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Monsieur le maire is not an unfamiliar figure around the docks. Indeed, his deep pockets and kind words are praised in such places and he is eagerly welcomed each night, bringing small consolations to the unfortunates that eke out what living they can in the dark.
He is a saint, the women claim sometimes. A gift from God. The ladies often talk amongst themselves of other less saintly things, of strong arms gripping tight and a broad chest braced against them, but they do not press it further with the man himself. Though Monsieur Madeleine offers his alms with gentle poise, it is the quickly-bowed head and awkward smile of Jean Valjean that meekly accepts their commendations as best he can.
So it happens that the ladies think him bashful and allow him his distance, echo his coyness with simple thanks and no lewd offers. Their attention moves elsewhere. Madeleine empties his pockets and bows his head and the town praises its respectable mayor. Montreuil-sur-Mer thrives.
“Monsieur L'Inspecteur, you must allow us to thank you!”
Madeleine frowns at the voice, his hand gripping the shoulder of one of the unfortunates that make their home by the docks. It is a cold night and there are few places to shelter, though he hopes his comfort provides some semblance of warmth for the lost souls he has spent his evening with.
The voice, however, tears him from these thoughts. The tone is as suggestive as it always is in this place but the inflection is familiar and he places it almost immediately: he remembers a young girl with few teeth and jutting collar bones, one of the newer ones, he thinks, for this evening was the first he saw of her, all bright eyes and half-clean skin. But… Monsieur L'Inspecteur …?
He straightens from kneeling by the prone beggar in the gutter and turns towards the source of the voice. His heart jumps slightly as he sees a familiar figure standing by the girls.
Javert.
Jean Valjean presses the hand of Monsieur Madeleine to his breast but it is the prison-hardened eyes of 24601 that glance about hastily, hungrily, seeking an escape path. There are habits that are hard to break.
There are also habits that each day seem easier to make. Monsieur Madeleine is not entirely sure that the speed of his heartbeat is the work of fear alone; there is a peculiar rhythm beneath it that echoes deep in his breast and catches him off guard.
The inspector has not yet noticed him, has not even turned, but the figure is not one that Madeleine is inclined to forget. Only one man holds himself in such a manner, buoyed by justice and duty and a righteous confidence that seems just barely contained by the confines of his body. Only one such man can exist, but exist he does in Javert – and Monsieur le maire is both horrified and delighted to have him in his service.
24601 slinks from his thoughts as Jean Valjean draws the fine coat of Monsieur Madeleine tighter around him. He does not have to fear nor run from the Javert of Montreuil-sur-Mer, though it is a fact he has to remind himself of constantly. Slowing his breathing, he strains to hear the conversation.
“You will move along now.”
It is Javert’s voice, a shade deeper than the respectful tone Monsieur le maire receives. It strikes something buried in Valjean that catches his breath and oh, these new habits are easy to make.
The ladies – the prostitutes, he corrects himself, unsure where the sudden flare of suspicion and resentment arises from; the women whose bodies earn their coin from men they entice with sweet words and soft promises – seem to be protesting. And well they might. Valjean has a few protests himself, if he is honest. There is clearly no crime being committed and yet Javert seems to be lingering – no, no, he is not only lingering… he is listening. Valjean hears only snippets but they stir a curious sense of unrest within him.
“You are a brave man, monsieur—”
“A thank you, you must have want of some reward—”
“We are good at rewards—”
“Duty,” Javert says in turn. The tone is curt and Jean Valjean would swear before the Bishop of Digne that should that word have a taste, in the mouth of Javert it would surely taste of conviction.
He wonders when the taste of Javert’s mouth became a matter for such idle thoughts, and quickly shakes the notion away.
“I do my duty, nothing more.”
Madeleine watches as Javert gives a small nod to the cluster of women – whores, his mind rages at him, the mind that usually resents such coarse phrases, whores – who are standing, in his opinion, unreasonably close to Javert. And if he is to offer a further opinion, Javert is not exactly hurrying to remove himself from the proximity. He exhales a short huff of annoyance.
It is the look of the thing, he tells himself. It is the thought of preserving Montreuil-sur-Mer’s good name that twists in his gut so uncomfortably, that narrows his eyes and clenches his fists. He cannot even see Javert’s face but he is quite sure that an inspector should not stand so close to such women, and should not take such obvious innuendos without comment.
Javert has never been a man to waste his sharp wit, Valjean reminds himself, though it sounds more like a compliment than he would like. He pursues his lips and glowers at the group before him again. In the interests of civic duty, of course.
