Chapter Text
Toulon 1823
If there was one town in all of France Chief Inspector Javert would prefer never to set eyes on again, it was Toulon. Montreuil-Sur-Mer was a distant second contender. Neither the prison complex itself, the harbor, the prison hulks, nor the bustling town held good memories. Of course, this wasn’t what he had revealed or offered as a protest when his superiors had ordered him to visit the Bagne.
He had bowed deeply, murmured his acceptance, and then done his best to organize his unofficial penance in the two days he had been given to prepare for this journey.
And it was, indeed, a penance of sorts. His patron, M. Chabouillet, had taken him aside before they had joined Grisquet in his office for his new orders and cautioned him about keeping his wits about him.
Persons of higher authority and public ambitions hardly appreciated being openly proven wrong about politically delicate issues, like the real identity of a popular mayor. Superiors especially did not appreciate such slaps to the face coming from a nobody with a questionable pedigree and uncomely disposition: what a surprise.
Why, the king himself had showered Madeleine with accolades, and offered him the medal of honor! That such important personages had been deceived and made fools of was a disgrace. The speculation that they would have preferred to keep the ruse alive was galling. But it was disloyal to entertain such thoughts, surely.
Javert would have preferred if Grisquet, his immediate superior, had the forthrightness to chastise him openly. Even an official corporal punishment would have been endured more easily. Any Dominant of substance and integrity — and Javert prided himself on being such a Dom — would gladly take his licks for a disciplinary matter and avoid the black mark of an official reprimand in his permanent personnel file.
It also couldn’t be denied that a superior taking their displeasure out on an underling’s ass at dawn in the punishment court with a paddle (or a lash, if the infraction warranted it) for up to twenty licks tended to calm them down as well as drive the point home, in Javert’s experience. It hadn’t happened often to him in his career. Not in the last few years.
Chabouillet himself had used that method to stomp on some terrible habits Javert had acquired as a guard at Toulon and refused to let go of in his youthful ignorance despite his new occupation as a police officer.
Javert was glad, in hindsight, that Madeleine hadn’t taken him up on his offer to be punished by the mayor’s hand. That, on top of being duped for so long, would have been unbearable. Thinking about it still made Javert clench his fists, and he could barely leash his temper.
Javert leaned more against the side of the swaying carriage, pointedly ignoring the lively conversations of his travel companions. The landscape outside had to serve as a proxy target for his glaring.
Yes, this was indeed penance, an earthly purgatory of sorts, much harder to endure than a few lashes. He would have taken the pain and humiliation gladly - instead of being caught in a relatively small, moving, and odorous space with five other passengers, all of them of submissive orientation and much too interested in him after they had taken note of the dark hue of his cravat. He suspected that some of the posturing and stories, ostensibly directed at their companions, were designed to impress him.
They were on the last leg of the journey, and none too soon for Javert’s taste. If that silly goose across from him was going to repeat every minute detail of the ornate plate her Dominant had presented to her one more time, he would not be able to hold his tongue anymore. There should be an official rule for travel carriages about not being allowed to assault your travel companions with sheer utter stupidity. He hadn’t appreciated the speculative glances the clique had sent in his direction. Or the barely hidden and unoriginal giggling conjecture regarding the correlation between the size of his hands and the size of other body parts of interest.
Perhaps he should have returned the unasked-for gift of unpleasantness. He could recount the case wherein a submissive had murdered his Dominant by using the sharpened edges of the plate. They had shared their traditional first meal on as a couple, and then the sub had hacked the Dom to pieces with an axe when the plate had turned out to be too dull for the grisly task. That would have shut everyone else in the diligence up and would have reduced the country Mademoiselles to tears. And silence, hopefully.
With the way Fortune frowned on him at the moment, the chatterbox would turn out to be the daughter of someone important who would have taken offense, and Grisquet would have been even more displeased with him. Javert didn’t want to be sent to a small town in the Alps for his next post, counting cows till retirement.
No, he would fulfill his mission objective as fast as possible and then return to Paris and his actual job. Maybe that blasted convict Jean Valjean, after taking a look at Javert’s expression, would correctly deduce the mood he was in and would tell him the exact sum and location of the treasure.
Yes, that was how it would go down.
Javert’s scowl deepened even further.
The coachman hollered, the horses whinnied, and the carriage rattled to a stop. Javert managed to be the first to descend, courtesy of his glower and sheer offputting presence he used without qualm to his benefit. Then, to the loudly voiced displeasure of the womenfolk, he compounded his sins by snatching his baggage from the roof instead of offering his arm to help them climb down safely.
