I believe this may have sorted out the coat problem! Let's see if I'm right.

Thanks to L'Ael-Inire, PhantomInspector, Marionette Javert Edwards, and AmZ for their reviews.

It was nearly the end of the day by the time the inspector slowed his pace.

He had made it to the outer edges of the city with only a slight pause to let a cart pass by and was now approaching Senlis. Otherwise the way had been clear. This had allowed him to pass, without stopping, through the north edges of Paris and out of the city with the use of Rue de St. Denis.

Ten hours later, he was approaching Senlis.

No doubt he was exhausted by this point. As one will recall, he had been pulled out of the Seine earlier that day and was still experiencing discomfort because of it. This made his pace, though constant, a little slower than usual, subsequently making his journey last longer than he would have otherwise intended.

As he was walking, he was forced, through lack of other relevant thoughts, to consider his current action. He was not sure what bade him "take his leave" from Paris. Perhaps the dismal street he had previously been walking down cemented some sort of concept that he needed fresh air. Perhaps the idea of people, in his agitated state, simply annoyed him to the extreme.

Or, and this is may be the most likely, he wished to get away from the Revolutionaries and, most importantly, Jean Valjean.

Indeed, he had never felt such a loathing for the man he had hunted for more than twenty years. If fate was the designer, Valjean was certainly the agent. No, fate could not have done such a thing without Monsieur l' Maire's help—of this Javert was certain. It was because of this offense on his person that l'Inspector found himself fleeing (for that is the correct word despite all his arguments to the contrary) the city of Paris.

Despite the uncomfortable choice of subjects, he continued thinking. There is little else to do when one is walking down a country road. After a few minutes, he determined that more than anything, he wished he could go back to that former world where law and order mattered above all else. Had Paris been as it was just two days ago, he would have turned on his heels and began to march back. If things had been as they were, he would never had left. Now, that world was dead-- a fact which only made him long for it more. He kept thinking of how comforting it would have been to have his stick in his hand—to walk out of the station, knowing he had rid the streets of some small bit of scum. He wanted once again to be sure that what he was doing was meant to be done, that he was on the side of right!

But all that had been cast away. And what was left was a man—mortal, fallible, and scared.

Agitated by the thought, he picked up his pace, attempting to wipe this drivel from his brain. He had failed at his duty and was to be exiled because of it. That was all. Such action was just and he was still a force of justice.

He continued for two more miles like this, reminding himself with every step that he was still on the side of right. Yet all the while fear and doubt wormed its way through his soul.

Finally, when his legs could go no further, the unfortunate soul collapsed.

Javert awoke to the sound of a gun firing*. Night had decended while he slept and, for a moment, he considered that what had occurred might all have been a dream. He thought that perhaps his wish had been granted-- that it was still the night of June 6th.

However, a sharp pain in his back and the sound of dairy cows quickly refuted this assumption. It had not been a dream, merely a waking nightmare.

Thinking perhaps a pinch of snuff would somewhat assuage this situation, he reached for where he usually kept his ornament box*--in his coat pocket. However, he found that not only was his snuff box missing, his coat was absent as well. Assuming he had taken it off before going to sleep (he would not admit to collapsing), he groped for his coat only to find it still missing. Frustrated, his quick mind searched back for where he could have left it, only to come to the awful conclusion that it was still at La Madeline. Fuming at this own foolishness, he lay back on the ground with a thump. He had two options now, to go back to Paris and retrieve his coat (a walk of twenty miles) or to go on without it. Naturally, his first reaction was to retrieve it. Not only was such an item extremely valuable and useful, it was also one of the few vestiges of his former life.

And it contained his snuff box.

However, after testing one of his legs and finding he could only move it with much effort and pain, he decided that such an action would not be prudent. He would retrieve it later, to be sure, but in his present condition he would not be likely to get even so much as one mile, not to mention twenty.

Nonetheless, he still needed to remove himself from the side of the road. The position he was in at the present moment, namely lying by a road without so much as a stick to defend himself with, was not one to be taken lightly. Highway robbers, especially disappointed ones, were, and still are not, the friendliest of people. One must also take into account that in his condition he would not have been able to stop them from slitting his throat. Thus, it was with a muffled groan that he pushed himself to his feet.

As our bedraggled officer stood up, he noticed a little boy standing in the middle of the road. The child was no more than seven years old and clearly was not accustomed to wandering the streets at night. The feathers of dirty blond hair that fell about his ears were ruffled as if someone had tried to get him to prepare him for bed and failed miserably. His clothing was in a similar state—half blue-striped pajamas, half grubby street clothes. The lad was staring, his blue eyes wide, at the recently awoken figure with a mixture of awe and pure fear.

This was unsurprising to Javert—he had found he generally had that effect on children. He had seen it often enough when he had taken criminals from their homes—their children watching in shock as his menacing figure passed by their window.

However, he had never seen one scream, which is just what this little boy began to do at the top of his lungs. It was a loud, high-pitched noise and one that was readily answered with a candle in a nearby window and the sound of rushing feet. A woman in a creamy white nightdress (which, Javert noted with disgust, was only half covered by a dark blue robe) appeared seemingly out of nowhere to defend the child. The boy's eyes instantly dried of his tears as the woman bent to comfort him, the sounds of relieved scolding issuing from her. His fears now mitgated, he glared insolently at the inspector, no doubt expecting his mother (or aunt, or whomever she was) to beat the threatening stranger to such an extent that only very close relatives would be able to recognize the body.

Smirking a little at the boy's naiveté, Javert stepped onto the road and was about to simply take his leave without another word when he heard someone shout for help. He instantly whirled around, all the habits of more than two decades in the justice system springing to life in him. As he looked around to seize the villain, he heard a whistle blow. Scarcely a moment after the shrill noise ended, he felt his arms being pinned behind his back.

1. The gun firing had come from a nearby execution. Since it was only one night after the Rebellion, many rebels were still in the process of being captured—and killed.

2. Another term for "snuff box"

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