Chapter 1: Javert and Orri, Persuaded
“We already have one unruly beast.” Javert looked over his shoulder as he moved to the edge of the bed. “Why should we be inflicted with another?”
“Cosette is eager to see the little ones housed well,” Jean said, propping himself up on the pillow he had slept upon. “Come now. What is one more feline companion to care for? Why, it may even calm Orri a little.”
Javert crossed to the basin on quiet feet. “Or it could make him wild with jealousy,” he countered. “I know I would feel such, if I had to share your affections with another of my kind.”
“I am sure there are no more of your kind anywhere else in the whole world, my dear,” Jean laughed, watching for the blush that would begin at Javert’s collarbone and spread upwards to the tips of his ears.
Even after eight years together, his partner still could not receive a compliment well. Jean did not mind it, of course; he continued to compliment anyway, and he enjoyed seeing Javert blush. It was such a youthful reaction, a reminder that Javert had never been loved as a young man as he was now loved, never had the opportunity to hear such things before. How different Javert’s life would have been, if only someone had seen fit to love him. Then again, Jean was not too proud to admit that he was glad for it, selfish as it was, for now Javert was here, with him, and he could imagine no other life for himself. It was not as though people to love had been forthcoming in his own history either, save for Cosette.
Javert only grunted in reply, swirling his razor in the water of the basin with one hand and applying the soap to his face with the other. Jean admired the quickness of Javert’s blade, held in such a steady hand that he had shaved one cheek smooth up to the edge of his sideburn in mere seconds. Before he could apply the blade to the other side, Jean clambered from the bed and moved behind him. Javert stayed his hand as Jean leaned his own bearded cheek against Javert’s back and held him close. Javert breathed slowly and Jean pressed even closer, to content himself with counting the beats of that beloved heart as Javert carefully brought the razor up once more and finished his task. When he finished, he put it down besides the basin and brought his hands up to cover Jean’s where they were pressed against his chest.
For a moment, there was silence, save for that heartbeat ringing in Jean’s ear, then Javert exhaled sharply and turned in his arms.
“You may adopt another damned kitten, if it means so much to you,” he said. “You do not need to try and win me over like this.”
“I was doing nothing of the sort.” Jean had to crane his neck to look Javert in the eye when they stood this close, and he brushed his lips against Javert’s still damp chin. “I only wished to touch you.”
“Sentimental old fool,” Javert muttered, but then he leaned down and kissed him, lips soft from the soap, and for another glorious moment, there was only the silence and Javert’s fingers tangling in Jean’s hair. It was too early for such things; Javert was usually moody in the morning and he would be late if they lingered here for much longer, but Jean was not going to stop him. Javert was devoted to his job, although it had a different face now, and Jean was loathe to stand in the way of duty. So, with a gentle hand, he pushed Javert away and smiled.
“You will be late,” he said. “And Orri needs his breakfast.”
Javert quirked his lips and said nothing further, turning to don his uniform. But when he appeared in the kitchen ten minutes later, he let his fingers brush against Jean’s as he took the coffee that he was offered, and he kissed Jean again on his way to their front door.
He paused when he got to the gate, and turned to address Jean. “I meant it, Jean,” he said. “Adopt another kitten, if you wish it. Both Orri and I will get used to the idea.”
Then he spun on his heel and walked away. Jean watched him disappear around the corner and then returned inside. Orri, perhaps having heard his name, had wandered from the kitchen and wound about Jean’s feet until he relented and bent down to pick him up. The cat purred and pushed his head against his shoulder.
“You would not mind a companion, would you?” Jean asked him. “A little one to look out for? You remember how terrible it was to be on the street, I’m sure.”
Orri fixed his eyes on him, dark and so intelligent that sometimes Jean was sure he understood what was being said, no matter how ridiculous Javert said the fancy was. A torn ear, freshly damaged from some street fight or another, twitched, as Orri considered Jean’s latest remarks, and seemed to find them wanting, for he growled low in his throat. Jean chuckled.
“Well, regardless of your opinion, there will be another, my boy. You will learn to live with it. You might even win a few of your scraps with a partner in crime.”
Orri yawned, his ire forgotten, and leapt lightly to the floor, stalking into the library to take his usual place by the fire. Jean smiled and followed, going to his desk to write a note to Cosette. She was not due a visit for a day or two, but he wished to tell her the good news, and perhaps, if he was lucky, she would decide to come today.
He dispatched the note with the first gamin he spotted on the street, and went to the bedroom to dress for some time in the garden. If Cosette did decide to come, it would not be until the afternoon.
It had been an inclement May, wet with constant rain that half threatened to wash Paris into the Seine.
Javert had been never been one to complain about the weather -- that is to say, it was notoriously untrustworthy, characteristic of this unpredictable city, and an aspect to be endured with stoicism -- but his experiences with the river eight years ago had left him with a leg that ached when it was damp, and he had found it easier since to make his displeasure at the tumultuous Paris climate better known.
It had to be said: his leg also ached when the weather was too hot, as June was shaping to be.
This June morning was entirely unobjectionable, however: clear skies, sunshine, a breeze stirring his summer coat. Javert did not completely trust the mild weather; he did not wish to be caught off guard when it changed for the worse.
Still, he had left the house with the warmth of Valjean's lips still lingering upon his own, and under the circumstances he felt it might not be too indulgent to smile to himself as he walked the temperate streets.
It would be too indulgent to take a fiacre, though. He walked; he would always walk in his city, be it in the rain or the blazing heat. The day he was required to be conveyed in a carriage to his place of work would be the day he retired from service boots first.
Eventually he arrived at the station-house at No. 14 Rue de Pontoise. He had first served there under M. Benoist of the 47th quarter; he had first encountered Marius Pontmercy within those walls. Now, more than eight years later, Javert was himself the new commissary at Rue de Pontoise. It did mean he spent more of his days behind the grating in the office on the first floor and less time policing the streets, but it kept him out of the wet and scorching sun.
François, his desk sergeant, was on hand to greet him as he pushed through the doors of the station-house.
"Good morning, Monsieur. The senior officers' meeting is on hand this morning at the usual hour, and your fourteen o'clock appointment with the Ministry for the Maritime has been confirmed. However, you have an unexpected addition to your schedule."
Javert frowned. "At this hour? Who is it?"
"M. Desmarais from the Prefecture. He asked to be shown to your office," François added meaningfully.
Javert did not smile, or rise to the bait, but he found himself taking the stairs somewhat more quickly than usual. He knew he had not had the habit of making friends, and those he had made he seemed to have acquired despite himself. One of those few was humbly sitting in the chair outside his office: the man he had met eight years ago as the diligent young Inspector (2nd class) Desmarais from the Commissary at the Rue de la Barillerie.
The years had seen the man promoted to a position within the first bureau, and witnessed a proliferation of grey threads in his curly hair, though his countenance was still as earnest and youthful as it had been the day he had arrested an unlicensed streetwalker and then been persuaded by Javert to let her go.
Desmarais did not stint to smile; he rose to his feet to clasp Javert's hand. "M. Javert, it is good to see you!"
"I would say the same," Javert said; he found himself smiling too despite himself as he waved Desmarais into his office.
"It has been more than a year since the Buisson case," Desmarais said, referring to the string of robberies across the Rue de la Tournelle that ran along the boundary of the 47th district. "You look as if you have been keeping well."
Javert said, "Keeping busy, at any rate. As you must have been, with the goings-on at the Ministry of Justice. What brings you to our humble district?"
"Hardly humble, Monsieur; it is where the real policing needs in our city remain," Desmarais said, seriously. "As it is with the new issue the Prefecture has with the Ministry of Commerce and Manufacturing."
"And what issue might that be?"
"The Ministry has seen an increase in smuggling activities of late. There is the usual commercial tax evasion, in cotton and manufacturing products and the like, but apparently they are seeing more luxury items -- tobacco and spirits -- from across the borders as well as from England and the Channel Islands. La Douane is kept very busy." Desmarais sighed. "At any rate, it seems the main market for this line of goods is here in Paris. The Ministry believes the Prefecture of Police could take more action against the smugglers and their middlemen here on the ground."
Javert nodded. "I see. There will be an official communiqué?"
"Not as such," said Desmarais. "M. le Préfet does not consider himself to be the official whipping boy for the Ministry of Commerce. Besides, La Douane is far better funded than we are."
Javert suppressed a sigh. There was no use pretending the constant jostling over political and jurisdictional territory did not exist, much as he and others desired that to be the case. "La Douane has no jurisdiction away from our borders. If the Ministry believes the 47th district is harbouring the ringleaders, I would wish to know of it." He eyed Desmarais. "Unofficially or otherwise, of course."
"Nothing official yet. Which is why I'm here, rather than the Secretary of the First Bureau," Desmarais said, and Javert suppressed another sigh. It had been eight years, and still he could not see anyone in that position other than his former patron, M. Chabouillet, who had held the post for twenty years and under ten different Prefects of Police.
Desmarais continued, "I heard a rumour on the Cité that your old friend Claquesous might be involved in this smuggling ring."
Javert frowned. This was deeply troubling news. "We thought he might have been involved in the Buisson robberies, and that we would find him when we apprehended the miscreants, but he did not surface. In fact, the rest of Patron-Minette have been scarce for years."
"Ever since your triumph at Gorbeau House," Desmarais said; for an instant he once more resembled the young officer who had looked at Javert with such hero worship. "I know you have been pursuing Claquesous for years, and his pretty friend, too. So, when my sources gave me this intelligence, I thought I ought to let you know at once."
"I'm obliged," Javert said. He had not stopped trying to search for the remnants of Patron-Minette, not least because he was concerned that they might have learned Valjean's secret from Thénardier. They had managed to outwit that man by demonstrating that both Marius and Javert himself were alive, and then Thénardier had obliged them by getting himself killed in an altercation between prisoners while in remand. Still, Javert had never quite allowed himself to let his guard down on Valjean's behalf.
