Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Javert," Chabouillet said, and rose to his feet as Javert stepped into his office. His lips parted in what was perhaps intended as a smile; it came across as a grimace instead. "Please, sit down."

Javert sat. He took in the signs of Chabouillet's discomfort: the uneasy smile, the sheen of sweat upon his brow, the reluctant way he sat back down in his chair. "Babineaux said you wished to see me, monsieur."

"Yes, yes," said Chabouillet, but he sounded distracted. He unearthed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his forehead for a few seconds before he sighed. "Javert, Gisquet asked me to speak with you about a, shall we say, delicate case that has fallen into our laps."

Chabouillet might have used the word delicate, but his tone implied disagreeable. Javert wasn’t surprised. In the two years since the failed uprising, he and the prefect had sometimes come into conflict over what was just versus what was merciful. As a consequence, Monsieur Gisquet now seemed to enjoy giving Javert undesirable cases.

"What is the case?" Javert asked, resigned to future unpleasantness.

To his surprise, color crept into Chabouillet's face. "It is a matter of blackmail. A député has come to Monsieur Gisquet seeking assistance and, ah, discretion."

There was a long pause. Usually Javert wouldn’t have been forward enough to prompt Chabouillet, but this time his superior seemed unwilling to elaborate. "May I ask what is behind the blackmail?"

"The député has a lover whom he met at a particular public-house, which is known in certain circles as a place for....gentlemen seeking certain types of companionship."

Javert frowned, unenlightened. He thought over the usual reasons for blackmail. "Is the public-house a front for an unlicensed brothel, monsieur? Or a gambling den--"

"It is a place where men who prefer other men spend time together," Chabouillet said flatly.

The rest of the suggestions died on Javert's lips. He blinked. Chabouillet was watching him cautiously, as though uncertain of Javert's reaction. Did Chabouillet think Javert would now object to the assignment and argue yet again with Gisquet?

Javert fought back a flush that wished to match Chabouillet's red face. In all honesty, he hadn’t thought much on such matters, or rather, he hadn’t allowed himself to. Such things were legal, and before the barricade, that had been all he had needed to know. That his own proclivities matched this député's had merely been another sign that he belonged forever outside of polite society. And while he had had the desire, he'd never had the inclination to seek any man out.

If after the barricade the latter had changed, well, it hardly signified, for the man in question wouldn’t be interested. In fact, Javert thought, repressing a humorless smile, Valjean didn’t seem moved by desire at all, save for that of seeing everyone around him happy and contented.

He realized that Chabouillet expected a response. The other man's eyes were narrowed, his expression still anxious. Javert focused on the matter at hand. After all Valjean had nothing to do with the case. He cleared his throat and said carefully, "I must point out, monsieur, that the député isn’t breaking the law."

Chabouillet nodded, relief smoothing out his expression. He mopped at his brow one last time and tucked the handkerchief away. Then he said dryly, "That’s true enough, but his type of relationship isn’t something one wishes bandied about in society, especially when the député in question wishes to seek higher office in a few years."

"I see." And Javert did. The député wasn’t yet powerful enough to be untouchable, or unaffected by public opinion. He settled back in his chair, turning his thoughts to the case and how it might be solved. "How does Monsieur Gisquet suggest that I catch this blackmailer?"

Chabouillet hesitated. Again he looked embarrassed, as though he disliked this assignment even more than Javert did. He spoke slowly and with obvious reluctance. "He proposes that you and Joly go in disguise to the public-house and make yourselves a target for the blackmailer."

While Javert had been startled by the assignment before, now he found himself genuinely dismayed. "Monsieur!" he said in consternation. Chabouillet offered him a sympathetic look but said nothing. "Is there really no one else I can work with on this case? Allard? Laurent?" He desperately searched his memory for another suggestion. "Linville?" 

Chabouillet snorted at the final name. "Linville couldn’t act to save his life. And you know very well that Allard considered the priesthood before he became a policeman. I doubt he would handle the public-house well. Laurent would be suitable, if he hadn't managed to crack his head upon cobblestones chasing a cut-purse last night."

Javert frowned, briefly distracted. "I hadn’t heard. How is he?"

"Stable, but his doctor insists on bed-rest for at least a week. The député asked for speed as well as discretion."

"I see," Javert said. A dull ache began between his eyes. Of all the other inspectors, it had to be Joly! It was a wonder that the man even had a position in the police force, considering what Javert had heard of his conduct during the duc de Berry's assassination. Whatever the veracity of the rumors surrounding the duke's death were, it was true enough that Joly had been demoted back to the rank of sergeant. It had taken him several years to regain the rank of inspector and even then he stood further apart from the other inspectors than Javert did.

He realized that he had leaned forward in his chair. Chabouillet was watching his hand, which drummed an agitated beat against his knee. He forced himself to stillness. "Does Joly know about the assignment?"

"No, I still need to speak with him. You both will meet at the public-house--" Here Chabouillet paused to slide a small piece of paper across the desk to him. When Javert looked at the paper, it had an address and the word Souris , presumably the name of the public-house. "--tomorrow evening after dinner. From what the député has told Gisquet, patrons begin to come there around seven or eight o'clock. I’d advise you to be there promptly at seven, so you may meet as many of the suspects as possible."

Javert tucked the paper in his pocket and frowned. "That seems too simple, monsieur. If these men at the Souris value their privacy and safety, wouldn’t there be some way to test newcomers?"

"There is one, if you would let me finish," Chabouillet said. His smile belied the rebuke. "The député says you should tell the man at the door that the establishment was recommended to you by Antoine-Hughes. That name means you have been vouched for by a trusted visitor. If you are ever pressed, you may mention Arnaud, the false name the député used during his patronage. "

"I see." Javert pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to fight off his headache. "Joly and I begin tomorrow evening, you said?" When Chabouillet nodded, disappointment twisted Javert's stomach. He would have to write to Valjean and tell him that their weekly dinner must be postponed. "Are we being furnished with false names, or should we come up with them ourselves?"

"Use your imagination," Chabouillet said in the same dry tone. Then he sighed. "If you would only keep quiet when you disagree with Gisquet, you wouldn’t get these types of assignments."

Javert smiled without humor. "Ah, well, monsieur, I never had the skill for politics. And I’ve never looked higher than the position of inspector. Besides, it isn’t so horrible a case, unless Joly and I are expected to pretend to be together--" He stopped when Chabouillet's gaze slid away from his. " Monsieur!"

“It is either that or you both must feign desire for the men frequenting the Souris,” Chabouillet said. He raised an eyebrow. Amusement crept into his expression. “I suspect that Joly is the safer option. He at least will know that you’re insincere in your interest.”

“I suppose,” Javert said sourly, though privately the thought of pretending to be infatuated by Joly of all people rankled. He frowned. “Is there anything else I should know, monsieur?”

Chabouillet shook his head. “We don’t know who is involved, only that it must be someone who frequents the public-house. That is where the député meets his, ah, friend.” Then he frowned as though struck by a sudden thought. “Although...if you suspect you’re being followed home from the Souris, keep away from the station. We’ll have someone watch your tobacconist. You can pass along your discoveries through the store.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “But first finish that report on the Les Halles case. Then go and get some rest. You have a long night tomorrow.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

He was almost to the door when he was stopped by Chabouillet’s quiet, “Javert?” He turned and blinked at Chabouillet’s grave look. “While Gisquet wants speed and discretion, don’t take any unnecessary risks.” He paused. His frown deepened. “We don’t want a repeat of when last we had you go about in disguise.”

Javert drew back his lips in another smile, this one uncomfortable. He never knew what to make of Chabouillet showing such obvious concern for him or referring to the failed uprising and the ensuing days. And Chabouillet only knew half of the story! He still believed that Javert, wearied and distracted after his capture by the insurgents and subsequent escape, had been caught unawares by a thief near the Pont au Change, which was true. He didn't know that it was in fact Javert's confused decision to seek out Jean Valjean instead of a doctor, and the fevered convalescence that followed, which had kept Javert from throwing himself into the Seine.

Javert quelled the urge to touch his shoulder where the pale scars lingered. The knife had caught upon his stock and then savaged his shoulder and arm instead. “Don’t worry, monsieur,” he said, and ignored Chabouillet’s snort as he added, “I hardly think there will be a gamin to expose me or some thief to stab me this time.”

From across the street, the Souris looked like any other public-house, a large and solid-looking building. It was only unusual in that its entrance was situated in the alley rather than the main thoroughfare. 

Javert took his watch from his pocket for a third time and eyed the minute-hand in frustration. Joly was late. He supposed that he shouldn’t have been surprised, and yet the other inspector’s tardiness irritated him. Apparently Joly hadn’t learned his lesson with the duke’s murder.

In the distance, bells chimed, marking the half-hour. He gritted his teeth and tucked away his watch. He would wait another thirty minutes, he decided, and then determine whether he wanted to venture into the public-house on his own or postpone his admittance into the Souris until Joly could be found.

“Excuse me, monsieur.”

Javert looked up to find a man frowning at him. He instinctively noted the man’s physical details: his hair, curled and parted to the side in the latest fashion; and his frame, middling height but broad in the shoulder and chest, making the fashionable padding of his coat ridiculous. He had no scars or unusual aspects to his features, other than the suspicious expression he wore as he awaited Javert’s response.

During this inspection, which had taken only a second or two, Javert had kept his expression neutral. Now he said politely, “Yes, monsieur?”

“Are you waiting for someone?” asked the man. His gaze passed slowly over Javert, doing an unsubtle survey of his own. Javert couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of Javert’s trousers, slightly worn, and his hair, sternly parted and his whiskers thick, all a rigid obedience to the latest fashion without appearing a dandy, so that he might blend in among the Souris patrons. The man frowned. “You’ve been standing there for at least forty minutes by my watch.”

Javert’s eyes narrowed. He resisted the urge to scowl, but the fact that he hadn’t noticed anyone observing him galled. He drew himself up to his full height, pleased when the man twitched. “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he said coolly.

The man’s expression darkened. “It is my business when you’re skulking about and possibly scaring away my customers, monsieur,” came the unexpected reply. “My patrons are a very private sort, and when they see someone hanging around, they get nervous.”

“Your--” Consternation replaced Javert’s wounded pride. His gaze slid past the man’s shoulder towards the Souris. There were darkened windows on the second story; perhaps that was how the man had observed him. Damn! In the back of his mind Javert cursed Joly once more. He forced a polite smile, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the owner of the public-house, not if he wanted this investigation to be less of a disaster than it already appeared to be.

He cleared his throat. “ You are the owner of the Souris? I-- that is-- I was waiting for someone. We were going to visit the Souris together but he doesn’t seem to….” He stopped, irritated by his own stammering, as though he was some fresh-faced sergeant. He turned his gaze once more towards the street, hoping that Joly might miraculously appear, but his fellow inspector was still nowhere to be found.

The man looked unconvinced by Javert’s story. “And I suppose your friend is the one who suggested the Souris to you,” he said. There was a certain emphasis on the word friend that Javert disliked, a skeptical, half-mocking note.

“No, it was….” For a long, terrible second Javert’s mind went completely blank. Then he remembered. “It was Antoine-Hughes who suggested it. We -- that is, my friend and I -- have never been here before.”

Most of the suspicion left the man’s face at that, though caution remained. “Antoine-Hughes sent you?” he said. His gaze passed slowly over Javert once more as though re-evaluating him. “You’ll forgive me for being suspicious, monsieur, but my establishment values its privacy. I can’t take any chances. You must admit you looked queer, standing there for such a long time!” The man extended his hand with a smile. “Call me Daniel.” 

“I understand,” Javert said, shaking Daniel’s hand. “I’m sorry for the confusion. I don’t know what could be taking him so long. We said we’d meet at seven.” He forced a smile, inwardly cursing Joly once more. He was uncertain what to do. Should he enter the public-house on his own and see what he could learn? Or should he excuse himself and tell the man he would return with his friend at a later time? Gisquet had urged speed, but--

He was pulled abruptly from his thoughts as Daniel said, “But perhaps that’s your friend now, monsieur!” Daniel leaned a little to the side, presumably to peer past Javert’s shoulder. Interest chased away even more of his caution.

“Perhaps,” Javert said dryly, for it would be like Joly to arrive just as the awkwardness had been all but resolved. He turned, a ready rebuke on the tip of his tongue.

It went unsaid. Instead Javert stared, incredulous, down into Valjean’s startled face.   

Valjean blinked. Embarrassment replaced his surprise; he looked guilty, as though Javert had caught him in something untoward. Javert scowled. No doubt Valjean had been on one of his evening excursions to pass out coins, this despite a recent argument that he shouldn’t venture out alone after dark. The disagreement had grown heated, Javert losing his temper at Valjean’s mild and inexplicable amusement when Javert had said that he would be a temptation for the city’s pickpockets.

“Out giving alms, I suppose,” Javert said. He realized that his tone was dangerously flat when Valjean winced and offered him an apologetic smile.

Then Javert startled as Daniel stepped past him and extended his hand to Valjean. “Good evening, monsieur! We’re glad to see you. Perhaps your friend wouldn’t say so, but he’s been waiting quite a while! I’m Daniel, the owner of the Souris.”

Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Dismay and consternation held him in its grip. Again he cursed Joly’s ineptitude. Surely Daniel would take it amiss if Javert claimed that Valjean was his friend but not the friend who had kept him waiting. It was too unlikely a coincidence. Valjean would have to play the part tonight; Javert would make some excuse for his absence tomorrow. Still Javert stood there, frozen.

Valjean smiled vaguely, his eyes asking a wordless question of Javert as he shook Daniel’s hand. Whatever he saw in Javert’s expression turned his smile still vaguer, his gaze cautious, though perhaps only someone who knew him well would have spotted the worry in his eyes.

Before Javert could figure out what to say, Valjean said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, monsieur. I am--”

Javert went pale at the thought of Valjean telling this man to call him Fauchelevent. He may have managed to inadvertently draw Valjean into this, but he would be damned if he would make Valjean potential prey for the blackmailer. Strength returned to his limbs and he stepped forward, saying, “Shall I make the introductions?” He spoke too loudly; his voice rang through the street.

The interruption earned a startled look from Valjean and a faint smile from Daniel. “Go ahead, monsieur,” Daniel said.

There was something in his tone that irked Javert. He repressed a scowl. “Very well,” he muttered. He thought hastily. If Daniel and the blackmailed Arnaud were any indication, the men of the Souris used first names only, and likely even those were as false as the député’s. Yet Javert’s mind proved unhelpful. Lies still did not come naturally to him for all that he’d kept Valjean’s identity a secret these past few years. All he could think was the name Jean, which was common enough, and yet….

He wet his dry lips, aware that Daniel was watching him, the man’s expression still amused. “Daniel, may I present to you Jean?” His voice hitched a little on the name as Valjean’s face went curiously blank. Javert coughed and focused his gaze on Daniel. “And I am--”

His mind was empty again. Now Daniel smiled as though Javert’s struggle to provide false names was entertaining. What else was a common enough name to be safe? “Jacques.”

“Jean and Jacques, is it?” Daniel said with an annoying twinkle in his eyes. At least he seemed amused by Javert’s awkward efforts to lie. Hopefully he assumed that both names were false. Daniel clapped his hands and gestured towards the alley. “Well! It’s always good to see new faces in the Souris, messieurs. But please, come inside and let me show you the establishment.”

Javert half-choked on nothing, imagining Valjean’s reaction when he discovered what the Souris was. Javert’s stomach soured and twisted. He didn’t want to know if Valjean was disgusted by, or, worse still, pitied the patrons of the Souris for their urges, and yet it seemed there was no avoiding it.

“Yes,” he muttered past the sudden tightness of his throat. “Yes, I suppose we should go inside.” He started when a light hand touched his elbow. He looked into Valjean’s concerned face and tried to smile in reassurance. Judging by the way Valjean’s brow furrowed, however, Javert looked as ill as he felt.

Valjean said slowly, “Monsieur, might we have a moment? I believe I owe Jacques an explanation for my tardiness.”

The false name came smoothly to Valjean’s lips, and Javert laughed, the sound sharp and again too loud. “An explanation,” he said. He suppressed another humorless laugh. “Yes.”

“I’ll meet you at the door then,” Daniel said.

When Javert darted a glance in his direction, he couldn’t read the man’s expression, though something in it made Javert’s pride smart. Once Daniel was out of earshot, Javert took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts.

Before he could speak, however, Valjean’s hand tensed minutely and he said, very low, “Javert, is this the case you mentioned in your note?” Valjean’s mouth tightened. “Are you in danger?”

“In danger ?” Javert stared. Even the dusk could not hide Valjean’s flush as he colored at Javert’s incredulous look. Affection and amusement lessened some of Javert’s embarrassment. In danger! He wondered what Valjean would have done had he said yes. When he attempted another smile, it felt more natural than before. “No, I’m in no danger, I think.” He paused and snorted as Valjean’s expression eased. “Except perhaps in danger of mortification.”

“Mortification?” Valjean’s hand dropped back to his side, the cool night air replacing the warmth of his touch. He frowned, puzzled, and then looked enlightened. Sympathy softened his voice as he asked, “Has Gisquet given you another unpleasant case then?”

“Unpleasant,” Javert echoed. He pressed his lips tightly together, uncertain whether he wanted to frown or not. “It is-- well, that is--” He stopped, again irritated by his own stammering. He searched his memory for how Chabouillet had phrased the facts of the case. Slowly, striving to keep his voice even, he said, “It is a matter of blackmail. Someone inside the Souris has blackmailed at least one man and perhaps others. The Souris is, ah, it is a place where men who prefer other men spend their time, you see.”

Valjean said nothing.

The silence was unbearable. Javert said into the sudden quiet, “I was supposed to have another inspector with me, but he’s an hour late. I don’t know what could have kept him! But now Daniel, the proprietor, believes that you are the friend I was waiting for. If you will indulge this farce for the evening, I’ll make my excuses for you tomorrow--”

“Javert.”

Javert stopped. He caught himself bracing for Valjean’s words. He forced himself to relax, but despite all his efforts, he could feel the painful clench of his jaw as he scowled.

“Javert,” Valjean said again, quietly. His face in the fading light was unreadable, but his shoulders were tense and his hands very still at his sides. As Javert watched, he released a slow breath and said, “I’ll help you if I can.”

Javert grimaced. Of course Valjean would offer his assistance, whether or not he found the men’s predilections reproachable. He stifled the urge to smooth an agitated hand over his whiskers. He muttered, “Well, it’s as I said. If you’ll indulge me tonight, I shall--” He paused, diverted by Valjean’s bemused expression. “What?”

Valjean frowned and shook his head. When he spoke, his speech was slow and his tone strange, almost cautious. “I don’t know why you keep speaking of indulgence and mortification as though this is some hardship on my part. These men don’t deserve to be blackmailed. Why wouldn’t I wish to help them?”

