Note: *In this chapter, some quotes (only in the dialogues) are from Victor Hugo's book, Les Misérables. I will write a note at the beginning of any further chapter where I would be using VH's writing. The rest comes from me. Enjoy !

Chapter 1. Early stages of an earthquake.

The mayor had left the prefecture with two other officers. He had taken the prostitute with him, and the door had closed on them, leaving Javert alone with himself. There, standing in a corner of the room where he had witnessed the most absurd of tragedies. He was paralyzed with anger, rage, everything had been played out in a few minutes, everything had happened like a bad play. First, the prostitute, then the entrance of that Mayor as a saint savior. He arrived at the right time, at the exact right time, as if he knew in advance what was going to happen, or was it just a coincidence? But then why did the Mayor have to be here at this very moment?

The prostitute threw herself at him, Javert, and begged him to listen to her, to let her go. She had taken her hand and placed it on her breast without Javert realizing it. He looked down on his hand, he was not wearing a glove, he had felt against his palm the coldness of her skin and the rickety breath of her chest. He clenched his fist and a grimace of disgust swept away the memory of this contact. Once again, Monsieur Madeleine's face returned to his mind. He could see him clearly, that mayor, that saint with his graceful smile, his thick grey hair and his benevolent look.

That look, moreover, which had, for only a few seconds, reminded Javert of his young years in the prison of Toulon where he had been a prison guard. It is useful to remind readers of the events that preceded the arrest of the prostitute. A few months before, a man named Fauchelevent, an old farmer who had become a cartman, had an accident. Javert still remembered the sound of the cart crashing to the ground and the painful groans of the two horses whose thighs had been broken. He had rushed to find old Father Fauchelevent under the cart. His chest was compressed under the heavy weight, men had tried to lift the cart without success. The old man continued his incessant grumbling, while around, everyone had gathered. Javert ordered them to get a jack to lift the cart.

Monsieur Madeleine, who was passing by the street, had heard the agitation and had rushed to see. The crowd was hiding Fauchelevent and Madeleine had to make his way to discover with shudder the terrible accident.

"Do we have a jack? asked the mayor.

"We went to get one, we have to wait," replied a peasant.

"Wait? the mayor murmured in a thoughtful air. "He will die if we do nothing, where is the jack? »

"We went to get him at Flachot, as close as possible! »

"And is it far? The mayor was obviously worried.

"A good quarter of an hour! »

"It's too much! The cart is sinking, we have to act and fast!" shouted the mayor, as he was looking for volunteers to slip under the cart and lift while we pull old Father Fauchelevent away.

Everyone had been quiet and looked down. Going under there, could get you crushed, and since only one man could get under the cart, that man had to be strong.

"It is not the goodwill they lack," said Javert, who stood behind the mayor.

The inspector was almost one head above the crowd, colossal compared to them, and his presence was sufficient to make a barrier and keep the crowd from approaching. The mayor suddenly turned around. Almost as tall as Javert. "That's strength," continued the inspector calmly, "you'd have to be a terrible man to do the thing of lifting a cart like that on your back." And this time staring his steel gaze into those of the mayor, he went on, taking the time to articulate each of his words.

"Mr. Madeleine, I have never known but one man who is capable of doing what you are asking for." And he exulted silently when he perceived a trembling in the old mayor's eye. Proud of its effect, filled with the assurance of the one who knows, he added with an air of indifference, "he was a convict."

"Ah," said Madeleine.

"From the prison of Toulon". Javert was hitting him words after words.

The mayor's face had turned pale. Javert's eye gripped him. Under the cart, Father Fauchelevent's groans now sounded like tearings, reminding the mayor of the terrible reality that was unfolding behind him. He regained his colours, and went back to looking for a volunteer, still no one. Then, smiling sadly and giving Javert one last look over his shoulder, he fell to his knees, and before anyone could say anything, he was under the cart. Javert, in the midst of the tumult, held his breath. His gaze fixed on the mayor, around him, people feared for the mayor's life, while he was waiting for him with an air of defiance, impatient to see what would happen. And little by little, while the cart was shaking, Madeleine's face became red, and the veins of her forehead were protruding. He looked up and immediately met the inspector's gaze. And Javert was struck with a lightning bolt. It was him. The convict he had been looking for for so many years. 24601. Javert did not forget anything about this man. Jean Valjean. That name, that number was engraved in his memory. Without difficulty this time, he saw the chains again, the shirt of the convict torn and dirty. Yes, he had known only one man who could do such a thing. Jean Valjean. And it was clear at that moment that Madeleine and Jean Valjean were the same man. One and the same man.

As soon as Javert came to his senses, he sat down at his desk and began to write. By the time he had finished, his rage had subsided, but it was still alive inside him. He put down his pen, carefully folded the letter, and put on it the stamp of the prefecture of Montreuil-sur-Mer. Then he slipped on the back of his chair and began to think. He thoughtfully passed his hand through his two favourites, burping the thick hairs. His gaze lost on the flames of the fireplace, he silently replayed the events of the evening. If he had not heard the prostitute's complaints when she threw herself at his feet, now he remembered it perfectly. Javert had a mocking smile on his face, how many times had he seen this kind of show? How many different excuses had he heard since he joined the police forces? He should have kept a register, he thought ironically.

But the prostitute, whose name he had forgotten, something like Ondine? Fontine? That prostitute had something the others didn't.

She told him about a little girl. Don't they all have one? In Montfermeil? Yes, and certainly everywhere, like cockroaches, like rats. Javert didn't have any children. What's the point and with whom? He had never thought of it and the desire to have it had never been his. The children were so perfidious, you never knew when to believe them. Children make the best thieves, there's some good convict seed in them. And for Javert, there was nothing worse than a child growing up on the street. They make the worst thieves to catch and the worst liars to discern. They have the face of an angel and the heart of a demon. They are smiling while their little hands are going through your pockets.

Yet, Javert admitted, there are some who are good, well-educated, who never steal or lie. They become magistrates, or aristocrats, or police officers, like him. Could it be that the child of the prostitute was among those ones? Javert snuggled. The apple never falls far from the tree. And yet... Javert frowned. His mother was a fortune teller and his father was convict. And yet Javert was today nothing like them. No, he was what represented the ultimate good, he had become the symbol of order and law. He was a police officer, an inspector in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The apple had fallen and rolled far from the tree. He shuddered, imagining what he would have been if he had not become a police officer.

Could it be that the prostitute's child had a destiny different from her mother? Could it be that she was like him? Javert took a deep breath and stood up, cutting off his stream of thought. He took the letter and put it neatly in the pocket of his black raincoat. The next day, early in the morning, he went to post it for Paris.