Summer is upon us when idle hands are engaged and busy thoughts are subdued and forgotten. Bees droned as they flitted through containers of wildflowers, open shutters and cooling baked goods, bursting with steamed fruits. Houses spit forth remnants of shut-in days and bided time. Outside, mothers and nannies shepherded scores of energized children, steering them away from mischief. Others set off to gather the day's wares, each stall visit a small victory for the hunter of bargains.
Meanwhile, men took to the heat, concentrating on increasing their productivity. Sweat clung to backs, plastering the limp material to bunching muscles and straining limbs. Efficiency was often measured in how fast work was completed and the amount of gossip consumed. Upon returning home to their familiars, they would find themselves richer, the acclamation of job well done jingling in their pockets.
Like everyone else, Valjean did not resist the arrival of summer. He allowed himself to be swept up in the numbing warmth. He did not wish to dwell on his upcoming parole meeting. Any seed of thought was buried under the multitude of mindless chores that accompanied his new property. Instead, he calmed himself with everyday occurrences: awaking to the stroke of the sun, the simple act of preparing meals, and small discoveries to be had in his new life. This time-honoured rehearsal of normalcy gradually changed the house on the Rue Plumet to a home.
Everyday Valjean and Cosette would take walks together. They were unique in that they sought places the rest of Paris overlooked. Some days, they submerged themselves in the hidden nooks that tingled with architectural tension as they bent towards each other. Other days had them wandering the wild, overgrown parks at war with thistles and weeds.
On this particular Friday, the sun lounged indolently in a liquid bed of clouds, so the pair made their way to a wheat field on the outskirts of Paris. The crop was too young to have learnt the pleasures of conversing with their peers. Since it was late May, there was no distracting chatter from the field.
Valjean reclined in the pasture, forearms staking themselves in the earth. He let Cosette play through the grasses, as she picked about the wheat stalks for clover stems and smooth pebbles. Though she wandered until she was just a miniature doll upon the horizon, Valjean stayed where he was soaking in the warm sun. His palms brushed across the clumps and pits of upturned earth, revelling in the prick of soil and stone.
He had this strange expectation of some momentous event about to unfurl, but no clue as to what. However, he did not delve into the matter; once tasted, Valjean was loathe to sour his contentment. A mind focuses elsewhere to mute such annoying feelings. Ears tuned into the stabbing caw of crows and the indecipherable rustling of grass, their blades clashing and sweeping across one another.
When he heard the addition of extra voices, he tensed. Muscles tightened into a bulging mass of energy. Once the high pitched shrieks and happy banter registered, he relaxed and exhaled. The oncoming footfalls kept him rooted where he was.
Panting, Cosette flushed into view, hands on her knees as she gathered her breath. She raked the fawn-coloured hair from her face, the fine strands clinging to her smudged fingers.
She asked, "Can I play with Monsieur Pierce and Mademoiselle Eva, please? They're not strangers; they are my new friends."
Two children instantly appeared, as if conjured. Both were in various stages of messiness. The girl's auburn plait was intact, but lopsided; she kept brushing it away with a dirt-encrusted hand. The boy had two fists full of weeds, and a large vertical swatch of soil from head to toe. It looked like someone had enough strength to shove him into the ground.
"Hello, sir!" They cheerfully waved in unison, though the boy refused to let go of his weeds.
"Good afternoon," greeted Valjean, looking up at the children. "What have you there?"
"Ah, well!" puffed the boy, bangs plopping into his eyes, "Me and my sis, we are planning on makin' dolls, you see. One fo' me—" he raised one hand—"and one fo' her." He raised the other. "But you see, we don't have any string, and there's nothing here that can work instead."
Cosette began to play with her hands as she piped in. "That's right. But then I told them that you always have everything in your pockets, so maybe there's string in there too."
"Perhaps." Valjean sat up and crossed his legs. He began to riffle through his pockets.
"Let's see what I can find." Fingers burrowed past coins, papers, odd knickknacks, and a pencil stub.
"Oh children, I am terribly sorry," said Valjean digging through the last pocket. He placed fisted hands on his knees. "I don't seem to have any string on me."
A collective moan of disappointment issued from the trio.
"But," replied Valjean, nonchalantly opening his closed palms, "I have twine."
Three pairs of feet flew upwards in unrestrained glee. They rushed the old man, who began snapping the length of twine into smaller pieces. Armed with their prizes, the three conferred together and began to tie the blades and stems into an acceptable human shape.