“Why wouldn’t you--” Javert’s mouth shut so suddenly that his teeth clicked together. The mad impulse to laugh nearly strangled him as Valjean watched him with honest bewilderment. Fumbling for words, Javert said, “The church doesn’t exactly view such men with fondness. I thought you would follow the church’s example and condemn--” He shook his head again, so sharply that his hat started to tip and he had to grasp hastily at the brim to keep it steady. “No, no,” he corrected himself. “You wouldn’t condemn them, of course, for you believe that no man is above redemption, but--”

“Javert,” Valjean said, a third time. The careful way Valjean said his name rooted him to the spot and stole all the words from his head. Valjean smiled. It was a small and awkward thing, but still a smile. “Did the good bishop not love me as a brother and so save my soul? Does Cosette not love me and so continue to save my heart? Love is a form of redemption. How can I look at these men who seek happiness, and rebuke them for it?”

Javert had no answer. He felt strangely breathless and too warm, almost dizzy. He licked his lips and managed an inarticulate, “Ah. Well.” After another second, he gathered enough of his scattered thoughts to speak. “Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose, though I find it unlikely that all of these men seek happiness and not baser things. Well! Tonight is intended merely to scout the public-house and learn the lay of the land. You may notice something or someone I miss.” Here he paused. Genuine amusement touched him. “You’ll certainly be more observant than Joly.”

Valjean’s smile warmed briefly at the remark. Then he glanced past Javert. One corner of his mouth creased, the way it did when he was suppressing a rare laugh. “Perhaps we shouldn’t keep Daniel waiting any longer.”

Javert turned. Daniel had stepped to the entrance of the alleyway, presumably to see if they were coming. The man didn’t gesture them over, but something in his stance suggested impatience. Javert’s lips twitched. “You’re right, of course.” He cleared his throat and added, not quite daring to look at Valjean as he spoke, “Thank you.”

Valjean touched his elbow again, very lightly. “I only hope I’ll be able to help.”

“Florian, meet Jean and Jacques,” Daniel said cheerfully. “Messieurs, please allow me to introduce you to Florian, the gentleman who ensures our privacy.”

The large man’s glower wasn’t especially welcoming, but he unbent enough to step aside and mutter a good evening as they passed through the door and into the public-house. Javert glanced at him, but dismissed him for the moment as an unlikely suspect. If he guarded the door, it would be difficult for him to overhear or discover anything useful in a blackmail scheme. 

Inside, the Souris was clean but dimly lit, with the air of a common public-house struggling to improve itself into something more exclusive. Two men sat at a shadowed corner table, their heads bent together, too far away for Javert to get a clear look at them. Another man stood behind the bar, whistling as he handed a glass to a waiting customer.

“You both must be thirsty,” Daniel said.

Valjean murmured a polite agreement.

The barman grinned at Valjean and Javert as they approached. “Welcome to the Souris!” Unlike the other men, he seemed to accept them without question, the lamp light falling upon an unfeigned smile. Perhaps he trusted Florian and Daniel’s judgment. Or perhaps he was drunk, for even in the dim light Javert saw the physical signs of a drunkard who had somehow lucked upon his barman position.

Daniel made the introductions, giving the barman’s name as Etienne, who laughed heartily and said, “What will you both have? And Lionel’s ready in the kitchen if you both fancy a late supper.”

“No, I ate earlier,” Javert said, and Valjean nodded. Javert thought on parties where Monsieur Gillenormand had pressed drinks upon them both, the older gentleman consistently puzzled by their lack of interest in the expensive wines. Javert named Valjean’s favorite Bordeaux and asked for two glasses.

Etienne grinned. “Right away, monsieur.”

Remembering Valjean’s earlier guilty look, Javert drew out his purse and added dryly, “I shall pay for both drinks if you’ve emptied your pockets with your almsgiving.” When Valjean didn’t answer, Javert glanced at him and found him wearing a familiar expression. It was the warm, pleased look Valjean got whenever Javert did something that Valjean considered thoughtful.

Javert fought back a flush. “A good wine, I believe,” he said, and turned hastily away. The man who’d just purchased a drink could be a suspect, after all. But the man was already retreating to a shadowed table; Javert had a vague impression of dark red hair kept longer than the usual fashion, tied back severely by a ribbon, and nothing more.

“Here you go, messieurs,” Etienne said, handing them both their glasses and naming the price.

“Let me know if you have any questions about the Souris, messieurs, or need anything more,” Daniel said, and slipped away. He headed towards the door, though whether to strike up a conversation with Florian or to greet anyone who entered, Javert wasn’t certain.

He considered Daniel as a suspect, for Daniel would probably know his customers better than anyone else, but it seemed unlikely when he remembered Daniel’s protective regard for his patrons and his suspicious expression on the street. And Daniel would be out of business if word spread that his patrons were being blackmailed. No, Javert doubted that Daniel would be that foolish.

Valjean cleared his throat. “Shall we sit down?”

“Oh. Yes,” Javert said, and found them a table with a good view. Here he could get a closer look at the other patrons as well as keep an eye on the door for any newcomers. He drank slowly, glancing around the room, and discovered that one of the men in the corner was watching them. 

The light was too dim to read the man’s expression, but Javert knew what the man must assume of him and Valjean. Perhaps he was even wondering how long they had been together and what had brought them to this public-house.

Javert should have been pleased that their cover was intact. Instead his heart gave a traitorous pang at the thought, and guilt soured his stomach. It was a necessary deception, and yet he couldn’t help but feel he was taking advantage of Valjean’s better nature to perpetuate a lie that he wished were true.

He drained his glass, but his stomach still roiled. He stood so abruptly that Valjean paused in the middle of raising his own wine to his lips, concern creasing his expression. Javert cleared his throat. “I should see if I can learn a little more of the place,” he said. He glanced to where Etienne seemed to be helping himself to some more wine at the bar. There was a source of information, and a potential suspect, for Javert had often found that a weakness for drink signaled other vices. “Would you like another drink?”

Understanding chased the surprise from Valjean’s face. He smiled as he shook his head and said, "No, but thank you.”

Once on his feet, Javert hesitated, unwilling to leave Valjean alone in the public-house. But Valjean’s smile didn’t fade. He looked as though he was perfectly at ease in this strange place, surrounded by men that society would condemn.

“Another glass already, monsieur?” Etienne asked when Javert approached. He refilled Javert’s wine, chuckling as he added, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You wouldn’t be the first newcomer to steady his nerves with a few drinks!”

The man’s laughter and good-natured amusement grated, but Javert forced a thin smile. Pretending to be nervous could prove useful. Sympathy might loosen Etienne’s tongue more than the alcohol already had. “This is my first visit to any such public-house. Have you been here long?”

“Lord, monsieur, I’ve been here five years!” Etienne said with another loud laugh. He looked around the public-house and shook his head, smiling. “Though you wouldn’t recognize the place if you’d visited then. Daniel bought it off the old owner two years ago, and he’s been fixing it up ever since.”

Javert studied the repainted walls and the bar, all of which showed signs of recent repair. Yes, it seemed very unlikely that Daniel would jeopardize this place. “So the public-house has changed much in Daniel’s hands?”

Unexpectedly Etienne sobered. “Yes, monsieur. Every sort used to come here. Those rules you were told? Daniel created them to keep us all safe.”

Javert frowned. Rules? All Chabouillet had mentioned was the password and the time most men arrived at the public-house. It would’ve been helpful to know the rules, he thought sourly. He cleared his throat and glanced towards the door, where Daniel stood in conversation with Florian. “I must admit, I was a bit focused on the existence of the Souris and less on the rules when they were explained to me.”

Etienne’s expression remained solemn. “Hard to believe there’s such a place? I felt the same when I first heard of it. But Daniel’s rules are smart: no surnames, no taking advantage of the younger men, no exchanging money for, well -- and no acknowledging anyone outside of the public-house.” Here Etienne paused and gave Javert an appraising look. Some of the good humor returned to his face. “You and your friend are exceptions to that last rule, of course! You two seem like quite a happy pair! If you don’t mind me asking, how long….?”

Javert’s heart gave another traitorous pang, stronger than before. He took another sip of wine, trying to buy time, and accidentally finished his drink. He stared down into his empty glass, turning over various answers in his mind. At last he forced himself to look up and meet Etienne’s eyes. “We’ve known each other for many years,” he said, hearing the stifled quality of the partial truth.

Etienne looked wistful, but didn’t press. He held up a bottle. “Another glass, monsieur?”

Javert shook his head in refusal. He glanced down at his glass once more. Here at least was a potential excuse to move around the public-house. “Is there a privy outside?”

“No, monsieur,” said Etienne, as Javert had hoped. “We’ve some chamber pots. Take the stairs and then it’s the last door on your left.”

The steps creaked beneath Javert’s feet as he mounted the stairs. He found further evidence of Daniel’s handiwork with a few framed watercolors of the Parisian streets and signs of recent dusting and polishing. He counted at least five closed doors as he passed down the hall. He paused before each one, but heard only silence.

Javert hesitated. Should he investigate further? But he thought of the trouble it might cause Valjean if he were discovered prying into the rooms. No, surely it was better to wait until Javert and Joly could investigate together.

He went into the last room. There was an unlit lamp on the wall and a small table holding the means to light it; he lit the lamp, watching the light throw shadows throughout the room and fall upon a wardrobe and a few chamber pots that thankfully didn’t smell used.

Javert found that the window lent a clear view to the cobblestone where he had been standing not so very long ago, impatient and ignorant of the strange turn the night would take. He shook his head, frowning at his own reflection, and then turned, distracted from his thoughts by someone groaning in pain in the hallway.

He groped for his truncheon and remembered only as his hand closed on nothing that he'd left the weapon at his apartment. The sound came again, louder. Javert started to open the door, ready to assist or intervene, and stilled, realizing too late, as his eyes fell on the pair in the hallway, that the noises weren't of pain but instead pleasure.

Oblivious to his presence, the two men kissed. Javert tried to look away, but he stood rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed upon the way the taller man stroked a possessive hand through the other's yellow curls and down his back.

The other man -- almost a boy, for when he drew back, Javert saw that he looked no older than twenty -- laughed, and leaned away a little. He said breathlessly, “We should go into a room. The rules--”

“Oh, the rules,” said the other man with a dismissive curl of his lips. “Worried about disappointing Daniel?”

The young man flushed at the question's mocking edge. For a second he looked almost angry, and then he smiled, all the harsh lines on his face smoothing away. “Jealous, Marc?”

“No,” Marc said. He didn't return the smile. He caught a fistful of the young man’s hair and tugged hard enough to make the other man sharply protest. “But I am tired of talking about him.”

There was an unpleasant tension in the air that had Javert prepared to clear his throat and interrupt. Then, just as suddenly as Marc had grabbed the young man, the boy relaxed into Marc’s grip. He stroked the fist still tangled in his curls and laughed. “Sorry. I can fix that if you like.” The words were said low and warm.

Understanding crashed down upon Javert and wrested him from his stupor. He fumbled the door shut, but was too late to avoid the sight of the young man sinking to his knees.

Javert stumbled backwards. His heart pounded queerly in his ears and the door was closed, but still he fancied that he could hear the obscene sounds the two men were making. He fled to the window. Perhaps the noise of the street would drown them out. The evening air cooled his hot cheeks but not his mind. It teemed with unseemly thoughts, as though somehow this incident had destroyed his control.

He remembered anew the hunger in Marc’s face as the young man had knelt, but now his brain taunted him, imposing Valjean’s face instead. Valjean’s touch wouldn’t be gentle then, as it had been during the worst of Javert’s fever. No, Valjean would hold him with the strength of Monsieur le Maire lifting the cart off old Fauchelevent. Perhaps, his traitorous mind suggested, Valjean would be clumsy and rough with desire.

Even with the open window, the room grew stifling and too warm at the thought. Javert worked at his cravat, trying to catch his breath. “Enough,” he growled at last, and flinched at his own voice. Why torment himself with the impossible?

He turned at the sound of raised voices. Curiosity replaced relief at the distraction as he perceived that one of the speakers was a woman.

“…know the rules, Sébastien,” scolded the woman as Javert opened the door a sliver. Her frustrated voice sounded young. Through the sliver of open door Javert could see Marc and Sébastien in varying degrees of dishevelment. Her back was to Javert, but he saw the movement as she shook her head. “You’re lucky I don’t tell Daniel on you both!”

A new voice to their left said, bored, “Unless you want a third, I’ll take my chances downstairs.” Javert frowned, for the young man’s voice sounded familiar.

Marc laughed unpleasantly. “There’s some old stranger down there. He looks well off. Maybe you can pick his pockets.” The last seemingly innocent sentence was sullied by a leer.

The bored voice said without a change in inflection, “We’ll see.”

Javert listened to the footsteps retreating down the stairs. His instincts clamored at him; he wished he’d been able to see the man’s face. He grew even more uneasy at the realization that Marc had been speaking of Valjean, alone at his table.

“Well, I need to work, so if you two can take yourselves into a room, I’ll clean the rest of them,” the woman said.

Still lost in his thoughts, Javert hastily concealed himself beside the wardrobe as the woman entered. It was a temporary solution at best, hiding, but he needed a moment to think of an explanation for his presence. His face grew hot with embarrassment as he wondered what she would think with Marc and Sébastien just outside. Just as quickly as he'd hidden, he silently cursed himself for a fool. If she'd caught him there, she would have assumed he'd been using the chamber pot. 

He heard her soft footsteps and the dull thud of a bucket knocking against her side as she closed the door behind her and moved further into the room. She was half-lost in shadow, but as she set her bucket down and bent towards the first of the chamber pots Javert spied a resigned twitch of her nose.

The same strange sense of familiarity filled Javert now. There was something about that profile…. The lamp light fell directly upon her face as she straightened, and Javert knew her.

She managed a single, startled noise when he seized her. Azelma Thénardier’s wide eyes and blanched face reflected his own astonishment as he bent down and growled, “And what are you doing here?”

The girl’s mouth open and shut wordlessly. She’d been meek as a mouse during her arrest at the Gorbeau House affair, he remembered. But it seemed that the ensuing years had changed them both, for in the next moment she wrenched herself from his grasp and glared.

“Cleaning!” she said. “Cleaning like Daniel pays me to. Ask him, I ain’t lying.” She was almost all defiance. Only her hands, white-knuckled and fisted in her dress, spoke of her nerves. Her eyes narrowed. A speculative glance made Javert bristle. “Though I could ask you the same thing. I didn’t think you for one of Daniel’s friends.”

He had seen the Thénardier girl and reacted without considering that she would recognize him in turn. Soon the whole of the Parisian underworld would know that he had visited the Souris and all that implied. The horror of his realization choked him, and he flushed. He moved swiftly to block the door. The heat of his humiliation turned to blinding anger.

“Hunting criminals, of course,” he said coldly. “And who do I discover but the daughter of thieves? I wonder if you told Daniel that your father died a blackmailer.”

Nearly five thousand francs Thénardier had cajoled and threatened out of Pontmercy’s purse. Five thousand! Javert’s only consolation had been that the scoundrel hadn’t lived to spend it. He’d been found dead the following morning, presumably betrayed by one of his associates, his throat slit and the money gone.

The girl’s face went white. She shook her head frantically.

Javert went on. “It’s clever, really. A cleaning woman would be all but invisible. You could easily learn enough to blackmail Arnaud. Did you take lessons from your father before he died, or did you come up with the plan yourself?”

“No,” the girl whispered. Tears rolled down her face. She scrubbed fiercely at her cheeks and said, louder, “No! You’re wrong. I ain’t stupid. This is good work, good pay. Daniel—”

Javert sneered. “You expect me to believe a Thénardier is willing to earn an honest wage?”

“Thieving and blackmail got my father a knife through his neck!” the girl cried hoarsely. “ I lived, not Mama or Eponine or Gavroche or—” She caught her breath in a harsh sob. Her face contorted with grief. “I lived. This is a good job. I ain’t stupid. The men don’t bother me here, and Daniel pays me well.” She swiped at her face again and glared at him, daring him to argue.

Javert’s anger soured, tainted by doubt. It seemed impossible that he would go searching for a blackmailer and discover a blackmailer’s daughter working for the public-house and have her be innocent. He didn’t believe in coincidences. And yet the girl was either one of the best liars he had ever met, or completely in earnest. He frowned. An inner voice whispered that perhaps the girl had chosen a different path, as he once had himself. The voice sounded like Valjean’s.

“You’ve spoken to none of your father’s old friends about this place?”

“No,” the girl said quickly, but this time her red-rimmed eyes slid away from his.

Now at least he was certain that she lied. Javert stepped closer. “Who did you tell?”

“No one,” the girl said. The color, which had returned to her face during her outburst, blanched from it again. She turned and snatched up the abandoned bucket. “I answered your questions,” she said. “I should work. Daniel pays me to work.”

“Who did you tell?” Javert repeated. He remembered the bored man’s voice, and considered its strange familiarity. “Who was your friend in the hallway? The one with Marc and Sébastien?”

The question hit its mark; the girl’s fearful eyes met his. She backed away, shaking her head. “No one!”

Javert scowled. She was trembling now, apparently more frightened of the mysterious man downstairs than of the officer of the law standing before her. For a second he considered pressing her for more information, but then he remembered that the man inspiring such fear had gone to seek out Valjean.

Worry seized him. “We’ll discuss this further,” he warned, and waited just long enough for her miserable nod before he was out the door and down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Valjean wore a polite look and hoped that no one would approach him. It wasn’t that he disdained these men -- he had spoken truthfully to Javert -- but he didn’t know what to say. Javert had given little detail on the blackmail case, and Valjean didn’t wish to blunder in ignorance and cause him trouble.

The front door opened, and two men stepped inside. No, a man and a boy, Valjean corrected himself, for as the two neared his table he realized that the younger man looked scarcely older than Cosette. The thought of Cosette made him smile just as the boy glanced towards him.

The boy looked startled. Then his expression brightened and he said with a quick grin, “Oh! Daniel said we had some newcomers. Are you Jean or Jacques?”

“Jean,” Valjean began to say, but the rest of his greeting was cut short, for the answer had scarcely left his lips when the man laid a hand on the boy’s arm and said, “Sébastien.” It wasn't an introduction. Instead there was a slight edge to the man's voice.

Apparently the boy Sébastien heard it as well, or knew when the man was irritated, because his grin dimmed and his ears turned pink. “Just being polite,” he muttered, glancing between the man and Valjean. He didn't protest as the man pushed him on past Valjean's table, though the gesture was rough enough that Sébastien stumbled.

Valjean watched them go, his gaze fixed upon the heavy hand gripping the boy’s shoulder. There had been many similar touches in Toulon, he remembered with a flinch. The memories welled up like blood from an unexpected cut, impossible to stanch. The prisoners had turned upon each other in the galleys, taking pleasure in the helplessness of others and trying to forget their own. Tender feelings had been beaten out of them all. Instead there had only been the wretched looks of the abused men and harsh weeping in the night, and Valjean, alone and untouched and desperately glad for it amidst the misery.

He should follow after the two men and contrive some way to speak to Sébastien. He needed to be certain that the public-house didn’t allow similar abuses. But his entire body felt weighed down by memory, and it was a struggle even to keep his eyes on the men as they approached the door to the staircase that Javert had disappeared up only a moment earlier.

The man’s hand was still on the boy’s shoulder, but Sébastien turned and smiled at Valjean. There was a bit of amusement in his expression, as though he found his companion’s jealousy charming rather than concerning.