Baser emotions must have a detrimental influence on higher reasoning. Javert had seen proof of this during his entire career. Really, what else but temporary insanity would have driven these young submissives to drop for him, of all people, the proverbial handkerchief?
He ignored them. He ignored any friendly offer by local citizens to show him the way as well. Luggage in one hand, the other twitching because of the absence of his cudgel, he strode along the streets until he reached the west quay. His feet werte nearly automatically leading him in the right direction until he stopped at the gate that led to the barracks of the prison complex and the huge building with towers on each end that flanked them.
The smell of salt and human despair was heavy in the air, and Javert did his best not to breathe too deeply.
“Halt! State your business,” one of the soldiers guarding the gates hailed him.
“Chief Inspector Javert, here to see Commissaire Renault by order of M. Gisquet, prefecture de Paris .” There was no need to ask for a name in return; guards were interchangeable for the most, Javert knew.
Instead of immediately ordering his colleague to open the gate, the soldier leaned forward to scrutinize Javert’s face. “May I please see your papers?”
That was very proper, and Javert nodded in approval as he handed over his identification and references. He hadn’t expected to be asked inside on his word and uniform alone. . Only when the guard sent someone ahead to the main building instead of letting Javert through did he become restless.
“I thought you would be expecting me. The prefecture has sent a missive ahead with the overnight diligence. Everything should be in order.”
The soldier handed him back everything. “I apologize, sir, but there was an accident in Lyon. The carriage upended, and two people traveling Imperiale on top died. I have heard that the police are still sorting out baggage. There was heavy rain-“
Javert was aware as he had been forced to endure the bad weather and disagreeable company both for the last two days. The passenger list for his own diligence compartment had been full to capacity with the same people. Javert had ignored his surroundings in favor of brooding. And nobody had ever been stupid enough to try and gossip with the dour cop. This established fact had held true.
“One post bag ruptured. You can probably imagine the mess. Toulon was cautioned that there might be some delays. Or missing letters.”
He had a copy of the missive among the paperwork he carried, that detail would cause no problem, but it would mean nothing had been prepared. Bureaucracy in the Bagne was even slower than outside. This would cost him hours, if not days, he could have avoided.
The soldier that had been sent ahead came back running, offering apologies. Javert passively kept silent beyond an acknowledging nod, and the babble came to a halt. He was escorted to the main office wing. He did not waste attention on checking if anything had changed in the last decade. It was unlikely and unimportant. In all his time as a guard de chiourmes , he had only been called to the office of the commissaire one time. Otherwise, his direct superior had dealt with handing down orders, as well as chastisement or praise.
Commissaire Tibeus Renault, Chef des Services des chiourmes, was waiting for him and offered him a polite greeting and a chair.
They looked at each other, two experienced law enforcement officers taking each other’s measure while making polite conversation.
Renault was a tall, slender man of military bearing, impeccably dressed and coiffed, and comfortably at home behind his massive desk.
“May I please have a minute to read those papers?” It was a politely worded order Javert would never dare refuse.
Once more, Javert silently cursed the idiot driver of the destroyed carriage who had to have taken a corner too fast or done something foolhardy to upend the other diligence. His own coachman had been warned thoroughly about what Javert would do to him if he acted like he was driving a sports phaeton instead of a public vehicle. There was no way the swollen red nose decorating the driver’s face was solely due to cold weather instead of cheap rum.
“Ah, yes, the case of Jean Valjean. The Convict in Mayor’s Clothes, the newspapers called it. He arrived by boat with le Chaine six days ago, and has been, per procedure, transferred to his permanent chains.” The commissaire thoughtfully rubbed over his chin. “We could have spared you the journey; I have some skilled interrogators on staff. But never mind, you are here now, and I am sure you will acquire the location of the missing money in no time. I wonder why this wasn’t settled before the convict was marched to Toulon?”
Javert tried to keep the expression on his face bland. It wasn’t his place to criticize his superiors. They had given him Valjean’s updated file, which had at least shed some answers he could share now.
Oh, it was hard not to sneer! “The exact number of Madeleine’s personal fortune escaped the initial inquiry. He did pay his taxes correctly, as far as the royal accountants can tell, but with all the excitement about how a convict could have fooled everyone, some things seem to have escaped notice. Nobody was able to tell how he used the profits his factory accrued. He did not need to declare his personal expenditures, and Madeleine had the reputation of wasting much of his wealth on the poor.”