Eight years had passed. Cosette and Marius now knew the truth, and anyone who had had personal contact with Jean-le-Cric had long forgotten him. Indeed, the entire community in the Invalides were familiar with Valjean as the philanthropist Ultime Fauchelevent. Still, Javert could not hold back the pang of concern. It could not be countenanced if anything were to happen to Valjean. He just needed to make sure nothing untoward came to pass.
Desmarais rose and took his summer coat from the rack. "Your desk sergeant says you have a meeting with your senior officers this morning, as you do every week. You are running a most tight ship, Monsieur," he said admiringly.
Javert wondered if that were true. Certainly he made every attempt to enforce a sense of discipline at the district, and to instil diligence in the conduct of all duties from witness interrogation to paperwork. But there was always more work to be done, and he somehow ended up spending longer hours at the station-house than officers half his age.
He walked Desmarais to the door, as befitted an old colleague and a senior officer besides. As he turned back to the office after having bidden Desmarais goodbye, he noticed François' carefully blank look.
"What is it?"
"Nothing, Monsieur," François said. "The men are waiting for you to address them. And I have taken the liberty of summoning a fiacre for your afternoon meeting at the Ministry."
"Nonsense," Javert said. He felt all of his sixty years. "For how long have we known each other? I will walk, as I always do."
François looked suitably chastened. Javert had not forgotten the night last winter when they had arrested a gang trafficking in refugees from across the border, and the young officer had taken it upon himself to remain at his superior's side. Javert was no feeble old man who required protection on the streets, even though he might not be as fast as he once was, but if his men kept insisting that he required a carriage, or that he be spared from field work, he might fall into his dotage after all.
Still, it was not entirely the young man's fault. Undoubtedly he felt it was part of the respect his superior was owed.
Javert made himself smile in an attempt to soften his tart words; when François recoiled slightly from the sight, he realised it had not worked at all. He sighed again to himself. Valjean occasionally suggested that he might wish to be less severe with the men, and that a modicum of friendliness might be beneficial to morale, but Javert knew that he was not very good at it.
Thoughts of Valjean brought with them the nagging concern about Claquesous, and the potential risk this posed to his beloved companion. Javert straightened his back. He would get to the bottom of this smuggling rumour in his district if it was the last thing he did.
The branch of French law enforcement in charge of customs offences and smuggling is (still) the Directorate-General of Customs and Indirect Taxes, commonly known as La Douane. In 1840, their armed field agents were deployed in brigades or mobile detachments which patrolled the French borders and arrested smugglers. Luxury goods smuggled in the early and mid-19th Century apparently included eau de vie, Dutch gin, lace, silk, batiste, leather gloves, perfume and jewellery.
In this chapter, we see that Javert has been promoted to commissary of the 47th quartier, or the Jardins des Plantes district in which the Rue de Pontoise stationhouse is located -- this is the stationhouse where we saw him in LM Vol 3 Book 8 bestowing two pistols upon a young lawyer, and the district in which we last saw Patron-Minette.
His darling Cosette was nothing if not dependable; as expected, she sent the boy back within the hour, telling Jean to expect her at three o’clock.
He worked a little longer in the garden, trimming back some vines and the long neglected grass at the edge of the pond. Such easy jobs would once have only been the precursor to a long day spent outdoors on far more difficult tasks, but these days he found that they were quite enough for him. It was a small concession to his advancing years, but one which had become entirely necessary. He had even begun to need an hour or so of rest in the middle of the day, when in his youth he could have survived on no sleep for days on end. He had resolved not to care, not to allow the decline of his body to affect his mind. Besides, it was not so bad as all that; it was not a chore to need extra hours at night with Javert at his side, and during the day, well, Orri could be persuaded to curl up at his feet and it was almost good enough.
He toiled until lunchtime, ate a small meal, then took to his chair for an hour. At half past two, he woke and tidied himself: fixed his cravat, buttoned his cuffs and combed his hair. He set to the tea things, and, at three o’clock precisely, there came a knock. Before he could even open the door, the squeak of small voices, tempered by the smooth tones of Cosette, was enough to bring the widest of smiles to his face. He had not expected her to bring the children at such short notice!
A little body flung itself at him and he caught it in his arms.
“Mama said we could surprise you!”
“And what a surprise it is,” he laughed, swinging Fantine above his head, “How are you, my flower?”
“Very well,” Fantine reached out a hand and stroked his beard, a sensation she had enjoyed ever since she was a babe in arms. “But Émile is getting a cold.”
“I am not!”
Émile, the oldest of the brood at eight years old, stepped inside and put a hand on Jean’s arm.
“I sneezed once this morning, Grand-père, and now Fantine thinks I am ill. She won’t stop going on about it.”
If Jean was honest, there was a pinched look about Émile’s face, and a scratch in his voice, but he did not mention it. Émile was a proud little thing and hated to be thought of as weak, despite the unavoidable fact that he was often ill and had been since he was very small.
Jean rested Fantine on his hip and turned to Cosette, who was holding Georges in a similar fashion. Jean’s youngest grandchild was asleep, his golden head resting on his mother’s shoulder.
“Papa,” Cosette smiled. “I was so pleased to get your note.”
She leaned in to kiss his cheek, a gesture that Jean returned, and when he kissed Georges’ forehead as well, the babe stirred and murmured something incomprehensible.
“Grand-père!” Fantine patted his hair. “Do you have any cakes?”
Later, when tea had been drunk and cakes devoured, the children went to play in the library, Émile leading Georges carefully by the hand, and Cosette settled back into her chair. She was glowing; motherhood suited her, had suited her since the earliest days of her pregnancy with Émile. Even now Jean could hardly believe that, at the same time she was with child, he had been all but willing his own life away. He had never admitted as much to anyone, but Émile, as much as Javert, was responsible for saving Jean’s life, and one day perhaps he would tell the boy that. Cosette certainly knew it, or at least she knew that Émile was Javert’s favourite of her children, the one he liked rather than merely tolerated for Jean’s sake. Javert knew that the boy had been the saving of him, in the end, and had even seemed to overcome his jealousy when Jean had turned much of his attention to the babe for a time after his birth.
“The kittens are too young still to be away from their mama,” Cosette said. “But when they are ready, you shall have the pick of them.”
“I will have to visit you more often,” he replied, “to get to know them and choose my favourite.”
“Ah yes.” Cosette looked into her teacup, a small smile playing on her lips. “I’m afraid that may have to wait until after the summer. I have a small proposal for you, Papa. And for Javert.”
As though it had been planned in advance, just as Jean opened his mouth to ask her what she could possibly mean, there came the scrape of a key in the lock and the sound of the front door swinging open. Javert was home, early for once, and by the time Jean had stood to go and greet him, the children were rushing out of the library and got to the front door first.
“Ah,” Javert eased inside through the crowd and closed the door behind him, “We have company.”
“I did not think to tell you.” Jean pursed his lips to hide a smile as Georges used Javert’s leg to steady himself, leaving a smear of jam on his trousers. “I was not expecting you to be home just yet. I am sorry.”
“No need for apologies.” Javert shrugged out of his coat and yielded it to Jean’s hands. “Hello, children. Is your mother here also?”
“In the parlour, monsieur,” Émile replied, holding Fantine’s hand to stop her throwing herself onto Javert’s trouser leg as well. “We were in the library. We can go back there, if you want.”
Jean grinned. Émile knew Javert so well: such insight for so young a child.
“Would you be so kind?” Javert nodded, screwing up his face for a moment before he added, through gritted teeth, “Perhaps – I will come and see you in a moment.”
Émile glowed and hustled his siblings back into the library, the door swinging shut behind them. Javert let out a breath, and then Jean had set upon him, unable to keep from kissing him for a moment longer. He had never been able to resist the man when he was flustered.
“I would have stayed at work another hour if I had known,” Javert grumbled against his mouth. “So much for my afternoon plans.”
“They will not be here for much longer.” Jean pulled back and reached up to straighten Javert’s cravat, “Now come. There is still some tea, and Cosette was about to ask me something important.”
Thanks so much to all our commenters and kudosers so far - we're having a real blast with this and are glad that you seem to be too! :D
The meeting at the Ministry for the Maritime had taken much of his afternoon, and when it finally ended Javert felt it was not worth the trouble of returning to the station-house only to turn around and head back home once more.
As he walked the summer streets toward Rue Plumet, he knew there was an urgency in his step. At the best of times he found himself walking more quickly on his return journey, his thoughts speeding ahead of him to Valjean and Orri and the home they had made for one another in the quiet outskirts of Les Invalides. Perhaps Toussaint would have stopped by, or Valjean would have taken a stroll to the pâtisserie around the corner, and there would be cake for a late tea. And after Desmarais’ news about Patron-Minette and the smuggling ring, Javert was even more eager to see Valjean once more: to clasp his hand, and to know him as safe as any diligent policeman could make him.
As it happened, Javert’s plans to return home early were for once less than opportune.
He arrived upon the threshold of their peaceful household, only to be set upon by a cavalcade of small children.
“Monsieur Javert! You are home! Have you brought us more cakes?”
“Ah,” Javert said, faintly. There was a little girl bouncing up and down under his nose, rendering him temporarily cross-eyed, and a toddler clutched unsteadily at his thigh. “We have company.”
Valjean appeared in the hallway, his venerable white head towering above the tiny swarming bodies. He reached for Javert’s coat, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “I was not expecting you yet. I am sorry.”
“No need for apologies,” Javert said, not daring to look down. He felt certain the littlest one had left a smear of something unaccountably slimy on his trouser leg. He vouchsafed a greeting in the general vicinity of his knees. “Hello, children. Is your mother here also?”
