To everyone that has reviewed, followed, and read this story: I want to thank you for making this far into the story. It must've have tried your patience in having to read five straight chapters without the main characters ever even meeting each other! So your tenacity has been rewarded, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Three sharp knocks infiltrated the haze that had infested Valjean's brain.
The Inspector was at his door. Suddenly the wood bit his hand and he jerked back, seeking the splinter embedded in his palm.
Inspector Javert had come for him. Pain plastered his hand as his fingers jarred the small fragment loose. He ripped it out in one jerky motion.
Strangely enough, he wondered why Javert even bothered. He was just a man, one of many that Javert would process and forget. This man's fervour was too much. And that it should be directed at him? Valjean no longer knew what to think.
He ripped himself from the key hole and stumbled into the lone wooden chair that instantly tore at his shirt, seeking his salted flesh. Cosette was still asleep, swaddled in the blankets, oblivious as the darkness crouched upon her; watching, expectant.
Valjean knew he was not an innocent man. He came to this realization while under the Toulon millstone. The infinite stinging lashes of the merciless Mediterranean sun and the sharp incessant massage of rats and stone upon his beaten flesh, day after day, threatened to grind him as it did countless others. Instead, he grasped upon that one glimmer of hope left to a man in such conditions; the knowledge that the millstone does not grind itself. Swallowed in the comforting miasma of hatred for that unknown entity that kept him at heel, that forced him to beg, that moulded his flesh to fit its desires and wrung his talents from every fibre through menial labour, he malformed. As repayment for his services, he was released upon humanity, unfettered and ready for retribution, like a prize-fighting dog awaiting his next victim.
The palms that lay upon his trousers, open faced, slowly curled upon themselves as he remembered that man.
That horrible man that preyed upon his dreams, soured his memories, and sabotaged his future.
The one that had the audacity to rob the most innocent of people.
The one that played upon the feelings of others.
His head bent.
He had lost the capability to cry years ago.
While he sat upon that precipice, that decision of answering the summons from beyond that wooden veil, a creak stole him from his thoughts.
Valjean wrenched his head towards the small noise and instantly beheld the astonished visage of Javert, hand still hovering in the air where it once held a doorknob. His wide eyes sputtered with the light from a weeping candle as he gaped at the empty space, mouth slightly open.
Valjean did not have the time to marvel at the Inspector's strange expression; the moment those basilisk eyes met his own, Valjean was riveted on the spot. Soft gasps chorded against the ties of harsh breathing that filled the dark chamber.
Abruptly, Javert crossed the boundary into Valjean's territory.
"You," Javert hissed. "You didn't think to lock the door?"
He took another small step forward. His tall figure was instantly consumed by the night.
"I wasn't asleep yet."
"That is no excuse! Crime waits for no man. You know this. Why, haven't you noticed that you brought yourself and this child into one of the most disreputable districts in all of Paris?"
Valjean became fixated upon Javert.
"How did you know about Cosette?"
A hush fell. Javert's outline wavered in the dim light. His hands fumbled in the shelter of their prospective pockets.
"Is that what you really want to ask?"
This question was delivered with such an acerbic tonal quality, that Valjean's ready affirmation shrivelled and decayed upon his tongue.
He swallowed; the bitter tang scoured his throat.
"I am not sure."
"Then answer me this: what are your intentions for this child?"
Valjean replied, "She has no family; neither do I. I am a free man, and I would like to take her in."
"Then why did you bring her here? I know for a fact that we did not retrieve all of your factory profits; we made sure to keep records of that. So you could have rented better lodgings. As usual, you take the criminal way out."
A surge of slicing resentment propelled him out of his chair, and he advanced upon Javert, who despite staying his ground, trembled slightly. The minuscule movements were slight, but Valjean sensed the vibrations. He threatened to traverse that gap between them, but the closer he got, the more the shadows intensified upon Javert, like agitated vipers twisting themselves around a statue.
"I had no money," said Valjean, annunciating every word. "I did the best I could."
"Then why did you lie?"
Valjean took a step back, and cocked his head to the side, frowning. Javert noticed his confusion as the man proceeded to reiterate himself.
"About the girl."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on Valjean! I'm not stupid. Why did you never mention the child when you checked in with your parole officer?"
"He never asked," stated Valjean simply. "So I figured it was not required by the State to know."
Javert hunched over like a tree piled with a burden of snow. After pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering a few obscenities into his cravat, he shook himself. Standing straight once more, he surveyed the room, taking in the girl upon the mattress, the greasy window, and the nails protruding from the aged wood.