That was surprising enough to shake Valjean from his stupor, and he fumbled for his wine as the door shut behind the two men. His hand trembled; he set his glass down before he could spill his drink. The memories were slow to leave him, lingering like a sour ache in his stomach and a ghostly weight at his ankle. He shifted his leg, but his knee twinged, and he sank back against his chair.

He wished that Javert were here and not upstairs. His friend’s presence would be a comfort. It was strange, he knew, but Javert’s presence warded away memories of Toulon, for Javert was no longer the man Valjean had known before. It was easier to remember he was in Paris and safe when Javert was there. His mind felt clouded, his thoughts sluggish and weary, and with what felt like a great effort he tried to distract himself by taking another swallow of his wine. This time he succeeded.

“Please excuse Marc, monsieur. Or ignore him, if you like! He believes that jealousy is a charming trait, and Sébastien indulges him.”

When Valjean raised his eyes, he found that the two men in the corner had approached his table. He mentally shook himself free of his lethargy. Javert would want details about these men, and he had promised to help with the case.

The two men were of similar height and coloring, brown hair and blue eyes, though the one drew Valjean’s gaze with the long scar across his freckled face and the empty sleeve where his right arm had been. The scar had caught his upper lip, giving his mouth a constant smirk.

His friend wore a broad, easy smile, and seemed to have been the one who’d spoken before, for he extended his hand and said cheerfully, “I’m Claude and this is Bernard.”

“Jean,” Valjean said. He shook Claude’s hand and exchanged a polite nod with Bernard. Then he paused, uncertain of how much to say or ask. Hesitating over each word, he said at last, “Sébastien seems young for this place.”

“Oh, he’s older than he looks,” Claude said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Daniel doesn’t allow boys here.”

At this, Bernard spoke. “Unless they’re starving. Or need a place to sleep.” His voice was a deep rumble.

“With a few exceptions,” Claude agreed. “But Daniel is serious about his rules.”

The front door opened once more, and Valjean half-turned. He was startled all over again, for it was a girl who walked inside, trailing behind a dark-haired youth. He stared even as the public-house’s remaining patron rose to his feet. It was the red-haired man who had been getting a drink as Valjean and Javert had approached Etienne.

“Azelma!” the man said, his voice a low, pleasant tenor.

The girl turned his way briefly. Her distracted look broke into a smile that confused Valjean even more, for Javert had made it sound as though this public-house was only for men who desired other men. There was little of friendship in the way Azelma laughed breathlessly and smoothed back her hair, saying, “Victor, you’re here already? I need to clean first, but it shouldn’t take long.”

“I’ll wait,” Victor said. His voice turned cooler as he nodded towards the man who had entered with the girl. “Good evening.”

The man ignored him, disappearing upstairs, and the girl gave Victor one last smile before she followed.

When Valjean turned back to Claude and Bernard, Claude was struggling not to laugh. Even Bernard’s scarred mouth had an amused curve to it. Valjean wondered what his expression had been to warrant such amusement.

“ That is a long story,” Claude said with a grin and a jerk of his head towards Victor. “And one you’ll have to ask Azelma and Victor someday.”

Bernard said, “Or he might mind his own business.” There was no rebuke in his words, however. Fondness warmed his eyes and colored his voice as he looked at Claude, so much so that Valjean felt as though he’d intruded upon a private moment.

Claude laughed. “Or he might mind his own business!” He half-bowed to Valjean, smiling. “Excuse me, monsieur. Bernard barely speaks, so I take it upon myself to say enough for the both of us. If I’m bothering you, only say so and Bernard and I shall retreat to our corner and leave you be.”

The weight of Toulon’s memories had eased a little with these distractions, but still it lingered, sour in his throat. Valjean took another sip of his wine, thinking. As much as he would have preferred Javert’s presence or to retreat to his apartment at the Rue Plumet, here was an opportunity to possibly help Javert with his case. He shook his head. “No, no, forgive me. The Souris is unlike any place I’ve been before. Please, sit. May I ask how long you two have come here?”

Bernard hesitated, but Claude turned and dragged two chairs over, throwing himself carelessly down into one. Bernard sighed and retrieved their drinks from their original table.

Grinning up at Bernard as he passed him his glass, Claude said, “Oh, two years now.”

“Four,” Bernard corrected.

Claude snorted. “Well, yes, we visited four years ago, but didn’t like the place. Once Florian told us that Daniel had bought the Souris from Paul, we came back.”

About to ask what had been wrong in the past, Valjean sensed someone behind him. He turned, startled by the person’s nearness and by the hand that rested lightly on the back of his chair.

It was the man who’d entered the Souris with Azelma. The young man wore a faint smirk, which faded as their eyes met and was replaced by a look of faint confusion. “Marc said we have a newcomer,” the young man said slowly, his tone half-distracted.

Valjean shook off his surprise enough to smile up at him. “Yes, I am Jean. I was just asking Claude and Bernard about the Souris--”

As he spoke, the confusion grew in the young man’s face until his eyes went wide and he exclaimed, “I know you, Monsieur Blockhead!”

“Excuse me?” Valjean said blankly as the man shied away, snatching his hand from the back of Valjean’s chair as though he’d been burned. Something in the young man’s handsome countenance struck him as familiar, now that they were face to face, and the way the young man had spoken….

Here was the thief who had attempted to steal his purse years ago! Now Valjean remembered the dark hair and handsome face, made even more good-looking with maturity. And the man was presently better dressed, for Cosette often amused herself on their walks by pointing out the most fashionable gentlemen, and Valjean had learned to recognize the latest styles.

Valjean held up a mollifying hand as the young man took another step back. “Yes, I remember now, Monsieur Idler. Have you accomplished your dreams then?” He accompanied the question with a small smile to show that he was jesting, but this attempt to put the young man at ease failed. He received a scowl for his effort.

“You know each other?” Claude asked, sounding intrigued.

The young man snorted. “No. I’m leaving. If I want another sermon, I’ll go to church.” He started towards the door, ignoring Valjean’s call for him to stay.

For the second time during their conversation, Bernard smiled. Humor gleamed in his eyes. “Now there’s a story,” he said, and Claude laughed.

“Yes, but not mine to tell,” Valjean said, watching as the young man left after a few hurried words to Daniel. He touched his pocket absently, and felt his purse still there. “I’m glad to see he’s doing well.” Even as he smiled at the thought of the boy escaping that life of crime and misery, however, doubt assailed him. What if those clothes had been earned with thievery? Or blackmail? Certainly Javert would suspect him.

“Monsieur?”

Valjean blinked. Dismissing his concern for the present moment, he put on another smile. “Excuse me. What were we discussing?”

“The Souris.” Claude leaned forward. His expression grew intent, though the smile remained on his face. “But I shall be honest, monsieur, I’m more interested in discussing you and your friend. Jacques, wasn’t it?”

“I, yes,” Valjean said, a little thrown by the query.

“Don’t worry,” said Bernard. When Valjean glanced at him, he found the other man watching Claude with open affection. “Daniel’s rules will keep him from prying too much.”

“I only pry a little!” Claude protested with a laugh. He reached out and seized Bernard’s hand, clasping it and giving it a light kiss. The gesture was unaffected, as though he had done it a thousand times, and so quick that Valjean could have blinked and missed it. Their hands remained entwined even as Claude added, “And you’re curious as well. Admit it!”

Valjean hesitated, disconcerted by both the unexpected affection and Claude’s queries. He wished that he knew the rules of the Souris—for there must be rules in such a place as this. What could he say about himself and Javert that didn’t seem too close-mouthed, but which wouldn’t get them into trouble?

Claude must have read some of the uncertainty in his face, because he looked serious and shook his head. “Truly, monsieur, tell me if I overstep. I don’t mean to ask about much of your life outside the Souris. We’re just curious about all newcomers, especially ones that arrive in pairs, as Bernard and I once did.” He paused to smile at Bernard. “We wondered if you two have been together long.”

Again Valjean hesitated. He wondered if anyone had asked Javert the same question, and how he’d answered. He found himself imagining the slight surprise in Javert’s face, and the curt way he would tell the truth but answer little, any sarcastic humor concealed with a frown that warded off further questions.

He settled on a vague truth. “It’s somewhat complicated. We’ve known each other for over twenty years, but we only became friends a few years ago.”

Claude began to say something and then glanced over Valjean’s shoulder. Curiosity brightened his face again. “And that must be Jacques.”

Valjean turned. The last of Toulon’s heavy memory eased from his shoulders at the sight of Javert, and he found himself straightening with a smile. “Ah, Jacques, this is Claude and Bernard. They’ve been telling me a little about the Souris.”

“I see,” Javert said, barely sparing the two men a glance as he sat down. “No one’s bothered you?”

Before Valjean could answer and ease the concern that creased Javert’s brow, Claude laughed. “I have been prying a little, monsieur, but no one will bother your friend while he’s inside the Souris. Daniel’s strict, and none of us will risk being barred.”

“Barred?” Javert’s gaze slowly focused on Claude. Valjean knew that glint in his eyes; it meant he thought he’d found a clue. “Have people been barred from the Souris in the past?”

“Oh yes, monsieur! Daniel did a proper cleaning when he bought the public-house.”

“And why--” Javert stopped abruptly. A dark flush rose in his face. When Valjean followed his gaze, he realized that Javert was staring at Claude and Bernard’s clasped hands. Javert cleared his throat once, then twice, before he jerked his gaze away. “Well,” he muttered. “That is good to hear.”

Valjean glanced at Bernard and Claude, but couldn’t read their expressions. Did they think it strange that Javert was so affected by the sight of two men holding hands? But perhaps they understood, or thought they did, how new this all seemed to Valjean and Javert, for Bernard said quietly, “We’re among friends here, monsieur. Daniel keeps us as safe as he can.”

“Yes,” Claude said. He raised his and Bernard’s hands and shook them with emphasis. “We may hold hands if we like or embrace without fear.” His smile faltered a little at Javert’s expression, which was as blank as a mask. Uncertainty crept into his voice as he added, “Though we also value our privacy, of course….”

Javert remained silent.

Valjean remembered Javert’s earlier discomfort, the poorly-concealed misery in his face, how he had scoffed at the idea of these men seeking love and happiness. Javert had assumed that Valjean would condemn the patrons of the Souris, but perhaps he had thought so because of his own beliefs. Valjean felt weary at the thought. He had believed that Javert had learned acceptance these past few years, but perhaps there were things Javert couldn’t overlook, even so. But Valjean had promised to help with this case. If it meant stepping in when Javert faltered, he would.

“Forgive us,” he said to Bernard and Claude. “We are old men, and set in our ways. It may take us some time to become accustomed to the Souris.” He hesitated, and then reached out and laid his hand lightly over Javert’s. “But we will adjust, won’t we, Jacques?”

Javert’s hand trembled beneath his. For a second Valjean worried that he had gone too far with the masquerade, and then Javert turned his hand over and clumsily entwined their fingers. His skin was warmer than Valjean expected. He said, so low that Valjean strained to hear him, “Yes.”

At least Claude seemed appeased. He leaned back in his chair, releasing Bernard’s hand so that the other man could take a sip of his wine. He smiled. “Well, it took us all some time to adjust. Let me know if you have any other questions about the Souris, messieurs. Though Daniel or Florian would probably be the best ones to ask. They’ve been here the longest.”

“I see,” Javert said, his voice a little stronger. His gaze finally lifted from the table, turning towards Valjean. His face was still flushed and tense with some emotion Valjean couldn’t name. His hand tightened minutely upon Valjean’s. “But we should go.”

“Go?” Valjean said, surprised, as Claude exclaimed in dismay, “Oh, don’t, monsieur! If I’m bothering you, Bernard and I will go back to our own table.”

“No, that isn’t….” Javert shook his head and grimaced. A new emotion darkened his eyes; this time Valjean recognized the expression. It was one that Javert wore when he was trapped at one of the Gillenormands’ parties and hoped to escape. Grim unhappiness tinged the look. His free hand rose and rubbed awkwardly at the deep crease between his eyes. It was only then that Valjean noticed another sign of Javert’s agitation: his cravat was rumpled at his throat.  

Valjean felt his heart sink a little more. Was this case truly so distasteful to Javert? He cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “Do you have a headache?”

Javert’s gaze darted towards him and then away. After a long second he nodded.

“We did say we would visit briefly the first time,” Valjean said apologetically to Claude and Bernard. It was even partially true. Javert had said he only wanted to learn the lay of the land and gather a little information. “Perhaps we can come again another night?”

“Of course, you’re always welcome,” Claude said, but he frowned. Anxiety colored his voice. “Truly, messieurs, if I have offended you in any way--”

“Claude,” said Bernard, and Claude quieted, still frowning. Bernard glanced between Javert and Valjean. He seemed to weigh his words. “If you want to avoid a crowd, don’t come tomorrow. It’s the busiest night of the week for the Souris.”

Relief filled Valjean. He could easily work with this particular misapprehension. “Thank you. We shall keep that in mind.” Of course, Javert would probably need to come during the busiest night to find more suspects, but for the moment two old men’s nervousness around strangers and new situations was a good excuse to depart.

Javert’s hand slipped from his when they both stood. As Valjean took up his glass with the intention of returning it to the bar, he saw Javert stare down at his own hand like it belonged to a stranger, his fingers curling and uncurling as though he was willing Valjean’s touch away.

“I’ll return that to Etienne,” Claude said, taking the glass from Valjean.

He managed a distracted thank-you, still watching Javert as they made their way out. Javert’s long strides outpaced him as they sometimes did when Javert forgot their difference in height. Or perhaps tonight he wished for distance. Outside Javert’s pace slowed enough that Valjean could fall into step beside him. He darted a glance at Javert’s face. The tense, grim unhappiness lingered. Had Valjean overstepped? He looked down at his hands, and then silently clasped them behind him. 

“We should walk a while,” Javert said, abruptly enough that Valjean startled. Javert didn’t seem to notice. He glared at the cobblestone. “The blackmailer might attempt to follow us. I don’t want him or her to discover anything about you.”

Valjean started to look over his shoulder, and stopped himself at the last moment. Still unease prickled down his spine. One blackmailer had already threatened Cosette and Marius. Would he bring another to their doorstep? “Could we hide in a crowd? We’re close to the theaters.”

Javert frowned and nodded. “That-- yes, that will work very well.” Almost to himself, he added, “I should have thought of that.”  

Valjean waited, but Javert said nothing more, turning down another alleyway. Perhaps he wished to wait and discuss what they’d both learned in private, but Valjean found that he couldn’t bear the silence. He caught himself straining to hear anyone following behind them, his unease growing with every second. He cleared his throat. “You said him or her. Do you suspect the cleaning woman, then?” he asked as a distraction. He remembered how her face had lit at the sight of the man she’d called Victor. “I did notice something strange. The Souris is a place for men, you said, but she has strong feelings for a patron.”

Javert stopped. Caught off-guard, Valjean took a half-step forward and turned back. The lamplight fell upon Javert’s pleased look. “What did I say? I knew you would spot something that Joly would miss! If she has such feelings, that might be reason enough to blackmail and scare off rivals. Or to assist him and gather information for him. Well, what did he look like? Did he introduce himself? What did they say to each other?”

At his eager questions, Valjean felt some of his worry slip away. However distasteful Javert might find the Souris, he was still eager to solve the case. He smiled back. “A young man with long red hair. He said nothing to me, but I heard the girl call him Victor. I don’t know if this Victor returns her feelings, though he was friendly enough to her. He was much cooler to her companion.”

“Her companion?”

Valjean hesitated. He hoped that the boy had escaped his life of crime, but he couldn’t assume it. He said slowly, “A young man of twenty-something years. Pale, dark-haired. Cosette would have called him handsome. I didn’t learn his name.”

Javert’s smile faded. “Ah.” The only sound was their feet upon the cobblestone for a moment, and then Javert spoke with a reticence that matched Valjean’s. “I suspect I know him. I recognized the girl, her family was thieves and blackmailers. If he’s a friend of her father’s, then--” He stopped and grimaced. In a very different tone, he said, “But I shall look into that. You needn’t concern yourself with those two. And the men you spoke with? What did you think of them?”

“Claude and Bernard? I found them unlikely blackmailers,” Valjean said. “Claude did press me about how you and I had met, but he seemed friendly and curious.”

“As did Etienne,” said Javert with a faintly sardonic smile. “Still, did they tell you anything useful?”

As Valjean told him what he’d learned of the public-house’s history, Javert snorted. “The former owner wasn’t loved, it seems. And Daniel may have made himself enemies by barring old patrons.” He pursed his lips. “Of course, that means more suspects.”

He stopped and looked intently at Valjean. “Will you do me one last favor? Will you write down a description of each person you spoke with, and your observations of them? It will be helpful for Joly to learn.”

“Joly?” Valjean echoed, puzzled. “Your fellow inspector?” Their earlier discussion came back to him. Valjean frowned. Javert couldn’t expect him to abandon the case halfway through. “How will you explain my absence? Claude and Bernard at the very least assume we are--” The words stuck in his throat. His face warmed. “That is, I mean, they’d be very confused if you brought Joly with you tomorrow. Surely it would be simpler for us to continue together.”

Javert barked out a laugh so incredulous that Valjean flushed. “I cannot-- I will not ask that of you.”

“It isn’t a hardship,” Valjean said, as he had before. This time it had the taste of a lie in his mouth. He tried not to think of the man Marc and his rough grip on the boy. Claude and Bernard hadn’t seemed concerned, and Sébastien himself had been amused. Still Valjean worried. He cleared his throat. “From what I have observed, the Souris is meant to be a sanctuary. I want to help it be one again.”

Frowning, Javert seemed about to speak. He shook his head. “Let’s discuss it elsewhere.” Then he turned and lost himself in the crowd. Or rather, he attempted to. He towered a full head higher than most in the crowd.

For the first time all evening real amusement filled Valjean. He caught up with Javert, dodging laughing students and a few middle-aged couples, and touched his arm lightly. This time Javert seemed unoffended by his touch, looking curiously at him as Valjean said, “Lean down as though we’re talking about something interesting.”

Javert’s puzzled expression lasted only a moment. Then he glanced around at their fellow passerby, many of whom only reached his shoulder, and laughed. The grimness fled his face at last. “I see.” He bent low, still smiling. “Have you and Cosette seen any of these shows? Or does her condition prevent it?”

Valjean beamed at the reminder. It was still a wonder to him that Cosette would be a mother in a few short months. “Right now she cannot bear large crowds for long stretches of time,” he said. “We might visit a new café in a few days if her health and the weather permit.”

They were at the opposite edge of the crowd when Javert spoke with the air of someone who had come to a decision. “I shall ask Monsieur Chabouillet what he thinks. Depending on his advice, I may have to endure Joly for the rest of the case. If you are certain that you’re willing, I’ll send you Monsieur Chabouillet’s answer tomorrow.”

“Of course I’m willing,” Valjean said firmly. He pushed all misgivings aside. “I’ll be at church in the morning, but if you leave a note at my house I will see it.” He paused. The back of his neck prickled with the imagined weight of curious eyes. “I’d like to walk with you to your apartment, but if we’re being followed....”

“It might be best if we walked separately.” Javert frowned. “I had the same thought. Tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow. Goodnight.” Still Valjean lingered. He remembered the flex of Javert’s fingers and wondered if he should apologize. Besides being inappropriate, it might have brought back bad memories. The last and only other time they had touched so had been when Javert was suffering the worst of his fever, his trembling fingers clutching Valjean’s as he’d sworn and fought the doctor’s ministrations. “Goodnight,” he said again. 