He wouldn’t voice the rather ridiculous rumors that had sprung up in Montreuil-Sur-Mer after the Mayor’s fall from grace. Madeleine having a mistress one town over that bathed in diamonds he had gifted to her was one of the tamer ones.
Renault shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with his ornate pen. “And, if I remember correctly, there was the speculation that the bulk of his fortune was based on him being the head of a band of robbers and that they had absconded with most of the treasure when he was arrested. That is what he was prosecuted for, wasn’t he?”
“Rubbish!” Javert exclaimed. “He is a scoundrel, no doubt, and a blight upon upstanding, law-abiding citizens, but between his documented time at his factories, at the Mairi - and I had him under personal surveillance, so I should know! - when would he have had the time to play highway robber baron?“ He took a deep breath. “They have caught the real culprits two weeks ago in flagrante delicto, and, well, long story short, the evidence refuted any connection. The crime has subsequently been purged from Valjean’s records.” Not that there weren’t enough crimes left on that rap sheet, so it did not make much difference.
“And the interest in the missing money has resurfaced. Very well. The best course of action is to immediately inquire about which salle he has been taken to. As a Green Cap, he should have been put to work in the dry dock, most likely.”
Without waiting for any input from the visitor, Renault rang the bell on his desk three times, and his secretary in turn summoned a young guard who was asked to lead Javert around and help him search for the prisoner. His duty done, Renault reached for the myriad of papers on his desk and dismissed Javert with a polite nod of his head.
“My secretary will see to appropriate lodgings, and he will organize everything else you might need.”
The highest-ranking officer and administrator of this Bagne had better things to do than personally deal with such things. If there hadn’t been marked interest from the highest office, Renault wouldn’t have spoken to Javert at all.
The young guard led him down the hall of the administrative level. “I’ve heard of this convict. He is kind of famous, no?” he stuttered.
Javert eyed the dark hue of his guide’s neckcloth and nearly rolled his eyes. If this ninny didn’t find a way to be dominant in public life, the Bagne would swallow him whole. Personal orientation didn’t mean much, if anything at all, on the job if you couldn’t cut it in your chosen profession. Renault, for example, wore the lower cut uniform collar and blinding white cravat of a submissive, but he seemed to be an eminently competent and commanding person.
“Not a kind of fame anyone should strive to achieve,” Javert grumbled and stormed in the direction of the bay and drydock proper without any regard for his new shadow. He had wasted enough time; he knew who he ought to ask for better directions, the Capitaine de giourmes.
“Well, yes, but I’ve heard rumors and - some of my comrades mentioned… that is, I’ve overheard something and was wondering if I should have told- well, that is to say, he isn’t at the prisoner quarters or at work on the hulks.”
“The infirmary?” How typical!
“No, not there, either. Eh. Follow me.”
The direction the little idiot took made Javert suspicious. The guards’ barracks? Javert’s eyes nearly flew off his face in astonishment and then lowered again in anticipatory dread.
Why couldn’t it be simple when it came to Jean Valjean?
++++
The first thing that drew his undivided attention was the stark contrast of the prone figures’ white hair against the dark planks that had been used for the floor. The unevenly shorn strands were eyecatching, even wet and filthy.
Javert stared and stopped midstep. That was something he had forgotten about. He had been too furious when he arrested Valjean - one could say his vision had been tinted red with his fury - and minor details like hair color had not been important to note. Javert had delivered his own minute account of the arrest and attached a separate character witness statement about the Madeleine affair in written form for the courts. He hadn’t been called upon to testify in person and thus hadn’t bothered to watch the trial. Everyone had gossiped about Valjean’s hair changing from dark brown mixed with grey to blinding white. It had been a one-day wonder.
One and a half months ago, Javert would have been simply content to never see the con again. The only opinion he would have offered, if asked, was that such a bright hair color would make it easier to catch him if he managed to escape again against all odds.
The second impression that threatened to overwhelm him was the way the air was exceptionally foul. It stank of human waste, blood, and sweat - a truly nauseating miasma.
The floor was filthy, especially around the prone figure in the middle of the room. Disgusting footprints traversed the room and marked the paths taken. Nobody would ever get the wood clean without shaving off a layer or two on top. There was a reason why lawful punishment was usually conducted in an open courtyard or in a tiled room with an inbuilt drain. Javert angrily took a deep breath - and regretted it promptly. Not that this scene here was the result of lawful punishment by any standard known to Javert. He knew for a fact that the rules hadn’t been changed to allow something like this since he had quit and become a policeman.
