To Catch a Thief (Valjean)

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The scent of malefactor was so strong the bloodhound did not even need to see his prey in order to follow him. It lingered after him through the streets as they broadened from little more than alleys to ordinary streets and beyond to the incongruity of the Faubourg’s opulent boulevards. This rogue didn’t belong here; it would have plain even had Javert not trailed him from Saint-Michel. His dress, his furtive manner, and when he opened his mouth his coarse dialect, none of it came from the aristocratic mold that turned out most of this area’s residents.

He knew how to remain unnoticed though, this sly dog. It was a specialty of his pack, that notorious band called the Patron-Minette. However, he wasn’t the only hound on the street. Inspector Javert had spotted him earlier that afternoon and had recognized him; here was a man that, if he were striding purposefully somewhere, it could mean nothing good. So Javert dogged him and at each turn grew more astonished at his boldness. The Faubourg in broad daylight? Did he have a death wish?

But they had been walking, hunter and unwitting prey, for longer than Javert had thought. The sun had begun to set behind the houses of the wealthy and the remaining light was fading with it. Perhaps not so foolish then. There was a nice balance between light and shadow for the thief to work in. Unfortunately for him, it also provided cover for a police inspector who would not let him ply his trade. In the umbrage of an especially large façade Javert waited for the man to trip himself up. Even with the Patron-Minette, known as they were, he could not act on what might be, only what was.

He did not have long to wait. Inconspicuousness was difficult to maintain for any stranger in this neighborhood, and this man was eager to get away. Javert watched him take out a pry bar and wedge the window open. This was enough, and the inspector sprang into action, crossing the street in record time. Even so he was nearly too late and had to seize the thief’s legs as he passed through the window. He let out several undignified squawks before realizing his error, but by then Javert had managed to drag him back to the street. He put up a struggle though, and must have overturned something because as he reluctantly gave in to the inspector, a loud crash came from inside the house.

The man continued to fight, and here he showed himself to be a fool. Caught in the act? It was all over, and a lovely cell awaited him. Javert had the advantage of both surprise and height. Together they were enough. Once the would-be intruder was subdued, the inspector brought him round to the door. No doubt the house’s occupants had heard the disturbance and would wonder at it, so he knocked at the door with the fist that did not have the man’s collar gripped tight. “It is the police,” he called out, firmly but calmly, only a little out of breath. He little dreamt what consternation the simple statement might incite within.

[Deleted]

Valjean had told his daughter expressly not to leave the house. He had not only told her, he had asked her. He had not imagined that she would refuse him anything, especially when he was ill. Ill with only a trifling summer fever, it was true, but as strong as he was, he was aging, and rather against his will, he had found himself down for a nap in order to fight the fever. He had always been a light sleeper, because that was how you survived in a prison and also how you survived as a fugitive. However, he had not awoken when Cosette left. He realized this when he was awoken by something else, something besides just the opening and closing of a front door.

He had asked Cosette not to leave because the world was a dangerous one, and that was proven to him when it seemed that not even their own house was protected from the world around them! As he bolted from his bed, he knew at once that the crack he had heard in his half-sleep was that of a window bar breaking. Had he not done the very same thing when attempting to escape from prison so many times all those years ago? There were some candlesticks on the table in his room – some which had been gifts, and a larger one which would serve the purpose of accosting an intruder.

“Cosette! Stay in your room!” he ordered as he barreled from his room out into the parlor – only to realize that she was not there, or anywhere; he passed the door and it was open, and there was no daughter cowering within; she had given him no answer because she was not there. Fear overtook him at the thought that the invading rogue had already gotten in so quickly and taken his daughter, but he realized in another moment that she might have gone out, alone, of her own volition. That was almost as alarming, but there was no time for it at the moment.

However, when he arrived at the window that had been pried open, there was an overturned desk but nothing more. Did he believe that the knock at the front door was the police? Still holding the candlestick aloft threateningly, he moved to the door and opened it swiftly, his face flushed by fever and rage, and probably rather terrifying in appearance as it belonged to a tall, broad man.

However, whatever terror an invader might have felt at coming face-to-face with such a man, Jean Valjean felt it in even greater degree as he looked into the face of Inspector Javert.