"We need to get you out of here."
Whatever Valjean was expecting, it sure wasn't that. He tried to analyse those simple words, like a jeweller does with beads, but they merely jumbled and became entangled so it no longer resembled a relevant declaration. He sought to clear up his confusion.
"What's the hurry?"
"Do you honestly wish her to live here?"
"No, but where can we go this late in the evening?"
"I know of a place that accepts people at all hours, since it caters to overseas travellers. You know how that works; every hour of the day is fair game to the wandering."
Valjean looked up at the Inspector, but his face remained utterly blank and fixed at some point beyond his shoulder.
"I shall rouse Cosette, then. Will you wait outside the door?"
"As always," murmured the Inspector. He left, and shut the barrier between them, encapsuling the pair in darkness once again.
As soon as the door clicked shut, he gently pressed Cosette's shoulder and rolled her back and forth, until she blinked awake. A tremendous yawn adorned her round face and she rubbed her eyes.
"Yes, papa?"
"We are leaving, so I want you to go and get dressed."
Cosette just stared at him through hooded eyes. Valjean tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, and her eyes floated shut.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, papa, just sleepy. Do we have to go?"
"Yes, we are going to find a new place to live."
"Hmm-mm," agreed the small child as she scooted to the edge of the mattress, blanket wrapped about her so she resembled a tiny babushka.
He kneeled down and said quietly, "Go and get ready, Cosette. Do that for me, and I promise I will carry you the entire way."
"Thank you, papa."
Bits of paperwork, coins, and his handkerchief found their way quickly into Valjean's yellow coat as he shovelled himself inside. He snatched up his abandoned rucksack and placed Catherine within, once he received prior approval from the shuffling form of Cosette. Her bedclothes were placed on top as well as Valjean's spare shirt and undergarments. Giving a once over to the gloom, his tossed the bag over his shoulder, knelt down and opened his arms. Cosette wobbled over and was instantly held against his massive shoulder.
She didn't think twice before laying her head down and promptly fell closed her eyes. Her long flyaway hair tickled the small patch of exposed skin under Valjean's chin.
Upon reaching the door, he hesitated a fraction, and then yanked it open.
Inspector Javert was, as usual, right outside his door. His back was turned as if he wanted his ears on alert, instead of those piercing eyes.
Valjean froze, staring at the rigidity of the Inspector, uncomprehending. Then he shouted:
"You're on fire!"
Immediately he reached over and snatched a fistful of Javert's grey coat, just as the man whirled around, knocking over the candle. Wax pooled on the floor, instantly solidifying. Valjean beat the tiny tongues of flame that threatened to consume the man, until only scorch marks remained on both Javert and the wall.
Both men stood panting, while Cosette merely just squirmed for a better position.
"Papa, you're too loud..."
Adjusting his hold upon the tiny child, he realized he still held the Inspector in his grasp. He instantly let go, the burnt coattails finding their way back to their owner.
"Sorry, that you caught on fire," Valjean mumbled, staring at the stark white wax scab. "Thanks for waiting for me."
When no response was given, Valjean brought his gaze upwards until it found the Inspector's face, who had been observing him from under the brim of his hat.
"Seems that's what I'm meant to do."
Valjean had no response for that, and with no further remark from the stoic man, began the descent downstairs. As expected, Javert's came not a second later, matching his striking footfalls in tandem.
The inn Javert lead them to was a humble one, despite its proximity to the city centre, but it was large enough to always have room for a group of wary travellers. Luckily for Javert, they held true to their word. Unluckily for Javert, it was a vacancy. He grumbled, yet without further inquiry paid the host and obtained an ornate key for the last available room.
The whitewashed bedchamber was small, but spacious enough for men who were used to sleeping in confided quarters and sharing it with masses of other people. The night was shut behind a pair of green shutters, clasped tightly, though a few fingers of moonlight searched through the cracks and played with the white bedspread underneath.
A woman bustled her way through the two men and they broke apart to let her pass, lest they had a desire to become splashed with water from her bucket.
After depositing the washbasin upon the small table, the woman automatically hurried over to the fireplace and began her ministrations upon the wooden limbs, massaging and coaxing them to roar with a lively fire.
Valjean went over to the washbasin and tried to rouse Cosette from sleep, but she was as animate as Catherine at this point. Instead, Valjean merely shifted her exposing her face, and began to wipe it clean. He concentrated on allowing the small swatch of cotton to grace her shallow face, picking up any traces of dirt or debris from under her dark eyelashes and in the crevices of her ear.