Someone was choking behind his back, and he could hear stumbling steps leading away, accompanied by choking sounds. It seemed like someone had a delicate stomach, eh?
The duo that had tried to refuse him entry positioned themselves beside the door and observed Javert sullenly.
“We-“
“Silence!” Javert bellowed but did not turn. If he turned to face them now, he would be tempted to do something he might not regret. It took a few breaths more before he could draw on his vast experience in shutting down most of his emotions before he could look at this objectively. He had a duty to perform, a goal to achieve, and it wasn’t, right now, teaching morons how to do their job correctly.
The two responsible guards must have finally cottoned on to his mood because they did their best to be mistaken for statues.
The prisoner was naked, filth his only covering, and he wasn’t chained or restrained. There was no need. He wasn’t in a state that would allow him to stand up under his own power. Scaling walls and running away wouldn’t be possible for a long time either, if ever again. For a second, Javert wondered if he was alive at all, but further observation revealed that the chest was rising and falling laboriously, and he could hear rattling, uneven breathing.
Where was his mantile ? Where were his leg shackles? And, he took a closer look, there was no cock ring. Javert couldn’t remember if Valjean had any pain responses, but it didn’t matter; it was against regulations to punish a submissive without a chastity device!
There were three dented metal buckets waiting to be used in a corner of this impromptu torture chamber. One empty, one full of waste, and one full of water. Javert would take bets that it was saltwater from the bay. It was a readily available and useful resource. He shoved down the disquiet that made his stomach cramp and carried the bucket of water back to the half-conscious man on the floor, and upended it over the prisoner.
The reaction was immediate. Valjean bucked off the floor, his body a rictus of hurt, any shout that may have emerged caught in a closing throat until it resurfaced as a pathetic whimper.
Javert pulled off his gloves with angry precision and put them into one of the pockets of his greatcoat. Hands were easier and cheaper to clean than fine leather. He crouched down, took a grim inventory, and finally stilled the squirming prisoner with a firm hand taking hold of his clammy, sweaty neck.
Valjean’s brown eyes blinked, wet and unable to focus. Javert tightened his grip and observed. The only sources of sound in the room were harsh breathing broken up by the impatiently shuffling guards at the door.
The pupils were expanding and then contracting simultaneously in reaction to light before the convict closed them nearly fully. That was a good sign that they hadn’t broken Valjean completely.
Any second now and those treacherous lips would at least, even if they couldn’t articulate eloquently, plead with him, form words. He moved his thumb, subtly checking and massaging the throat he was cradling. Javert’s hands were big enough that he could cover a good half of the convict’s muscular neck. Scars stood in stark relief against discolored skin. New sores would add to the white lines if they were given the time and care to close properly. Less professional fingers had left a dark ring of bruises and swelling tissue behind - another black mark on a list of offenses growing like mold on a damp wall.
Javert waited.
Any time, now, they would return to their accustomed course of interactions.
The convict pleading his innocence.
Pleading for more time to flout the law, as always.
Pleading by daring to address Javert by name in that infuriating way of his - there had always been this faint undercurrent whenever Madeleine had used his rank and name, as if he was secretly mocking him-
Valjean’s eyes finally opened to more than slits, and focused on Javert’s winter grey ones. They regarded each other silently, the former guard scowling, the prisoner hardly breathing.
Where was the hate? Javert’s recall was excellent. He had years worth of memories about Jean le Cric wanting to incinerate Javert with glares instead of looking down like he should. After his disgrace, the judgment, and having to endure le chaine for a second time, the old burning disgust should have transformed those deceptive soft brown eyes to molten amber coals of hate again.
But against all of Javert’s expectations, they stayed the same warm hue.
These weren’t the eyes of a convict trying to dominate him with pure spite and aggression. He was confronted with the eyes of a martyr, and Javert couldn’t stand the deception- How dare he! These were the eyes of Pére Madeleine, Saint extraordinaire. Javert felt compelled to tighten his hold around the convict’s neck and add to the bruises already there until he would succeed with exorcising Madeleine out of Valjean’s body once and for all.
