Chapter 4 Marguerite.
Since Fantine's arrest and as she had no news from Fantine, the old Marguerite thought her dead. She had shared the attic of an old house with her for a long time and she had taught her everything. She had seen the young woman's state of health progressively deteriorate. When she woke up that day and saw that Fantine had not returned from work, she shook her head and said to herself, "Here, she has a lover." Then, in the evening, as she went to bed, she saw again that Fantine had not returned, she said to herself, "ah, she must be very happy with this one!" And finally, the next day, when she saw that Fantine was still not coming, and that a letter had been sent to her. She took the letter, opened it and read it. She knew the exchanges Fantine had with the Thénardiers. The letter said that Cosette's condition had not improved, and that the poor little girl would die if she did not send a hundred francs at once. The letter was two days old. She says to herself, "Lord, she must be dead today, they'll meet in heaven."
That morning the old Marguerite was sewing, and complained that she would soon have to lit a candle if the sun did not decide to come out from behind the clouds when she heard a knock on the door. She stopped her work to listen. An other knock. Who could it be? What if it was Fantine, back from the dead? Ah! The old woman got up and went down the stairs faster than her old age would allow. Within seconds, she was in the entrance and opened the door. Her heart froze at once when she recognized that the man in front of her was definitely from the police. "She's mad !", she said to herself, "she did something wrong"!
"Hello, madam, I'm Inspector Javert. Can I come in for a moment, please? »
The old woman made herself tiny to let him pass and closed the door behind him. Javert observed the surroundings for a moment, put his umbrella in a corner of the wall, then turned to Marguerite. The old woman had not dared to say anything, she observed this great black form before her, her hand clenched on the wrist of the door. It was the first time a police inspector had come knocking on her door. And though she had never done anything worth going to prison, the sweat was beading on her forehead.
"I'm looking for a young woman, a prostitute, have you seen her?" he said in a tone too aristocratic for the situation.
"Fantine? »
"Yes that's right, you know her? »
"What's happened to her ? »
"She's in the infirmary, she's sick and she's about to die. Is this where she used to live? »
Javert's grumpy and direct tone did not confuse Marguerite. Realizing that the inspector had nothing against her or Fantine, she relaxed and complied.
"Yes, you want to see her room? »
"Please," Javert says politely. Marguerite was charmed by it. She invited him upstairs and offered to sit in the chair she used to sew, one of the few pieces of furniture she had. Javert accepted and sat down while Marguerite put a little order in the small attic.
"Poor Fantine, as long as I've known her, she has always incubated this disease. Poor thing. The girl's sick too. I mean, she's going to die soon. She got another letter."
"A letter? asked Javert, whose curiosity was aroused.
"Yes, she gets plenty from these Thénardiers. They're keeping the girl in Montfermeil, I think. Cosette that's her name. She's sick. Fantine has to send some money and fast, but well, it doesn't fall from the sky and it doesn't grow into the ground. It's a shame, but it's fair, I guess. I would have lit a candle and prayed for those two souls, but I only have one left and I need it for myself, you know. They'll be content with prayers, that's all right. »
"She lived here? With you? »
"Yes, in the next room, come and see if you want. Just watch your head, you're very tall, you'll have to bend down a bit to avoid bumping yourself."
Javert got up and followed the old woman into the next room. It was a small room which the ceiling was angled with the floor. A piece of cloth had been spread over the side as a bed, and a small desk with a small chair was arranged in the corner of a wall.
"That's where she slept. Poor, poor Fantine. She was like a little ray of sunshine. You should have seen her when she first arrived, before she sold her hair. »
"She sold her hair? »
" They shaved it! For I don't know how many pieces. She had to pay the Thénardiers. But the worst part of it was that she was still pretty! Ahah" the old woman's laughter filled the room. Javert now saw Fantine more clearly in his mind. The night he arrested her, she had a little hat on her head that covered her hair. Yes, blond hair, he remembered it now. "Ah, how horrible it was! The old woman continued, resting on the office chair, "She ended up selling her two pallets! »
"Her palettes? asked Javert.
"Yes, both front teeth, Inspector. For two louis, 40 francs what! And it was for the girl, Cosette. Ah, if I were her, I'd have gone to take her if I had to die on the way with the kid in my arms. »
Javert was listening, gazing at an invisible point in the room, even the old woman could not guess what was going on in that cold heart. The vulgar rag before his eyes served as a bed for the prostitute, he imagined himself spending a night with this only blanket, this sad, pierced rag and he shuddered. A memory he thought he had forgotten came back to him. But even before it could become clearer, he scattered it.