The biggest child – Émile was his name; a sensible lad, as far as children went – took hold of his sister and, to Javert’s gratitude, managed to stop her from her propulsive movement. “She is in the parlour, monsieur. We were in the library. We can go back there, if you want.”
Javert stopped himself from sighing with relief. “Would you be so kind?” he said, and tried to gently dislodge the sticky toddler without actually touching any of the child’s surfaces. Émile took the hint and grasped his little brother’s hand, detaching him from Javert with a distinctly adhesive sound.
Émile looked expectantly up at Javert, and Javert found himself saying, through gritted teeth, “Perhaps – I will come and see you in a moment.”
That concession did not seem half as onerous when Javert saw the proud smile it elicited from the boy.
When the hallway was once again blessedly free of children, Javert scowled downwards at his trousers. Jam, it looked like.
He rubbed crossly at the fabric, and then found himself with an unanticipated armful of Valjean – one who was amused and, for some reason, amorous. It had been eight years, and he would never fully understand the man; still, he would never complain of anything that gave rise to kisses, no matter how unexpected.
“I would have stayed at work another hour if I had known,” Javert said, but it was churlish to continue to be short-tempered when one’s beloved companion was kissing one enthusiastically.
“They will not be here for much longer,” Valjean assured him. He straightened Javert’s cravat, a glint in his eye. “Now come. There is still some tea, and Cosette was about to ask me something important.”
Javert followed Valjean into the parlour, somewhat more eagerly. If jam were to be involved, it was infinitely preferable for it to be within a fruit tart or spread on brioche, rather than smeared upon his person by an unwary child.
Cosette was sitting in the parlour, surrounded by the debris of the tea things. She greeted Javert with a warm smile – either she was oblivious to the rumpus her offspring had caused in the hallway, or she had decided to let Javert sort it out by himself, Javert could not determine which.
After the niceties, Javert found himself installed at Valjean’s side with a hot cup of tea and a slice of gâteau des Rois, which Toussaint had never baked in her life and which must have come from the Pontmercy household. Orri crept into the parlour, curled against his right foot, and mewed plaintively until Cosette leaned down and fed him crumbs from her plate.
This domestic scene made Javert feel as if he was being softened up for a request to which he might otherwise be loath to agree; worse, he felt as if the aforesaid set-up might in fact be working.
Best to cut right to the heart of it. “Your father said you had a proposition for us?”
Cosette took a sip of tea. “I see Papa has foreshadowed my news! I believe I have mentioned that Marius and certain of his colleagues have been assisting Maitre Cremieux and our Prime Minister with certain legal initiatives? The railway is one, and then there is the matter of our republic.”
Javert frowned. He was well aware of the republican sympathies held by Baron Pontmercy and his wife; he was even prepared to express a certain level of support for said leanings, which sought to enshrine the fundamental rights of all men under the King and the state, and women also, and that this ought to be so regardless of their birth. But he had lived for too much of his life under the monarchy to be easy about Adolphe Thiers and his talk of a new constitution.
Still, he was gratified that Valjean’s son-in-law was now working within the government to effect change via proper constitutional process rather than rabble-rousing in the streets. Marius had made substantial progress since his days on the barricades; a wife and three children and growing political influence would do that for a young man.
Valjean patted Javert’s hand, managing to convey both comfort and caution at once. To his daughter, he said, “Yes, my dear, you did mention this. You also said you were helping him with that work,” he added, which was something that Javert did not know, but it did not come as a surprise. Valjean’s daughter had spent her childhood fetching and labouring from dawn to dusk; now she divided her time as an adult between raising her children, and working tirelessly to better the lives of other people’s children, so no child would be as mistreated as she had been.
Cosette said, “Yes! And that is why I plan to go away this summer.” She set her teacup down. “Marius has just received word. The party wishes to send him to London in a fortnight. Officially he will be studying the British railroad system. But unofficially he will also be discussing with the Whig party the British concepts of universal suffrage so as to better draft reforms in France. We’ve decided that I should go with him. After all, my English is already better than his.”
Valjean cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Cosette reached for his hand. “Papa, please do not worry. Our relations with the British could be better, but there is absolutely no danger of unrest.”
Javert knew Valjean would be struggling with his natural instincts to safeguard his daughter. They both knew, as well, that those instincts would be in vain: when Cosette set her mind to something, she would not rest until it had been achieved.
At last, Valjean said, “Surely you are not bringing the children with you to England?”
“I wanted to bring them,” Cosette confessed. “But it might not be good for Émile’s health, and Fantine cannot bear to be parted from the kittens while they are yet small, and so I allowed myself to be persuaded that they and the household would remain here in Paris for the summer. Only…”
Cosette smiled beatifically, and Javert’s blood ran cold.
“Only, Aunt Gillenormand is not as young as she once was, and it is difficult for her to keep up with the little ones. Fantine is too speedy even for the nurses! So I was thinking that you both might be willing to keep an eye on them there, or they could even come here to Rue Plumet if Javert’s duties permit.” Cosette put both her hands over Valjean’s. “It would greatly ease my mind, Papa, if you and Javert were to agree to look after them while Marius and I are away for the summer.”
Valjean squeezed back. “I would like nothing better,” he began, fervently, and then he stopped and glanced hesitantly across at Javert.
“…That is to say, it would of course be a great responsibility. It is true, the house now has sufficient room for the nursemaids and your excellent housekeeper, but I do not know how Toussaint will feel, sharing her domain with Volquin. And, and I believe Javert’s duties somehow multiply as the days get longer…”
Cosette loosed Valjean’s hand to reach for Javert’s. “I know how busy you are,” she said. “But truly, it would be a tremendous relief to me knowing that the children would be in your care. You would keep them safe! Besides, Georges is so fond of you…”
Javert suppressed another sigh. This was hardly fighting fair.
Firmly, he put aside all considerations of sticky fingers and vigorous jumping about, and focused on the only matter that was important: the desires of Jean Valjean, who had for so many years never allowed himself to desire anything at all for his own sake.
“Very well, if the children promise to be on their best behaviour,” he began, and was astounded when Cosette pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Valjean looked rather like he desired to kiss Javert as well, and much less chastely. “Thank you,” he said to Javert, softly. Then, to Cosette, eagerly: “Perhaps we could take the children to the seaside for a week or so? The sea air might do Émile some good.”
This time, Javert could not suppress his sigh. It was going to be a very long summer.
Javert was as good as his word. When Cosette announced her intention to leave Rue Plumet shortly in order to be home for dinner, he rose and stepped through to the library to see the children as he had promised. The activity gave him little pleasure, Jean knew, but he had always appreciated how much Javert was willing to do for him. Besides, if anything had ever given him room to doubt, surely Javert agreeing to have the children with them for two months was all the sign that he needed.
“In all honesty I had not expected him to agree, Papa!” Cosette exclaimed, as soon as Javert had left the room. “I imagined I would be able to negotiate your moving to our house for the summer, with Javert staying here.”
It was a sensible plan, one that showed Cosette had considered all of the parties involved and their individual preferences, save for one, the most important of all: it would inconceivable to Javert that they be apart for so long. Of course, Jean did not relish the idea either, but for the sake of Cosette and the children, he would have been willing to attempt it. Cosette, used to Marius being called away for days and weeks at a time, would not have considered this, and of course it was right that she should not. How to explain to one so young the urgent ceaselessness of old age, the need to stand against the racing years and hope for more time, just a little longer together?
He did not explain. Instead, he simply shrugged and smiled. “Then it is good, is it not, that we do not have to be concerned about it?”
A high pitched shriek. followed by a low rebuke from Javert, made them both start. Cosette was first out of her chair and out of the door, motherly instinct making her quick on her feet. Jean followed her through to the library, to find a scene of mild destruction, centred around, as usual, Fantine.
Georges was once again clutching Javert’s leg, peering at his sister from behind that reassuring barrier. Émile sat in his favourite chair, a book spread open on his lap, but he too was frozen [?], staring with wide eyes. A flower urn had been overturned, spilling its contents on the hearth rug, and the newspaper which had been resting on the side table, awaiting Javert’s perusal, had fallen, its pages scattered. In the middle of all this unrest stood Fantine, holding a small, mewing kitten.
“Jean. Cosette.” Javert moved first, turning to them. “It seems this afternoon, Fantine has been smuggling a fugitive.”
To her credit, Fantine had the good sense to hang her head, although Jean saw the edges of a smile tugging at her lips. The kitten, too small to be away from its mother, shivered violently in her hands, and Fantine placed the little creature carefully into her voluminous sleeve, clearly the place where the animal had been hidden all the afternoon.
Cosette watched all of this in a half daze, then found her voice. “Fantine! Did you make this mess?”
“It was the kitten,” she mumbled. “I only took him out for a moment.”
“The kitten, ably assisted by his kidnapper,” Javert cut in. “Such a little thing should not be away from his mother’s side.”
His voice was short, forced, and Jean wondered if he was recalling the stormy night on which he had found Orri, tiny and helpless, who would have died if not for Javert’s rescue of him. Javert had always said that he had brought the kitten home for Jean, that it was what he imagined Jean would do in his place, but he had become fond of Orri as he had grown into a fine, strong cat, and would now rail against the mistreatment of any creature that came across his path.
Fantine trembled under Javert’s gaze and cringed away from his voice. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Javert, I will not do it again!”
Several things happened then at the same time. Georges, picking up on the tone of Javert’s voice, began to cry, burying his face in the uniform trousers he was holding. Émile slammed his book shut and began to scold Fantine on his own accord. Cosette moved to take her daughter’s hand and take over rebuking her, and in this cacophony of noise, Javert turned to Jean and raised an eyebrow, attempting to detach Georges from his leg at the same time. Despite the situation, Jean could not help but laugh.