Javert hesitated. His lips parted as though about to speak. Then he smiled humorlessly. “Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Javert’s note had been terse and succinct when it arrived the following morning. It gave Valjean no insight into Javert’s opinion of M. Chabouillet’s decision to allow Valjean to accompany him again to the Souris. Had Javert argued against it, or was he relieved not to deal with the ill-favored Joly? And how had he felt, passing along Monsieur Chabouillet’s gratitude for M. Fauchelevent’s discretion?

Again and again came the memory of Javert shaking off his touch. It had caused an unsettled sleep and distracted Valjean all day, so that it was almost a relief to leave his house on the Rue Plumet for the Souris. Now he could see Javert for himself, set aside his concerns, and focus on the task at hand.

He arrived before Javert, but already he could see that the Souris was busier than the night before. Several of the rooms in the second story of the public-house were lit with candles. Two men, laughing and smiling, passed Florian and disappeared into the Souris.

Daniel emerged and approached Valjean. “You can wait for Jacques inside if you like, monsieur. We don’t insist you enter in pairs.” He looked briefly amused when Valjean smiled an apology and shook his head. “Very well.” He paused. His expression changed. “I’m told that you frightened away one of my patrons last night.”

“One of your patrons?” said Valjean, puzzled. Then he remembered the former thief. “Ah, the young man with black hair. I didn’t catch his name.”

“Inside the Souris, he has gone by everything from Esprit to Alphonse, but we all know who he actually is,” Daniel said. “I usually call him Michel, since that’s the first name he gave me. You’ve met before?”

Valjean hesitated. If the youth was reformed, he didn’t want to bring trouble down upon his head. “I don’t wish to speak out of turn….”

“Monsieur, I shall be blunt,” Daniel said. Valjean looked at him, startled by the change in his voice. All friendliness was gone, and his tone was hard. “I won’t allow you or your friend to cause trouble for my patrons. If, as Michel suggested, you’ve discovered this place and intend to save us from our sins, you won’t be welcome at the Souris. Whatever Michel does outside the Souris is his own business, but within its walls he behaves and that is enough for me. And none of us will be shamed for who we are.”

Valjean stared. Daniel stared back, unmoving, and beyond him Florian had straightened and was looking their way. Dismay gripped him. He’d be very little help to Javert if he was barred from the Souris! He fumbled for the right words. Slowly they came, and then faster, falling from his lips without forethought. 

“Monsieur, this is a misunderstanding. Michel and I met once several years ago. I urged him to abandon the destructive path he was walking, but it wasn’t for-- for the reasons that you assume. He was a criminal, he would have had my purse if I hadn’t stopped him. I hoped and yes, I prayed that he would find a better path. The life he was leading would have soon ruined him. If he has changed, if he has found a better life, then I am glad for it! I mean him no harm and wish him well. And for the Souris, I…. I wouldn’t preach against this sanctuary. My friend once thought the same as Michel, that I would consider men who love other men abominations. But this isn’t-- There are prisons, monsieur, where such things are done in the dark to the unwilling, out of cruelty and hate and despair. Those are abominations. Compared to them, the Souris is…. Well! I have hopes for the Souris, that it is the haven you intend. I mean not to cause trouble, and neither does-- neither does my friend.”

He stopped, breathing hard, his voice ringing strangely in his ears, aware now that Daniel was looking at him with alarmed concern. He bowed his head, embarrassed. He had not lost control of himself and spoken so wildly in quite some time. The last, he thought, had been in the grips of his illness, when Cosette and Marius had rushed to his side after Thénardier’s blackmail visit.

“Enough,” Daniel said. He half-stretched out a hand and then let it fall to his side. He smiled slowly, though his eyes were still concerned. “I believe you. Michel can sometimes exaggerate. Go in and have a drink. Florian will keep an eye out for Jacques.”

Valjean licked his lips. He was still a little embarrassed by his speech. No wonder Michel had accused him of sermonizing! He was desperately glad that Javert hadn’t heard him being ridiculous. “Very well.”

Inside, the Souris seemed busier than the night before. Already several of the tables were in use. Valjean recognized Victor at one table, but the other men were strangers. He bought his wine and sat down at an empty table, hoping for a quiet moment to gather his thoughts.

It wasn’t to be. A moment later Sébastien sat down across from him, smiling brightly. “We didn’t get a chance to talk last night. I’m Sébastien, if you don’t remember. Good evening!”

Valjean hesitated but shook the boy’s outstretched hand. “Good evening. And I’m Jean.”

The boy held onto his hand and leaned closer, still smiling. “I remember. Jean and Jacques. It’s always exciting when we get newcomers,” he said in a confiding tone.

Valjean smiled awkwardly. “I see.”

“Where is your friend today?” asked Sébastien. He glanced around. “Is he not coming?” He sounded disappointed. Then his expression brightened. “Well, that means more time for you and I to talk. How are you liking the Souris?” He gave Valjean’s hand a friendly squeeze, smiling. 

Valjean wondered if he could pull his hand back without giving offense. He kept up his smile and leaned back in his chair, but still the boy’s grasp lingered. “Actually Jacques will be here soon. But I’m enjoying the Souris so far. Bernard and Claude have told me a little about it, and I see they spoke truly when they said tonight would be much busier than yesterday.”

“Yes, it’s the busiest night of the week,” Sébastien said. He leaned closer, back to his confiding tone. “Victor is almost always here lately, because of Azelma. Sometimes he’ll even visit early when the Souris is closed, since Lionel has been teaching me and Azelma how to cook most mornings. That’s Henri, with the yellow hair. Next to him is Pierre, the latest man to hold his interest, though Henri will probably go back to Louis eventually. Louis is the man at the bar with Etienne-- don’t mention politics around him or he’ll talk you half to death! Alexandre considers himself a Romantic, but he’s a terrible artist. And if he invites you to sit for a portrait, he has other intentions.” He winked. 

The torrent of information broke over Valjean’s head like a wave. He knew he should be memorizing details, but all he could focus on was the boy’s tight grip.

Above them, a cold voice spoke. “Excuse me.”

Valjean looked up in relief as Sébastien released him. He remembered almost too late Javert’s alias. “Jacques!” Anything else he might have said was forgotten as Javert sat between him and Sébastien and took Valjean’s hand in his. The unexpected touch was clumsy but reassuring. He smiled and pressed Javert’s hand. “Did Daniel tell you where I was?”

“Yes,” Javert said. It must have grown colder outside, for his face was flushed. He glanced at Sébastien.

Something seemed to pass between them, because Sébastien stood and said quickly, “It was nice to meet you, Jean. Welcome to the Souris,” before he turned and went over to Victor, leaning against his chair and saying something that made the other man laugh.

“Congratulations,” Valjean said mildly. “You frightened away an excellent source of information.” 

“He was--” Javert’s thin lips closed over his teeth and he shook his head. “You’ll have to tell me later what he said. But Bernard and Claude can tell us more about the Souris.”

“And so we shall, monsieur!” Claude said cheerfully. He threw himself into the chair recently abandoned by Sébastien. “Or at least I shall, since Bernard pretends to dislike gossip.”

Bernard looked at Javert with a faint smile. “I hope you were in earnest, because otherwise you’ve doomed yourself to a long evening.”

“He was,” Valjean said when Javert’s eyebrows lifted in a familiar sardonic look. That was all the assurance Claude needed, for he began talking. Valjean listened with half an ear, watching the other patrons of the Souris. Other men came in, most offering greetings to Claude at one table or Sébastien at another. The room grew warmer as more bodies filled it.

His attention was caught by an unfamiliar name on Claude’s lips a second before Javert squeezed his hand. Valjean looked up from his drink as Claude said, “I haven’t seen Arnaud in a fortnight.” The other man’s brow was creased, his usual bright smile nowhere to be found.

Javert leaned forward. “He has never been away for so long?” At Claude’s denial, Javert frowned. He coughed into his other hand, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and murmured, “Well, perhaps he had a, ah, a lover’s quarrel...”

Claude laughed. “Perhaps! He’s even more tight-lipped about lovers than he is about his life outside the Souris.” He shrugged. “Only reason I know he’s slept with anyone is because I overheard them upstairs a month ago. Could’ve been a one-time thing, of course--”

“Claude,” said Bernard quellingly. Claude looked embarrassed.

The front door opened. This time Valjean recognized the cleaning girl. She darted a quick glance around the room and froze like a startled hare as her eyes fell upon their table. She snatched up a nearby broom and bucket and then fled for the stairs, ignoring Victor’s warm greeting.

“Excuse me a moment,” Valjean said. When Javert’s brow creased in confusion, Valjean smiled at him and pressed his hand once more. Javert relented, though he still frowned as Valjean stood.

He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, uncertain if he should speak to her. But he couldn’t ignore the threat of being barred, and Javert had suspected that the girl knew Michel outside of the Souris. He took a deep breath and closed the door behind him, blocking out the rest of the Souris. Then he called out, “One moment, mademoiselle.” His voice sounded steadier than he felt.

At first she was too far away for him to read her expression. Then she stormed down the stairs, each hard footfall signalling a strong emotion. As she drew closer, he realized that she was glaring. She brandished the broom. “Leave me be, old man! I told your Javert that I ain’t a troublemaker. You can tell him again.”

Valjean was alarmed by the girl’s vehemence and by the bold way she said Javert’s name. Javert hadn’t mentioned that the girl had recognized him last night! He wondered that Javert hadn’t told him. When Valjean held up a hand to interject, she eyed it balefully and seemed ready to knock it aside with the broom. “Mademoiselle, I’ll tell him. But we don’t intend you or your friend any harm--”

A disbelieving snort interrupted him. “He threatened to tell Daniel I was a thief. Just cause my name’s Thénardier don’t mean I’m crooked!”

Valjean almost reeled. Only his grip on the railing kept him from stumbling backwards. “Azelma Thénardier?” he said faintly. He peered at her, but no recognition came, for his memories of the Gorbeau House were distant and clouded. With effort he called feeling pity for an injured child at the Gorbeau House, but the girl’s father had demanded all of his attention. It was Thénardier’s face that Valjean remembered best. 

With the thought of Thénardier came the familiar struggle between regret and relief. He couldn’t bring himself to be glad that any man was dead, not even Thénardier, and yet the man’s death had brought about much good in his life.

He licked his lips. “Your father….”

“Is dead,” said Azelma, and laughed. “And good riddance!” For a second her thin face glowed with a terrible satisfaction. Then her expression changed. Her hands had been fists upon the broom handle; now she set the broom aside. She reached out and plucked tentatively at his sleeve. “Monsieur…. Javert said there was a blackmailer. Does Daniel know?” Before he could answer, she said, half to herself, “No, he can’t. If he did, he’d be warning everyone instead of worrying for his business. The Souris would close in a month.”

Her voice trembled at the last. Her stricken look convinced him. He patted her arm gently. She looked startled, then wary, and then very young as he said, “Mademoiselle, I believe you. But there is still a dangerous man around. You have been among thieves and blackmailers before, and know the Souris better than Javert or I. Do you have any suspects?”

Azelma’s eyes were wide. She gazed at him in amazement. “Monsieur, you believe me? Only Javert’s got it in his head that I’m the blackmailer. He’ll haul me off, and where’ll I be then? I’d lose my job, and Victor would--” Her cheeks flushed. “I ain’t a criminal anymore. I swear.”

“I believe you,” Valjean repeated.

Azelma relaxed a little. “I’ve been thinking about who it could be. Couldn’t hardly sleep last night, thinking so hard. It can’t be Daniel or Florian. They love the place too much. Victor doesn’t need money.” She spoke with a charming sincerity. Then her certainty faded. “I wouldn’t think it of Claude or Bernard, but I know Bernard’s old war wounds have been troubling him. He has spells, sometimes. The first time I saw one it gave me a scare! If they couldn’t afford a doctor...perhaps…. Sébastien’s got the gift of getting people to talk to him. He knows enough to blackmail a few folks, but he’s too silly to manage it.” She listed off a few other names, some familiar, some not, and the reasons why they could or couldn’t be suspects, and then hesitated. She had avoided one name.

“And Michel? Or Alphonse? Whatever name he calls himself,” Valjean said gently. “I know that he was a thief.”

Azelma paled. “He, he….” She shook her head. “I’ve known him a long time. This ain’t his style. When he comes to the Souris, he’s looking for a good time.” She paused and added with a sly look, “Or for a rich man who’ll set him up nice and pretty somewhere.”

“Ah,” Valjean said. His face warmed. “That is-- does that happen often here?”

Azelma laughed. “Often enough! Not everyone listens to Daniel’s rules. But no one will bother you. Claude told everyone that your friend is the jealous type.”

Before he could correct her, the door behind him opened.

For an instant Javert and Azelma were mirror images. First their faces blanched in dismay, and then they glared in mutual dislike. Javert drew himself to his fullest height, glowering, but Azelma scarcely flinched.

She eyed him rebelliously. “Suppose you came to see if I’d picked your friend’s pockets.”

When Javert’s eyes narrowed, Valjean laid a hand on his arm to forestall an argument. Javert’s lips, already parted to snarl a response, closed tightly as Valjean explained, “Azelma has been assisting with the case.”

Javert’s naked disbelief made Azelma flush. “Has she?”

Valjean frowned. Quietly, he said, “Javert, I don’t believe she had any part in the blackmail.” Louder, he added, “She’s worked here for a while, enough to know the patrons well. She’s been helpful.”

“You’re wasting your words, monsieur. He won’t listen. I’m a Thénardier, remember?” Azelma’s earlier earnestness was gone. She looked sullen. “Once a thief, always a thief.” Azelma had meant herself, but Valjean’s shared history with Javert added the unintended weight of complicated decades to her words. They fell heavily upon the ear.

Javert looked stricken. He glanced towards Valjean, almost in appeal, and said, voice low, “No, I-- I know better. I know people can change.” He tugged at his whiskers and scowled at Azelma, recovering his composure. “Well! I suppose we shall have to trust you.” Again his eyes narrowed. There was a warning in his voice. “Though you’d best watch your tongue. If you speak out of turn and hurt our chances to catch the blackmailer, it will go poorly for you.”   

Azelma glanced curiously between them, but said only, “I don’t want Daniel knowing about the blackmail. He’s too soft for his own good. I’ll keep quiet.” She snorted. “The sooner you catch the bastard, the sooner you’ll leave the Souris. I wish you luck.” She took up the broom. “Now can I get back to work before Daniel comes to scold?”

“Yes, yes,” said Javert impatiently. He waited until the door had closed behind her to turn back towards Valjean, frowning. Again he smoothed a hand over his mouth. “I should’ve told you who she was. I would have, last night, except….”

When Javert hesitated, Valjean realized that he was trying to apologize. “I suppose you thought I’d already been surprised enough for one evening,” he offered, and was rewarded by Javert’s grateful look.

“Yes, precisely.” Then Javert shook his head. “Well, we should return to our table, see if we can learn anything more. We can discuss what the girl told you later.”

Bernard hadn’t exaggerated. Within another hour the Souris was full, almost as crowded and overwhelming as one of M. Gillenormand’s parties. Valjean endured it as best he could. He fixed a smile upon his face and listened as Claude offered a little gossip about each patron entering the public-house. The cheerful remarks often mirrored what Azelma had said.

The room was stifling. Valjean had never enjoyed crowds, and even Javert’s reassuring nearness and Claude’s friendliness couldn’t make him like this press. He drank another glass of wine, and then a third, to stave off discomfort, trying all the while to listen to the seemingly endless information about the Souris’s patrons.

By the time Javert cleared his throat and suggested that it was getting late, the wine and steady murmur of Claude’s voice had left Valjean drowsy. He agreed with a smile that he hoped didn’t betray his relief. He suspected it did, judging by the sympathetic look Bernard wore as he bid them both good-night.

Once Valjean and Javert were outside, Valjean tipped his head back and took a deep breath of the cool night air. “Well,” he said, his eyes half-closed, “between Azelma and Claude I think we know nearly all there is to tell about the patrons.”

Javert’s unexpected laugh made him turn. Javert’s ill humor seemed to have momentarily lifted. He smirked as he drawled, “Nearly all? I suppose you mean that I shouldn’t have frightened off that boy, Sébastien. With three such gossips, we might’ve discovered the blackmailer tonight!”

“Perhaps,” said Valjean, relieved as he smiled back. Together they turned and walked towards the theater district, following the same precautions as the night before. His earlier drowsiness didn’t abate with the cold air; instead Valjean found himself even drowsier. He swallowed down a yawn. “Let’s talk over the suspects--” Another, this time irrepressible yawn interrupted him. 

Javert looked amused until Valjean’s yawn proved infectious. Then he frowned, all injured dignity. He frowned up at the overcast sky and turned sharply into a narrow alleyway. “It’s rather late,” he said. “We should meet tomorrow morning.”

“Yes.” A dismaying thought struck Valjean. He fell back a step. “Although… Would the early afternoon be all right? I know that Monsieur Gisquet wanted speed, but I, ah, promised to take Cosette to this new café for breakfast tomorrow.”

Even in the dim light, Valjean saw Javert’s brow crease, but then his expression cleared. “Of course. We cannot have Madame la Baronne disappointed. And I should speak with Monsieur Chabouillet, see if I can get more information about the blackmail victim. He had said that Arnaud was seeing someone at the Souris. That man should be high on the list of suspects.”

“Arnaud? Is that the victim’s name?”

Javert looked startled. “Did I not even tell you that?” He grimaced and added with no little exasperation, “This case has me acting the fool! Yes, yes, Arnaud is the man who filed the complaint. All Monsieur Chabouillet told me was that Arnaud believed it was someone within the Souris, and that he had been seeing someone before the blackmail began.”

“And you believe the man he was seeing is the most likely suspect?”

Javert shrugged. “I hadn’t suspected it at first, but you heard yourself that Arnaud is a private man. Who else would he confide in enough for blackmail?”

“I suppose,” Valjean said, though he wondered. Claude and Azelma proved that secrets weren’t easily kept within the public-house. “Monsieur Chabouillet didn’t tell you much about Arnaud or his lover?”

“He--” Javert stopped. He frowned past Valjean, squinting into the darkness. “Who’s there?” he called sharply.

“Getting old, copper,” came a low, amused voice. Valjean, startled, turned away from Javert. As he stared, a shadow seemed to detach itself from the other end of the alley. It was the man Daniel called Michel. “I’ve been following you since the Souris.” 

Javert snarled. He positioned himself between Valjean and Michel, a tall, glowering barrier. “What do you want, Montparnasse?”

Valjean looked at him, startled, as Montparnasse said flatly, “I want you gone.”

“Gone?” Valjean frowned. “Have you spoken to Azelma today? She’ll tell you--”

Montparnasse ignored him. All his attention was fixed upon Javert. “You might fool Azelma and Daniel, but I know what you’re about, Jacques. ” He tossed out the alias with a smirk. 

Javert’s laughter was savage. “Oh? Enlighten us.”

“You want the Souris closed.”