However Cosette, upon realizing there was to be only two dolls, sidled back to Valjean's side and squatted next to him. She ran her fingers through the loose soil. Valjean flicked a glaze her way, still watching the antics of the two other children.
"If you collect some grasses, Cosette, I could show you how to create one, like with Monsieur Pierce."
Her head snapped up, small mouth agape. "Really, then? You can?"
Eyes level with Cosette's own blue, he nodded.
"Oh, yes, thank you!" She scrabbled off the ground and began to supplant a variety of weeds, their roots coming loose in her frenzied attempts to remove them. In retaliation, they hurled clumps of soil at her printed dress.
She ambled back and dumped her collection on Valjean's lap. She promptly sat in front, a student eagerly awaiting instruction. Valjean allowed himself a small laugh and he immediately set to work, bundling the grasses together and removing the roots.
He talked aloud as he worked. "Now, Cosette, I'm making sure they are equal at one end...like a bouquet of flowers, you see? Makes it easier—"
He encased the bundle in the middle of his left hand and held the twine with the forefinger and thumb. "We have to give this little one a head, so I'll use the twine to tie it off."
Ravelling the spool, he snapped it with his teeth and wound it around the straw with ease. Finished, he secured it with a triple knot. He repeated this procedure again, to give the doll a waist.
It was a standard peasant's doll, without the benefit of limbs. Valjean always thought that ironic, since those were the most valued tools to the peasantry. Nevertheless, Cosette treated the handcraft with the same reverence and joy as she did with Catherine.
Like all children with gaining something new, she couldn't resist showing it to her friends. Immediately, they gathered around radiating enthusiasm for the appearance of this perfect doll.
When they learnt of who created it, they gathered up their attempts and begged Valjean to educate them as well. He happily complied, spoiled by their eagerness. As he twisted and retraced his steps from before, their faces became awash with delight. Their hands pointed and urged him to work faster.
The sun began to extend the shadows in the field, and the children had to leave. They exchanged promises of future meetings and sincere thanks for their company. After their departure, Valjean and Cosette left as well, picking their way back to the Rue Plumet. They chose a different path from before.
A nearby church chimed three, and the pair quietly ambled along the cobbles. They took in their surroundings, from the whitewashed walls of the flats to the random stray that would often appear and disappear like a benign apparition. As they turned a corner into a more marketable neighbourhood, Cosette was confronted with a novel sight.
"Papa! Look! They're selling books outside!"
"Why yes they are, aren't they? It must be the weather."
"Can we look then?"
"I take it you would like a book?"
"Oh no, no. I just want to look." Cosette fidgeted with the fold of her calico, picking at the tiny blossoms. She looked away biting her lip.
Despite his devotion and attentions, Cosette still was hesitant to voice her wants. She flitted around the topic like a bird around morsels of food.
Valjean looked down at her crown of wisping hair, fingered by the slight wind.
"Cosette."
She looked up once before scrutinizing her shoes. "Yes?"
"Let's go look at the books, and if we find one that you'd like to read, let's get it. After all, we don't have many books, so we should start collecting, am I right?"
Cosette perched a radiant gaze upon Valjean. Happiness swelled in his breast at the effect his simple invitation brought upon this child.
"Oh yes! Papa, we should!" She clasped her hands in delight, fingers congratulating each other. "Three books are just not enough! What would happen if we ran out of pages to read?"
She snatched up his lone hand and began tugging him towards the makeshift stall, covered haphazardly with leathers. The two tables were overblown with books of very size and taste resembling a successful hunt. Adventures overtook classics, their bulky frames no match for the fast and thrilling reads. Bibles were common fare shepherding the lesser known volumes of poetry and English texts.
Unlike most children from Valjean's limited experience, she did not rip open the covers and search avidly for the pictures. Instead she opened each and every book, examining them all for some clue as to which to take home.
Cosette would inquire to what the title was, especially if there was no indication to what knowledge hid behind those ordered strokes and spaces.
She finally settled on two choices, and Valjean saw that she was torn between them. One was simply titled Poems and the other was labelled Combat des Animaux.
"I don't know which one to pick," said Cosette, pursing her lips.
Valjean took the two stories from her hands and began walking to the wizened shopkeeper resting under the awning of his shop.
"We can get both. One for me, and one for you."
A bobbing light flitted though the white door, like a friendly will-o'-the-wisp banishing the shade to the corners of the room. The welcome light brushed the edges of the sparse room with strokes of orange and yellow. A lone bed stood directly in the middle of the wall opposite the brick in-lay fireplace. Two identical bed stands flanked the twin mattress, cleared of any items save for a small glass of water. Each stand had a small drawer for a person's miscellaneous knickknacks. Only a delicate, low-relief carving of a fleur-de-lis in the wood casually provided a clue to the room's inhabitant.