“I am so glad that you’re amused by this,” Javert said, hand flexing before he reached down and patted Georges on the head. “There, there. Enough tears.”
Georges only cried louder, and Jean, taking pity on his partner, bent to retrieve the toddler with one arm. He turned swiftly and swept Émile from the room with his spare hand, leaving Cosette and Javert to deal with Fantine alone. In the hall, he bounced Georges on his hip until the boy calmed down, whilst hustling Émile into his shoes, jacket and hat. They then both put George’s coat and shoes on, and by the time Cosette brought Fantine out to join them, all was peaceful in the hall.
“I am sorry, Grand-père,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to make a mess and I will not do it again.”
“See that you don’t,” Jean said, his words soft. After all, she had already endured quite enough hard ones, at the hands of her mother and Javert. Jean knew that he was lenient with his grandchildren, but then he had been lenient with Cosette and she had grown into the best of young women, so he did not think too little of his own parenting.
“Goodbye, Papa,” Cosette kissed his cheek, the smile returned to her face. “Come for dinner on Tuesday evening, please. Bring Javert, if he will come. We can discuss the holiday.”
“We will be there.”
As he closed the door, he heard Javert’s step behind him, and turned to find he was being watched.
“Well, that was a little bit of excitement, was it not?”
Javert made a rough noise in his throat, reaching to take Jean’s hand between his own.
“I will have them here, for as long as Cosette desires,” Javert mumbled, “But I will need time – to myself and for the two of us together. Promise me we shall not spend two entire months apart.”
“The children will bring their nurse, and I will ask Toussaint to be here more often,” Jean began, twisting his fingers around Javert’s. “We will have hours to ourselves as usual, I am sure, for reading, and you will be at work anyway—”
A glance upwards and he stopped, for he realised what Javert had been talking about. The man was blushing, a sight almost as wonderful as when he was flustered, and a sure sign he was speaking of their other recreation. Even all these years later, Javert could barely mention, let alone discuss, that time they spent together.
“And as for that…” He stepped closer and wrapped Javert in an embrace, lips brushing his ear: “There will be plenty of time. You need not fear. Now come along.”
“Where—“ Javert’s hands clutched at his shirt as Jean kissed that same ear — “are we going? It is five o’clock in the afternoon, Jean!”
“Then surely we must begin practicing taking our chances when they come, my dear.”
We're super glad that you all seem to be enjoying this as much as we are :D
Chapter 6: An Afternoon Diversion
Javert and Valjean engage in activity ordinarily too scandalous even for young men.
(Warning for an entire chapter of flagrant and explicit sexual content. Hey, at least it's short!)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
It was five o'clock in the afternoon. Five o'clock! Even the most dissolute of men did not seek out the embraces of their lovers at this hour. They waited until after the stores and the offices had ceased their business, and dinner had been consumed, before dallying with their mistresses in clandestine apartments or indulging in companionship in establishments of certain repute.
And yet Jean Valjean, former mayor and secret philanthropist and the best man Javert had ever known, was proposing they do just that. Before dinner, while the sun was still high in the sky.
It was scandalous. It was not for respectable men.
And yet, instead of protesting, Javert allowed himself to be led up the stairs into their bedroom. He allowed Valjean to draw off the navy uniform jacket and waistcoat, and to slide his hands beneath the crisp white shirt to caress Javert's chest.
Javert allowed these outrageous actions. He was in fact doing more than allowing them; against his better judgment he appeared to have taken hold of Valjean's shirt and captured Valjean's mouth with his own.
"I hope you realise how unseemly this is," he remarked, between kisses. "It is not even a thing young men do, nor those wastrels who frequent the alleys at the Pigalle."
Valjean made a hushing sound, which was not easy to perform against Javert's lips. "Nonsense," he mumbled. "What’s unseemly is that such men seek only to satisfy themselves, no matter the time of day. Whereas it is not my own satisfaction I seek, but another's."
He broke off the kiss; his hands moved unerringly to the buttons at the front of Javert's uniform trousers. "And as you know, I am selfishly greedy for his satisfaction."
Javert inhaled sharply as Valjean began to release the buttons that held the fabric closed. He knew that he was already so hard that when the flap was opened, his prick pushed itself free like a much younger man's, desperate for release in the grasp of a clandestine lover.
"Are you planning to satisfy me, then?" he asked, unevenly, steadying himself by clasping Valjean's shoulders.
"I will try," murmured Valjean, and wrapped his big hand around Javert's erection.
Javert heard himself make a strangled sound. Valjean started to stroke, massaging his length with the square, sure fingers that had dragged him from the Seine and had brought him to this new life, and that had since that time mapped every inch of his skin.
They had done this so often in their eight years together. Valjean knew exactly how to touch him, knew the gentle caresses and then the long-handed pulls that would bring him closer and closer to the edge. Very soon Javert could not catch his breath. Did it usually only take such a short passage of time to drive him into this state? He swayed on his feet, dizzy, fighting for control.
"It is time for bed," Valjean said, pulling off and catching Javert around the waist. For a man his age, he was still impossibly strong; he supported Javert's weight in his arms and walked him backwards across the room to their modest bed.
Javert lay down gingerly. The afternoon sun streamed in from their window, outlining the floor and the bed in a square of light.
Valjean got onto the bed as well, settled between Javert's thighs, and took him into his mouth.
This took Javert entirely by surprise, as it was not an act which Valjean often performed. The sharpness of such uncommon pleasure was almost painful: he could not bite back his groan in time. Valjean's lips enveloped him, greedily, making his thighs tremble and his hands fist in the sheets. Desire seized him, pulsing hotly in the pit of his belly, the irresistible tension mounting with suction and pressure and every slow, wet slide of tongue.
"Jean! Wait, Jean. If you keep that up, I will spend myself."
Valjean, bless him, did not pay any heed to this nonsense. His powerful hands clasped Javert's hips, and as Javert bucked helplessly against him, he swallowed Javert down to the root.
It was too much for any man. There could be no control in the face of such ecstasy. Javert felt his eyes sliding shut, his head rolling back, his body arching off the bed.
"No, Jean. Jean, I cannot stop --"
He heard himself cry out as whiteness overtook him, bright as the sun that fell across their bed.
He returned to himself by increments, his blood loud in his ears, damnably weak in every limb, to find Valjean still in place between his thighs and working with his tongue to lap up every drop of Javert's spend. Javert's softening prick twitched, over-sensitive now under these careful ministrations.
"No more," he whispered. "Come here. You are too much for an old man."
He pulled Valjean up to kiss him, his own strong salt taste upon Valjean's lips. Valjean returned the kiss, chastely this time, a small, self-satisfied smile on his mouth, and then settled against Javert's shoulder.
"I need not remind you that I am older than you!"
"Never," Javert said. He considered this as he finally managed to catch his breath. "When you are not trying to kill me, you make me feel as though we are both still young."
Valjean snorted softly. Then he said, "Thank you, Javert."
"After what you just did, it should be the other way around."
"I am serious," Valjean said. "I know the children will not make it an easy summer, and I am grateful that you agreed to have them nonetheless, for my sake." He pressed his lips to Javert's shoulder. "I will never cease to be grateful for you. I thank God for letting me share your life, and you for agreeing to share it. I have simple needs, and they start and end with you."
Javert felt seized with helpless gratitude of his own. He held on to Valjean silently for a long moment before he could be sure of his voice.
"It is I who should be grateful. I am grateful for anything that makes you happy, even if it also smears my clothes with jam and destroys all the urns in the house."
Valjean placed his hand over Javert's chest, over his still-racing heart. Javert ran a hand down Valjean's side and realised his companion was still fully dressed in his shirtsleeves and trousers.
"You are not... you have not..."
"Later," Valjean said serenely. "Perhaps after dinner? I am told it is still too unseemly an hour for an old man to seek out love."
(Next chapter we return to your usually scheduled programming of gen-rated fluff and policing.)
Jean woke with his face buried in Javert’s hair, the thick strands tickling his nose and chin, and listened to the sounds of Toussaint rattling around in the kitchen below. If she had already arrived then it was late, at least by his usual standards for rising, but he did not mind. Not today.
Javert slept on as Jean shifted beside him, murmuring when Jean coaxed him onto his back, then settling once more into his slumber. Jean propped himself on one elbow and brushed Javert’s hair from his face. Javert would only complain when he woke to find how late it was, but Jean was inclined to let him sleep on for now; what had his years of service earned him if not the chance to arrive a little late at his desk? Besides, this peaceful morning would be one of their last, until the turn of the season. Fantine and Georges would be unlikely to allow either of them rest beyond the sunrise.
Jean still could not believe entirely that Javert had agreed to the children staying for so long; his partner tried his best with them, as well as Jean could have ever hoped he would, but it was a struggle. Javert dedicated himself to Jean’s happiness as fiercely as he had once dedicated himself to the Law, often at the detriment of his own. The children were a fine example of that, tolerated solely because they were an extension of Jean himself, and for no other reason. The lengths Javert had gone to in order to remake himself into someone he believed was worthy of the love Jean offered him, was humbling.
As though he could feel he was being considered, Javert shifted and turned his face into the pillow, a slight frown creasing his forehead between his eyes. Jean’s heart swelled as he watched, and he could not stop the press of his lips to that little crease, then Javert’s cheek, then his chin, then his ear. He nuzzled at him until Javert stirred, opening first one eye then the other.
“Valjean,” his voice cracked with sleep, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing?” Jean said, kissing him, until Javert had to push him away to breathe.
“It doesn’t appear to be nothing,” Javert muttered, “What time is it?”
“Oh, it’s very late,” Jean smiled. “But you were so peaceful I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”
Javert groaned and rolled over, a small smile playing on his lips. “Leave me alone to get ready. Grant me that peace at least.”