Once satisfied, he placed her on the bed and began to redress her back into her nightgown. Valjean chuckled warily, as he found himself in procession of an overly large doll. He pushed her over to the edge bunkered by the wall and then turned to address his other companion.
Who was much closer than he remembered.
The Inspector stood a little more than an arm's length in that if he truly desired, he could reach over and touch him. Instead Valjean simply stood, watching Javert as he contemplated the fire.
"I will need to obtain some additional bedding from the inn keeper," observed Javert, without looking over.
"You're staying?" asked Valjean, incredulously.
"Of course," he stated, simply. "Not only can I not leave you to your own devices, but I live quite a ways from here."
"There's only one bed."
"Thank you for pointing out the obvious."
"I meant," emphasized Valjean, "that Cosette could take the bed, and we could spend the night on the floor."
"The bed is certainly big enough for two, so why should we waste that? You share the bed with her."
"That's not fair," said Valjean, his sense of fair-mindedness overriding all other thoughts.
Javert conferred with his buttons.
"What?"
"I said, unlike me, you have a certain fondness for children, so you will not squash her in her sleep."
Javert straightened, took his hat and hastened to the door.
"Now if you will excuse me, I will be downstairs."
Suddenly the full weight of the day's events settled upon Valjean; he yawned, stretching and loosening the tautness of his wary face. Making his way to the washbasin, he clumsily attended to his own adulations, and took to the bed. Cosette clung to the wall like a ship barnacle so there was more than enough room for his massive frame.
Once settled, he kept staring at the low cross-beams of the ceiling. His ears strained for the merest morsel of sound that would indicate the Inspector's immediate return. However, the soft fluttering of Cosette's breath and the crackling dance of light upon the room soon pulled Valjean into the oblivion of sleep.
The single cry of Notre Dame fell upon deaf ears when the outsider intruded once more upon the slumber of the two outcasts. The blurred silhouette hovered between the two worlds of grey before entering the chamber and gradually shutting the door.
Later that night, Valjean awoke to get water. Tongue languishing thickly in his mouth, he extricated himself from the folds of the woollen blanket and sat upon the edge of the bed. He quickly assessed the mess of brown hair that sprung from the covers. Finding nothing amiss with Cosette, he regarded the room.
The hearth had died down. A few softly glowing embers quietly bathed the large figure that slept there with soft strokes of vermillion.
Pulled by a sudden pang of curiosity, Valjean padded across the wood and stood near the sleeping form of Inspector Javert. Comfortable warmth washed over his exposed arms and feet.
The Inspector had used an extra blanket, folded twice, as a makeshift mattress. He used his overcoat as a blanket instead, despite the obvious fact that though large, it wasn't intended to cover the gangling limbs of its owner. However, Javert had curled in upon himself, nose buried in the collar of his coat. His large hands nestled his relaxed profile upon the pillow. Javert's shirtsleeves were completely and utterly white; a stark contrast to the dark hues that constantly painted the man.
Valjean remained thus, cataloguing every nuance: the ruffled hair that curled around his ear, the crow's feet etched upon his face, and the small tremors that sometimes shook his frame.
Frowning, Valjean went to the pitcher near the washing basin, took a mouthful, and grabbed his yellow coat from the back of the chair. He laid it on top of Javert's exposed limbs, and glanced over his handiwork. Satisfied, he rejoined Cosette, and fell asleep.
The next morning, a large hunk of cloth struck Valjean's face. Lurching forward, he tore it off, and gasped at the cool air. A small chuckle arrested his attention instantly and he growled as he recognized the smirking face of Police Inspector Javert. However, he fell back against the bedclothes when the small form of Cosette peeped out from behind his trouser leg.
Valjean groaned, and threw an arm over his eyes. His breathing slowly became regular.
"What time is it?"
"Our Lady stated it was eight, and that was approximately fifteen minutes ago."
"Ah." He tossed his arm against the pillow and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
"Why didn't you wake me earlier?"
"I had to ponder the best way to wake you," remarked Javert pointedly.
Valjean looked down at the jumbled blankets that wound around his sprawled limbs. One of his bare feet poked out from the mess, and he wiggled the toes. Another sheet littered the floor a few feet from the bed.
"Point taken."
Silence fell. Cosette came out from Javert's protection and began to play with Catherine in the corner. He smiled when he noticed that she was already dressed and ready to go. Hairs prickling, he turned from his attention from Cosette and noticed the Inspector staring at him intently.