Valjean had to correct this misunderstanding somehow. He tried to step around Javert, but Javert shifted, keeping himself between Valjean and Montparnasse. It would take Valjean forcibly thrusting him aside to come face to face with Montparnasse, it seemed. Feeling ridiculous, he said over Javert’s shoulder, “You’re mistaken, my son. We’ve no wish to see the Souris closed.”

Montparnasse laughed. “What a lie that is! Next you’ll say that you and the inspector are fucking.”

The coarse word stuck Valjean dumb. His face went hot.

Javert snarled, “Watch your tongue!”

“You’re not that kind, inspector,” said Montparnasse, contemptuous. “You think we don’t have eyes on you whenever you’re on duty? You think we wouldn’t know after all these years?”

Javert said nothing.

Montparnasse laughed again. “No, the priest-copper of Paris doesn’t belong at the Souris.” His look changed. He smiled slowly at Valjean. “But perhaps Monsieur Babbler would enjoy himself. I know a few who’d enjoy how strong you are. You could always come alone--”

Javert threw him against the wall with a growl, an arm across Montparnasse’s throat. As suddenly as he’d moved, however, he stilled. Montparnasse’s knife pressed against his neck, just below his cravat. 

“No stock this evening, inspector? You should take better care for your neck!”

The honeyed malice in the boy’s voice shook Valjean from his stupor. “Enough,” he said, finding his voice. He reached out and carefully seized Montparnasse’s wrist. There was a brief resistance and a stifled curse from Montparnasse. Then the blade dropped from Javert’s neck; Valjean kicked the knife aside. “You too, Javert. Can’t you see that he is baiting you? Let him go.”

For a few seconds, he thought Javert would ignore him. Then Javert growled, “He’ll apologize first.”

“Apologize?” Montparnasse’s smile had gone at the loss of his knife. It returned at Javert’s demand. “For what? Saying you’ve got a truncheon where your cock is? Or for inviting your friend to--” He choked as Javert pressed him harder against the wall. 

“Javert!” Valjean said, dismayed. Now he used his strength to pull Javert away. Javert strained against him, but at last obeyed, stumbling backwards so that Valjean had to steady him.

The boy leaned against the wall. His hands went to his throat and rumpled cravat. His voice sounded rough as he said, “Why, inspector! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a heart after all.”

Javert was silent, his face averted from Valjean’s, and still. Valjean might as well have been touching stone. 

Astonishment wiped Montparnasse’s face clean of all expression. He straightened from the wall, staring. “Oh! Is that how it is?”

An incredulous smile spread across his face. Without taking his eyes off Javert, he said, “Well! I suppose Azelma was right after all. Now I’m sorry you and I didn’t meet at the Souris, Monsieur Babbler. I can think of a few things to distract you from your sermons! And I’d be more fun than the inspector. But I’ll enjoy the Souris with someone else tonight.” 

The boy’s hat had come askew but somehow remained atop his head during the scuffle; he tipped the hat towards Valjean, who was puzzling over Montparnasse’s queer speech. Then he winked and sauntered past them. He paused only to retrieve his knife, remarking, "You know, Inspector, I hadn't expected you to survive our last encounter back in June. Maybe you've gotten reckless since then. But I'd wear the stock if I were you."

All the while Javert hadn’t moved, not even an aborted movement to stop the boy. Beneath Valjean’s bewildered hands, he seemed to scarcely breathe, even after Montparnasse had vanished from sight. Valjean remembered the knife at Javert’s throat, alongside Montparnasse’s words, with fresh alarm. At this angle it was impossible to see if Javert was bleeding.

Valjean still had hold of his shoulders; now he turned Javert towards him. He started to speak, but the words went unsaid, forgotten as the lamplight illuminated Javert’s face. In that single look Valjean saw everything.

Understanding struck him like a blow, so unexpected that he shrank back. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He found himself pressed against the opposite wall, uncertain of how he’d gotten there. “Javert?”

Javert flinched at the whisper. He passed trembling hands over his face, as though he could smooth away the look that had betrayed his feelings. “Don’t trouble yourself over it, I pray you,” he said quickly. He spoke in agitated bursts of emotion. “It’s only an old man’s foolishness, muddling friendship with love-- with, with attraction. I’m hardly pining away for you. I am grateful for your friendship. You are…. These last few years….” He laughed, sudden and savage, the sound ringing off the alley walls. “Damn Joly anyway! If he had been there-- but it’s too late to think of that.” His pleading eyes caught and held Valjean’s. “Let Montparnasse think you reciprocate. It will help our case. And afterwards...afterwards we needn’t speak on this.” 

The wall beneath Valjean’s fingers was reassuringly solid. He concentrated on the rough surface against his hands until his thoughts wearied of chasing themselves in circles. Gradually he felt steady enough to ask, “How long....?”

Javert avoided his eyes. “Does it matter? As I said, don’t trouble yourself.”

“How can I not?” Valjean asked helplessly. He remembered the trembling of Javert’s fingers after they had held hands, that uncomfortable flex of his hand that Valjean had wholly misunderstood. How long had Javert suffered in silence? He thought of Claude and Bernard’s easy affection and strained to imagine himself and Javert touching each other so freely. He couldn’t. His breath caught uncomfortably. He shook his head. “Javert…. I don’t know what to say. I have never…. Even before Toulon, I….” His face warmed. He looked away from Javert’s strained features. “I cannot offer you more than friendship.”

“That’s all I ask of you,” Javert said. His body tensed as though he meant to step closer to Valjean, but he thought better of it, remaining still. When Valjean brought himself to look up, Javert was watching him with desperate hope. “Can’t we go on as we were?”

“I don’t know,” Valjean said softly. The light dimmed in Javert’s eyes, and then brightened as Valjean added, “But I would like to try.”

Javert straightened. He tugged once, very sharply at his whiskers, and said with false lightness, “Then let us proceed with the case. Give your daughter and her husband my regards tomorrow. I’ll send you a note in the afternoon with the time and place we’ll meet to discuss our suspects.” He frowned. Valjean tensed, then relaxed as Javert went on. “Perhaps by then I will have decided what is to be done about Montparnasse. I should’ve arrested him on the spot, but it might’ve jeopardized the case. Well! Now we know a place he frequents, in any case. That’s no small thing.”

“Tomorrow then,” Valjean said, and tried to smile. He mostly succeeded, judging by the relief in Javert’s face. He turned to go, and stilled, caught by Javert’s quiet, “Valjean. Montparnasse is dangerous. Walk a different way to your house tonight, and take care that you aren’t followed.”

“I will,” Valjean said. A thought struck him. He looked closely at Javert’s exposed neck and rumpled cravat, but found no sign of blood. Still the memory of Montparnasse’s knife, and the revelation that the boy had been the thief who’d tried to slit Javert’s throat, made his stomach roil. “Will you wear your stock tomorrow?”

Javert laughed. The sarcastic bark unexpectedly relieved Valjean with its familiarity. Surely their friendship was salvageable if he could still sound like that! Javert touched his throat and grimaced in self-reproach. “Of course. I cannot believe I forgot it! This damn case is driving me mad.”

Valjean had several responses to that, but all he said was, “Goodnight, Javert.”

“Father, you’re not listening to me at all!” Cosette scolded, laughing. She studied him from across the table, her head tilted like one of the sparrows that frequented the Gillenormands’ garden. Her brow creased a little. Her amusement shifted to concern. “Is something wrong?”

Valjean, surfacing from his muddled thoughts, offered up a guilty smile. He had slept only a handful of hours the night before, examining Javert’s desperate confession from all angles until he was dizzy. He’d greeted the dawn with no answers and only more questions.

He’d tried to set aside his distraction for the breakfast with Cosette, but obviously hadn’t succeeded. “I’m sorry, my dear.” He hesitated. After discovering his true identity and learning about her mother, Cosette had made him promise not to keep anything else from her, but this wasn’t his secret to tell. He settled on a half-truth. “Javert is working on a complicated case. I’ve been trying to help.”

Curiosity brightened Cosette’s face. “Oh?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Valjean said. He smiled at her wrinkled nose and huff of frustration. He tried to remember what they’d been discussing. “Ah! So you and Marius settled on yellow for the curtains in the nursery?”

“Sunflower yellow,” Cosette corrected. Valjean’s incomprehension must have showed, because she laughed again. “Never mind! You and Marius would both call my dress a pretty blue, I’m sure, and leave it at that.” As Valjean studied her dress, which was indeed blue, she said, “Father, think of sunflowers. That is the yellow I want. Very different from lemon yellow or royal yellow.” Her smile softened. “Or that old coat you had.”  

The mention of his old yellow coat stirred more memories, and with them thoughts of Javert.

He thought he had controlled his expression, but Cosette’s eyes narrowed. She clasped his hand. “Father, there is something bothering you, isn’t there? Won’t you tell me about it? Perhaps Marius or I can help.”

He looked down at their hands. His was weathered and white-haired, lined with age and hard use. Hers was smooth and youthful, having escaped the swollen discomfort Mademoiselle Gillenormand had fretfully reported other women suffered during pregnancy. Valjean had lost count of how many times he’d held her hand, and yet every time he was overwhelmed by tenderness.

He squeezed her fingers gently and said, “Thank you, my dear, but it’s this case of Javert’s.”

Cosette looked concerned. “Is it dangerous?”

Her fingers tightened on his, and for one absurd moment the familiar touch was replaced by the memory of Javert fumbling for his hand in the Souris. Another wave of emotion, this one strange and unfathomable, swelled. He took a deep breath, and then another until Cosette’s hand felt like her own once more.

“Is it?” she pressed.

Valjean remembered Montparnasse’s venomous whisper and the glint of his knife against Javert’s throat. He frowned. “A little, yes.”

“Well, I hope you told the inspector to be careful,” Cosette said. A shadow passed over her face. “I still remember how pale he was, when you and that cab driver helped him into our rooms. And all that blood!” She shuddered. “I thought he would die.”

“Don’t think on it, my dear,” Valjean said hastily, alarmed by her pallor. He leaned forward, patting her hand. “His injuries looked worse than they were. A broken collarbone and a few cuts. He recovered much faster than Marius, remember?”

“Yes.” Cosette hesitated. “You look tired,” she said at last, her worried eyes fixed upon his face. “The last time I saw you so tired was….”

She trailed off, biting her lip, but Valjean knew that she meant the day that Thénardier had blackmailed Marius and revealed the whole truth of Jean Valjean to him. Valjean had sworn Javert to silence regarding their part in rescuing Marius at the barricades, and yet the truth had come out. He repressed a guilty frown, remembering Cosette’s tears and Marius’s pleas for forgiveness.

Now, unbidden, he thought of Javert’s pale face during his first visit after Valjean’s illness. He looked at the memory with new eyes, at the terror he’d mistaken for fury, and wondered anew. Javert hadn’t answered him last night, when he asked how long he had felt so. Had it been as long as that? Surely not. What had Valjean done to deserve such devotion, other than to offer a hand of friendship?

He shook off such thoughts and patted Cosette’s hand again. “It’s only an old man’s worry for his friend. I will sleep better once this case is solved.”

Cosette’s laugh was fond, though the concern hadn’t quite left her face. “You and Marius both worry too much. I thought you would insist that I be confined to my bed the entire time I was expecting when I first told you both the news.” She shook her head at the memory, smiling.

“I considered it,” said Valjean, to make her laugh, which she did, exclaiming, “I’d like to have seen you try! Whatever shall I do with you two?”

About to answer, Valjean was distracted by sunlight sparkling on familiar yellow curls. He turned a little in his seat to watch Sébastien pass. There was a troubled furrow in the boy’s brow. 

Valjean hesitated only a moment. Then he stood. “Excuse me, my dear, but I see someone I must speak with.”

Cosette looked startled. “Oh?” She turned in her seat, shifting her rounded belly awkwardly. “Is it someone I know?”

Already he’d half-lost Sébastien among the passerby. Distracted, Valjean murmured, “This will only take a moment,” and hurried after the boy. This would likely be his only chance to talk to Sébastien alone, without Marc or Javert to interfere. He’d break one of Daniel’s rules, but if Marc was abusing Sébastien and the other Souris patrons were too blind to see it, Valjean would gladly accept the consequences.

He followed Sébastien around the corner and then nearly lost him again as the boy turned and plunged suddenly down a narrow alleyway. Valjean lengthened his stride, and arrived at the mouth of the alley just in time to hear Sébastien say earnestly, “Why would Arnaud go to the police if he’s a blackmailer? Criminals don’t work with coppers! You made a mistake, Paul.”

Sébastien stood before Marc and an unfamiliar man, both hands outstretched in appeal. The latter, who must be Paul, was flushed with anger. He raised a warning fist and said, “Control your boy, Marc, or I’ll teach him how to watch his mouth.”

Valjean had considered eavesdropping, for his ears had pricked up at the mention of Arnaud. How had the boy learned the police were involved? Had Azelma warned people after all? However, the way Sébastien rocked back on his heels, the frightened catch of his breath, was enough to make Valjean’s next choice simple. He stepped into the alley.

“Excuse me,” he said in a mild voice, and watched all three men jump. He stepped up beside the boy. He smiled genially at Paul as he asked, “Sébastien, Marc, what a coincidence! Is everything well?”

Sébastien’s face did something complicated before he laughed nervously. “Oh, it’s only you, Jean! Don’t worry, Paul, he’s just another visitor to the Souris. Do you live near here then? Yes, everything’s fine. Just a little misunderstanding.”

His smile was bright and forced, and went crooked as Valjean said, “Perhaps I could help.”

Paul glowered. “Who the hell are you?”

“A copper,” Marc said through gritted teeth. 

Valjean looked at him, startled, and saw that his face was white and terrified. “You’re mistaken, monsieur,” he said. An instant later, he threw out an arm to protect Sébastien as Paul drew a truncheon and swung wildly. The movement was so sudden and uncoordinated that Valjean was unsure if the gesture was meant as a threat or if Paul had aimed for him and missed. 

“This is all your fault,” Paul said, panting, and swung again. It was impossible to tell who he meant, but Sébastien flinched miserably. 

This time Valjean intercepted the truncheon. Paul was stronger than he looked, even heavyset and running to fat, but Valjean had dealt with stronger. He wrested the truncheon away and pinned Paul firmly against the wall. The man swore and struggled, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. Valjean frowned. He had never seen Paul before in his life, and yet something about him struck him as familiar. Hadn’t he heard that name recently?

“I’m not police, but we seem to need them. Sébastien, will you fetch someone?”

Instead Sébastien clutched at his arm, his eyes wide. “Oh please, Paul just lost his head! He drinks, you see. And he doesn’t trust police. Let me get him to his apartment and he’ll sleep it off. It’s really nothing, Jean.”

Valjean listened to this anxious babbling in disbelief. “My boy, I’m not leaving you with a man who threatened you, especially when he’s willing to attack a stranger. Call for--”

Pain blossomed in his head. He swayed, his sight blurring, but not before he’d seen Sébastien’s horrified look. He must have let Paul go, for suddenly there were meaty fists at his throat, choking him. Even now he had most of his strength; he knocked Paul aside with only a little difficulty. 

Sébastien’s cry of “Oh, Marc, don’t!” was all the warning Valjean had for the second blow. This one cracked across his shoulders and drove him to one knee. Then the truncheon was at his throat. His head swam alarmingly. He tried to throw Marc off his back, but a second man’s weight joined the first.

He thought of Cosette, awaiting his return at the café. A panicked surge of strength brought him to his feet. His vision was going-- first at the edges and now the rest, so that the alley shifted from day to dusk. One side of his head pulsed in pain to match his frantic heartbeat. Still he managed to tear himself free of one man’s grip. He turned, bracing himself against the wall, and caught the next swing of the truncheon against his arm.

“Stop,” he said, squinting at the blurred face. “You’ll only make things worse for yourselves.” 

“The bastard won’t stay down!” someone exclaimed.

“He will,” another said grimly.

A fist struck where Valjean’s head hurt the worst. His vision went white, then black. He fell.  

Pain came first, then awareness. Valjean stirred, bewildered. His head and back throbbed dully, and he could hear muffled shouting nearby. When he tried to move, he realized that he was restrained.

He opened his eyes. For a second his vision refused to focus, but then it cleared. He was in someone’s apartment. The room was squalid and ill-kept. Bottles littered the floor. From the strong smell of wine, some of the bottles hadn’t been finished before they’d been thrown on the ground. He could still hear the arguers, but couldn’t see them.

Sébastien was curled upon a nearby chair, his head buried in his arms. The boy’s entire body was shaking. When Valjean whispered his name, Sébastien jerked upright. One eye was bruised and rapidly swelling shut. The other was red from weeping. Before Valjean could speak, the boy said miserably, “He hit me. I told him I’d scream for the coppers if he killed you, and he hit me. And Marc just let him!” Fresh tears welled in his unblackened eye. “What do I do?”

Valjean kept a wary eye on the door. He fumbled for the coin that would cut through his ropes, but found that Paul and Marc had taken his coat and emptied out his pockets. He frowned. His only hope lay in the boy radiating misery in front of him. “Sébastien, explain what’s going on.”

Sébastien wiped at his good eye. “Azelma and I go to the Souris early some mornings for cooking lessons. When I got there, though, she was arguing outside with Michel. He said did she know that Jacques was really Javert the copper, and Azelma said she was going to tell him, and if he’s blackmailing Arnaud he needs to stop and get away quick, since Arnaud must have friends in the police.” Here Sébastien paused and eyed him. “If Jacques is police, you must be as well.”

Valjean shook his head. He regretted the gesture immediately, swallowing against a wave of nausea. “No. We’re friends. I’ve been helping him find the blackmailer.”

Curiosity flickered across Sébastien’s face before unhappiness replaced it. “When I heard that, I left. I had to tell Paul and Marc that they’d gotten it wrong. You see, Marc and Paul came to me a few weeks ago, saying that Arnaud was going to blackmail Daniel. Paul said we had to blackmail Arnaud first. I couldn’t let Arnaud hurt Daniel. So I--”

Here Sébastien blushed. “I tried to seduce him, but he wasn’t interested. One night I followed him to his house and found out all about him.” He leaned forward. “But Paul made a mistake. There’s no way Arnaud would go to the police if he was really a blackmailer, right?”

“My boy,” Valjean said gently, “from what I’ve seen of Marc and Paul, it seems more likely that Arnaud is entirely innocent and they were using you.”

Sébastien flushed. “No!” he said, and then shuddered and returned to a whisper. “No, Marc wouldn’t do that.” He added with boyish naivete, “He likes me.”

Valjean remembered Marc’s possessive jealousy. “Perhaps he does. But he might care for money more.” One of the voices in the other room rose to a bellow, and Sébastien flinched. Valjean leaned forward. “Sébastien, you need to go. Paul and Marc know that they cannot let me go. You need to fetch help before they decide to kill me.”

Sébastien blanched. “Marc wouldn’t!” he protested, but he glanced towards the door. Judging by the uneasy look, he didn’t have such faith in Paul. 

“Go to the Souris. Tell Daniel the truth.”

Sébastien went even paler. He shook his head. “Daniel will hate me,” he said. Tears welled again and spilled down his face. He didn’t seem to notice. “He’ll hate me!”

“You were tricked. You’re as much a victim as Arnaud himself. Daniel will see that if you give him a little time.” The voices rose again, and Valjean knew that they were losing their chance. He leaned forward, ignoring the pain of his restraints. “Please, go.”