Chuckling, Jean disentangled himself from the sheets and stepped into his trousers and shirt. He would go and see Toussaint and make sure there was coffee for when Javert came downstairs. As he glanced back at the bed, he swore to himself that he would try to minimise any compromise to Javert’s convenience that the children’s presence would cause. It would be the very least that he could do.
Toussaint was busy in the kitchen when he arrived downstairs, kneading dough for the bread and boiling the kettle for tea. She was long used to him and his companion and surely aware that Javert’s bedroom had not been used for years, yet she had stayed in his service and never made to ask awkward questions. She was an excellent woman, loyal and hardworking, and if Javert was less inclined to outbursts of temper and melancholy, Jean would still have her living with them, as she had when Cosette had still been at Rue Plumet.
As it was, thinking it better for all involved if they had their own space, Jean had suggested Toussaint go back to live with her sister after Cosette’s wedding, and come in three or four times a week to clean and make bread and cakes. He still paid her the same wage as he always had; it was not her fault, after all, that Cosette had moved away, and Toussaint’s discretion was worth the money. It was an arrangement that had worked well for eight years now, and did not seem likely to change, as long as all involved were happy.
“Good morning.” Jean went to the kettle and began to prepare Javert’s coffee. “Would you like some tea?”
“Please, monsieur.” Toussaint slapped the dough down on the table, sending flour clouds flying. “You slept late today.”
“Yes, I did,” he agreed. “And Javert will be late for work.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “It won’t hurt that station to have to run without him for an hour or so, would it? He works too hard, that friend of yours.”
“I know.” Jean poured the water for the coffee and tipped the rest into the teapot. “I try and tell him, but he does not listen to me. Perhaps you should tell him as much.”
“If I thought it would make a difference, I would,” Toussaint sucked her teeth. “But I doubt he’d pay me more heed than he pays you, monsieur.”
Jean took a seat at the kitchen table and waved for Toussaint to join him. She put the dough into a bowl and covered it, then wiped her hands and sat down. He valued the woman’s company, in the same way that he knew he must have once valued his sister’s, although he could not remember it as such. He thought that Toussaint must also like him, for she was always happy to talk and share a drink with him, lingering sometimes beyond her hours at the house.
She also liked Javert, no mean feat since she had helped Jean nurse him back to health after his leap into the Seine and had such suffered the same barrage of abuse that Jean had been subjected to in those early days. The cross words had not seemed to have bothered her, rolling off her back like water off an umbrella, and when she had to physically pin Javert to the bed during a raging fever lest he injure himself with his thrashing, she had only brushed herself off afterwards and gone to fetch the doctor. As he got better, Javert had been wary of her, overly polite in that lock-jawed way he had when he was unsure of how his company would be received, but over the years he had come to accept Toussaint as an ally. For her part, she was always concerned for Javert’s health; she strove to make him eat more whenever she had the chance, and had more than once insisted that he take rest when he had worked a long shift at the station. Javert accepted all of this with a kind of bemused grace, and it was the best that Jean could have hoped for.
Javert clattered into the kitchen, cravat a little askew in his rush to get ready. With none of his usual politeness, he sank into his chair and reached for his coffee.
“Good morning, Toussaint. Have you been informed of M. Fauchelevent’s ridiculous plans for the summer?”
“No, inspector. What plans are these, monsieur?”
“Ah.” Jean looked down into his tea, then up into the two pairs of eyes fixed on him. “I had thought to wait, Javert, until you were gone to work.”
“Don’t hold back on my account.” Javert sipped from his cup, amusement crinkling his eyes. “I wish to see our Toussaint’s reaction.”
“Well.” Jean felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Cosette and Marius have asked if we will have the children here, for the summer, and we have agreed. They will come a fortnight hence and stay until the beginning of September. It will, of course, mean more work for you, if you wish for it.”
Toussaint glanced at Javert, perhaps reading the incredulous look on his face, and then she nodded, laughing as she spoke.
“Of course, monsieur! As though I would refuse. They are bonny children, each and every one.”
“Georges’ nurse will come with them,” Jean said, as Javert drained his cup and got to his feet. “You will not have to do everything for them.”
“I am already looking forward to it.” Toussaint watched as Javert briefly rested a hand on Jean’s shoulder, then went to make his escape. “And what does Monsieur l’Inspecteur make of the arrangement?”
“Monsieur l’Inspecteur is late for work,” Javert called from the hall. “But it will not take any great stretch of your imagination to work it out for yourself, I’m sure.”
As the door slammed behind him, Toussaint began to laugh in earnest, and Jean soon joined her. They would manage, the three of them. He was sure of it. They had weathered worse storms together than even Fantine Pontmercy.
I almost forgot it was my turn to post, thanks Esteven for the reminder! ;)
Chapter 8: The Gorbeau Hovel, revisited
Chapter by iberiandoctor (jehane18)
It rained heavily the next day. Javert felt almost pleased, as if his continual dire feelings concerning the weather had actually been justified for once.
As a consequence, the office was far more crowded than usual. The men always found more reasons to stay indoors when the weather was inclement, and as long as they had paperwork to catch up upon Javert did not fault them for it.
François brought him a cup of coffee, which he drank while looking through the morning’s despatches and papers. There had been a break-in at No. 4, Rue des Fossés, the night before, and some miscreants had created a disturbance in the Place Walhubert in the early hours of that morning. Officers were still investigating; the scratching sounds of pen upon parchment emanating from downstairs suggested that fuller reports were in train.
There was nothing of note in the despatches that might allude to the concerns Desmarais had spoken of the day before, namely, the smuggling in luxury goods which so concerned the Ministry of Commerce and Manufacturing as well as their border control guards, La Douane. There was certainly no mention of the criminal, Claquesous, or his friend, Montparnasse, as indeed there had not been for years.
Javert frowned. He could not shake the nagging feeling of unease.
When François brought the mid-day despatches which Javert always read with his mid-day meal, he asked his desk sergeant, “Anything to report concerning the La Douane issue?”
François said, “After your briefing yesterday, Lavalle and his team have started making enquiries of perfumeries and jewellers. I don’t think they’ve turned up any leads yet, though I will make a note to have him check in when he’s back at the station-house.”
Javert glanced at the window, which the rain had turned opaque. “I trust he will have the sense to pursue enquiries indoors today.”
The rain let up slightly in the afternoon, and Javert decided to deal with his unsettled mood by shouldering his summer coat and hat and heading out into the downpour. Staying out for too long in the wet would make his bad leg ache, but the cool air helped lift his restlessness, and he welcomed the damp tread of his boot-heels in the puddles and upon the cobblestones and slick streets of the Quartier Jardin-du-Roi.
He walked briskly down the Quai de la Tournelle, toward the Place Walhubert, and then traversed Rue de Buffon and the Rue du Jardin de Roi, now dripping with rain. Pulling his hat low on his head, he continued walking, and eventually found himself in the old quarter of the Marché-aux-Chevaux, with its dilapidated houses and rutted streets and low-walled enclosures, the populated buildings seemingly deserted in the dismal weather.
His feet drew him along the Boulevard de l'Hôpital to the little-traversed corner of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Michel, where the familiar facade of the Gorbeau tenement came into view. The mean building at first glance seemed a small hovel, presenting its side and gable to the road, but was in reality as large as a twisted cathedral, riddled with hidden rooms which housed the criminal element and those looking to keep from scrutiny for one reason or another.
This was the building in which he and his colleagues had entrapped the Patron-Minette gang, with rather dubious help from a young Marius Pontmercy. Within its walls, Valjean had been held prisoner, by ruthless men led by the even more ruthless Thénardier, and from whom Valjean had later escaped from under Javert's own nose.
Javert paused on the threshold, and then knocked on the door. This was not his preferred method of entry, but concessions had to be made for status and advanced age.
A very old woman cracked opened the door, took in the cut of his coat and the uniform underneath, and then the lines of his face.
"M. le Commissaire!" It was the same Burgon, who was obviously still the principal tenant of this infamous tenement.
"Good afternoon," Javert said, firmly. "I would like to view the premises."
"Certainly, Monsieur," Burgon said, and stood aside to let him pass.
The corridor was dank and dilapidated, in much the same condition as it had already been eight years ago. The air smelled rank. Javert mounted the rickety staircase; he recalled the narrow interior as if it were yesterday.
He remembered the gang members, too: could see their faces, as clear as day. Guelemer the giant; Babet the crafty vaudevillian and jack-of-all trades; the many-aliased Bigrenaille; long-haired Brujon, who was known for wielding a cudgel; the road-mender Boulatruelle. These men had been the hardened denizens of the Salpêtrière, irascible in their criminality. That winter night eight years ago, Javert had put an end to them -- they had been arrested, and sentenced. As far as Javert knew, only Babet was still alive and serving the remainder of his punishment in La Force, the others having fallen victim in the intervening time to the particular cruelty of their fellow prisoners or to disease.
Then there had been Claquesous, whom he had always suspected of being a double agent, and his friend, the young and ruthless Montparnasse. They had both managed to escape from custody, and had never been found again.
Javert took his time to inspect the premises, tramping through the rooms and speaking to each tenant to see if anyone had any intelligence to share regarding these two infamous men. This diligent work took the better part of two hours.
Finally Javert entered the room in which Patron-Minette had laid a trap for Jean Valjean that winter night eight years ago, a room which, according to Burgon, had remained empty and unlet for years.
"An ill-omened room," Burgon said, darkly. Javert knew hardened criminals were a superstitious bunch; to be sure, they knew no better.