His hand twitched, just waiting for the mental command to tighten; more he didn’t allow himself. He had more self-control than the guards, despite ample provocation. Javert smiled coldly down and deliberately let his gaze wander to the fresh brand that was declaring to all and sundry who and what this man was. It still stank of cooked human flesh, raw and ugly. “9630. It doesn’t have the same ring as your old number. I am not in favor of branding, but if it were in use in the past, it would have helped me enormously. There is no hiding for you this time. You can’t escape me now.”
“Ask him about the money he hid!” the taller of the disgraces masquerading as guards impatiently demanded.
Javert slowly, deliberately, turned his head. Whatever he read in Javert’sface, the guard gulped and squirmed. The other one, with dark, wet stains on his uniform, like he had at one point handled Valjean not too far in the past, sneered back, challenging the interloper. Javert dismissed the man from his attention as unimportant and instead nodded to the other man who had led him here and who had returned, still gulping and wincing. He was younger than his colleagues, and his dark complexion had acquired an unhealthy grey sheen. It was either the injuries or the smell turning his stomach. Most likely the stench.
Javert inclined his head and gestured with his free hand for the man to approach.
“ Monsieur l’Inspecteur ?”
“Fetch a pitcher of clean water and a cup,” Javert ordered brusquely, and the guard practically fled the room.
Valjean’s trembling increased, and grew jerky. Javert checked his condition. It wouldn’t do for the con to slip his grasp forever because he might once again refuse to follow lawful orders, instead embracing death, the ultimate escape. Javert pressed the palm of his free hand against the sweaty chest, grimacing at the filth. But no, it was warped and nearly unrecognizable, but Valjean wasn’t having a fit; he was laughing. Cracked lips and the swollen tongue behind the selfsame refused to produce more than a pathetic gurgle.
The youngest guard returned with a bang. Literally, the door hit the wall in his haste to cut a corner. He carried the requested items and set them down at Javert’s side.
“Will he be… “ the man searched for the right term and failed miserably. Both Javert and Valjean ignored him, but he went down on one knee near them.
“Can I help with something else? Je m’apelle Pierre Humbert…” offered the guard softly, unasked.
“No. Not now.” Javert concentrated on filling the cup halfway. Everything looked clean, water and vessels both. He lifted it to his own lips, ignored the eyes that followed every one of his movements, took a sip, and nodded appreciatively. There had been a little bit of vinegar added to the liquid. Humbert wasn’t completely hopeless.
Then he carefully held the cup to Valjean’s lips, tilted it just so to let the water trickle into his mouth. A little bit dripped past, creating a trickle of wastefulness down into the scraggly white beard. Javert huffed and began to run his fingers over the swollen throat, waited until he could feel Valjean swallow, then repeated the process. Again. And again. There was still something left in the cup, but the prisoner pressed his lips together in refusal.
Valjen licked his lips, moistened them. “I beg you, tell me, has Cosette been brought to safety?”
“Hah, it’s always the same song and dance with you, isn’t it? If you aren’t wasting your breath on that whore, you are pleading for her brat.”
“Cosette,” insisted Valjean, his voice rough, lips straining to form the correct sounds.
Why was Javert indulging him? Nevertheless, he answered and told himself that he was only doing it to create false rapport with the con. “I personally retrieved her, which is just as well. If you had done it, you would undoubtedly have wasted money on your fellow criminal. Thénadier was a worse scoundrel than you suspected.”
Valjean turned his head incrementally and leaned harder against the hand steadying him behind his neck. He doubted Valjean would be able to raise his head on his own for long.
“Hm.”
“I arrested him.” No need to elaborate lest Valjean would insist on derailing the conversation further. “I brought the girl to the convent you specified, Petit-Picpus? Come to think of it, the nuns were strangely happy to see her.” A suspicion bloomed, and he should kick himself for not thinking of this sooner. His glare intensified.
“Sent my lawyer. Gave away some; gifted more. Set up a trust. Money spent and bound before conviction is not subject to…” Valjean whispered, barely audible.
“You gave your ill-gotten gains to the Church and the whore’s daughter!” exclaimed Javert and nearly removed his hand. If this was true, then the money was outside the government of France’s reach for good. Nobody, ever, had succeeded in getting money, -a fortune!- back from Mother Church without a fight that wasn’t worth the price.
The infuriating man only smiled his saint’s smile and refused to utter another word, his eyes slowly closing. Or maybe, Javert scowled, even his unnatural endurance had finally run out.