Suddenly a small girl erupted from the portal and flounced upon the pine wood bed, snowy linens arching upwards to envelop her.
The glow intensified as Valjean appeared, silver candlestick in hand. He walked over to the closest nightstand and placed the silver on top. She reached over the bedspread, pulled the drawer's wooden handle and retrieved a book.
"Can we read this tonight?" Cosette asked, handing the book over to Valjean.
"What? You have no want for Crusoe tonight, then?" he playfully laughed, taking it.
" I just want to see what's in this book now, but I can't read it yet."
"Ah," replied Valjean, the slim black volume flipped between his fingers. "Let's see who wrote these poems."]'
He turned to the title page. "A Monsieur Ignatius Trenchett, hmm? That's a most intriguing name."
Cosette wiggled to an upright position, cradled by the pillow. Catherine flopped on her shoulder as Valjean eased himself on the twin bed. It creaked mightily.
"Papa," she stated solemnly, "You're going to break the bed."
"Well, if I do, I promise you can have mine and I'll sleep on the floor."
"You don't have to do that, we can make room here," said Cosette, patting the bed.
"I thought that spot was for Catherine?"
"She's sharing."
"I see!" smiled Valjean, as he scanned the pages, an abundant mixture of watercolour illustrations and sonnets. "Goodness, for such a small book, there are a lot of poems and paintings in here."
He questioned Cosette as she rubbed her eyes awake. "Which one do you want?"
Reaching over, she quickly turned the pages by the corners, so she wouldn't bruise them.
"This one!" She jabbed a finger eagerly at the opposite page, which contained an intertwined illustration. On top of the page, a wheat field faded effortlessly into the diaphanous mix of grey and green cobblestones below. Delicate strands of seeds cascaded downwards from the golden meadow into the murky street scene. Accidental splashes dotted the stones, highlighting a lone figure.
Transfixed by the art, Valjean returned to Cosette when her little hands sought purchase on his forearm.
"Papa, papa!" she bounced. "You see, we go to these kinds of places all the time now. That's why I want to listen to this one."
Valjean raised a hand towards the overexcited child.
"Alright, but you have to lay your head down first, else the thoughts cannot settle."
With that, Cosette plopped herself once more into the folds of cloth and settled comfortably. Her hands clasped on the coverlet.
Satisfied, Valjean began to read with a soft deepness, words sparking to life:
Fields of wheat, I yearn to seek
that long-lost youth which dares to peek.
Through golden husks and scattered seeds,
fiercely bursts a desperate need.
Thrown from rest, I steal away;
A crimson fog melts with day.
This midnight walk I take for you;
streets alight with drops of dew.
Amongst the stones I traverse,
a beating heart which we immerse.
Have you stood where I once stepped?
That ardent hope is one I kept.
Within my blood an answer cries,
A rotting want that never dies.
Valjean remained thus, head bowed as he repeated the words, smoothing them over in his head. After a while, he looked over and found Cosette asleep, and he released a smile.
The book slid from his hands onto his lap. Fumbling, he caught it before it clamoured to the ground in its attempt to rouse Cosette. A page bit his finger. Pulling back, he snapped the book closed in one hand and placed it on the nightstand beside the half-full glass of water. He looked back at Cosette. Then, not wanting another accident like the night before, he removed the glass and took it with him.
That night, Valjean fell asleep undisturbed.
However, a couple of hours later, something tugged at Valjean, lips murmuring soundless thoughts. Exhausted, he sluggishly awoke, sleep pebbling off his skin. Eyes remained sealed shut with evaporated moisture.
Valjean tossed, shoving his face into the pillow. The quilt's touch intensified the collection of sweat sandwiched between cotton and skin. His eyes cracked open. The room slowly appeared through the murky gloom, shut door manifesting itself first and furniture encroaching in his peripheral vision. He laid there for a while, churning through thoughts that swamped his brain.
All of a sudden, he lurched forward. Fresh sweat bloomed on his skin. He wrestled off the blanket as he sought the cool balm of night air.
A thought finally registered: he would have to go and see Javert on the morrow.
He flopped back into the mattress. Rolling over, he snatched a pillow and pasted it on top of his head. It shut out the ambient glow, but drove in the unbidden thoughts. Enacting its full capabilities, his brain dredged up snippets of imagery.