By God's grace, he collected himself in another instant and lowered the candlestick. “Inspector,” he greeted calmly. His eyes searched the man's face, wondering if he was recognized. He was clean-shaven, and well-dressed, albeit rumpled somewhat from the rest and from the quick awakening. His eyes then darted to the still-struggling criminal. “You have my thanks for apprehending this intruder.” His eyes remained on the would-be thief, praying that Javert did not recognize him. “May I ask what is the intended punishment?”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

Javert had some time to wait between his knock and the opening of the door, but he thought nothing of it. The house before which he stood was a large one— not, perhaps, as large as some of its neighbors, but still there were no small houses in the Faubourg— and its owner could have been deep within. In fact, the inspector thought nothing at all until the door swung forward to reveal what seemed to be a madman. His face was flushed and filmed over with sweat, his eyes wild. It was a terrible sight, and one that made Javert question whether he had missed a thief. Had he been so intent on the one that he'd completely overlooked another? If ever he'd seen a man who looked more caught in the act of robbery, he could not recall it.

The face of Inspector Javert was never the most open of tomes, but when confronted with what he took to be a man caught red-handed— with the nerve to use a pilfered candlestick as a weapon, no less!— his expresison hardened into an equally terrible mask. This stony grimace barely registered a change at the man's response; it would not have been the first time a miscreant pretended to be someone he was not, in order to get away with his crime. However, there was no honor among thieves, and over the course of a few seconds Javert came to accept that an accomplice would have slipped out through the back rather than expose himself to danger like this. That the man was in shirtsleeves at this hour was also strange; but what really did Javert know of the habits of wealthy men? He served at their pleasure, but he did not dine at their tables.

Having settled these particular doubts in his mind, he accepted the gratitude with an incline of the head. It was no more than his duty, after all. The man's inquiry, however, caught his attention, and his gaze took itself away from the would-be thief still struggling against his grip. As he took in the man's appearance again, he could not but help noticing the disarray his clothes were in, but they were high quality and in keeping with this area of town. Again, what did poorly-paid police inspectors know of the rich, except to do their bidding when the law demanded it? No more would a pebble be aware of the habits of the mighty oak that grows alongside it.

Something about the man struck a discordant note with Javert, and he was tempted to give an answer which he would have given to a second thief, if there had been one; but he recognized that this would be overstepping his bounds. That was something he had not done in years and had no desire to start now. However, if he could not address the man inside the house with contempt, the same was not true for the thief cringing on the threshold. "This man—" the emphasis, the tone of the word 'man' made it clear that Javert considered this term a questionable one— "is not worth a moment's concern to you, Monsieur. But since you ask, it will likely be six years in irons for looting, since nothing was taken. Considering what it might have been if I had not stopped him, this man should be grateful."

[Deleted]

“I crave your indulgence for my... disheveled appearance,” he murmured as an afterthought, inclining his head again, this time apologetically. “I am recovering from a fever., and had no expectation of company” He doubted that Javert much cared, and it was uncertain that he would believe Javert, but at least his suspicion had not been named to be a physical similarity to 24601. He had aged since the last time they had seen each other, and in his current state, he did not look as distinguished as he had as the mayor, nor as monstrous as he had looked as a prisoner. This could be the only explanation as to how Javert had not recognized him – assuming that he had not. Javert was not one to play games.

Should he introduce himself as a gentleman, Fauchelevent? Would it only seem more suspicious? Javert had not even believed his last alias, not entirely. Valjean could only attempt to keep his calm. That he managed to do so was due in part to Cosette's absence and to the knowledge that if he was taken now, she would not be implicated. She would not be disgraced. Who would provide for her? He had made some arrangements, just in case, that she would be cared for by her servant with money that Valjean had set aside. Of course, no one could know everything. He could only hope that Javert did not know everything either.

However, they were not the only ones here; he could not let his worries be dispensed primarily on himself. His eyes fell upon the man who Javert held. Even though the man had been attempting to steal from him, Valjean was struck with compassion as he beheld the man. He was not just a criminal, but a man, one with hungers and passions and a family. One who perhaps was trying to find food for his family, just like Valjean once had been.

Perhaps he was worse. Perhaps if he was released, he would steal from someone else, and did so for spot rather than sustenance. But where Javert saw everything at its worst, Valjean attempted to see otherwise. “Six years,” he repeated, crestfallen. And to be taken straightaway, to serve his sentence, no doubt. There was no doubt of his guilt; Javert must have seen everything, and the trial would provide no escape. The man deserved to be punished for his crime, yes, but was he deserving of six years? Valjean was only here because he had gotten better than he deserved. “I am grateful for your duty, M'sieur Inspector. Will you permit me to give this man something to eat before he goes?” he asked, speaking to Javert even though his eyes remained on the would-be thief. Whatever Javert thought of him, whatever came of this, the man deserved some mercy. Valjean's expression softened as he addressed him. “If you desired something, m'sieur, you need only have asked.”