The women are plying their trade again: “Oh, we know of duty, monsieur—”
Their voices are wheedling and honeyed.
“Duty is tiring, dear inspector—”
They are moving to surround the man.
“You must rest, monsieur—”
The young one has her hand on Javert’s arm.
“Duty deserves—”
Monsieur Madeleine never learns what duty deserves because he cuts the women off with a short shout.
“Monsieur L'Inspecteur!”
Javert turns and squints into the shadows, his eyes widening when he recognises the mayor striding towards him.
“Monsieur le maire,” he greets and though he is clearly surprised his tone is kept respectful as he doffs his hat and sinks into a short bow. The women back away as Javert stands to attention and allows the mayor to approach him.
“Monsieur le maire, forgive me for saying so, but you are walking late tonight.” His eyes scan the mayor’s face and find it unusually severe so he probes no further and simply waits for a reply.
Madeleine finds that he has to clear his throat before he can speak. Even then he is not quite sure what he should say and he hesitates slightly before grasping desperately for something safe. “You are—you are on patrol, yes?”
Javert frowns at the obvious question and Madeleine is struck with an urge to reach over and smooth the man’s forehead with his thumb.
“Monsieur le maire,” says one of the women as she steps forward, breaths light. “Oh, Monsieur, you must let us tell you of Inspector Javert’s kindnesses—”
Now it is Madeleine’s turn to frown. Kindnesses? Javert is committed and not cruel without cause, yes, but the word still seems a far cry from the man before him. Indeed, Javert himself scowls at the woman who has spoken but it does not escape notice that a slight blush appears on his face.
“Hold your tongue,” the inspector commands shortly. He turns back to the mayor and nods in deference to him, though the flush is still apparent. “Monsieur, let me escort you home. It is late, and if you have finished,” Javert glances around the docks and then back to the mayor himself, gesturing towards his pockets with a look that Valjean recognises as barely-concealed impatience, “your alms-giving for the night, you should not linger long in these streets.”
Javert is a fine one to talk, Valjean thinks with a vicious twinge of – well, civic duty, yes, and nothing more. Nevertheless he schools his expression and rests a hand on Javert’s arm, stopping him. It is a dangerous move, one he does not even intend to make, but he makes it nonetheless and the look on Javert’s face, the deepening flush and the surprise, sends a jolt through him that resonates deeper than the actual touch itself. He feels petty when he speaks next but his interest is piqued.
“A moment, Javert.” It is not difficult to say the name with a quick smile or tighten his grip on the man’s arm slightly and it is even less difficult to see Javert swallow as he does so. Oh, it is petty, he knows. It is not behaviour befitting of a mayor and his interest has long surpassed the cover of civic duty, but he would not trade it for the world. “I would hear what she has to say.”
The inspector looks about to argue before his face goes carefully blank. “Monsieur le maire,” is all he says with sharp dip of his head, but then he steps away, out of Madeleine’s reach.
The youngest of the whores smiles widely and attempts a curtsy. Her thin shawl is clutched tightly around her shoulders, covering what skin it can and Madeleine feels a little ashamed of his pettiness.
“Please, Monsieur,” she says quickly. She shoots a glance at Javert that seems apologetic, but he says nothing in return, standing tall and silent. “Your inspector is a man of mercy, we owe great thanks to him…”
“Javert le conquérant!” exclaims one of the others, obviously unable to hold back. The endearment makes Javert look up. He meets the mayor’s eyes and Jean Valjean cannot say for sure exactly what expression he is reading in the man’s face, but he sees the flush begin again and Valjean enjoys it. Perhaps the gaze is held a little long because Javert clears his throat abruptly.
“Monsieur,” he begins. “There were drunks around these parts last night. I did no more than send them on their way. They had no coin for what they wanted, but they—”
“Javert le conquérant,” Madeleine repeats thoughtfully, testing the sound of it in his mouth. He is at once pleased and alarmed by Javert’s reaction; the man makes a strangled sound in his throat and appears mortified by it, rushing to cover it with words.
“Please, Monsieur, you should not, it is not…” Javert stops and sighs and falters under Madeleine’s gaze. “The law must be upheld,” he finishes lamely. “I am owed no more thanks than, than…” He casts about for an example, and his eyes settle on Madeleine’s booted feet. “I am owed no more thanks than your boots for keeping your feet dry. And I would take no more thanks,” he adds quickly. “I would not presume… Indeed I would not…” He makes an odd abortive gesture with his hand, toward the whores. Valjean knows exactly what he is trying to say. “My duty is there to be done. It is done. This is all.”
