A/N: I would like to credit frustratedstudent for somehow reading my mind! You have quite stumbled upon one of my plot points for this fanfiction…
Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters mentioned in any of their forms/incarnations.
In the end of it all, it was a scruffy little boy that catalyzed all of the events that occurred within this day of Inspector Javert's existence inside the station.
His shift was finally, thankfully almost over. The night was just beginning to creep into the last, straggling remnants of day. The moon was rising to overtake the sun. The sky, once bright with blue-white hope, was disappearing, dissolving, into the dark, somber atmosphere of night.
His shift was finally, thankfully almost over. That meant that he could return home, to the blissful warmth of his fire and the soft fabric of his slippers.
Actually, he did not have a fireplace, nor did he own a pair of slippers, much less plush ones. Javert was not immune to the human wishes for more than what one already has. Not even he could escape the jealousy and desires that consumed every one of the people of the Earth, even those with seemingly everything.
In reality, he had a single bed with two blankets, a rather badly upholstered armchair, a desk and chair, and a chest of drawers. This was all contained in a single room within a rambling, aging building of slightly-cracked brickwork. The Inspector also had use of a small, rusty kitchen and an even smaller washroom.
All in all, he was better off than a lot of the inhabitants of Paris. At least he had a flat. At least he had a bed, and a better blanket than his own greatcoat. In fact, he was luckier than a lot of people, for his flat had a small window that faced directly out to the horizon. The sunlight streaming in was his only wake-up call, and the amber sunset was his only curfew.
Yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.
A vast number of people within the Paris city limits woke up to the sound of screams, the wailing cries that pierce through the morning light. They washed their faces in the dirty water (if they washed their faces at all). They broke their bread in front of the bustling marketplace. Often times, the bread was not lawfully acquired by exchange of coins or promises to reciprocate a barter. Instead, the bread was stolen by force or by stealth.
Javert washed his face each morning in relatively clean water, at least as clean as anyone but the mayor could expect in Paris.
Cleanliness in hygiene bred cleanliness in records. He, unlike many, upheld the law with a more-than-fierce determination.
Javert broke his bread to the ever-escalating sunrise. His was bought with his always-dwindling police salary.
He, unlike many, would never turn to the black crime of thievery.
Yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.
He went to bed to the tune of silence, to the sight of a golden yellow sunset. He performed his routine, night time practices in front of a slightly-chipped mirror. It was not broken, so seven years were not to be his curse. In any case, he had little patience for superstition or the frivolous beliefs of bourgeoisies.
Yes, oh yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.
Many people of Paris went to bed to the noisy bangs and clashes of a closing market, the din closing in around their already damaged ears. At night, cries and screams breaking through the darkness welcomed them once more and became their lullaby. They performed semblances of habits in preparation for bed in front of the absence of a looking-glass. In desperation, some of the vainer type who desired narcissic confirmations of their supposed beauty glanced into the rippling glass of the river Seine. This mirror was broken every few seconds by tiny waves. These people, who never could seem to believe in the law, would surely believe in the deadly curses brought on by the breaking of pieces of glass mirrors. Ironic, really.
Inspector Javert could at least count himself amongst the small percentage of the lucky people in Paris, at the very least in this respect.
The doors slammed open, interrupting his lonely musing. Two patrolling officers (oh, how very lucky they were!) stormed in, dragging a very small body between them. The tiny body opened its piercing blue eyes and stared directly into Javert's smoky grey own. Almost reflexively, he had to fight the urge to draw back and go back to his paperwork, defeated by the eyes of a boy.
The boy gazed up to his captors' faces, a sort of smile breaking out upon his dirty, young face. "If ya let m'down, I'll n'v'r tell no one!" he bargained with the officers, trying at once to look both childishly innocent and fiercely threatening. He did not succeed with either expression, instead looking decidedly as though he had just lost a game of cards.
Inspector Javert sighed, this bodily sound becoming quite a definition of his character. He leaned back in his chair, determinedly avoiding returning to the awaiting, ever-growing stack of papers in front of him. He studied the small boy wriggling in the officers' arms with the stare of a falcon swooping down for prey.
"I swear t'it, sirs! I got me some pals ou'there. We migh' not be like you, all uppity an' wit' guns an' bullets…Bu' we've got us some smarts an' some knives alright," he threatened, still looking depressed and hopeless.
The officer to his left, who Javert recognized as Laplaie, threw his head back in a mighty laugh. "Yes, yes, of course. Because there are so many of you," he teased. Javert grimaced at Laplaie's stupidity. Did he not see the thousands of dirty faces, starved from hunger, lining the streets? The Prefect should look more carefully into what type of man he hires…
Instantly, the boy grinned. "Bu' of course, sir. We're ev'rywhere…", he whispered. He turned around, quick as a flash, and connected his fist with Laplaie's stomach. Laplaie, turning out to be a lot less stable than he looked, fell down to the ground. The sound of the impact silenced all other noise within the station.
Nothing can be said but that at that moment, everything was clear: criminals cannot merely be sorted by examination of their size. One must delve deeper.
And at that moment, the station became naught but chaos.