Javert slashed with a blaze of white.
The touch of firelight.
Terrifying.
But that was impossible. Valjean's eyes were fully open, but saw nothing as they fought with remembered inconsistencies.
His Javert only wore that iron-grey coat, sharp and imposing, like a statue.
The bite of teeth, snapping out orders.
Arresting.
His head ached and dug into the cushions. Tangled hair poured across the linen, soft texture wrenching it away from his scalp. His arm hung over the edge of the bed.
Who is Javert?
Legs flung Valjean out of the entrapping sheets and bare feet grappled with the cold floor. Valjean wearily crossed the room to the washbasin. He combed hair downwards and patted down any remnants of sleep-deprivation. Discarded and rumpled clothing found their way onto his body, and he shoved his limbs through the cotton.
He threw on his worn yellow coat, and went to check on Cosette. Assuring himself of her deep slumber, he closed her door and snuck downstairs. He removed the house key from its hiding place and he left, locking the door behind him. When he reached the gate, he unlocked it, created the smallest gap he could and eased himself outside. He secured the entrance and regarded the empty streets.
The glistening metal of the lone streetlamp to his right beckoned him forward. He complied. As he got closer, the cold light tempting him with promises of warmth, another light appeared further down. He waited under that single lamp, bathed in the unfeeling glow before removing himself. Trying his luck with the next stop, he kept walking, pausing once in a while to stand under a new streetlamp as both false heat and a caressing chill battled for his freed skin.
As he continued to wander aimlessly through the abandoned streets of Paris, night sought to comfort Valjean with her specialized charms.
She called to him with the rhythm of four wooden wheels grinding across ancient stones. The accompanying clod of iron shoes beat out the pounding in his head. The strange solo of another human as she sought another in the darkness ended in a soft decrescendo.
Valjean slowed his feverish walk, buying into the guile.
A low fog descended. This ephemeral elixir snapped upon his tongue, and he savoured the saturation of his own vaporous breath as it mingled into the air. Infinite droplets kissed his lips and clung to his beard with the languorous playfulness of an indulgent lover. He sighed and allowed the collected drops to gently press his lids shut.
Though he felt relaxed, his throat quaked.
Suddenly his solitude was disrupted when he crashed into an animate wall.
"Watch where you're going, asshole!"
Alarmed, Valjean stumbled when an elbow jabbed him in the ribs. His arms rose to protect his face, slipping instinctively into a defensive boxer's stance.
However, the attacker had abandoned Valjean to resume his attention upon his game. A half-smiling woman, clad in a gaudy bodice torn at the edges, leant against the wall. She was wiping her arms free of the dew that settled there. Her exposed skin glistened, magnifying the palette of crimson, blacks, and blues that mottled her thin frame.
The man made a grab for her arm as well, but she timidly danced out of his reach.
"I need you to pay first sir...I already lost my wages before..."
An unintelligible snarl.
"You'll loose more than wages tonight if you don't come over here!"
The darkness twisted and snaked into a gaseous mass of fury as Valjean witnessed the man beat the whore into the wall. Her shriek gradually tapered off into hiccupping sobs.
Valjean wound his way to the crook, and deliberately squeezed his hand around his shoulder. Startled, the man tore his gaze from the miserable woman and was instantly besieged by a pair of ham-sized fists, yanking his soiled cravat over his flabby chin.
The man's wilted moustache hung over his grey lips as he burbled. Digging his massive paws deeper into the encased flesh, Valjean jerked upwards. His catch flopped and flailed weakly.
One hand let go. Freed, the man gasped for air, until he registered the bulging mass of clenched muscle and sinew hurtling towards his face.
Then he screamed.
Valjean barely reigned himself in time to casually note the way the man's eyes twisted with blood as they protruded from his flaccid face. His slack mouth dribbled with spittle and a twinge of pink.
Instantly Valjean threw the man away from himself, disgusted. The man fell upon the cobbles like a discarded fish, wrapped in cheap finery.
He fanatically swiped at his filthy hands, but the pungent marinade of cowardice remained on his skin. They shook as he backed away from the still body. The prostitute was gone.
He was abandoned, swamped in a mire of his own cast-off violence.
So overwhelmed by the enormity of his latent viciousness, he did not hear the determined clomp of boots wading through the mist.
When his name was called, it was simply buffeted away.
Suddenly, a presence grasped his shoulder and drew him backwards.
"Come with me."
Valjean's eyes widened when it encountered the intense gaze of Inspector Javert. The hand firmed and Valjean shivered.