"We will be going to the police-station today, once you attend to your needs and we break our fast. Be quick about it, because we cannot put this off any longer. We need to fix those mistakes within your parole papers, and I need to discuss this with the Commissaire as well. I will be speaking with the innkeeper now, to procure our meal."
Valjean nodded, as the Inspector he remembered broke through his memories and came alive once more.
Javert made his way to the door and swung it open with one fluid motion, but stopped suddenly. His hand clenched around the handle. His deep voice permeated the whole room as he addressed the empty air around him.
"Valjean, do not do that again."
"What?" Brows furrowed, he squirmed his way into a sitting position, bracing himself on his arms.
"I don't want your charity."
Then Javert simply placed his hat atop his head and left, without looking back. Valjean waited until the painted wood clicked shut before he ploughed a hand through his hair, tufts poking out from cracked fingers.
It would do no good to dwell on the peculiarities of this man. He never understood him in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and his education discontinued with his arrest.
A deep sigh washed through his body and spilled forth, cleansing his thoughts.
He got up from the bed and untangled his limbs from the sheets. Punting the last bit of offending wool from his bare foot, he called to Cosette. She began to gather her meagre belongings as Valjean plunged his face into the shallow basin and gave his tempered visage a rub-down with soap and towel. When he emerged from the smothering cotton, a peek of faded yellow appeared in the mirror. Valjean stared it, before a single word, loaded with the same exasperation a mother has for her husband's stubbornness spilled forth from his lips:
"Damn."
The damp cloth collided with the chipped basin, splashing the contents. Snatching up the offending yellow coat, Valjean called to Cosette and quitted the room.
Late morning was not ideal for three mismatched people to arrive at one of the busiest prescient in all of Paris. They burst upon the Place du Chatelet, scowls place upon their faces. Even the little girl was frowning as she toted around her paraplegic comrade dressed in frills and lace. However, whereas Valjean's frown was more reserved for himself, Javert was a very charitable fellow in providing every colleague, citizen, and criminal an individualized sample.
Valjean was aware that, although they were ambling along at an ungainly pace due to Javert's impatience, they were the main course for the station's insatiable hunger for gossip. Mouths gobbled and spit back gobs of speculation and mangled bits of truth.
This shared buffet between strangers caused Valjean to become nauseated. His stomach flipped and bashed itself like curdling milk in a churn.
He quickened his step, swooped Cosette in his arms, and tailed behind Javert. Javert glanced over this shoulder. A strong voice sliced through the stench of regurgitated conjectures:
"It's always like this; don't let it get to you."
Valjean simply nodded, though he was still behind the Inspector. So he reaffirmed his understanding with small thanks.
They arrived at the Commissaire Marcel Lautrec's door, which surprised Valjean as he was expecting to meet up once again with his officer, Ary Baudot, first. A flock of chirping thoughts rushed his head, but he shooed them instantly, reminding himself that what will be, will be. He would deal with problems as they arrived. When Javert knocked thrice against the dark wood, Valjean steeled himself.
A curse, then an answering yell:
"If it isn't Javert, I personally don't want to see you right now!"
Javert just smirked at Valjean's questioning look.
"It seems like we're expected."
And with a flourish, Javert threw open the door and marched right in.
Valjean took in the messy office, nearly tripping over the piles of books on the floor. The musty scent of subdued masculinity radiated from the variety of taxidermy trees along with the sweet musk of tobacco. Catherine interrupted his silent perusal with a bob of her fussy curls, and he used his free hand to push her out of his line of sight. A half-opened shutter mixed this intoxicating brew with a fresh dash of crisp air and random street noise. Highlighted with a swatch of midday sun, the Commissaire was bent over behind his desk, grunting as he reinforced his walls with a stack of leather-bound books. Interestingly enough, the desk remained as pristine as Valjean's old mayoral one.
"Sniffing for truffles?"
Valjean's mouth fell open and he whipped towards Javert, who stood in contrapposso, arms crossed and a quirk to his lips.
"Could be. But it seems you were the one out hunting last night," returned the Commissaire as he slowly straightened. He placed both hands in the middle of his back and bent backwards. A sharp pop! rent the air and he shook himself.
"Unf." He swiped the arms of his uniform, and jerked the lapels taut.
"I swear," he stated, shaking a finger as he faced Javert, "They need to stop updating all these laws, because I will soon have enough to build a second home with them! Not that it will do me any good if I break my back hauling these damned things around."