He does not look up as he finishes. Monsieur le maire feels a twinge of guilt at Javert’s obvious embarrassment. He looks to the women.
“Go inside,” he tells them. “Find what warmth you can.” It is force of habit that presses another coin into the youngest girl’s hand, but it is this burgeoning new habit that says his next thought aloud. “Rest assured I shall find fit reward for the inspector.”
He cannot look at Javert as he says it but he swears he sees the man’s back stiffen out of the corner of his eye. Javert le conquérant, indeed.
“Come, inspector,” he says quickly. “If your offer still stands, I would value your company.”
Javert dips his head again and mutters what must be an affirmative answer because when Madeleine begins to walk he falls into step beside him. They are silent as they leave the docks, but there is a tenseness strung between them.
“I should think that your kindness is not often lauded, inspector,” Monsieur le maire comments lightly. He catches the frown on Javert’s face and completes his thought. “I mean no more than you seemed ill at ease with their gratitude.”
Javert gives an emphatic grunt. “It is not a word I am prone to hearing,” is his reply. “Or it is not the word I would use. Though I would be remiss not to add that the law does not stipulate unkindness.”
He speaks softly, but with assurance. Jean Valjean is reminded of the stoic young guard at Toulon, devoted and watchful but not, as many of the other guards, needlessly unkind. Javert does not sanction suffering where it is not required. It is something he admires.
For reasons of civic duty, he is sure.
“I am thankful for it,” Monsieur le maire says gently, trying to catch the officer’s eye, but he will not look up from the ground. “Doubtless the women were too.” Javert still does not look up. A flare of jealousy – and it is jealousy now, he confesses to himself, jealousy pure and shameful, not civic duty or habit or any such other thing that might protect him – coupled with the selfish need for Javert to meet his gaze, gives voice to his next comment. “As they were only too eager to prove.”
“Monsieur!” It is a plaintive cry that surprises Valjean into stopping. When he turns to face Javert he is standing still with a stricken look on his face. “You do not think—that I would consider—no—that I would—”
He stumbles over his words and finishes simply with another cry of “Monsieur!”
Mayor Madeleine regards the man before him in astonishment. He looks so hurt by the mere suggestion, petulant though it may have been, and whatever possessiveness has awakened in Valjean extends to this show of distress. He looks as though he has been kicked.
“Javert, I did not—” he begins rapidly, but Javert has since regained his composure and holds a hand for silence.
“No, sir, forgive me.” He meets Madeleine’s eye and there is apology in his face. He has been kicked and still he apologises. “I should not dare to scold you so. I meant no offense.”
“Nor I, Javert.”
They consider each other in silence. Javert’s breath is rather loud and Valjean wonders how his sounds in comparison.
“I simply meant I would not—that is to say—” Javert sounds uncharacteristically awkward but his words are heavily-weighted and precise. He lets out a sigh and finishes quietly: “I am not in need of a reward, Monsieur. And I would not seek one of that nature.”
Valjean gives a quick nod and gestures the man to fall back into step beside him. He does so gratefully and is content to complete the journey in silence, their boots making little sound on the streets. When they reach the house Valjean pauses at the door. He turns.
The inspector’s expression is wary and Valjean hates to see it. He reaches a hand for the man’s arm.
“You do good work here, Javert,” he tells him seriously. “And I am glad… I am glad to have you here.”
Something that may be the beginning of a smile jumps at the edge of Javert’s lips but he bows his head quickly, breaking the eye contact.
“That is reward enough, Monsieur le maire,” he murmurs, gruffly enough to send a shiver through Valjean. It is clearly meant as both a thanks and a farewell, for Javert steps back as he says it.
“Javert le conquérant,” Madeleine says in return. When Javert snaps his head up he can see immediately from the warm smile on the mayor’s face that he is not being mocked and Valjean is gratified to see a shadow of a smile in return; it is no less rewarding than his first reaction to Madeleine using the name.
Javert shakes his head in a self-conscious fashion, but his lip is still undeniably quirked. “Well. It is not the worst name I have earned in service,” he admits.
Madeleine laughs as he turns back to the door. “Perhaps one day you will tell me the others,” he says over his shoulder.
He hears a small noise from Javert that might be a chuckle. “Perhaps,” he repeats when the mayor turns to face him again. “Perhaps.”
And Jean Valjean grins with Madeleine’s mouth, and makes him promise; Javert does so without hesitation. Maybe it is out of duty. Maybe is it out of habit.
Or maybe Javert seeks a reward he will not yet ask for.