The Inspector did not withdraw.
He submitted, shoulders loosening.
"Take the man to the closest precinct and snap to!" commanded Javert, indicating the fallen man with a jerk of his head. Javert shot his three officers a glance.
"Where's the fiacre?"
A streetlamp stammered as it cast its feeble light. His colleagues looked around the alley, as if the hackney would instantly appear in the gloom.
"Dismissed?" Javert's fingers tapped upon Valjean's shoulder. He flinched, until he comprehended that Javert was not addressing him.
"How did you manage yourselves before? You do not dismiss a hansom when you're planning on apprehending a fugitive! Hell, a witness even!"
He snapped his fingers at the closest sergeant.
"You! Go hail a cab and be quick about it."
While the sergeant cut through the drizzle, Valjean and the others remained still, awaiting further instruction.
"The two of you, scour the area for the woman. We cannot charge anyone justly without her testimony."
While the taller of the pair rushed to heed Javert's bidding, the shorter one tramped up to Javert. He thrust his face upwards, squinting through thin veil of dingy sulphur light. Javert's lip curled.
"So sir, what are you going to do?" questioned the younger man.
Javert shifted his stance, transferring weight to his other foot.
"Ah, Sergeant Grosz, as for me," stated Javert, hand still restraining Valjean's shoulder. "I shall be questioning this particular witness."
Javert bowed forward slightly, like a wolf emerging from the underbrush, whiskers coated in topaz droplets. He grinned.
A puddle splashed Grosz's trouser leg as he retreated.
"I suggest you hop to your duty, Sergeant," said Javert, teeth flashing with every syllable.
The man stood for a second, entire face scrunched up before he stomped off to follow orders. He threw one sullen glance back before becoming swallowed in the dark.
The thump of feet resounded, growing fainter until it was gone.
"Valjean."
Valjean's head spun around. He rolled his shoulders, easily dislodging the grip of Inspector Javert. The imposing figure of dark grey fractured the undulating mist as his hand was instantly hidden away in the depths of his voluminous triple-caped coat. Two pale eyes flicked a glance. Valjean understood. Silhouetted in the lambent light, Javert turned and began walking away into the darker portion of the street.
As a fiacre rolled to a stop at the opposite end of the street, Valjean scurried to catch up with the Inspector's long strides. The clipped tones of the sergeant and the grunting of the driver as they lifted the body removed any desire Valjean had to look back.
Following Javert, he noticed that his coat was new and of high quality unlike his standard issue from Montreuil-sur-Mer. Droplets merely beaded upon the fine wool and was cast aside with every rustle of the thick fabric.
Valjean frowned. This was not the same coat from before. Was the fire damage from the Gorbeau tenement that great?
"This way, Valjean," indicated the Inspector, hands still hidden as he stood in front of a bar. Its windows dredged up some resemblance of light onto the drenched street. Valjean stepped forward into the light, and pulled open the door.
Once inside, Javert brushed past him and planted himself in the corner near the front window. Valjean manoeuvred himself around two half empty tables and a waitress that was bussing one of them. Though in the front, it was actually one of the more private of areas, as it was protected by the hewn bar to the left and was pushed up against a wall and the window. Their only neighbouring tabletop was full of empty glasses and chipped dinnerware.
Valjean tentatively perched himself in one of the seats, directly opposite of Javert. The other free seat housed his well-known hat. He clutched his knees, the damp material bunching between his fingers. He regarded the crumbs trapped within the grooves on the table, but every couple of seconds, he would glance upwards at Javert who watched him as if he would try and escape.
It was only when the waitress stopped by that the Inspector ceased his perusal of Valjean.
"Two pints, please," signalled Javert.
"I don't drink."
"Well, according to my wallet you do." He reached inside the layers of quality wool and placed a couple of coins into the woman's outstretched hand. The woman left without questioning either of the two men of their preferences.
Despite the raucous laughter frothing in the furthest corner, the atmosphere was casual for midnight revelry. A couple of men chattered animatedly at the bar, hands wrapped around beading glasses of golden liquid. Further down a loner snoozed, his head resting peacefully on the wood.
Two mugs of ale clanked down, spewing droplets and spotting the wood grain. Valjean observed Javert pluck a lemon wedge from the woman's hand and squeeze it into his drink. He stared uncomprehendingly as the pale juice mingled into the alcohol. A few seeds splashed into it as well before the wedge was banished to the edge of the table.