Javert simply smiled and presented Valjean to the man.
"Good morn—wait, it's the afternoon now. So good afternoon!" He thrust out a hand over the desk. "I've heard a lot about you, Jean Valjean."
With both pairs of blue eyes trained upon him, one as warm as the sea and the other as cold as ice, he took the proffered hand awkwardly with his left. His other was currently battling the swinging feet of two little ladies.
"Thank you sir," said Valjean as the warmth of the Commissaire's stained fingers and gregarious smile eased his trepidation.
"And who might this little lady be?" addressed the man to Cosette, who immediately removed herself into the cradle of Valjean's bulging bicep. Catherine, ever diligent, shielded her from the Commissaire's interest.
"She's Cosette," stated Valjean, wrapping his free arm around the child. "I apologize for not stating her presence before. I was not told it was required."
Surprised, Commissaire Lautrec sought out Javert, who merely replied:
"It's true."
Sighing, Lautrec plopped himself into his worn fabric-lined chair, and massaged his temple with one hand while yanking open a bottom drawer with the other. A tired and crusty inkwell and a wilting feather quill soon joined ranks with yet another parole report.
He gestured for Valjean to take a seat, and he sat down upon the small chair. He sat Cosette upon his thigh, and immediately she set Catherine into exploring the new landscape, her china feet dancing over his legs. The Inspector remained standing.
"Doubtless you understand how this procedure plays out, am I correct?" asked the Commissaire.
"Yes."
"So we will simply fix and question you upon the areas of interest as we see fit, is that clear?"
"Yes."
"The girl, Cosette, how did you obtain her and what is your relation?" He dipped his quill and began to write the basic necessities.
"I bought her."
Ink bled from the tip of the feather quill, blotting out Valjean's first name.
The Police Commissaire's eyelids opened and shut deliberately, much like two smuggler's lamps communicating in the night. Javert slowly uncrossed his arms.
"Wha-what?"
Catherine continued to dance merrily upon Valjean's thigh.
"I said I bou—"
"For God's sakes!" yelled Javert, causing both girls to turn in his direction. They cringed.
"He didn't buy the girl; he paid off the debts owed by her mother to her caretakers."
"Ah, well then," coughed the Commissaire, as he riffled through his drawer and removed a cigarette. "Why didn't you say all that before?"
"He did," grunted Javert, staring out the window. His fingers tapped a personal rhythm against his sleeve.
Lautrec sent him a look.
"Apparently, I'm his translator."
Valjean gave Cosette a small pat on her hand before picking her up and removing the bit of coat from underneath her body. A bruised and battered letter was promptly removed from the pocket and handed over to the Commissaire.
"Here, this is the letter given to me by her late mother, which was entrusted to me. I believe it will clear up all confusion," said Valjean.
Clenching the smoking bouquet between his teeth, he leant over the mahogany wood and took it. A small piece of crisply folded parchment tumbled out.
"What's that?"
Valjean stared at the paper.
"I am not sure." He raked through his memories of the past month, but he never had cause to write anything. Nor could he remember receiving anything not relating to his parole.
Javert snatched it up, and unwrapped it.
"Oh ho!" He immediately barked out some resemblance of a laugh that bucked all three occupants of Valjean's seat with its intensity. Valjean settled himself back into the interrogation chair, but a disgruntled Cosette removed herself and Catherine to a less mobile seat. She threw him dirty looks from the corner and conspired with her cohort as they sat atop two thrones of heavy legal volumes.
Holding the paper between his index and middle finger, Javert passed the paper over as he sat on the edge of the desk.
"Marcel, what do you make of this?"
Eyebrows shoot up under the limp curls on his superior's forehead.
"Well, it certainly looks like he was out hunting once again, to be sure." He turned the slip over. "Not that I expected him to try again so soon."
"Handsome devil though he may be, I think he failed with this one."
They both turned to Valjean, who began to squirm as Javert smiled devilishly.
"Did you ever read this letter?"
"No," he replied as he began to pluck at the ceases in his worn trousers. "I don't even recall the circumstances in which I was given it."
Both men exchanged glances and peals of laughter.
"Well, my old man," chuckled the Commissaire, taking a long drag on the cigarette, "would you like to read it?"
Valjean tentatively took the sliver of Pandora's box. It simply contained a street address, one that Valjean did not recognize:
24 Rue du Fenêtre
But he did know the signature that graced the bottom invitingly with its long drawn out swirls and elegant crosses.