Sébastien hesitated before he scrambled to his feet. He lingered just long enough to whisper, “I’m sorry, I really thought I was helping Daniel.” Then he fled.

Valjean was alone. In the other room, Paul and Marc continued to argue. He tested his restraints, but his head swam from even that small barest effort. He subsided, closing his eyes.

Perhaps Sébastien would return with Daniel and help in time. Valjean had known such last-minute salvations before. But Sébastien might be too late. Valjean’s heart ached at the thought of Cosette. How long had she waited for his return before she’d grown alarmed? What would she think if he was never found?

Again he worked at his restraints, this time ignoring how the rough ropes bit at his fingers. He wondered if Javert had felt like this as he’d faced death at the hands of the doomed revolutionaries. But no, Javert had not been trying to escape. Javert had laughed at the sight of him, thinking Valjean was there to kill him. The Javert of two years ago had faced death with a strange carelessness for reasons Valjean couldn’t begin to fathom. Javert had accepted his doom then, and seen his rescue as an unlooked for and unwelcome surprise. How he’d raged during his fever against the effrontery of surviving!

Valjean hadn’t realized until this moment how desperately he wanted to live. He longed to see Cosette and Marius’s child, to witness those precious first steps and first words, to welcome more grandchildren, to shower them all with love. He needed another decade and more with Cosette and Marius. The promise of a reunion in Heaven wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

And then there was Javert. Here Valjean bowed his head, staring at nothing as his fingers continued their work upon the ropes. He couldn’t allow that awkward conversation to be their last. He remembered Javert’s gray unhappy look, the desperate way he’d assured Valjean that he was content with friendship.

His hands ached. Even carefully looking over his shoulder, he couldn’t tell if he had achieved anything at all except to bloody his fingers. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to work strength back into them. Unbidden he remembered the flex of Javert’s hand and the clumsy touch of Javert’s fingers against his.

The strange emotion from before came over him again. He struggled to name it, feeling like a blind man trying to describe something he’d never seen. He had said he could only offer Javert friendship, but what did he know of friendship or love? Was there such a great difference between the two? How could he recognize the depth of Javert’s affection, or understand his own feelings?

He knew so little of such things. His heart had starved and died in Toulon, resurrected by Monseigneur Myriel and Cosette. It had revived with a great many aches and pains during those first years. His heart pained him now. If his hands had been free, he would have pressed one to his chest. Perhaps his heart wasn’t yet done growing.

His thoughts scattered as Marc stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him. The man was flushed with anger. Then he glanced around. “Hell!” he said, astonished. “Where’s Sébastien?”

Valjean felt one last pang of regret. He’d hoped for more time. He straightened in his chair as he met Marc’s eyes. “Hiding from Paul’s fists and the police.”

Marc’s expression changed. Valjean recognized the look. He’d seen similar shame and anger in the faces of his fellow convicts. Perhaps Marc cared about Sébastien as much as the boy believed. Marc threw himself into the empty chair and closed his eyes. “Good. Sébastien wasn’t supposed to get hurt.” He looked over at Valjean and smiled bleakly. “This wasn’t the plan. Paul said we just had to send a blackmail letter and we’d watch the money roll in.”

“It’s never that simple.” Valjean looked at him. Perhaps Marc was a better man than his past actions suggested. Valjean might be able to reason with him. “It isn’t too late. You could let me go,” he said gently. “My friend is an inspector. If I tell him you helped me, he’ll argue for leniency.”

For a second Marc seemed to struggle with himself. Then he sighed, and Valjean knew his answer before the man spoke. “I can’t.”

Valjean tried to take some solace in the fact that he sounded regretful. Perhaps someday Marc would remember this moment and make a better decision to help someone else. “Then will you do me one favor?” he asked. “Will you distract Paul and give me a little more time?”

“What?” Marc looked suspicious. “Why?”

The day had been filled with half-truths. Valjean gave one more. “So I might pray.”

Marc stared and then laughed weakly. “All right.” He stood. “I can’t promise much time, mind you. Once he realizes Sébastien’s gone….” He trailed off with an eloquent shrug.

“Thank you,” Valjean said. He bowed his head, watching as the door closed behind Marc. Valjean’s fingers resumed their work at the knots with grim determination, and he began to pray.

After some minutes, there was a crash from the other room, as though someone had thrown a piece of furniture.

The door burst open, and Paul halted in the middle of entering, Marc a half-step behind him. For a second Paul only stared, his incredulous eyes searching and not finding Sébastien. Then he began to curse and pace, walking in agitated circles around the room.

Valjean watched him. There was none of Marc’s remorse to be found in that flushed, furious face, no hope for pity in the way Paul shook his fists and cursed God and the Devil and everyone in between. Valjean took a deep breath and straightened as best he could in his chair as Paul wheeled to face him, an ugly light in his eyes.

“Enough of this,” Paul said, and raised his fist.

Chapter Text

“Portress said the gentleman weren’t in. He went out this morning and she ain’t seen him since,” the boy said. “I left the note with her, but I don’t know when he’ll see it.” He looked hopefully at Javert until Javert gave him another coin for his honesty. The urchin tipped his grubby hat in gratitude and sauntered down the stairs, whistling.

Javert kept the scowl from his face until he’d closed the door. Then he looked in dismay at the paper that carpeted his room. Even his desk and bed could scarcely be seen under a mountain of white. He had worked feverishly through the night, compiling every remembered detail of the Souris establishment, its owner, and its patrons.

Weariness dragged at him like a weight, and yet the exhaustion had been worth the distraction from what an utter fool he had been. He’d come so close to ruining his friendship with Valjean! The sooner they could solve this case, the sooner they could put this debacle behind them and never speak of it again.

The last few days had been both the best and worst of his life, a pleasant torture that had to end. Javert would force himself to forget how it had felt to hold Valjean’s hand and let everyone believe that they belonged together. It had only been a ridiculous fantasy.

And now it seemed the fantasy was well and over, for Valjean was avoiding him. How else to explain Valjean’s silence, when even a week before he would’ve sent an apologetic note to say that he’d lost track of time with his daughter and did Javert mind if they met after supper? Javert had several such missives tucked away in one of his drawers.

Paper rustled. With a start, Javert realized that he’d crumpled a sheet of case notes in his fist. He tossed it aside with a grimace. He attempted to go over the facts and suspects of the case on his own, but it proved impossible to focus. He couldn’t even dwell on Chabouillet’s apologetic letter that had said that the député refused to name his lover. He paced the room, picking up one paper after another and staring blindly at them. His mind returned again and again to Valjean, that shocked recoil, the tremble in his voice as he’d said he couldn’t offer Javert anything but friendship. There was some solace in that Valjean had added that he wanted to salvage their friendship, but it was hopeless if Valjean couldn’t bear to see him.

A fist knocked tentatively against his door.

“Inspector? Are you there?” 

Javert surfaced from his gloomy thoughts with a start. What was Sergeant Durand doing at his apartment? Before he could answer, a second fist drummed against the wood and another familiar voice cried, “Inspector Javert! Inspector Javert!”

Javert threw the door open.

“Thank God!” Cosette rushed past him, using her body like a battering ram. Javert had to give way or be trampled. She stopped in the middle of the room with a disappointed little cry, wringing her hands. “Oh, he isn’t here!”

“I’m sorry, inspector, I know this is unusual,” Durand said from the hallway. He cringed at Javert’s amazed stare. “She came to the station, demanding to see you. She wouldn’t speak to anyone else, and I, er, thought I should bring her here myself, what with her, uh, condition….” He flushed miserably.

Cosette began to pace the room as well as she could with her rounded belly, her eyes darting this way and that. Javert glanced between her and Durand. The sergeant would soon recover from his embarrassment enough to be curious about Javert’s precise relationship with Madame Pontmercy. He cleared his throat. “You did the right thing, Durand. I’ll handle this.” Then he closed the door on Durand’s startled face. 

Cosette seized Javert’s arm and demanded, “Father isn’t here with you?”

Dread grew in Javert, as unstoppable as the tide. He shook his head. “No. We were to meet this afternoon. Didn’t you see him this morning?”

Cosette’s lips trembled. “He disappeared in the middle of breakfast. He saw a man passing the café and said he had to speak with him. I thought Father would return in a minute or two, but he never….” Tears filled her eyes. “He never came back!”

She was still clinging to him, her face pale, compounding his alarm. Was such strong emotion safe for the child? Javert clumsily patted her hand as he’d seen Valjean do when she was distressed. She didn’t seem to notice. “Madame, please sit down.” He maneuvered her to the sofa he’d bought once Valjean had started visiting. He shoved the paperwork to the ground and helped her sit. “Did your father seem--” He faltered, a shiver of embarrassment running through him, for he’d been about to ask if Valjean had seemed out of sorts. “Did he seem disturbed at the sight of the man? Could you describe him?”

Cosette rubbed at her eyes. “He’d been distracted all breakfast. Something about your case, though he wouldn’t tell me what it was about. I didn’t get a very good look at the man. He was young, perhaps Marius’s age. Yellow hair. I saw Father follow him around the corner down...down…. Oh, what was the street?” She scowled, and then briefly her wan features lightened as she remembered the name.

Javert recognized it. It wasn’t so very far from the theater district and the Souris. He racked his brain for who Valjean might have spotted. The only man from the Souris to match Cosette’s description was that boy, Sébastien, who’d been trying to seduce Valjean last night. Why would Valjean want to speak with Sébastien, much less alone? Where had they gone? Valjean wouldn’t have abandoned Cosette willingly. Something must have happened.

Cosette’s anxious voice broke into his troubled thoughts. “Inspector? Do you know where my father is?” Her expression grew fierce. “Is he in danger?”

Javert had a sudden vision of Cosette half-marching, half-waddling into the Souris and demanding her father’s return. At any other time, the image might have amused him. Now he only grimaced. It was a struggle to keep his voice calm. “I don’t know where he is, but if it has something to do with the case, I might know a way to find him.”

Cosette squared her shoulders. “How can I help, inspector?”

“With luck--” About to say that it would be the Gorbeau House incident again and Valjean would make his own escape, Javert stumbled over his words. Cosette knew of it, of course, but he didn’t want her remembering how Valjean had returned to her gravely injured. He frowned. “With luck, he’ll either come here or go to your house. Probably there, to make certain you’re well.” There were still a few fresh sheets of paper. He offered them to her. Then he scowled, flustered by his own shaking hands. He stuffed his hands into his pockets before Cosette could spy his weakness. “Please, keep watch here. And write to your husband to return to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.”

“I would rather go with you,” Cosette said. Before he could object, she placed one hand over her belly and sighed, adding, “But I know I cannot. I’ll write to Marius, and to Toussaint at the Rue Plumet. She’ll keep watch for him there.”

Javert was halfway to the door before Cosette said, “Inspector?” When he turned, she stood, offering him his hat and a trembling smile. “Next time, perhaps Father shouldn’t help with your case.”

His answer came without forethought, rough with emotion. “I assure you, I didn’t want him involved in this one!”

Cosette’s gaze sharpened. It was penetrating, that look, and Javert remembered suddenly that she had been the one to bring him the news of Valjean’s ridiculous attempt at self-martyrdom. She alone had seen his expression when he’d learned how close Valjean had come to dying over the mistaken belief that Cosette no longer needed him. He resisted the urge to look away.

“No,” she said softly, still studying him. “No, I suppose you didn’t. But Father can be very stubborn when he wants to help his family and friends.” She paused. For a second tears threatened, and then she blinked hard and added, “Bring him back safely, inspector.”   

“I will,” Javert promised. Anything else was unthinkable.

He met his landlady on the stairs. Madame Morin’s expression was one of mingled curiosity and disapproval, for in the years Javert had lived here he had kept his police work and any fuss away from her house. “Is anything the matter, inspector?”

Javert slowed. He thought of Cosette, alone and worried, in his apartment. “That remains to be seen. But may I trouble you to take up some tea to Madame Pontmercy? She is, ah, that is--” He faltered, fumbling for the right words.

Abruptly Madame Morin’s features softened. “I saw her come racing up the stairs, monsieur. I know that she’s expecting.” She hesitated, and then tentatively patted his arm, pulling her hand back a second later as though she worried that he might take offense. “It must be an emergency, for her to come to your apartment looking so alarmed. I’ll see that she has tea and some food.”

“Thank you,” Javert said. It was a strange comfort in the midst of his concern, knowing that Valjean would appreciate his taking care of Cosette, though it did little to ease his worry. He glanced over his shoulder once, to find Madame Morin still watching him, before he was out the door and on his way.

Florian wasn’t outside the Souris.

Dread had continued to grow in Javert, a thousand terrible prospects assaulting his mind. Now Javert stared, astounded, the half-formed plan he’d managed to piece together despite his fear already derailed. He kept staring until common sense reasserted itself. The man wouldn’t guard the door now, when the Souris didn’t open to patrons until the early evening. He took a deep breath, then knocked his truncheon sharply against the door.

There was a long silence, and then the sounds of muffled voices. The door opened a crack. Daniel peered out warily. Surprise replaced some of Daniel’s wariness, and he offered up a puzzled but welcoming smile. “Jacques? I’m afraid you’re early. The Souris doesn’t open until….” He stopped. His mouth thinned to an unsmiling line as he noticed the truncheon.

Javert followed Cosette’s example. He shouldered Daniel aside and went in. Etienne was at the bar, polishing glasses, though he paused to stare. Florian, Victor, Azelma, and a man Javert didn’t recognize had been eating a late breakfast or early supper; Florian started upright with a frown, almost overturning his plate.

There was no sign of the boy.

“I was told Sébastien spends his mornings here. Where is he?” 

Daniel answered coldly. “Leave. We don’t allow weapons in the Souris.”

Javert turned. Something in his face made Daniel’s outrage falter to alarm. Javert took a step towards him, listening with half an ear as someone approached him from behind. Florian, probably. “Where is he?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” Javert said through gritted teeth, “my friend is missing, and last seen in Sébastien’s company.” His hand ached. He realized that he was clutching the truncheon so tightly his knuckles were white. He slid it back into his pocket.

A strange expression worked its way across Daniel’s features. Javert gradually recognized it as pity. Daniel coughed into his fist. “Ah, I see.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding Javert’s eyes. “Monsieur, I don’t know what understanding you have with Jean, but Sébastien is, well, a favorite among our patrons….”

Javert didn’t understand, and then he did. For the briefest of moments, amusement broke through his worry. He laughed. “Ridiculous! Sébastien is as young as his daughter!” He could have bitten his tongue the instant he said it. He didn’t want anyone here to know anything about Valjean.

The pity remained in Daniel’s face. “That isn’t the obstacle you think it is, monsieur.”

Javert shook his head. His amusement was gone as swiftly as it had come, and he had no patience to correct Daniel’s misunderstanding. “He wouldn’t. Now, where is Sébastien?”

The front door opened. The newcomer was briefly shadowed in the sunlight, his features indistinguishable. Then he stepped forward.

Sébastien didn’t struggle when Javert grabbed his collar, though he made a small, surprised sound. He hung limply in Javert’s grip, his hands open and unresisting at his sides. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice trembled.

Javert stared at the boy’s bruised face. He remembered his fury from last night, trying to choke the smirk off Montparnasse’s lips, but that was nothing compared to this emotion. He shook Sébastien, demanding, “Where is he?”

“Monsieur!” Daniel said in reproof. He stepped to Javert’s side. Then he saw Sébastien’s blackened eye. He asked, his tone changed, “Sébastien, what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry,” said Sébastien again, flinching. “It’s all gone wrong.”

Javert listened, incredulous and horrified, to Sébastien’s halting words: how he’d been deceived into helping blackmail Arnaud, how he’d learned the truth, and how even now Valjean was tied up and in danger at Marc and Paul’s apartment. Halfway through the explanation Javert released the boy; it was either that or he would’ve strangled him. By the end of it, Javert was pacing around the room, almost sick with rage.

Silence reigned after Sébastien finished with a final breathless apology. He’d folded in on himself, his arms tight across his belly and his shoulders hunched, as though expecting a blow. “I didn’t know! I don’t think Marc meant for things to go this far, but Paul...” He shuddered. “Paul’s dangerous.” He looked hopelessly towards Daniel. “I thought I was helping.”

Daniel’s face was gray and aged. He’d taken the news as badly as Azelma had feared. He passed a hand over his face, murmuring, “Jacques-- or whatever your name is…. Inspector, of course you must arrest Paul and Marc, but everyone else at the Souris...”

Terror and anger made it difficult to think. It took Javert a moment to understand what Daniel was asking. “The Souris was never my concern,” he said impatiently. “I was sent here to discover the blackmailer, that’s all.” He seized Sébastien’s arm, ignoring the boy’s yelp. “Now, take me to that apartment.”

“We’re coming with you,” Florian said. He spoke thickly, half-choking on the words, and Javert saw that he was flushed with rage. Abruptly, as though losing an inward struggle, Florian shouted, “How could you believe that of Arnaud? He isn’t--” He cut himself off with a low curse, but with enough intensity that Javert suspected he’d learned the identity of Arnaud’s lover. 

Javert hesitated only a moment. He knew that he should reach out to Chabouillet and assemble a force of sergeants and other officers, but every minute longer risked Valjean further. He would have to beg forgiveness later. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Daniel still looked gray, but now determination strengthened his features. “Lionel, stay at the Souris. Azelma, Victor, you can keep watch here as well.”

Azelma and the man who must be Lionel nodded, but Victor frowned. The young man tossed his long red hair and said, “I’ve been wanting to hit Paul for five years, and you’d leave me out of it? No. I’ll go with you.”

“Be careful,” Azelma said. She might have said more, but Javert was already outside, half-dragging Sébastien behind him.   

Sébastien's hands shook. He quietly fumbled with the lock, his anxious gaze darting between the door and Javert. Whatever was in Javert's face made the boy whisper yet another apology and almost drop the keys.

With a soft oath, Javert wrested the keys away. He found that his hands were equally unsteady when he tried the door. Again he swore, low and vicious as Sébastien flinched. A dozen emotions assaulted him, rage the strongest, but fear was rapidly consuming him again. The blackmailers had already hurt Valjean. If they’d harmed him further....

At last Daniel took pity and unlocked the door.

Javert shouldered past him. He took two steps inside and stopped. From the corner of his eye he saw that the others had followed him and thrown themselves upon two men, one whom had started for the door as soon as it had opened. A vicious struggle began, but Javert had eyes only for the motionless figure in the middle of the room.

Only the ropes kept Valjean upright in his chair. His hair hid his bowed face, but not the dried blood on his shirt and vest. Those same broad shoulders that had lifted the cart off old Fauchelevent were still. Javert couldn't tell if he even breathed. The thought struck him like a knife to the heart. He swayed on his feet.

Time turned strange. Javert didn't remember moving, but between one second and the next he was standing before Valjean. He reached for Valjean's shoulder where a few dried bloodstains darkened the white sleeve. His hand trembled too violently to tell if Valjean was alive. Valjean didn't stir at his touch.