"The letters? he said, suddenly coming out of his torpor. "Give it to me."
Marguerite did so at once, opened the drawer of the desk and took out a small packet of letters tied by a piece of string. Javert took them, slipping his finger under the string, pulled and the string gave way. He flipped through all the letters and found that they all came from the same address. "Did she never write? asked Javert, putting the letters in the inside pocket of his overcoat.
"The wretched woman couldn't write, I think she had them written by a public writer in town. »
"Well.. " murmured Javert, thoughtfully. He greeted her with a short bow, then, fitting his hat to her head, "thank you, and goodbye," he said as he stepped out.
The public writer is, by definition, the one who writes letters for those who cannot write. And Fantine was one of those who never had the privilege of holding a pen or sitting on a classroom bench. Fantine was the daughter of a peasant almost penniless, so poor that when she was only ten years old she had to go to work on a farm near Montreuil. Instead of learning to write, she had to learn to draw milk, lift hay to move it, feed horses and collect eggs from the henhouse. She could read orders for goods and count money. If she could write, it was only her first name. All she had that was good to her was that name without a surname and her beauty.
So every time it was necessary to write a letter to the Thénardier, she spent her money. In Montreuil, the public writer was called Monsieur Chartant. He had a tiny little office right next to the City Hall. He was a respectable man, endowed with all the qualities that made him a good public writer. This man loved sobriety and discretion. He did not have children and had never been married. The man had a face engraved in marble. He heard everything and yet, did not wink at any of the confidences he was asked to write on his papers. He didn't say anything, so people tended to forget it was a human being writing. If he was judging anyone, one could not tell. He ended his day late at night, and started early in the morning. That man was the pen personified.
Javert, on the evening he visited Marguerite, had returned home and settled in his office. There he began to read one by one the letters the Thénardiers had written to Fantine. All had more or less the same speech, Cosette needed something that obviously had to be paid for. In cases where the amount was substantial, a note from a third party would always justify sending the amount as quickly as possible. The tone was always the same, Fantine was blamed for the delays that she had to correct by sending a new amount of money. Javert finished all the letters at half past midnight, then went to bed. The next day, after having done all that he had to do, he went at Monsieur Chartant's in the late afternoon.
The man in his sixties greeted him with the polite and courteous kindness that one owes to any client, and went to his seat, already grabbing a pen and a piece of paper.
"I'm not here to write," Javert said.
Monsieur Chartant raised his small eyes in surprise and took off his glasses. He stared at the police inspector with his surprised eyes.
"I'm actually here to inquire about one of your clients," Javert confided.
The writer's face changed and suddenly closed. He shook his head and stood up.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but everything that happens here must be kept secret"
Javert smiled, "I agree, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Inspector Javert. »
Chartant's face did not change, and at that moment Javert wondered whether this man was not going to stand in his way. "I am currently investigating for Mr. Mayor," at this divine mention, the writer seemed to relax, Javert did not fail to notice it and was annoyed. Nevertheless, he now had the trust of the old man. He continued, Here, take that and tell me if you have ever written for this address."Javert took out one of Thénardier's letters from his pocket.
Charting grasped it with his fingertips, adjusted his glasses and began to read, muttering.
"Montfermeil.. He raised his eyes to the sky, displaying a reflective face, then fell down on his chair and began to rummage through the many drawers of his writing desk. "Yes, I have an old draft here, I never throw away the paper, I cut it so as not to waste it. Lucky for you, I haven't had time to deal with it yet. Well, it was a woman who wrote, wasn't it?" The man raised a scrutinizing eye to the inspector, still a little suspicious, waiting for Javert to spit out again everything he knew about his client.
"Yes, a young woman. Blonde, blue eyes? »
"Yes, Madame often wrote for Montfermeil. What do you want to know? »
"What the letters said. Who was that Thénardier ? »
"Why? »
Like the dog held on to its bones, Chartant was not quick to let go. Javert, whose patience was put to the test, seemed caught between two feelings, the admiration of this prudent man who respected the codes of his trade, and irritation.
"Sir, I too am bound by professional secrecy. This is a matter the Mayor has entrusted to me. If you don't want to cooperate, I'll leave, but the mayor will be forced to come here himself."