He glanced around the dingy space: the fireplace, the bed on which Valjean had been held, the window through which the gang had tried to flee and through which Valjean had himself managed to escape. It was somehow not entirely easy to catch his breath. The thought of his friend at the hands of the criminal gang, of how he had then, himself, been blind to Valjean's need, to mercy, to anything except the need to arrest and capture... The room was warm, almost rank, and yet Javert had to suppress a shiver.
He had been the arresting officer, and he had not managed to keep all of Patron-Minette in custody. Claquesous was still in hiding somewhere in Paris; possibly even here, in the 47th district. It was amongst the many reasons why Javert had taken up the commissary's position in this quartier; why he kept a modest room at No. 10 Rue du Bon-Puits even though he was hardly there, a residence which he maintained solely in order to qualify for his post in the district of Jardin-du-Roi. He wished to keep his ear to the ground of the quartier -- so that if Claquesous and Montparnasse were to surface in their old haunts, Javert would be on hand to apprehend them.
Were they truly involved in this new smuggling business with La Douane? Or was this just an idle rumour, much the same as the other idle rumours of the last remaining members of Patron-Minette? Javert could not tell.
"Are you well, Monsieur?" Burgon asked. There was curiosity in her voice, as well there might be. Javert knew he was never less than bedrock-certain in public, and any hesitancy would be remarked upon.
Javert pulled himself together. "Entirely," he said. "Thank you. That will be all."
Tomorrow. He would debrief Lavalle and his team tomorrow morning, and if necessary call on the pawnshops and jewellery stores and perfumeries himself. The Ministry of Commerce would require that no stone be left unturned; for Valjean's sake Javert was prepared to rip the cobbles themselves from the Parisian streets.
But for now, after his afternoon spent with the ghosts of their fraught past, Javert felt seized with the desire to return to his peaceful present, his home in Rue Plumet. He wished to see Valjean's face, to feel the sure strength of Valjean's embrace about him, to hear the rumble of that familiar voice -- more dear to him than anything in this life, and for whom he would gladly lay down that life to safeguard.
As an officer of the 47th quartier, Javert would have been required to maintain a residence in the Jardin-du-Roi district in which the Rue de Pontoise stationhouse is located. Esteven suggested Javert might have decided to take a room at No 10 Rue du Bon-Puits, of which the Dictionaire administratif says on page 575:
Chapter 9: An Uncharacteristic Chill
It rained for two days then. After Javert had left with Toussaint’s laughter ringing in his ears, Jean had followed an hour later into the showers, delivering alms and going to the church to discuss the fixing of the roof with the priest. He imagined that perhaps the next time he visited, or the time after, he might be able to bring Emile with him, to show the boy the nature of charity at a street level, entirely different from what he was used to at the Pontmercy household, where charity principally took the form of legal battles and sums of money so large they were virtually unimaginable. Emile was eight now, and a caring soul, quite old enough to learn to look to the needy around him and understand that he must do all he could to help.
On the second day, the rain kept him indoors, but Jean did not mind the imprisonment. After Javert left for work, thankfully before the heaviest of the downpours began in earnest, Jean had lingered at the table with Toussaint, who was preparing a pie for the larder. She of course did not mind one bit the idea of the children being present for so long; she was a woman who had helped raised a small army of nieces and nephews, and three more little ones for a month would be nothing to her.
“You must begin immediately to make preparations, monsieur,” she said, “Two weeks hence is not so long a time, and you must see you have little here suitable for children to be comfortable in the long term.”
Truth be told, he had not thought of it, too caught up in his joy to think, but he could see that the woman was right. The house was serviceable, but small, and for appearances sake, they must leave the room Javert supposedly slept in free, as though he were going to use it. That only left the smallest bedroom for the children to sleep in. Two of them could fit comfortably into the bed but not three. The nurse could sleep in the attic and he supposed, at a push, that Georges could always share with her, if she did not mind the imposition on her privacy.
Then there was a question of linen, of where the children would eat, what they would eat, where they would sit, where he could send them to play so that Javert could have some time to himself in the silence he preferred at the end of a long day, among so many other questions that he began to write them down for later reference. Toussaint was helpful, making suggestions, but also threw up more and more questions, so that by the time she had finished her chores and put on her coat for the walk home, Jean rather felt that perhaps he had been remiss in considering the actual challenge of readying the house for the children.
Instead of allowing himself to worry that he had been too hasty, he ate the lunch that Toussaint had prepared and went to his desk. The rain had brought with it a chill that was uncharacteristic for June, almost July, and he allowed himself the luxury of a small fire, just enough to heat the air through. He did not mind the cool air so much, but Javert was always cold and he would only be moody when he came home if he could not warm himself a while by the fire. It was a very small sacrifice to make, truth be told; Javert asked for so little that the least Jean could offer him was a room in which he felt comfortable at the end of a long day.
He wrote some letters, listening to the crackle of the fire and the tapping of the rain on the windows. Cosette was the first recipient; he asked only that she confirm the dates that the children would be coming, and that she let him know how much she was prepared to send with them in terms of home comforts. The second was to a furniture maker he knew, a good man who had built the bookcases for the very library in which he sat, to ask him to come the next day and see what could be done about the smallest bedroom. He had no doubt the man would have better ideas than any he could think of to make the use of the space.
When his correspondence had been completed, he ventured out far enough into the rain to find some gamins sheltering beneath an overhanging tree at the end of the street. He gave each of them a letter, five sous, and a lump of Toussaint’s latest cake, wrapped in waxed paper. They were known to him; after a while, with careful application of attention and coins in hands, the street children who frequented these streets had begun to trust him, and he told Toussaint to feed any who was brave enough to come to the kitchen door. He did not know for sure how many had taken up the offer, only seeing one or two at a time, and always early in the morning, but the near constant replenishing of the pantry was sign enough that Toussaint was doing good work. If Javert knew about their open kitchen, and surely he must have done, for he was often awake early for morning shifts, he did not speak of it. The fact that he did not was all the begrudging approval that Jean needed.
After that, he took to his chair and must have slept despite the book on his lap, for he woke to the sound of the front door and Javert’s heavy tread in the hall. The fire had burnt low but the room was, he noted happily, still warm, and he remained with his eyes closed as he listened to Javert muttering, the clunk of first one boot and then the next falling to the floor, the rattle of the closet, and then the soft click of the library door. He could imagine Javert peering in and seeing him asleep, reluctant to disturb him but drawn in by the only warmth in the house. Sure enough, he was soon standing by the fire. Jean could feel him there.
He opened one eye enough to see Javert, standing with his back to the chair, hands held in front of him towards the flames. He looked a sorry enough sight; his hair was dripping, the queue straggled so that Jean longed to comb it out with his fingers, and his shoulders hunched. He was thinking, and doing so at great length; Jean knew the only reason Javert was not speaking to himself too was because he thought that Jean was still sleeping. Something had troubled him, that much was clear. It would not do now to let him know that he was being watched as well.
Jean allowed his book, still resting on his lap, to fall, and closed his eyes once more as Javert started and turned to him. He heard a soft exclamation and then felt Javert move closer. He schooled his breathing and waited; he would allow Javert to ‘wake’ him, and then there would be no need to admit he had been spying.
A single finger came to touch his brow, brushing a stray curl back from his forehead, and then it was gone and a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, squeezing slightly too tightly to be comforting. Jean shifted and the grip loosened, but the hand did not leave him.
“Whoever it is,” Javert hissed, so fiercely that Jean barely recognised his voice; “Whatever they are doing, they shall not find you. If they show their faces I shall kill them myself.”
Chapter 10: The Deluge Over Rue Plumet
By the time Javert left the office, the evening skies had opened in earnest, deluging Paris with their vehemence. Javert hastened down a Rue Plumet that had fair turned into a tributary of the Seine. The sturdy boots that he had worn every day for almost a decade were wet though, and Javert felt soaked to the skin, in a way that he had not experienced since the night he had been pulled from the river by Jean Valjean.
He pushed through the front gate of No. 55, navigated the swamp in the garden, and clambered, splashing, up the steps to their front door.
The hallway was dark, the house silent and frigid, save for the drumming of the rain on the windows, and the far-off crackling sounds that came from behind the door of the library.
Javert flung his sodden hat and coat on the rack, and stooped with effort to pull off his boots and wet socks. His bad leg did indeed hurt from the hours in the damp, as he knew it would. He peeled his drenched jacket off as well, and bit back a curse as the chill rose through his damp shirt-sleeves and trousers. There was one place in the house that would be warm.
He hastened to the library, where he knew Valjean liked to spend the late afternoons before a roaring fire, over a book, or occasionally napping. Javert opened the library door cautiously, in case the latter was occurring.
Sure enough, there was the man himself, sound asleep in his favorite chair, venerable white head propped on one fist. He had clearly stoked the fire in preparation for Javert's return, for it was still crackling in the grate. Framed in the glow of the firelight, he looked hale and strong, despite his seven decades. It was an image Javert treasured immensely.
Quietly, so as not to wake Valjean, Javert moved over to the fireplace and presented his hands and wet self to the heat.
He stood there for long moments, feeling the fire's warmth seep into his bones and start to dry his clothes and sodden hair. It was most welcome after his disturbing afternoon in the scenes of crimes past, in the rain.
After a few minutes, Javert took up the poker and began to stoke the fire, coaxing the coals to more life. As he stared into the grate, he could almost see foreboding images amongst the flames, faces from the past whom he would not forget, shadowy figures which he did not recognize. The smuggling ring, this news of Patron-Minette, they were all even more unsettling when he considered them in the safety of the home he had made with Valjean.
Who are you, he asked of the fire. Show yourselves, if you dare.
A soft thump startled him out of his reverie. Javert turned; Valjean's book had fallen to the floor. Smiling despite himself, Javert got to his knees to retrieve it. Valjean frowned in his sleep, shifting restlessly as if he was about to come awake; a lock of his white hair had come loose, and Javert reached out to push it back.