Heat rushed up from his collar and he immediately crumpled the invitation in his hand and jammed it into his pocket.
"Ah, I'm sorry about that," consoled the Commissaire, as he released a spurt of smoke. Javert was turned towards the desk, but kept flicking glances his way.
"Well, first off, we must obtain suitable lodgings for our man here," stated Javert, returning to the task at hand, "You should have seen what they were living in."
"I have evicted criminals out that tenement, wouldn't you know?" said Lautrec teasingly, as he resumed his report.
"Oh, wait, regarding that…"trailed the Commissaire, frowning. He rapidly ripped open a drawer, removed a small parcel of paperwork, and flipped to the back page. Once he finished scanning the document, he regarded Valjean through narrowed eyes.
"Where did you state your place of residence was when you arrived at the prescient?" he inquired, leaning over the desk.
This statement spurred Javert to prowl closer as well, until Valjean felt as if he was being held at knifepoint with sharpened eyes and grim countenances.
"No.50-52Boulevard de l'Hôpital," answered Valjean, gripping his trousers tightly.
A small movement from Javert arrested his attention as he belatedly noticed how close the man had gotten. Unlike the Commissaire, there was no barrier between them. Javert kneeled down so they were level with one another, and regarded him with those pale eyes.
"No other address?" questioned Javert softly, his lips barely moving. "Answer me truthfully, Valjean."
Valjean merely leaned forward, enough that he could discern the slight movement of Javert's breathing, and stated:
"I am a free man now. I will not jeopardize that for anything."
He searched his face for a moment longer and then stood up and stepped to the Commissaire's desk.
"Something's up with Sergeant Baudot's reports then," stated Javert solemnly. The Commissaire nodded.
"Not with Monsieur Valjean then?"
"No. He's telling the truth," said Javert, "I admit, I found something strange with the fact that when I first received the report, it was only half finished."
"Indeed." The Commissaire leaned back in his creaking chair and regarded both Javert and Valjean, assessing them: the stern, dark imposing figure of his subordinate, and the gentle, nondescript persona of the pardoned man opposite of him.
Sighing, he gathered up all the papers and placing Fantine's unopened letter atop the bundle, he put it back into the drawer. He let a small smile grace his lips as he returned his attentions to his colleague.
"Oh yes. Javert?" The man straightened, awaiting orders.
"Madame Vuillard has delivered the letters you requested." He pulled a parcel of letters, tied with a red bow and creased as if a one avidly read and reread them every waking hour. Valjean had only caught a glimpse of these species of correspondence once, and it was a collection avidly guarded by the late Fantine.
Reminiscent of Cosette upon receiving her doll, Javert took the letters eagerly, body quivering in its excitement.
"Took her damned time, didn't she?"
"Well, according to the sergeant that had to deal with her this morning, she was hesitant to let them go."
He gave the bow a sharp tug, deflowering the bundle.
"It would seem so; she trussed them up better than a Christmas goose."
"Well, her argument was that she received her son once she paid the ransom, so she saw no need to hand them over." He turned to the window and flicked the finished cheroot outside. "To be honest, I think you're lucky to get them at all. I happened upon the scene and had to use my full authority to pry them from her hands."
"And that's why Paris pays you all those francs," remarked Javert as he picked the top letter from the pile. Valjean noticed it was simply addressed: Madame Vuillard.
"Urgh, did she drench these things in perfume?"
"I think she might have coddled them."
Javert grimaced. "If my appetite's ruined, I will heap the blame upon your curly head."
The Commissaire halted Javert's rampant enthusiasm with a loud cough.
He nodded in Valjean's direction. "Javert, will you inform me of your progress in this once you have time?"
The Inspector immediately retied the parcel and stuck it in the crook of his arm.
"I plan on doing so tonight in fact, once I get these two ensconced in some sickingly normal dwelling. I know that you have the same curiosity I do in regards to this."
"Ah, plan on coming in early then? You know that you are required to attend your beat this time. Especially considering that Sergeant Grosz will be part of your squad. I swear, who hired that poor guy as a sergeant de ville? His nerves are not cut out for the customers we deal with."
Javert grinned.
"Ah, well, one night with me, and he'll be begging for more, or," he drawled, "he'd be so broken, you could finally hire a more competent sergeant."
Javert motioned for Valjean to get moving, and he summoned Cosette from her little niche in the corner. His heart welled in his chest as she relayed the avid adventure she and Catherine had during his own foray with strange police commissaires and their even stranger inspectors.