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The excuse might be currency to some; to Inspector Javert they were counterfeit, one and all. The explanation, however, was another species, especially when offered by a man whose reputation was not cast in doubt. Though at first impression the inspector had been suspicious, this reaction was tamed somewhat by examining the man's clothes. They were slightly creased, but the quality of the fabric was consistent with his surroundings. Javert was now convinced at least that he was the owner of this house and not another thief, and he replied with that understanding in mind, meeting the man's gaze steadily. "It is no business of mine. A man should be master in his own house."

He wasn't entirely comfortable with the gentleman's appearance. However, this seemed to him to be only because he would have been horrified to find himself in the same state. As a man of precision (and severe proscriptions) he would never have the time or the patience to sleep during the day. This was merely confirmation of the reason why. Sickness was a degrading and inconvenient thing, one which a dutiful police inspector could not endure for long. He was fortunate then that his clean living— no indulgences but snuff, and that not often— had kept him far from most illness. The occasional fever, such as what this man suffered, had spent its time with him, accompanied him in his work, but rarely laid him up.

The house’s owner did not seem to have any work to occupy him, thus the feasibility of sleep. Javert’s duty did not hinge on him at all, since he had seen all for himself; so his health or lack of it was not of concern. What was his concern dangled by his collar in one of the inspector’s hands. In the other was the law, which would give this man what he deserved. But… did the monsieur not agree? Javert detected a note of something unexpected in his voice as he repeated the inspector's pronouncement. Dismay, perhaps? This was so incongruous, he ignored it for the sake of simplicity.

The gentleman's next words were not so easily brushed aside, however. They almost seemed familiar to him, like the knell of church bells tolling at the same hour of the day down through the years. He could not think why. Certainly he had heard similar things many times before, from well-meaning but misguided men; often men of God. Javert did not understand the deity of such men, for the one he knew wielded justice in one hand and reason in the other, with no room for anything like what this man was offering the marauder who had just attempted to rob him. The inspector narrowed his eyes, still in confusion rather than suspicion; his expression as always was legible as a clearly printed page.

"Why should you care so much what happens to this scoundrel?" he asked, giving the man's collar a slight shake; but he had given up struggling. He seemed as astonished as Javert. "But if it pleases you, monsieur, you may fetch something for him to gnaw on in his cell. Given that it was your house he made an attempt on, he is as much your charge as mine. Go on then, fetch him some bread, or what you will." Javert kept his eyes on the gentleman as he spoke; the thief was going nowhere.

[Deleted]

Valjean had made a misstep, he knew. Of course it wasn't Javert's business what he was doing in his own house, but in spite of his words, Javert did not seem to believe that it was a man's business what he did in his own house... or at least he did not seem entirely convinced that this was Valjean's own house, and that he was not some rogue himself. It would be unsurprising if Javert's mind made the great leap to think that just because Valjean had once stolen a loaf of bread, he would steal the possession of a house as well. What was surprising, however, was that Javert did not seem to recognize that Valjean was in fact Valjean. Surprising, miraculous... Valjean silently thanked God, and prayed that it would remain this way.

He remembered the night he'd told Javert that he would return after rescuing Cosette. Of course, after taking Cosette from the Thenardiers, he had fallen in love, and he could not leave her. He had broken his word to Javert. And ten years later, he was still unwilling to keep his vow to return to chains. Not while he was still Cosette's sole caretaker. Whether that would change in the future, he could not know; perhaps he was unwilling to know. This boy, this Marius... Well. He had other concerns, even now. He had to keep his wits about him, and that was hard enough with his fever. It could not be that he was having a fever-dream, a nightmarish hallucination of Javert, could it?

It was only a reminder of his aging, that one day, he would leave Cosette and join his Maker. He had always been a strong man, and to be laid low by a trifling illness--! It was ridiculous. After this, he would never sleep during the day again.