"No, no, there's no need to bother Father Madeleine about this. Well, you should know that I write a lot of letters a day, a week and a month, it's a good deal and I don't remember everything my clients tell me. But it seems to me that this young woman used to write a lot and send generous amounts of money to these people. She only had them as a correspondent if you want to know, always the same address, that tavern in Montfermeil. She cried a lot and had trouble telling me what to write. I often had to cross off and start over. I never had the heart to charge her for the paper she was wasting. But I haven't seen her for a long time. Has there been a serious problem, inspector ? »
"She's sick," replied Javert, screwing his hat over her skull. "Thank you, sir.
By the way, do you know the name of that tavern? »
"Hmm, something to do with Waterloo.. That's a funny name, by the way." Again, the old man looked up to the sky with the same look of the one who digs his head to remember. "Oh, yes! The Waterloo Sergeant, if I'm not mistaken."
Javert lifted his hat as a thank you and went to the door, "Ah and to say hello to Father Madeleine when you see him again, it's a pleasure to help him." Javert left and slammed the door behind him.
Javert unfolded the collar of his coat, the wind blowing, freezing his ears. He walked up the avenue, hands in his pockets, to the police station, where he ended his day by writing reports. At dusk, when at last his day was over. He lit a candle and melted into the back of his chair. Looking at the ceiling, he began to think. The events of the last few days were going on in his head. Fantine had not lied, the pathetic excuse she had given him was true. He checked it out himself. But it didn't change anything, did it? She was a prostitute, she had attacked a man, she was worthy of imprisonment. Javert sighed deeply. He thought of Cosette, what had become of her?
She must have died because the prostitute had not sent anything since. He sighed again and rubbed his two big hands on his face, rubbing his thick eyebrows and huge favorites.
He left the police station and headed for the notorious districts of Montreuil.
"This is the third time we've seen each other, Inspector. Maybe it's time we get to serious matter. My name is Cathrina. The black-haired prostitute walked beside him, her little feet slamming into the puddles of water formed by the roughness of the ground. She wore a thick black shawl with red fringes on her head, which she also used as a scarf. "Where are we going? asked the prostitute with a child's curiosity.
"I have a few questions to ask you," eluded Javert who, in fact, was walking with no final destination in mind.
"Ah? Again? Typical ! I could have had a flourishing career in the police forces," the sentence had been said with blistering irony, Javert lowered his head to look at her, she had that radiant, innocent smile on her youthful face, and for the first time since he had seen her, Javert was struck by her youth.
"You knew about the assault on the prostitute, didn't you? »
"Yes, everyone is more or less aware of it, anyway, it happens all the time. No luck for the one who had the misfortune to run into you. Well, one less, or one more, what's that? And as they say at home, better her than me! »
"You witnessed the scene? »
"No, but I know someone who saw it all! »
"And what did she say?" Javert stopped suddenly at the corner of a street and grabbed Catharina's arm, bringing her back to him, for she had gone on her way without seeing that he had stopped. She puffed with laughter and readjusted her shawl on her shoulder.
"Gently, Inspector, you are not very solf. Well, I'm telling you all this, but my time is your money, how much do you give me? »
Javert's face became menacing. Cathrina's cheeks grew purple, and as she curled herself, she lowered her eyes like a child being scolded. "That's it. So, apparently, the gentleman threw snow at her. Then they had a fight and the poor girl threw herself at him. As I tell you, this kind of thing happens every morning, but hey, if you had just arrived a few minutes before, what would have changed?" Cathrina had taken on that impertinent and casual air. Without knowing it, she had been aiming right and had just shaken Javert's inner core. It was one of the first earthquakes, many of which subsequently weakened this strange monument of certainty and principle in Javert's soul. He said nothing, looking at the young woman who stood before him. She was insolent, but she was not a liar. And what she said sounded like what the prostitute Fantine told him the night she was arrested.
"Happy? »
"Here," Javert took out a few pennies from his pocket and dropped them into the palm of Cathrina's hand. "It's all I have on me and you'll be content with it"
"Thank you, Inspector, so I definitely enjoy working with you! I look forward to seeing you again! Cathrina stepped backwards, exaggerated a bow, and with a gesture of her hand, as if greeting an imaginary audience, she kissed her hand and threw a kiss at the inspector.