceeding onto the station floor.
The effect was instantaneous. As soon as his tall figure emerged in the main hall, voices banked to furtive whispers. But when he passed them on the way to his office in the back, they couldn't contain themselves. He caught dregs of their conversation:
"Yes, yes, the very same!"
"You mean...!"
"No!"
"From Montreuil-sur-Mer!"
At this last comment, Javert froze and turned sharply around. He began to advance upon the first group he clapped his eyes on, cudgel fisted in his hand. These unfortunate souls immediately darted back to their posts, leaving Javert bereft of information. And a Javert bereft of desired information is a very dangerous man indeed.
He stomped back to his office and slammed the door with such force, that it bounced off the jamb. He tossed his overcoat on the single chair in the corner and worked his collar. His free hand began to rifle through the multitude of paperwork that he had left the night before regarding the Coypel kidnappings. He managed to allow some cooler air to kiss his throat before his door yawned open behind him.
Suddenly he was besieged by the record-keeper: an extremely short spectacled lad whose face was as dotted as his fingers were stained. His thin hands twined around rolled newsprint. Javert advanced upon him, but was driven back as the eager man began bombarding him with breathless natter.
"Oh! Inspector, I'm so sorry! I hope that you don't leave! You won't, right?" His eyes bugged behind the thin frames.
"Please don't let those asses out there drive you out! We'd be at a loss without you!" The thin hands began twisting around the print, and Javert winced. His broad fingers squeezed open and shut as the youth kept chattering.
"I mean, how could this happen?" He began pummelling the paper against his left hand. "You said he was dangerous, and he was, of course!"
Then he slumped as if his winding mechanism finally gave out. "But, you can't argue with the King and all, but really-?"
Immediately Javert bent and clamped his large hands around each of the boy's shoulders.
"Please inform me of whatever is going on that seemingly involves my person, or so help me, someone's going to be unhappy"- he removed his lips far enough to expose a canine-"and it sure as hell isn't just going to be me."
Unperturbed, the man just looked at Javert's face with bewilderment.
"You didn't read today's paper?"
Javert released him and crossed his arms.
"René, you know that I don't read, especially dirty rags such as the Moniteur."
"Well, you might have wanted to read this one," cheerfully replied René.
"How the hell-nevermind," Javert ran tanned fingers through his grey mane. "So what's going on that involves the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer?" He leant on his desk, and braced himself without disturbing any of the paperwork that curled over the edge.
"Well...you see..." René hemmed, playing with his overgrown fingers. He looked everywhere but at Javert.
The Inspector began drumming the desk.
"Prisoner 9430 has been set at liberty!" cried the boy, wrapping himself around the paper once more.
The drumming ceased as Javert began to lean forward with such slight increments that one might have said he was a serpent, quietly uncoiling himself as he tasted prey.
Javert hissed. "This is the same prisoner that paraded himself as a paragon of society, the one that pretended to be someone he's not, just to worm his way into the hearts of his subordinates?"
René vehemently nodded.
"And they released him?" Voice soft, he snapped his fingers. "Just like that?"
"They had to; a Royal pardon from the King himself. It says he rescued a man from certain death-"
Javert sprung from the desk, and bolted through the door. René sighed and leant down to pick up the papers that had fluttered off of Javert's desktop. He put them in the chair and left.
Meanwhile, Javert burst through the two double doors and ran to his Commissaire's office, paying no heed to the men twittering as he flew past. His fellow colleagues were used to Javert-on-the-Chase. One or two outright laughed this time, as they actually knew the reason for his agitation.
How could one not laugh? The indomitable inspector, who owed his recent promotion to the capture of this specific convict, was now faced with the very same man waltzing around France!
Javert made it to the Commissaire's office and straightened before giving the wood a sharp rap with his knuckles. A placard labelled the door as belonging to Commissaire Marcel Lautrec.
"Come in," came the reply.
Javert pushed open the door and quickly shut it behind him with a click. Leaning back in his chair, the Commissaire regarded Javert with one inquiring brow.
"You're here about the prisoner," stated the man, steepling his stubby fingers.
Javert pushed his hair behind his ear. Seeing this, the Commissaire gestured to one of the two interrogation chairs that flanked his orderly desk. Javert instantly folded his long limbs into the embrace of its thin arms.
"I take it you read this morning's paper."
Javert glared. "You know better to ask that." His superior just shrugged his shoulders. "I learned it from your subordinates' endless need to comment and speculate on their fellow colleagues."
"Ah."
A pause.
"Did you know of this beforehand?"
The Commissaire rested his chin upon his folded hands. Inversely, Javert's grappled with the wood of his chair.
"Why didn't you inform me? I led the chase for this very man; he was my capture!"
Commissaire Lautrec's eyes narrowed. "Are you worried about your position here?"
"I don't care a flying fuck about my position, because I know this won't have an effect on it. I want to know the details of why this dangerous man, who I spent years observing and days tracking down, has been set loose upon society."
Lautrec sighed and brushed a limp curl off his forehead.
"The entire story is very simple: you know of the King's regard for this character already"—Javert's face soured—"so that played a part. This man, Jean Valjean, at great risk to his own life had saved a sailor from death while attending to his duties.
"Apparently it was quite perilous; this fellow had to climb down a rope from the top-mast to save this dangling sailor..." He fished for some paperwork between the hordes on his desk.
"Huh. Apparently I was on top of things this week, because it seems I have sent the missive off already..." Javert fell against the hard wood and exhaled a long breath with the sophistication of a practiced smoker.
"How come I have this niggling feeling that you did not want me to know of this?" muttered Javert, peering at the Commissaire as he continued to rummage through his papers and folios.
"To be honest, I didn't," he affirmed. "As I understand, there's something between you and this man"—Javert closed his eyes—" and there isn't really anything you or I can do about this situation. He has been exonerated of all charges."
The rustling of paper continued as both men sat in silence.
Javert started to pry himself loose from the chair, but Commissaire Lautrec halted his escape with his hand.
"I know he had stipulations made." Javert plopped back into the set, attention arrested. "That's why I needed the paperwork; I don't have the exact sentencing ingrained in my skull like some colleagues of mine."
"Stipulations?" Javert wetted his lips. "So he's being tested?"
"Basically," said the Commissaire , throwing his hands in defeat. He began straightening the piles, back to their pristine crispness.
"After all, like you and the courts pointed out in the evidences, he is a very dangerous man."