One thing that could not be attributed to the fever, however, was his desire to show mercy to the man who had attempted to steal from him – even if it did seem to be madness. Why did he care what happened to the man? “Because he is a man,” Valjean replied, brows furrowing at the question as if its answer were obvious. “And he is hungry.” It was that simple to him. He met Javert's gaze evenly. “Jesus Christ says whatever we do for the 'least of these,' we do unto Him.”

He swallowed, against his will, as Javert ordered him to fetch bread. Of all things. He turned quickly, to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts as much as to get the man something to eat. Once out of Javert's sight within his house, Valjean ran a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. He hastened to fix his appearance as best as he could, then took a loaf of bread for the criminal. He brought it back out to the door and held it out, thanking God his hand did not tremble as he did so. “Thank you, Inspector,” he murmured quietly. It could not hurt.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

From certainty he had been lulled by the piling up of circumstances and details until suspicion was all that remained. Javert knew the dangers of letting suspicion grow unchecked; and yet, the last time he had done so, in the end he had been vindicated. His instinct had never failed him, though it had seemed that way then. The memory still rankled, not only because of the ultimate outcome which was wretched in its own right, but also because that man, the convict costumed so futilely in the clothes of a mayor, had made the inspector doubt himself. He, Inspector Javert, did not doubt! It was a terrible habit reserved for the weak of mind and the wavering of heart. No one who stood upright indulged in it.

But why should he think of such ancient history at a time like this? The gentleman who was before him now might bear a resemblance to that dangerous brigand, but so might many others. For a time Javert and even the men who had spent more time with him than anyone, even they had been convinced that they had the real Valjean when really they had only a false one. He would not make the same mistake again. Why then did his instinct still cry out against the man? Despite his better judgment, he declined to heed it.

This resolve, however, lasted only until the gentleman showed unnatural concern for the would-be thief, stirring memories grown dusty with time. Only vague flashes came, fragments that refused to rise to the surface, but all the same Javert was perturbed, and that fact made him still more unsettled. His ordinary state, the one in which he was most comfortable, was one of complete calm. To be thrown out of it was terrible. He could not survive long in these disturbed eddies; they would have to fling him one way or another.

Javert felt the thief shift in his grip and momentarily spared him a glance. He was staring at the gentleman with a strange, savage disbelief, his face set into a silent snarl. Silent, that is, until he spat out a few words: "Don't want nothing from the likes of you scum, 'cepting what I can steal." A repeated shake of his collar reminded him that he was already at the end of a chain. "Your tongue," Javert warned, and the two words were sufficient; he turned sullen, eyes downcast. Now that he was unresponsive, the inspector prompted, "Well?" and the thief grudgingly addressed a thank you to the gentleman without looking at him.

This accomplished, the inspector did what his prisoner refused to do and returned his gaze to the house's owner. He was still explaining why he'd offered this rat in human form a slice of cheese, and out of the blue. "Did he say he was hungry?" Javert asked impassively. "I did not hear him say so." Then the gentleman brought scripture into it, which caused him a minor irritation. People were always doing it, but he never listened. Even a bishop would only have gotten a respectful hearing, no more. Continuing to meet the other man's eyes, he answered, "Well, if you insist." The church had his allegiance as the highest authority, but individual faith was subjective and therefore suspect.

He waited impatiently with his prisoner. The man had given him plenty to think about, but Javert did not like to think deeply about anything. It was enough simply to know where he stood. So when the owner of the house returned with an entire loaf of bread, Javert's scowl deepened. "You think highly of this rogue," he growled, but allowed the thief to accept the gift. He slipped it into one of the large pockets intended instead for the gentleman's silver, without another word. "Well, if that's all— your name, monsieur? For the records? I saw all for myself, but may we call you as witness if it's needed?"

[Deleted]

Valjean did not flinch as the criminal spat the harsh words at him. Slowly, his hand reached up to wipe the spittle from his cheek, and he gave a nod as the man uttered a grudging thank you. Under Javert's unforgiving gaze, Valjean pressed his lips together more firmly, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Javert's question was pertinent; the man hadn't said that he was hungry, no. But Valjean had just assumed that a man would not steal unless he was hungry. No, he realized; sometimes men did things just for the sport of it. Though he did not know Thenardier well aside from their brief interaction when he'd been taking Cosette, he knew his type well enough, from being in jail for twenty years with criminals, and this man seemed to be that type. Again, perhaps Valjean should not assume.