"Valjean," he said. He didn't recognize his own voice. He sank to his knees. Now he could see the abuses the men had heaped upon Valjean: the bruised cheek, the blood in his hair. Fury was a distant thing, though, compared to this terrible grief that flayed his heart. He stroked Valjean's hair, touched his uninjured cheek. Did Valjean move a little in answer, or was it Javert's desperation taunting him? "Valjean, please ."

Valjean's brow creased as Javert's voice cracked. One eye opened and studied Javert with groggy confusion. Javert stared back, stricken with relief. "Javert?" Valjean winced as he spoke. Alarm replaced his confusion. Valjean struggled to sit upright, tensing against the ropes. One hand proved to be free, and Valjean touched his wrist with shaking, bloodied fingers. "Did they send for you? You shouldn't have come!"

Javert couldn't speak. He touched Valjean's face again, this time in wonder. Finally words came to him. "I thought you were dead." His voice still sounded strange. "When Sébastien came to the Souris, I...."

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d cupped Valjean's face in his still-trembling hands and kissed him, clumsy with relief.

Valjean made a startled noise, and then a softer one. He touched Javert in turn, stroking his hand over Javert’s whiskers, his neck, his shoulder, as though to reassure himself that Javert was real. His mouth followed Javert’s when Javert would have pulled back, returning the kiss with an uncoordinated eagerness.

When the kiss ended, Valjean’s wondering look doubtlessly matched Javert’s own. The tips of Valjean’s ears turned pink. He looked startled by his own reaction, but he didn’t retreat, his hand lingering on Javert’s arm with a shy smile.  

Javert was glad that he still knelt, for his legs surely wouldn’t have supported him. For a moment he was filled with amazement. Then doubt assailed him as he remembered the way Valjean had recoiled the night before. He licked his lips, which felt warm and strange. “But last night…. Last night you….”

The smile faded from Valjean’s mouth. His hand tightened. “I remember what I said. But I had time to think. And I would have regretted if….” He shook his head, and then winced. Some of the color leached from his face.

With a start, Javert recalled the blood in Valjean’s hair. "I see," he said quickly. “We’ll speak on it later. The boy said that they hit you. How badly are you hurt?” Once more he ran his fingers lightly over Valjean’s bruised face and through his soft hair, ignoring Valjean’s protests.

“I’m fine,” said Valjean, and winced as Javert’s fingers found a large lump. “We should….” He tensed beneath Javert’s hands. Fresh alarm filled his expression. “The café! I left--”

Javert interrupted him. “Your daughter is at my apartment, being coddled by my portress. I’ll send a note to her that you’re safe so she won’t worry any longer. But you must see a doctor.” He glanced around, looking for something to cut Valjean free, and only then remembered the other men in the room. 

The struggle seemed to be over. Paul was sprawled unconscious and trussed, and Marc sat unresisting in the further corner of the room, his head bowed and hands bound, guarded by a red-eyed Sébastien.

“It’s just a scratch,” Victor said irritably, clutching the front of his bloody shirt with one hand and warding Florian off with the other. “I should’ve remembered that Paul likes his knives-- Florian!” The name was said in an exasperated whine as Florian peeled his hand from his shirt and studied the wound. Javert had a moment to observe that Paul’s stabbing attempt had cut through the shirt and landed a long shallow cut across Victor’s chest. Then the ruined shirt slipped further and Javert realized why no one at the Souris had batted an eye at Victor and Azelma’s relationship.

He flushed and looked away as Florian said, “That will need stitches. Unless you’d like me to try, you should see a doctor. Do you have a change of clothes at the Souris?”

“Yes, of course,” Victor muttered, pressing Florian’s handkerchief to her wound with ill-grace. 

“Here, Jacques-- Javert.” Daniel offered him a penknife. There was a split in his eyebrow that bled sluggishly, but he seemed unconcerned by the injury, smiling that faintly amused look that Javert remembered from their first night at the Souris as he glanced between Valjean and Javert. Remorse darkened his expression at the sight of Valjean’s injuries. "We’re glad to see you in one piece, monsieur."

“Thank you,” Valjean said, a little bemused. He glanced around as Javert worked at the ropes. His confusion deepened. His voice lowered. “You brought no police? And did Daniel just call you….?”

“Ah.” Javert flushed. He ducked his head, feigning intense concentration on the knots at Valjean’s ankles. It was only now in the aftermath that he realized how thoroughly his alias had been destroyed. “Yes. Well. Things became complicated. And as for the police….” He thought of Gisquet and Chabouillet’s likely reactions to Javert throwing discretion to the wayside and grimaced.

He cut the last of the ropes away and helped Valjean stand. He worried over Valjean’s pallor, though after a few seconds Valjean seemed steady on his feet. He raised his voice. “Florian, I need you to take Victor and Jean to the hospital. Daniel, if I write two letters, will you keep watch while I find a gamin to deliver them? Then you can return to the Souris.”

A chorus of protests answered him, loudest of all Victor’s that she didn’t need a doctor. Javert waited until they’d fallen silent and then said evenly, “I need to reach out to my superiors and make a formal arrest.”

Most of the Souris patrons looked dismayed at the mention of the police, but both Marc and Sébastien went white. The former stayed silent, sullen and resigned, turning away to stare at the wall, but Sébastien asked, his voice shaking, “Am I under arrest too?”

Javert hesitated. Before, his decision would have been simple. Sébastien had assisted in blackmail and was therefore a criminal. But in the years since Valjean had saved him, Javert had learned to ask questions and to balance justice and mercy-- or at least to make the attempt. Sébastien had been lied to and deceived. Javert knew without looking at Valjean that he felt the boy had suffered enough. And Sébastien had helped to rescue Valjean, when he could have left Valjean to die.

He coughed into his fist. “Well, I suppose that foolishness isn’t a crime.” Sébastien’s wan face began to fill with a slow, disbelieving joy. He nodded fervently, murmuring promises and expressions of gratitude as Javert added, “I’ll need your assistance as a witness. And you will choose better company in the future.”

Javert turned and forgot what he’d been about to say. Valjean’s smile lit the room like sunlight. Javert found himself breathless. He stayed very still, as though sudden movement or the wrong word might diminish that smile, though he knew that was nonsense. Softly, so that only Javert could hear him, Valjean said, “Thank you.”

Javert’s throat was tight. Fresh longing welled within him. He wanted, very badly, to kiss Valjean again. But they had an audience, and this was too new to parade before anyone else, no matter how much he had lost his head a few minutes ago. He cleared his throat. “I have learned something these past few years, I hope.”

In the same quiet voice, Valjean added, “Tell Cosette I’ll go to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire as soon as I can.” He hesitated. His smile changed to one that Javert didn’t recognize, but which warmed Javert through. His hand moved at his side, almost reaching out to Javert, and impulsively Javert took his hand in his, being careful with Valjean’s scratched fingers. “And once you are done at the station…. Come there?”

“Of course,” Javert said. The arrests, explanations, and paperwork, the hours of separation he would have to endure in order to finish this case seemed nearly unbearable in the wake of the desire that filled him. He pressed Valjean’s fingers and released him with reluctance. “Now go to the hospital.”

He’d thought that he’d kept his tone even, but perhaps something in it betrayed him, for the corners of Valjean’s eyes crinkled, and even more warmth filled Valjean’s voice as he said, “Yes, Javert.” 

Javert watched with sharp eyes as Valjean crossed the room to join Victor and Florian, but Valjean seemed steady enough, if moving a little slower than usual. It was only once they were out of the room that Javert could return his attention to the matter at hand. He straightened to his full height, peering around the room and belatedly eyeing the slovenliness and ill-kept apartment.

“Well! Now I just need to find paper. Surely there must be some, for they did manage to send a letter to Arnaud….”

Chapter Text

They had compromised. If Valjean wished to continue his nightly almsgiving, Javert insisted on accompanying him. In truth, Valjean had protested very little. He was glad for the company. And a single weekly dinner together wasn’t enough any longer, not when they were both still learning what this alteration in their friendship meant.

“Here you are, my children,” Valjean said. He bent to press the last of his coins into the hands of two boys huddled beneath one of the arches. Even with their faces dirty and hollow-cheeked, he thought that they looked like brothers. The older one wore no coat; the younger was wrapped in both, the tattered fabric little defense against the cold night air. Pity touched his heart. “If you go to the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas tomorrow, they will give you food.”

Beside him, Javert spoke. “It’s going to rain.”

Valjean glanced up to find that Javert was holding the umbrella he had brought with him. Now Valjean noticed the heaviness in the air, the faint ache in his knee that promised a storm. Above them he spied the gathering clouds half-lost in the lamplights and the dark. Cosette and Javert had both told him that there would be evening rain, but he’d forgotten. He sighed and stood, wincing a little as his knee twinged. “So it is.” He looked at the boys again in time to catch the older boy shivering.

“We should go,” Javert said. The words were curt even as he bent and offered the umbrella to the boys. When they only stared, he frowned and dropped it into the older boy’s lap. Slowly, uncertainly, the boy’s hand closed around its handle, though the boy’s wary look said that he thought there was some trick involved.

Valjean felt such a rush of affection that he couldn’t speak.

“Well,” said Javert, still brusque, “since we have no umbrella, I suggest we go to my apartment. I doubt we can outwalk the rain, but….” Whatever else he’d been about to say went unsaid as he looked at Valjean. Valjean didn’t change his expression in time, for Javert coughed, flushing a little beneath the lamplight, and said, “Shall we go?”  

“Yes,” Valjean said, recovering his voice. With one last reminder to the boys about the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, he took Javert’s arm and let Javert steer them in the direction of his apartment. This too was new. Though it wasn’t unusual to see men and women walk arm in arm on the streets, he and Javert had never done so before. It was strange to think how close they’d grown in their friendship and yet there had still been distance still to broach.

They were almost to Javert’s apartment when it began to rain, so lightly at first that Valjean thought he’d imagined the first few drops. “Damn,” Javert said, almost conversationally, and quickened his pace.

The sky seemed to break apart. The rain poured down in a roar of sound and pressure so forceful that Valjean had to grab his hat or lose it. “So much for outwalking the rain!” he said.

Javert only spared him a resigned look and pulled him the last few steps over the threshold and into the hallway. There Javert took off his hat and scowled as water dripped from it.

Valjean turned to marvel at the raging storm. Was this how Noah had felt, watching the endless rain? He worried anew for the boys and the other poor souls they had met that evening, for the streets sometimes flooded in such weather. He hoped that they had found shelter somewhere. Lightning lit the air, turning the sky a sudden and brilliant white. He turned, half-blinded, towards Javert.

Javert started to speak, but the words were lost within the thunder that followed the lightning, as loud as cannon fire.

“Oh, inspector!” Blinking the last white spots from his vision, Valjean looked down into Madame Morin’s concerned face. “Did you and your friend get caught in the storm? If you’re cold, I’ve been warming myself in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, but we managed to avoid most of the rain. Our coats and hats took the worst of it,” Javert said before Valjean could make up an excuse. Javert’s portress was a kind woman, but inclined to chatter. Javert held up his hat for emphasis, and she gave an alarmed squeak as more water dripped onto her rug. “If you could see that they’re dried, I’ll collect them later.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Madame Morin whisked away their hats and coats and then looked past them both, alarmed again. Valjean realized that the door was still open, letting in the wind and the rain. He went to close the door, listening over his shoulder as Madame Morin said, “If your friend wishes to stay the night, inspector, Proulx’s old room is still empty.”

Valjean hid his dismay behind a smile. He said, “A kind thought, thank you. Though I pray that the storm will pass and I can sleep in my own house tonight.”

Javert snorted. When Valjean glanced at him, he spotted color in Javert’s face. Perhaps he too was flustered by the idea of Valjean spending the night. The only time they had ever done so was when Javert had been ill after the barricades. After a second, he offered his portress a faint smile and said, “He fears if he spends too long away he will somehow miss his grandson’s birth. He wasn’t insulting your housekeeping.”

“My granddaughter’s birth. Cosette is convinced that the child will be a girl,” said Valjean. He couldn’t help but smile broadly at the thought of a granddaughter. Would she take after Cosette or Marius, or some wonderful combination of both? Then the rest of Javert’s remark sank in. He felt his smile turn apologetic. “Indeed, I meant no insult, madame.”

Madame Morin laughed. “I took none, monsieur! Anyone would wish to sleep in their own bed. Now, just call for me if you need tea. I’ve a kettle on the stove.” She bustled away with their coats and hats.

Valjean followed Javert up the stairs and into the room Javert called his own. Little light filtered in from the window; the panes rattled softly as the storm raged outside. Another flash of lightning momentarily brightened the room, followed by a rumble of thunder. The storm seemed inclined to linger. He remained in the hallway long enough for Javert to light the lamps. Then he went inside and closed the door.

He had been too distracted by Madame Morin to notice that Javert hadn’t entirely escaped the rain. A few raindrops still clung stubbornly to his whiskers, gleaming in the lamplight. Valjean felt the absurd impulse to touch them; he’d stepped closer and reached out before his mind had caught up with the thought. He halted, flushing, his fingers curling self-consciously in the air as Javert turned and stared.      

Javert’s face and his expressions had become as familiar to Valjean as his own over the past few years. And yet, ever since the Souris case Valjean felt as though he had found a new map with unfamiliar tracks across that visage he'd thought he knew so well. He would look across the table in the middle of supper and find a stranger with his friend’s countenance.

Even now Javert’s face transformed to one of the new expressions that forever flustered Valjean. “Oh,” he said, very low. He took Valjean’s outstretched hand and brought it to his lips. Those first kisses during Valjean’s rescue had been frantic, but in the weeks that had followed Javert’s kisses had been rare and almost chaste, first out of deference to Valjean’s injuries and then, later, when the last of the bruises and cuts had faded, as though he’d feared to press too quickly. Now Javert kissed the back of Valjean’s hand, his open palm, his fingertips, with an awkward, careful gentleness, his eyes hot and hopeful upon Valjean’s face. 

The affection Valjean had felt earlier returned in an overwhelming rush, turning him to stone. If Javert’s features were a new map, Valjean’s own desires were a foreign language he struggled to speak or comprehend. It was Javert who gave and gave, and received nothing but a few faltering kisses and dumb silence in return. Little wonder, then, that Javert was so tentative.

Javert’s kisses slowed. Valjean knew that in another minute that Javert would give one final kiss and then retreat. He’d probably break the awkward silence with some remark about fetching the tea that Madame Morin had offered, and the moment would be over.

Valjean’s heart beat tremulously in his ears. He could have this, he told himself. What was there to fear? Why should he doubt himself? Javert wanted this as much as he. He had only to try. He reached out and touched Javert’s shoulder.

Javert straightened, his grip loosening upon Valjean’s wrist. His expression shifted to more familiar uncertain lines. It pained Valjean to see how Javert watched him anxiously, as though he feared he’d overstepped.

Valjean didn’t let himself think. He put desire to motion, cradling Javert’s face between his palms. Javert was motionless in his grip, his eyes wide and fixed upon Valjean. Valjean’s tongue felt heavy and clumsy in his mouth. The depths of his own desire, like a bottomless well, terrified him. He licked his lips. “Javert….” The words slipped away, as they always did. He drew Javert down into a kiss. He tried to pour all his longing into it and prayed that Javert would understand.

After a startled moment, Javert’s arms came around Valjean’s waist and pulled him closer. Valjean gasped at the undeniable evidence of Javert’s arousal against his hip. His hands reflexively curled around Javert’s head, his fingers digging into Javert’s hair. He kissed Javert again, and then, greatly daring, let his mouth travel along Javert’s jaw, rubbing his cheek against Javert’s rough whiskers and pressing a kiss to his throat. When Javert groaned, Valjean did it again, marveling at the noises Javert made.

Each gesture, each movement of their hips together overwhelmed him. His chest felt as though it would break open. He wanted to kiss Javert for hours; he wanted to push him away and escape into the storm. Panic entwined with pleasure. He didn’t remember retreating, but when he felt the sofa behind him, he collapsed upon it. His hands were reluctant to let go, still curled in Javert’s hair as he struggled to breathe.

Javert bent over him, his hands braced upon the back of the sofa. The lamplight illuminated him, his dear features unshadowed. For a second his face was bright with wonder. “God,” he whispered, the word half-lost beneath the unsteady pounding of Valjean’s heart. “I thought that perhaps after all you didn’t want….” He trailed off. He looked sharply at Valjean. Concern creased his brow. Though his head was bare, he still gave the impression of retreating behind his high collar. “Valjean?”  

Valjean wilted beneath that look. He choked out, “I do, I….” He remembered Claude and Bernard, how simple it had been for them to kiss each other even in public. And here he sat, an old fool overwhelmed by a few kisses and touches. He flushed, shamed. At least the panic was easing and he could breathe again. He caressed Javert’s hair in apology, his fingers trembling. “It’s just so much.”

“Too much?”

“No. Yes.” Again came the conflicting desires: to draw closer to Javert, to retreat. Perhaps that showed on his face, because Javert kept very still, watching him as one would a skittish animal. Valjean shook his head, frustrated with himself. “Javert, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Unexpectedly, Javert smiled. It was faint, but his lips parted a little, his teeth gleaming. “And I do? No, we’re both in the dark.” He hesitated, and then leaned down and kissed Valjean with painstaking gentleness, murmuring, “We can stumble along together, as slowly as you like.”

Affection swelled in Valjean again, quieting the panic for a moment. “Yes.” He lifted his face up for another kiss even as he pulled apart Javert’s cravat and undid the stock’s buckle at the nape of Javert’s neck. He stroked Javert’s exposed throat, slid his fingers under Javert’s collar to touch the scars there.

Javert shivered. His eyes kindled. The immaculate inspector was gone, replaced by a man uncaring that his shirt gaped open at the front, his collar crumpled. His voice was rough as he asked, “Valjean, are you sure?”

Now Valjean smiled, though he knew that his nervousness showed. It was somehow steadying to hear Javert admit his equal ignorance, enough that he could say almost easily, “I’m sure of nothing except that I--” He swallowed. Heat crept into his face. “That I do want this.” His heart quickened at his own admission, but this time he was prepared. He breathed slowly as Javert pushed up his sleeves and kissed his wrists. He marveled that Javert could press his lips to those old scars without hesitation. It felt sometimes as though that was all Valjean could offer him: a scarred body, a battered heart. And yet Javert didn’t seem dismayed. He kissed the scars tenderly, first one wrist, and then the other.

Emotion tightened Valjean’s chest. This time he tentatively named it happiness. One surely couldn’t die of joy, he told himself, even if his heart felt too full. He realized that Javert was still half-bent over the sofa. Touching Javert’s back, he said, “Sit down. Please.”

Javert gave him a long look and then obeyed.

This close, their knees meeting, it was impossible not to see how Javert was affected. Valjean darted a glance towards Javert’s lap. His face warmed. He thought of earlier, how their pleasure had built to an unbearable intensity and brought out a bright wonder in Javert’s face. Could he bring that look back?

Javert made a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl when Valjean touched his thigh. Beneath them the sofa creaked. Valjean wet his lips. “Javert, may I….?”

For a second Javert didn’t answer. Then he looked down at Valjean, an odd smile on his mouth, as though Valjean was teasing him. “Haven’t I already made myself plain? You needn’t ask. Whatever you are willing to give is more than enough.”