Valjean's eyelids flickered under Javert's touch, and Javert found his fingers lingering. How many times had he traced the man's familiar face with his eyes and hands? He had certainly done so with his thoughts for almost twenty years, ever since Montreuil, when he had been trying to puzzle out the mayor's identity; now, even after eight years together, he still marvelled that he was allowed to do so in person.
That this good man had been hunted by Javert for years and could forgive him for it was still a matter of astonishment. Even more astonishing was the reality that Valjean had saved him from the river and welcomed Javert into his house and bed, at tremendous risk to himself.
Javert knew he owed Valjean his life, owed him everything that was good in this life. It was unthinkable that anyone could seek to threaten Valjean — he would sooner kill than allow it —
“That was quite a declaration, my dear. If I were a criminal, it would have filled me with terror."
With a start, Javert saw that Valjean had opened his eyes and was looking at him in bemusement. Belatedly, he also realised he had spoken aloud.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to wake you.”
“There is nothing to forgive," Valjean said, smiling faintly. "Only old men ought to be napping at this hour; as you are fond of telling me, I am not yet so old.”
Javert took a step back, stifling a groan as his bad leg protested. “Indeed, you are not.”
As he limped over to the chair beside Valjean's, his friend asked him, slowly, “Javert, of whom were you speaking just now? You sounded very troubled. I have never heard you so fierce.”
Javert took his cravat off and started to loosen his still-damp shirt-sleeves so he could think about what to say. He did not wish to worry the man with news of smugglers and Patron-Minette; Valjean would be overly concerned about his, Javert's, safety, and heedless over his own.
He decided to tell Valjean part of the truth. Surely he could not be faulted if what he conveyed was not strictly a lie? “It is about work. I do not wish to trouble you with it.”
“It is no trouble," said Valjean, steadily. "As you know, I would gladly bear your burdens, in the same way as you burden yourself with mine.”
“I do not see the children as a burden,” Javert began, and remembered that he was an excruciatingly bad liar.
It was too late to recover; Valjean was frowning again, and his face had gone ruddy in the firelight.
Javert was not entirely certain as to the moral hazard of keeping information from his companion — but he had no wish to worry the man, not with the children coming to stay.
It suddenly struck Javert: oh God, the children were coming to stay here, in Rue Plumet with Valjean and Javert, at a time where dangerous criminals were on the loose in his city.
Valjean had started to speak, his mouth tight with unhappiness, “You are not... not still unsettled about the children, are you? I know it will be an imposition, and you are very good to agree to take them in with us this summer.”
“It is not a matter of goodness,” Javert muttered. His brain was racing. Would the children be in more danger if they were to reside in Rue Plumet as planned, where he and Valjean could keep a vigilant eye on them? Or better for them to be at the Gillenormand house in Filles-du-Calvaire, so that they would be out of harm’s way, far from any ill-wishers who might be on the lookout for Commissary Javert?
"Then I don't understand," Valjean said, slowly. "Tell me what has unnerved you so."
"It is nothing," Javert muttered. Another mistake: he could see it in Valjean's face.
Valjean said, neutrally, "Well, if it is truly nothing, then it should not detain us further. You should get out of these wet things, and I will see what Toussaint has left us for dinner."
He rose from his chair. He did not offer to assist Javert in removing the aforesaid clothing — as he might otherwise have done on another day when Javert had not twice blatantly lied to him — and stalked from the room.
Chapter 11: An Apology
Note the rating for this chapter ;)
“I am sorry to have upset you,” Javert offered, late that night, his head hanging low. “But truly, it is not the children that are concerning me.”
“I believe you.” Jean turned on his side and laid out his hand in invitation for Javert to join him in the bed. Arguments were unfamiliar to them these days, at least ones that lasted more than an hour or two, and he did not wish to go to sleep on one. Javert, thankfully, seemed to agree, for he climbed willingly into his side of the bed and pressed his lips to Jean’s hand.
“Goodnight, my dear,” Jean murmured, brushing his knuckles against Javert’s cheek.
If he had believed, however, that the matter was settled, Jean soon found that it was not. For four days, Javert lapsed into one of his dark episodes and barely spent any time at home. When he did, he was distant and quieter than usual, and although Jean reminded himself that he was used to these black moods by now, Javert’s unwillingness to spend the time with him still hurt. It always had done, and he supposed it always would. The only way he could console himself was to remember that so far, Javert had always come back to him.
On Tuesday, the day of Cosette’s dinner, Jean brought Javert a cup of coffee before he woke, and sat on the edge of the bed, turning the last few days over in his mind. In such usual circumstances, Jean would not have pushed for Javert to attend any social occasion. This event was important, though, and he hoped to gauge by Javert’s reaction as to whether the children were in fact the source of his troubles. Reaching out a hesitant hand, he shook Javert awake. It was the first time he had touched him in days.
Javert woke reluctantly, as he always did, and in the moment of blankness that followed his waking, he almost smiled at Jean. Then the guardedness returned to his eyes and he blinked rapidly.
“Coffee for you.” Jean tilted his head. “It is early yet. I am sorry to wake you.”
“It is quite all right,” Javert said carefully, pushing himself to sit up. He picked up the coffee and held it tightly between his hands, gazing down into its depths.
“It is Cosette’s dinner tonight,” Jean said, after a moment of awkward silence. “We’re to discuss the plan for the children and the holiday.”
“Ah,” Javert’s brow twitched and he did not meet Jean’s eye, “Well –”
“You need not come,” Jean said. “I will make your excuses.”
Javert made a sound that was almost a groan and squeezed his eyes shut. He was so difficult to read when he was like this.
“I will be there,” Javert said, and reached out hesitantly to grasp Jean’s hand. He was warm from the heat of the coffee and Jean did not wish for him to let go.
“I’ve behaved terribly these last few days. I apologise for it,” Javert muttered, and then he went quiet again. Jean nodded and removed himself from the room. It was almost over.
Javert was as good as his word, even taking the time to send a note from the station to say that he would be late, and would make his own way to the Pontmercy mansion. Jean met him at the door, and was pleasantly surprised to be a given a kiss for his trouble. Javert’s lips lingered against his, and when Javert finally drew away, there was a hint of a smile playing on his face.
“What was that for?” Jean asked, helping Javert out of his coat.
“If you need to ask, perhaps I did not do it correctly,” Javert said gruffly. “I did not know I was so out of practice.”
Before Jean could reply, Emile appeared from Marius’ study and bowed politely. He alone of the children had been allowed to stay awake to greet Javert, much to Fantine’s disgust.
“Good evening, monsieur,” Emile said. “Did you have a good day at work?”
“I did, thank you. Was your own day – satisfactory?”
“Oh yes,” Emile grinned, “Monsieur Dubois says I am ready to start learning English!”
“Congratulations,” Javert said; “A worthy endeavour.”
Emile beamed, and Jean took that opportunity to shepherd him up the stairs to the nursey. The boy went willingly, glowing with actual praise from Javert, no doubt.
“The boy will be well educated, better than his father even,” Javert mused, as they made their way through to the dining room.
“I believe that is Marius’ wish. Cosette wants the same for Fantine, although I do not know how Fantine feels about the prospect of being tied to a desk.”
“Monsieur Javert!” Marius leapt to his feet and came to take Javert’s hand. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take the children.”
Jean felt Javert stiffen at the overly jovial tone, and put a reassuring hand on his arm as Marius, always endearingly oblivious, continued to chatter on.
“Enough, darling.” Cosette spotted the same boiling pot and swept over to move Marius away. “Monsieur Javert has had a long day, and you are being very loud!”
Marius only laughed and blushed good-naturedly before he took his place at the table and invited them all to do the same.
Cosette and Marius had a great many ideas and things to tell them, and Jean fielded all the conversation, to allow Javert the chance to only listen. His partner ate steadily, better than he had for days, and indeed said nothing, but whenever Jean turned to look at him, he knew Javert was listening and would interject if he saw fit. Cosette and Marius, used to Javert by now, did not push to include him, and Jean felt his heart swell. How lucky he was to have this. To be discussing his grandchildren, taking them away on holiday, with his partner by his side. Something was still bothering Javert, he knew, but the man’s presence here reassured him it was not the children. At least, not entirely, and that was more than he could have hoped for.
“We are very grateful,” Marius told them one more time, as they prepared to leave later, and his voice was serious for once. “To know we have you, the both of you – we are very fortunate.”
Cosette kissed them both goodbye and cradled Jean’s cheek in her hand, just for a moment. She had always been able to tell when Javert was having one of his episodes, and Jean had never hidden anything from her in that respect.
When they got home, Javert divested himself of his coat and turned to help Jean with his, running his hands lightly up Jean’s arms and squeezing his shoulders.
“I’ve been an ass,” Javert mumbled.
“It is all right.”
“It is not,” Javert growled. “But let me begin to make it up to you.”
He drew Jean up the stairs behind him, clinging tightly to his hand, and Jean followed him willingly. Javert always came back to him in the end.
“I’m sorry,” Javert said again, when they reached the door of the bedroom.
“Enough apologies now,” Jean breathed, as Javert lifted his hand to his lips and kissed it. He lingered there, long enough for Jean to feel the warmth gather in his stomach, and he was left in no doubt of Javert’s intentions when finally he dropped Jean’s hand and reached to untie his cravat. His throat bared to Javert’s mouth, Jean rolled his head as those lips came to press against his pounding pulse, and when Javert began to suck at his neck, Jean had to push him away.
“Perhaps we should retire,” he smiled, as Javert seemed to realise that they had not actually yet reached the bedroom.