Twenty years in prison had hardened him and made him believe the human heart was black and cold, as was his own; the twenty years since then had convinced him of the opposite. “Forgive me,” he said, swallowing. “It was wrong of me to presume too much.” He was not angry at the man, or at Javert, for pointing out what was the truth; he blamed himself. It seemed that living in wealth for a time had changed him somewhat. He pitied the poor on principle and helped them, even though there were some who did not want his help. Some who thought they did not, or maybe truly did not, need it. For Valjean, Jesus' command to care for the poor, orphan, and widow was not a nice saying or something to quote so that he looked benevolent; it was his way of life.

Still, though the criminal may not have vocalized his gratitude willingly, he pocketed the bread all the same. Valjean observed this without a change in expression, and met Javert's piercing gaze evenly. “No more highly than I think of any man,” he insisted. Truly, he would do the same for anyone. Though he treated Cosette well, he lived simply himself; though he lavished her with affection and anything she could want, he took no money for himself, and had a great deal of it from his years working as mayor and running a factory – he certainly had enough money to buy another loaf and afford to give this one away. He and Cosette gave out alms as often as they could in between the cholera outbreaks.

And then the question. His name. He had been living as M. Fauchelevent for almost ten years now; it slipped easily off his tongue. And so he said “Ultime Fauchelevent, your servant, M'sieur,” easily enough, even though he realized that Javert might recognize the surname. Fauchelevent, the man whose life he had saved by pulling the cart off of him; Fauchelevent, who he had gotten a job at the convent; Fauchelevent, who had then taken him at the convent, hidden him there, and pretended that Valjean was his brother.

Javert was surely no stranger now to Valjean's aliases; pray God this one would be convincing. Valjean tried not to sound hurried as he inclined his head once more to say a final time, “Thank you for your duty.” No doubt they would meet again. Perhaps Ultime Fauchelevent would be called as a witness...

...or perhaps Jean Valjean would be called as a criminal.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

There was such a vast gulf between assailant and victim that at first Javert did not register what had happened. In his world, the world where the righteous stood tall and the wrongdoers crept about like snakes with their bellies close to the ground, such a thing was unheard of. It left him unmoored, staring from one to the other like a dumb animal. That a thief should spit in the face of someone so far above him! It was a feat if nothing else; but it was so much more. It was the malefactor attacking society itself in the person of this wealthy man, a man who had moreover shown him unwarranted kindness. Even if this situation still bemused Javert, the limited logic of it dictated that the thief should be grateful for the consideration, though he didn't want it.

But of course that would be assigning this brigand more gentlemanly ways than probably he'd ever displayed in his life. The inspector recovered from his shock in time to hear an apology for presumption. "Wrong, no; but strange. You have strange ways." Javert did not notice it himself, but he had stopped addressing the man—and thinking of him—as monsieur; though he continued to use the more respectful form of 'you.' In the presence of doubt, when suspicion remained just that, he was not one to make leaps quite that long. Thus far, the man seemed to be no more or less than what he claimed. It was only Javert's instincts that protested otherwise, and loudly.

Also unsettling was the way in which he continued to assert the thief's worth; as a member of the Patron-Minette, the man was no ordinary robber, but vicious and unscrupulous. "Well, that is all right for you. He might have killed you while you slept," Javert rumbled in a last attempt at convincing; but he had no time for arguing trifles. His prisoner was keeping his cell waiting, and there was still the report to write up. So he waited only for the man's name. It would need to go in the report even if he was not called as a witness.

The name, when it came, delivered another shock before the first had entirely faded. Javert had a good memory; even so, something from so long ago would not have leapt immediately to mind, but because of everything that had followed in its wake, the incident with the cart had stuck firmly with him. Perhaps that was why the man's face seemed so familiar. But if so, then why did it leave him with such a disagreeable impression? "Were you ever in Montreuil-sur-Mer?" It might just be coincidence. There was room enough in Paris for several of these Fauchelevents and they were not necessarily related, to each other or to the man who had been so near death for want of a jack-screw... until the mayor, that dangerous wretch, that Jean Valjean had stepped in. That Jean Valjean who so closely resembled the man in front of him now.

At last his thoughts were beginning to converge towards one conclusion. But as sure as he was, and Javert never acted in doubt, there were still reasons to hold back. Paris of late had been troubled; between the usual complaints of hunger and squalor, the mob now had cholera to add to their list of grievances. Naturally, the upper classes were just as nervous about this as were those who would have to quell any unrest. If he wrongly accused a man of this stature, his superiors would be nearly as unhappy with him as he would be with himself. No, he would go and get approval for such a risky action, and perhaps a few other officers. Even after all these years, the old convict was still as dangerous as when they'd let him out of Toulon.