When Valjean’s hand pressed between Javert’s legs, the smile froze and fled. Javert’s head fell back, his long neck exposed to the lamplight. Valjean wanted to kiss his throat again, but that would mean missing the way pleasure softened Javert’s features. Even the ever-present deep crease between his closed eyes was smoothed to a faint line.

Valjean stroked Javert through his trousers, slowly, carefully. His heart still pounded, but it was easy to lose himself in this, knowing that it was his touch drawing the curses and string of babbled nonsense from Javert’s lips.

Javert gave a sudden roll of his hips that brought him half off the sofa and nearly dislodged Valjean’s touch. His hands scrambled for purchase before they found Valjean’s knee and the sofa’s arm, clutching with bruising force. His lips parted; he panted roughly. “God! Valjean .” He made another wild movement of his hips and abruptly stilled. 

Valjean lifted his hand from the spreading dampness and wiped his fingers upon his trousers. He was glad that Javert’s eyes were still closed. Valjean felt felt hot all over with a strange mixture of embarrassment and shy, astonished pride.

After a moment, Javert stirred. It seemed a great effort for him to raise his head off the sofa and open his eyes. The look in his gaze warmed Valjean even more. Javert licked his lips. His thumb stroked Valjean’s knee as he murmured, “Valjean, I…. Please. Let me touch you.”

It seemed unfathomable to Valjean that Javert might find the same joy in giving him pleasure, and yet every line in Javert’s face and body radiated that desire. The longing on Javert’s face, the caress of his hand, made it difficult to think with a clear head. “You’re already touching me,” he said stupidly, and immediately wished he hadn’t, for Javert laughed.

“You know what I meant!” Despite the exclamation, Javert sounded fond. “May I please--” Here Javert swallowed, and color spread across his face. Almost diffidently, he tugged at his whiskers, rubbed his thumb across his lips, and asked, “May I touch the rest of you?”

Valjean couldn’t answer. If his heartbeat had felt fast before, now it raced, loud enough to cast out all sensible thought. Again desire swept over him, pulling him down like a drowning man was dragged down by his own weight. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath. When he hesitated, Javert raised his hand from Valjean’s knee and shifted his weight on the sofa, as though to stand.

Instinctively, Valjean caught Javert’s hand between his own. He took one breath, and then another. He bent his head over Javert’s hand, studying those long fingers, the stubborn spots of ink upon his skin from a long afternoon of paperwork that had endured despite washing. He found that it was easier to speak when he didn’t have to look at Javert’s face, though his throat was still tight. “Yes, I want that. It’s only...it seems selfish to-to want so much.”   

Javert was silent for a moment. “I don’t think that I will ever understand you. Must you forever doubt happiness when it is offered to you? Have Cosette, that ninny of her husband, and I not convinced you that you are worthy of our affection? I thought we had, but it seems I was mistaken.”

Valjean lifted his eyes to Javert’s face, startled at the wistfulness in his friend’s voice. Surprise loosened his tongue. “I am happy!” he protested. He squeezed Javert’s hand. “I am blessed beyond all expectation. I have Cosette, and Marius, and soon a grandchild, and you. I only….” He flushed. “Javert,” he said, feeling foolish even as he spoke, “how can anyone bear so much happiness?”

“Is it a burden to endure, then? Ah, well! I admit, I once thought so.” Javert touched his chest and grimaced, as though at some old remembered pain. “To discover one has a heart after all fifty years is no simple matter.” His eyes held Valjean’s. “But I don’t regret it. To have your friendship and even a little of your affection is worth a few aches and pains! Didn’t you tell me that the men in the Souris deserve happiness? Don’t we deserve it as well?” 

Valjean had to close his eyes. Desire and tenderness rose up again, but this time he didn’t fight against the tide, but let it sweep him along. With his eyes still closed, he brought Javert’s hand to his lips and kissed it before he let go. “Yes. We should keep stumbling forward, my friend. Please.”

The sofa shifted and groaned beneath them as Javert straddled him. His thighs rubbed against Valjean’s, a sweet and terrible weight. He caught Valjean’s jaw in his hand and kissed him hotly. His other hand loosened Valjean’s cravat. When Valjean tried to help, Javert growled and batted his fingers away, muttering, “Let me do this.”

Valjean opened his eyes in time to see Javert toss the cravat aside and frown at Valjean’s waistcoat. His collar was thoroughly crumpled. Nothing concealed his face; Valjean could see the indignant flare of his nose, the flash of teeth as Javert barred his lips. It was a look better suited for an unrepentant criminal, but here Javert turned it upon Valjean’s unfortunate waistcoat.

Nervousness, and anticipation too, seized Valjean. He touched Javert’s shoulders and cautiously stroked his arms even as Javert made short work of the buttons. “Javert,” he said, his voice too loud in his ears, as the waistcoat was thrown aside with as much indifference as his cravat.

Javert hummed a distracted acknowledgment. He pressed a kiss to Valjean’s throat. His hands slid under Valjean’s shirt, hot against Valjean’s belly.

Valjean made an embarrassing sound, and then stifled another with a fist to his lips while Javert stroked his belly and his sides. Javert’s hands slid lower, dipping under Valjean’s trousers and thumbing at the points of Valjean’s hips and inner thighs. “God,” Javert said, and kissed Valjean’s clenched fist, mouthing at the white knuckles. “Valjean, you are so…. Oh, let me hear you!”

Valjean shook his head, fist still pressed hard against his mouth. That was the last vestiges of his control. The rest of his body was Javert’s to command, arching helplessly into Javert’s touches, rubbing himself wantonly against Javert’s thighs. His free hand clutched the nape of Javert’s neck. 

“Valjean,” Javert whispered.

The way his name sounded on Javert’s lips and the first tentative press of Javert’s fingers to his prick was too much to withstand. Valjean fell apart beneath Javert’s touch. At the last moment he turned his face to muffle a cry against the crook of his elbow, or else he might have shouted.

The pleasure ebbed slowly, leaving dazed wonder in its wake. Gradually he was aware that Javert was still touching him, lightly now, stroking gentle fingers over his neck and shoulder and through his hair.

Valjean had lost his voice again, but after a moment he managed to murmur, “Oh.” He lifted his arm from his eyes. Javert still straddled him; their faces were very close together. It felt easier, this time, to tilt his head up for another kiss. “That was….” He gave up on coherency and touched Javert’s cheek. “Thank you.”

Javert flushed and ducked his head as though he’d forgotten he couldn’t hide behind his collar, but he looked pleased with himself. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. He avoided Valjean’s eyes and said brusquely, “Well! I’ll fetch wash cloths.”

Valjean watched him cross the room to the basin by his bed, uncomprehending until he looked down at himself. Only then did he notice the sticky dampness and see the obvious stain upon his trousers. Mortified, he prayed that the stain wasn’t permanent, for he had no idea how he would get from Javert’s apartment to the Rue Plumet in such a state. He accepted the washcloth and only looked up when Javert coughed and muttered, “We might clean our trousers and then let them dry over the back of the sofa while we sleep.”

It didn’t matter that he and Javert had been embracing only a minute earlier. The thought of being nearly naked in front of Javert made Valjean jerk upright with an involuntary, “Oh no, surely not!”

“Oh yes,” said Javert, looking as though he didn’t know whether he should laugh or roll his eyes. “Unless you know another way to be rid of the evidence?” His eyes lowered, sweeping up and down Valjean’s legs. His expression grew distant, and then he shook himself and said, “Well! I see no other way. You’ll hardly fit in my other pair of trousers.” Valjean stared, dismayed, and Javert unbent a little. “Shall I turn around and cover my eyes?” His voice was only a little sarcastic, and his lips barely quivered when Valjean hesitated and then nodded. 

Valjean undressed as swiftly as possible, his toes curling in protest against the cold floor. He’d forgotten about the storm, but it still raged outside. The window panes rattled as he scrubbed at his trousers with his washcloth. Then he abandoned both the washcloth and the trousers upon the sofa.

Feeling ridiculous for his prudishness, he brushed a kiss to the back of Javert’s neck as an apology on his way to the bed. There, he sat and resisted the urge to pull the blanket over his legs like a self-conscious fool. He closed his eyes at the first rustle of Javert’s clothes. He caught himself smiling at Javert’s muttered curses as his stains apparently proved more stubborn. He only opened his eyes when the bed dipped and creaked.

Javert perched at the edge of the bed opposite him, braced awkwardly as though ready to stand. His shirt barely covered his thighs, and after a flustered second Valjean kept his eyes on Javert’s face. Javert held one of the lamps. The other he’d blown out, for that lamp was the only light in the room. He looked embarrassed. “I’ll go sleep in Proulx’s old room.”

Valjean didn’t answer immediately. He was distracted by the realization that he really would be spending the night, and by the thought of Javert taking his lamp and heading downstairs to sleep in another bed just to put Valjean at ease. He didn’t realize that he was smiling until Javert smiled uncertainly back.

He touched Javert’s arm. “I’d rather you stay,” he said softly, and flushed a little as he spoke.

Javert looked startled but pleased. “Well! Good.”

Inviting him to share the bed was easier said than done. Javert’s bed seemed to have been built in deference to his height, but even so there was still a close call with Javert’s elbow and Valjean’s chin before until they were both settled.

Javert was a warm weight behind him, their bodies not quite touching. The lamp had been extinguished. In the quiet darkness, his happiness was easier to accept. He closed his eyes, turned his face into the pillow. “Good night, Javert.”

“Good night, Valjean.”

Half-asleep, Valjean remembered what he’d intended to suggest at the start of the evening, before he had grown distracted by almsgiving. “Oh, Javert, I meant to ask….”

He hesitated. In the past the few weeks Javert had veered wildly between satisfaction at apprehending the blackmailers, remorse and guilt that he had bungled the case so badly that the blackmailers had managed to kidnap and injure Valjean, and frustration that Montparnasse had apparently taken Azelma’s advice and disappeared. There was also the fact that the entirety of the Souris doubtless knew Javert’s identity now. Perhaps he wished to forget the place ever existed.

“Well?”

“I thought we might visit the Souris again,” Valjean said quickly. He could feel the bed shift as Javert stiffened behind him. The silence stretched out for a long moment. Although Valjean strained his ears, he couldn’t hear Javert breathing, as though Javert had been shocked or outraged into stillness. He added, “I would like to see how Sébastien is faring. And you know that Marius has been anxious that I find Azelma and give her the money he’d meant for her father, ever since I mentioned encountering her while almsgiving.”

Javert snorted at that, doubtlessly remembering how Marius had almost fallen out of his chair at that dinner, dumbfounded by the news that Azelma Thénardier was alive and still in Paris. “Of course. Let us hope the money serves her a better turn than it did her father.”               

Valjean’s nerves settled at the dry humor in Javert’s voice. “Shall we visit briefly in a few days then?”

“If you wish,” said Javert, still dryly. “They will either chase us out immediately, for I cannot imagine they’d be comfortable with police in their midst -- even if I did help them, and even with their-- our-- proclivities completely legal. Or we’ll be there until halfway to morning, forced to tell our version of the case to every guest. Will you be doing the lying, or shall I give them an edited version of the parcel of half-truths and lies I told M. Chabouillet and M. Gisquet?”

There was no bite to Javert’s voice, but he had begun to ramble a little, and Valjean realized that Javert was nervous at the thought of returning. He reached a hand out blindly behind him, and found Javert’s hip in the darkness, patting it in reassurance. “I think you would tell the story best. But I’ll make some excuse to leave if they demand a second or third retelling.”

Again came silence, but this was explained by Javert’s hand covering Valjean’s. Their fingers entwined, resting upon Javert’s hip. The simple gesture was as different from their first fumbled attempts in the Souris as night from day. Javert cleared his throat and said, “Is that settled then?”

Valjean smiled into the darkness. “Yes. Good night, Javert.” He felt the press of Javert’s lips upon his hair.

“Good night.”  

“I did warn you,” Javert said as Claude went to the bar to fetch another round of drinks. “Now we’ll never leave.” Perhaps to the others it sounded like a reproof, but Valjean heard the thread of fondness in Javert’s voice.

Valjean only smiled. Javert’s second prediction had come true within seconds of stepping inside the public-house. Claude and Bernard, the former being still in a mild sulk for having missed the excitement, had demanded to hear the blackmail story from them, and plied them both with wine in a blatant attempt to loosen their tongues.

Javert had offered the crowd a highly edited version of the case. He left out Arnaud’s occupation and anything about Valjean’s life outside the Souris, save for a brief mention of a nameless daughter. Those who had been at Marc’s apartment already knew of her existence.

Valjean had let Javert speak, content to watch Javert’s expressive face and hear again how Sébastien chosen to help rather than hide. When Javert had begun to look irritated by the multitude of listeners, Valjean had taken his hand under the table. 

Now Bernard leaned back in his chair, his single hand wrapped loosely around his glass, and said, “Javert is right. Claude won’t let you go until you’ve told the tale at least three times.” He paused and then added, a little too solemnly to be believed, “You might have to stay the night.”

“That’s no matter! Daniel’s rates for the upstairs rooms are good, and Monsieur Jean here can afford it.” This came from Azelma, who had perched half-defiantly on Victor’s knee at the start of the evening. She’d gradually relaxed when neither Javert nor Valjean had made any objection to her presence, but even now it was difficult to tell if she was teasing or offering them a challenge.

Valjean smiled at her and went along with the jest. “We shouldn’t overstay our welcome. But perhaps Javert will tell the story again another time.” He glanced at Javert, in time to see a flicker of amused resignation dart across his face. He squeezed Javert’s hand, adding, “But I think we should be going soon.” A few protests followed this, loudest of all Claude, who’d just returned to the table. “I dislike being away from my apartment for very long.”

“Why?” Sébastien asked, hovering at the edge of the crowd. To Valjean’s eyes, the boy seemed a little careworn, with shadows under his eyes as though he’d slept poorly the last few weeks. But he was still visiting the Souris, at least, and at the moment his eyes were bright with undiminished curiosity. Valjean would have to return another evening to assure himself that the boy was all right, but he was relieved to find that Sébastien seemed well enough despite Marc’s betrayal.

Javert cleared his throat before Valjean could answer. The amusement of before returned, now strong enough for all to see. He spoke dryly. “His daughter is expecting any day now. He frets, convinced that he’ll be away from his apartment and miss the birth. I’ve told him that children aren’t born so quickly, and still he worries.” Here he paused. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told by fathers at the station-house…..” 

“A grandchild?” Claude said with delight. He clapped his hands. “Congratulations, Jean! You must come here to share the good news!”

“Thank you,” said Valjean. He allowed everyone to offer their congratulations in a clamor of goodwill, smiles, and toasts. By the time silence fell again, he’d finished the new glass of wine Claude had given him. “But you can see why I am anxious, in case she sends for me at an unexpected hour.”

Claude waved this aside. He was smiling from ear to ear. “Yes, yes. Visit another time!”

Javert started to stand, Valjean following suit. “Then if you’ll excuse us….”

“Inspector.” Daniel had been silent, grave amid all the curiosity and merriment. His quiet voice cut through every other conversation. “We’ve seen nothing in the newspapers about Marc and Paul.”

Sébastien’s smile vanished.

Javert looked uncomfortable. He tugged at his whiskers and muttered, “I don’t suppose you shall. Monsieur le Préfet stressed discretion throughout the investigation. The case is out of my hands, but I suspect that he has arranged for them to be convicted as quietly as possible, for Arnaud’s sake.”

Daniel didn’t look entirely relieved by this news, but he accepted it with a nod.

“Do you think there won’t be a trial then?” someone else asked.

With everyone distracted, Valjean leaned towards Azelma and said quietly, “May I speak to you privately a moment, mademoiselle?”

She looked torn between wariness and curiosity. In the end the latter won out. She nodded, springing up from Victor’s knee. Victor looked after them questioningly, but seemed content to stay still unless Azelma called.

“What is it?” Azelma asked without preamble as soon as they were out of earshot of everyone. She fussed with her dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles, as Javert sometimes did with his coat or shirt when he was especially agitated.

Valjean spoke carefully. “You know that my family has a connection to yours. What you may not know is that your sister saved my son-in-law’s life. She did so at the cost of her own. He cannot repay her in this life, but he would like to show his gratitude to the last of her family, if it won’t offend you.” In truth, Marius had spoken mostly of his debt to Thénardier for saving his father at Waterloo and only briefly and with great difficulty of the girl Eponine’s sacrifice at the barricades. Still, Valjean remembered Azelma’s terrible satisfaction at the mention of her father’s death and thought that she might accept gratitude on her sister’s behalf easier than her father’s.

Azelma’s thin face did several complicated things at once. “What sort of gratitude?”

“A little money,” Valjean said. He was unsurprised when Azelma gave a sharp bark of laughter, the scornful sound loud enough to draw a few interested looks. He shifted himself, blocking anyone’s view of her.

“Go on, then!” she said, still laughing, and then stared as Valjean pulled out the six five-hundred franc notes Marius had given him. Her face went white. “This is a nasty trick to play,” she said, much quieter, but when he pressed the notes into her hand, her fingers instinctively closed upon them and she thrust the notes into the pocket of her apron.

He smiled gently at her. “No trick. Spend it as you will.” What did girls spend their money upon? He considered a moment. “Perhaps a new dress, or a gift for Victor? But the money is yours, with my son’s thanks.” He thought of Sébastien and added, “This is not a condition for the money, but I would be grateful if you’d look after Sébastien while he recovers from Marc’s deception.”

Azelma spoke with a distracted air. She was staring down at her apron pocket, her brow furrowed. “Sébastien? He’ll be fine. Arnaud’s visiting again, so Daniel and Florian have forgiven him, so all’s right with the world. But I’ll watch that he don’t fall for another trick like Marc’s.”

Valjean waited, but she said nothing more, lost in thought. “Thank you,” he said at last.

He returned to Javert’s side and smiled up at him. “Shall we go?”

Javert nodded. With one last chorus of goodbyes and Claude’s reminder to visit and tell them all about Valjean’s grandchild, they went out into the street. They hadn’t been inside as long as Valjean had thought. Above them it wasn’t entirely black, the last vestige of twilight still fading from the sky.

“Are you satisfied?” Valjean glanced sideways to find Javert watching him with an amused glint in his eyes. “No, no, don’t answer me. I know you are. Sébastien is well, that girl accepted your son-in-law’s money, and the rest of the Souris is in raptures about your grandchild. And you barely had to speak the entire time, but left all questions for me. A successful visit!”

“Next time I’ll speak more,” said Valjean, smiling.

“Next time I shall have to drag you away, for you’ll be full of speeches about the perfection of your grandchild,” Javert countered. The truth of it made Valjean chuckle. Javert’s steps slowed. He looked half-startled. Then his lips drew back in a satisfied grin. “Well! You have no argument for that?”

Valjean shrugged. “Why should I? We both know it’s true.”

“Well, at least you admit it.”

Turning a corner, they fell into an amiable discussion of Cosette’s newest acquisition for the nursery, though Valjean knew Javert cared not a whit for children or nurseries. They headed first towards the theater district, and then towards the house on the Rue Plumet. Javert’s pace matched Valjean’s. They were close enough that their hands brushed with every step.

Walking along, Valjean was content. No, not content. That was too little a word for the depth of feeling that buoyed Valjean, made his steps feel light as air. He was, to his everlasting astonishment, happy.