“If you insist,” Javert muttered, flinging the door open and pulling Jean behind him. There was just time for Jean to push the door closed with his foot before Javert was kissing his neck again, his hands running down Jean’s back to tug his shirt free from his trousers, and sliding underneath to touch the warm flesh of Jean’s back. Javert’s hands were large, but they touched the scars on Jean’s back with a reverence that had used to make Jean weep. It did not happen so much now, but Javert never forgot himself; no matter how heated their touches might be, he was always gentle there.
And it was heated, there and then, Javert pressed so close that Jean could feel his erection against his thigh. Only a week or so since they were together, but Javert was always desperate to be touched and to touch, even after all of their years together. He had been starved for too long of affection, and Jean had never begrudged him his need to know that he was still wanted. How could he begrudge Javert, when he himself knew something of the fear that, soon, all would be taken away from him? And besides all of that, he could never deny Javert anything.
He allowed Javert to undress him by the fire that Toussaint had thoughtfully stoked before she went home, and did not protest when Javert stripped himself, quick and efficient, even though Jean would have liked to help. There was not time for that tonight, he understood. This was Javert’s last apology.
He shivered as Javert drew him to the bed and laid him down, then climbed in beside him and took hold of his cock.
Jean groaned as Javert gripped him, sure and strong, working him so quickly that he feared he would not have long to enjoy it. With difficulty, he stayed Javert’s hand, and spoke quickly, to assure any doubts Javert might otherwise have had as to how he felt.
“Slow down, my dear,” he murmured. “We have time.”
Javert kissed him by way of apology and played his fingers over the tip of Jean’s cock, collecting the moisture there and spreading it, until all was slick and burning. He returned to his wringing stroke, so slow now it was almost a torture; Jean felt his toes curl and he reached out blindly. Javert came willingly, pressing against Jean, his head in the crook of Jean’s neck, mouthing the skin there he had already made sensitive. Jean’s cock jerked and he tangled a hand in Javert’s hair, anything to anchor himself.
It was all heat and friction after that, as Javert stroked him and rubbed against his thigh, and when they were both panting and breathless, Javert squeezed Jean’s balls, and he came, messily, over his stomach. Javert bent to lick up the mess, lingering until Jean had to push him away. It was too much. Instead he reached out and laid his hand on Javert, and his touch was enough to send Javert over the edge too.
Javert collapsed at his side and kissed his ear, his hair, his cheek, anywhere he could reach with his lips. He fell asleep with his lips against Jean’s cheek, then woke again moments later when Jean tried to reach the blankets.
“Let me,” Javert murmured, only half awake, moving his long legs to pull the blankets up around them.
Nestled together, closer than they had been for a week, Javert spoke once more before he fell into a deep slumber.
“Whatever I do, Jean Valjean, it is for you.”
Jean would not tell him how long he lay and pondered those words, until long after the fire had burned down.
Chapter 12: A Very Awkward Welcoming Committee
The time had come. The passage had been booked, the suitcases were packed, the carriage had been made ready. There was no reason to put off the matter any further.
Of course Valjean had gone to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to collect the children. Javert wished he had insisted on accompanying his friend. If he had done so, he would not be standing stiffly by the open door of No. 55, with Toussaint by his side, like the most awkward welcoming committee in France.
He wondered if he should not have worn his uniform after all. He had dressed for work out of force of habit; it was only after he had done up all the brass buttons, and Valjean reminded him what the date was, that he realised he had given himself the day off.
Too late now. Perhaps it was fitting that he would receive the Pontmercy children into the house garbed as if he was about to face a firing squad.
Beside him, Toussaint fidgeted with the strings of her apron. Her usually placid countenance was filled with barely-disguised excitement. “Do you think they will be much longer, Inspector?” she asked, for the third time.
“Surely not,” Javert responded, again for the third time. “Monsieur Fauchelevent left an hour ago to fetch them from the Marais. Certainly they will be here very soon.”
Toussaint looked sideways at him. “That is true. My apologies, Monsieur. I just cannot wait to see them!”
Javert suppressed a sigh. Well, that made one of them.
His thoughts were interrupted by the long-anticipated sound of carriage wheels in the path outside. Toussaint let out a pleased sound, and Javert sighed and followed her down the front steps.
As they approached the gate, a cacophony of shrill little voices lifted into the air.
“Let me out, the little ones want to see —“
“Fantine, I was to be the first —!”
“—no, no, no!”
“Children, children, if you please!” Marius’ voice sounded ragged around the edges, as if the short journey from the Marais had been eventful indeed. The front gate was pushed open, and then an eruption of children issued forth.
Émile staggered up the path, carrying a trunk that looked much too heavy for him, as well as a book-bag that was full to the bursting. He wore a thick hat and coat that was unsuitable for the summer; most likely his parents’ attempt to ensure their delicate eldest child was protected against the non-existent cold weather. He also wore an expression of fraternal dismay.
The cause of said expression was undoubtedly his little sister. Fantine had shouldered her way in front of him, unencumbered as she was by either luggage or unseasonal clothing. The one thing she was carrying was a large, enclosed wicker basket, which she was using to impede Émile’s progress up the path.
“Fantine, you agreed, I’m the oldest!”
“The little ones should be the first! They all want to meet Orri! You’ve already seen him, Émile, let them have their turn!”
“Children, please, stop shoving one another. There is no prize for being first into the house. What has gotten into the both of you?” Marius hurried up the path to intercept them. He was weighed down with a trunk and several valises and a hat-box in varying shades of pink that appeared to all belong to Fantine. He was hatless, and his hair stood on end. Javert wondered how this man, who was otherwise a competent lawyer and respected political activist, could be placed in such a state by his own children, but such offspring-engendered chaos nevertheless seemed to occur to Marius with alarming frequency.
“Down! Want down!” announced Georges, gesturing cheerfully from the vantage point of his nurse’s arms. The middle-aged woman surveyed the garden around her suspiciously as if it was filled with snakes and other wild beasts out to attack her little charge.
“Not you, rascal,” said Cosette, sweeping into the garden upon Valjean’s arm and taking the baby from his nurse. “Come along, everyone, the hour grows late and Papa and I must be away very soon.”
Fantine paused, clearly torn between wanting to race Émile into the house with her basket full of kittens, and the opportunity to throw a dramatic weeping fit over her mother’s impeding departure. Émile took the opportunity to squeeze ahead of her at the front steps, and Javert went to intercept him.
“Good morning, Émile. What’s all this about, then?”
Émile shook Javert’s proffered hand, looking slightly sheepish. “I’m sorry, Monsieur. I — Fantine — that is to say… it is not important. Please forgive us.”
Javert felt his grimace vanishing as Toussaint knelt beside Fantine. “Hello, Mademoiselle. Have you brought all your kittens to Rue Plumet?”
“Yes!” Fantine said. “One for the three of us and one for Grand-père makes four, of course. I also wanted to bring Mama Lise, but Aunt Gillenormand will be lonely without her.”
“Indeed, that’s for the best,” Toussaint said; the family would be not ready for another litter of kittens quite so soon after the first, and certainly Javert had no desire for Orri to become a father under such circumstances. “What are all their names?”
“The little orange one is Fifi, and Émile has called his Robinson Crusoe after this English book he has been reading. I think Grand-père wanted Monsieur Javert to select the name for their kitten, but Papa has been calling him Tonnerre because of his deep growl. And mine …” Fantine grinned, and whispered in Toussaint’s ear, and then Toussaint was laughing too.
“How amusing,” Toussaint said, and straightened up. “Would you like me to help you with the basket, Mademoiselle?”
“Please,” Fantine said, prettily. Javert took Émile’s suitcase from him, and the four of them crossed the threshold together in an egalitarian fashion.
Marius and the footman carried the bags up to the rooms that had been newly readied: the small room which Émile and Fantine were to share, and the attic which would house George and his nurse. The kittens would be given a place in the kitchens, but doubtless they would make their way up to the children’s bedroom, much as it had become Orri’s habit to spend the night at the foot of Valjean’s and Javert’s bed.
Orri sniffed at the four nimble little things that had suddenly invaded the house. Then he turned up his nose and stalked off in search of more interesting pursuits. The four kittens followed after, excitedly, and Javert could have sworn that Orri sighed, too.
Cosette pronounced herself entirely satisfied with the arrangements. “Papa, you have done wonders readying the house for the children! I believe they will be so happy and content here this summer. Thank you so much.”
“The thanks belong to Toussaint and Javert,” Valjean said, self-effacingly. “Toussaint saw to all the new linens and room arrangements, and Javert had our carpenter construct the new safety devices you see around the fireplace and upon the stairs.”
“I know Georges is walking very well these days, but it is still better to be safe than sorry,” Javert began, and was bemused when Cosette pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you, Javert,” she whispered. “I know Papa will look after the children with his own life, but I trust you to keep everyone safe.”
Javert cleared his throat. “I will certainly try,” he said. “I wish you both a good voyage, and a successful visit.”
“And a speedy return!” Cosette said, and winked at him. Javert was so taken aback by her teasing that he entirely failed to notice Valjean’s approach until he felt warm fingers clasp his hand.
While Cosette and Marius were bidding a lengthy farewell to their offspring and the respective kittens, Valjean murmured, “You look very well in your uniform, but perhaps you would like to change into something more comfortable for our mid-day meal? It smells as if Toussaint has prepared a feast.”
Javert snorted, refusing to rise to the bait. “I would not scandalise your son-in-law or your daughter by changing my usual attire until they are back in their carriage and headed for Calais. And in any case, changing one’s dress just for lunch is the sort of thing the idle bourgeoisie does. A diligent policeman would gladly suffer the dignity of the uniform at all times, even in his own house.”
Valjean smiled his small, rare smile. “Then perhaps afterwards you would allow me to assist in the removal of the uniform?” he suggested, innocently. “I believe Georges is due for his nap after luncheon, and I have told the children that grandfathers, as well as little brothers, similarly need their forty winks before dinner.”