So, he would send Javert away in haste! Now that he was certain, the inspector saw signs in every one of the man's actions. However, the only indication he gave was a sly smile as he steered the thief (now all but forgotten) towards the door. If he had recognized Valjean, then the reverse was also true; there was no point in stating the obvious. He was concerned that in his absence the convict would run—he had a history of it—but it was between a sure thief and a man who lived in the Faubourg. For himself, Javert knew and trusted his instincts; but after the last time he would not wield the hammer of the law on instinct alone.

[Deleted]

Valjean clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw jumping, as Javert called him strange. Perhaps it was true, but to be said disrespectfully, not as if to a man who lived in the Faubourg... And to insult him by reminding him that the man might have killed him. It was true, and Valjean was not offended. Yet there was something in it, that Javert did not address him as he would expect. With some disrespect. Valjean merely inclined his head respectfully in return, granting acquiescence, saying Javert was right. About everything. It was an excuse to remove his eyes. It almost felt the inspector could see through him.

Javert had recognized the name, no surprise there. Whether Javert would recognize “Fauchelevent's” face, and true name, remained to be seen. Was it like Javert to be cryptic? Did he still have cause to fear? Last time, Javert had not openly accused “M'sieur l'Mayor” of being Valjean; he had gone to his superior first, and then reported it to “M'sieur Madeleine” only to apologize for what he believed to be a mistake. This time, surely, after realizing that Valjean was Valjean, if he did so again, he would not let his prey escape. But he wasn't one to play, really; he did not seem to have it in him. “Yes,” he said carefully, attempting to keep his tone even. “I have a brother there.” That was part of the cover. He was the brother-in-Christ of the man whose life he had saved, and they had lived some years together at the convent; it was not a lie. But would Javert believe it?

He had bid the inspector adieu, but as the man turned away to go, Valjean did not miss the smile, and it made his blood run cold. He did not recall ever seeing the inspector smile before, and what had he done, in any case, which could give the man joy... except for reveal his identity? Perhaps he was only being paranoid again – his fear had plagued him for some twenty years – but there could be no ill in being cautious. Though he breathed a sigh of relief as Javert went away, no doubt the man would return again. It was something of a relief, to know that he had been right, that Javert still hunted him. And now, the worst was over; he had been found, and there was something that he could do about it.

Silently, swiftly, he moved to his room and began to gather his things. His eyes rested on the candlesticks. As soon as Cosette returned, they would make for their other home in Rue Plumet. From there... only God knew. But they were not safe here. Not anymore.

[ÉMILE JAVERT]

The evolution of Javert's thoughts had been a slow road, too slow, he thought now that they had arrived at this peak of conclusion. He should have known straight away. As long as it had been, nine years by his last reckoning, he never should have entertained any doubt. If he had been more inclined to offer or to accept excuses, he might have blamed the distraction of the first thief, the incongruity of the second thief and his surroundings, even the residual reluctance ironically left over from that entire debacle in Montreuil. However, with affairs like this Inspector Javert would have rather been dismissed than admit any excuse for his failure. That was something the convict Valjean knew very well, from those days when he was pretending to be a respectable man.

And here he was, up to the same trick again. With so much practice he was at ease in his role and was cool enough not to tip his hand, even in the presence of Javert, whom he must surely have recognized. Of course. He had always been a cool one. Even when cornered, when he was one step from being sent back to the galleys, he had so calmly suggested his mad idea, that he should go to Montfermeil for that woman's child... Javert wondered whether he still had the child. She would have been a young woman now. Well, he would discover it when he returned with more officers.

Now that he was certain, he was eager to leave so that he could come back. There was risk in this, he knew it, but there was risk in all possible actions. It was just a question of which would be the most likely to have a favorable outcome. If he was a Napoleon, then this would be a victory or a defeat, but in either case it was not Waterloo. Even if Valjean did manage to slip away, the war itself was not yet lost. So Javert merely acknowledged the answer, some lie about a brother, which confirmed his suspicions further, and made for the door with as much haste as would not be unseemly. The original thief, the one who'd began all this, came along quietly enough. That was good, because Javert had no time to spare if he was going to haul in this second, unexpected catch.

-- fin --