Javert brought the mug to lips and drank deeply, his throat working around the liquid. He caught Valjean watching him, raised a brow and placed his mug back on the table.
"If you wanted lemon too, you should have asked, Valjean." Javert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not all of us can read minds."
Jolted from his reverie, Valjean made a grab for his ale, dragging it across the table. Both of his hands wrapped themselves around the glass.
"Look Javert, I don't understand. Why am I here?" asked Valjean, thumbs running across the rim of his glass.
Javert pinched the bridge of his nose while expelling a rush of air. He looked as if he bit the lemon rather than squeezed it into his ale.
"Valjean, you nearly caved a guy's face in. I cannot let you go traipsing about town in the state you are in now."
The tankard in Valjean's hand began to quake, the condensation dripping over his fingers. He clenched his eyes, trying to hold back the fetid memories that began to chisel their way back into his mind.
With one hand, he slugged the drink upwards and guzzled it.
"Be careful, Valjean! You're of no use to me if you knock yourself out as well."
Javert's hands disappeared under the table.
"Just tell me exactly what happened tonight," he stated, before leaning back, diminishing his stature.
Valjean fiddled with his half-empty tankard, tracing the imperfect whorls. Then he sighed.
"It's just…I knocked into the b—the man and he attacked, but that's not what it was."
He stared at the glass as it wept upon the table.
"He just…"Valjean looked up, trying to ground his thoughts. Frightened faces swam through his mind like a morass of drowned bodies: the fallen woman melded and dissolved with her assailant into chimera of intermingled terror. A third one entered the crucible.
He snapped his face upwards. The Inspector's face was utterly neutral.
"He hurt her, Javert."
He swallowed. "And I…I guess I just snapped."
Valjean's head bowed, his long hair dragging through the warped coils of wood grain.
He discarded a breath. "Please just let me be."
"Valjean, look at me. I am not judging you; it is not my place. I am merely here to collect a statement, drop you home, and be on my merry way. So I will need a bit more information than what you have provided thus far."
Javert's voice remained measured throughout, a standardized cadence. "Understood?"
"Yes, but why aren't we at the precinct with the other man?"
Javert took a sip of his ale before regarding the obsidian window. The streaky glass enticed the pair with a softer and more ambiguous image of the Inspector, underlain with notes of alizarin.
"Sometimes, it's easier elsewhere."
Then he draped an arm across the back of the ladder-back chair, looking completely at ease despite the crisp formality of his uniform.
They slipped into a quiet reverie in which each regarded the other. Javert gestured to the serving girl with a flick of his wrist, and asked for a refill on the ale.
Valjean settled in to the hardback chair, sliding backwards into a more comfortable position. The room hummed with dull warmth from idle chatter and relaxed bodies. His foot knocked into something under the table, which promptly removed itself.
"Sorry."
"No need."
"So, is that it? In regards to the man?"
"Yes," replied Valjean. "I just couldn't stand by and let him continue to beat the poor woman, so I grabbed him."
He hung his head. "I didn't mean to return the favour."
"Technically you did not," interjected Javert. "You restrained yourself. The poor guy pretty much knocked himself out with terror."
"God forbid, I only wish to be left alone," admitted Valjean, rubbing his forehead.
"That's hard Valjean, especially in a city such as Paris. People are always fascinated by each other and more so when it's a newcomer. You cannot keep running," Javert braced an elbow on the table, seating himself sideways. "People are the most numerous and incalculable of obstacles on this earth."
Javert drew a breath and reached for his ale. "Given that, you know that we will have our first parole meeting tomorrow."
"Please don't remind me."
Javert paused in his drinking, shards of blue peering over the rim. He finished and carefully placed the glass on the table.
"It's that disagreeable, hmm?" The corners of his mouth hitched upwards.
"Look Javert," addressed Valjean to the table. "I'm starting a new life and I want to live in peace."
His throat dug past a fresh clog of words. "And I know you are a good and honest man."
Valjean consulted his mug. Foam obscured his face in the yellow liquid.
"But you are also a reminder of something I wish to forget."
Clinking glasses and the shuffling of disinterested bodies punctuated the silence, aggravating it. Valjean fidgeted under Javert's sidelong glance, one intense eye fixed upon him.
Then Javert straightened, pushing his tankard to the side. His massive hands clamped the edge of the table.
"Well Valjean, you have been most helpful tonight. And with that, I take my leave."
Javert rose, brushed his coat, and threw some francs upon the table.
"I wouldn't want you to have some unpleasant recollections."
He placed his hat upon his head, sealing off his expression and left.