“Ask the Chef des Services des chiourmes to join us. This situation requires his attention,” he quietly ordered Humbert, pitching his voice in a way that would not reach the agitated guards at the door.
“I will, immediately.”
Javert lowered Valjean’s head to the filthy floor and began examining him more closely. He kept his back to the door to conceal his reactions better. Despite his first impression, the damage wasn’t as bad as he had feared. It looked like his tormentors hadn’t had much imagination, at least, and mainly wailed on Valjean, used a single tail whip incompetently (which they must have gotten or stolen from the punishment court), and kicked him. His hands were in sorry condition; someone had known how much it would hurt to concentrate on them. And the feet were covered in sores upon sores and blisters - a souvenir from Le Chaine and a month of being herded on foot across France, the only damage not to be accounted to the idiots.
Javert wrinkled his nose in disgust, palmed Valjean’s stomach, and then examined his chapped lips.
Madeleine had hidden his true self behind the slightly unfashionable but clean clothes of an eccentric and harmless man of means. No tailoring had been able to completely mask the solid strength of his chest or the scope of his shoulders, but the cut and fall of Madeleine’s attire had hinted at the beginning of a pouch commonly found on rich bourgeoise bellies, in addition to masking muscles as soft padding on his arms and tighs. A comfortable false softness that lied about how dangerous the body underneath could be. Combined with that damn smile and curling hair, the disguise had nearly been perfect.
Javert could proudly say that he, at least, had never fully bought the ruse. He couldn’t ascertain his suspicions about Valjean’s methods. If there ever had been fat developing on this body, hardship had melted away substance until only the essentials remained. Now, Valjean’s skin was stretched taught and angry with abuse and dehydration over muscles that strained and stood out in long cords and bunched ripples.
As a young guard, fresh and only holding on by the skin of his teeth and a firm hold onto the rule book, Javert had never looked away when he encountered something he thought was crossing the line and not just flirting with it, be it prisoner or guard flouting the rules. He had always dutifully reported to his superiors and that was the end as far as he had been concerned. Who was he to question the wisdom of his betters? Going against the more established and experienced clique of guards wasn’t healthy, and it took discretion and discernment to keep himself safe. Sometimes, often a lot later down the line, he had witnessed his words coming to fruition. A guard dismissed here, a black mark there.
But this was a blatant abuse of power on a new level.
Which was exactly what he pointed out to Commissaire Renault when the officer entered the room. Renault, after a long, thoughtful perusal of the situation, had ordered everyone but Javert to wait outside.
“They are good men.”
Javert reached for one of Valjean’s hands, and raised it to shove it into the light of the lamp and Chef des Services des chiourmes line of sight. The thumb was visibly out of the socket, and the fingers were swollen, two of them broken. There were no defensive marks like scraped knuckles. “Good men?”
“They must have gotten…overexcited in their desire to produce the needed information and got carried away. It is no secret that this convict might have secreted a huge sum of money away. Someone else might have done this on the track here. Let us transfer the prisoner to the infirmary, I will make a note about it in his file, and he will get extra helpings to his meals for the next month as recompense. If he survives. It’s a pity.”
Javert’s nearly slavish adherence to authority figures, already bruised by them colliding against the unmovable object in the form of Madeleine, feebly tried to make him back down. It sizzled and burned to ash in the fire of his rightful anger.
This officer of high standing, influence, and power over more than three thousand prisoners and hundreds of personnel had just pretended that he wasn’t able to read the age and severity of lash marks and bruises.
Instead of keeping still, Valjean used the pregnant pause between the two officers to insert a quip. “Javert always has been too scrupulous. For a guard,” he murmured.
Javert didn’t know what to do with that compliment wrapped in a blanket insult to every other man who had worn the same uniform as he.
A faint blush crept onto the Chef des Services des chiourmes cheeks in reaction. The raised chin, daring Javert to disagree further, revealed the simple golden bonding collar wrapped around his neck above the customary leather stock of a law enforcement officer. ‘Forget what you have seen, and follow my lead,’ his expression commanded.
“They have wasted his workforce and created infirmary costs without the hope of speedy recompense via work. I’ve seen this man carry more than three others combined. His injuries, especially his hands, will need a lot of time and care to heal until he can be put to use again. If everything heals cleanly and infection doesn’t kill him.”
Renault shook his head no. Even appealing to his fiscal side wasn’t working. “Ten years ago, that might have been true. Now? Look at him. This convict is an old man and would not have lasted much longer anyway. He isn’t used to the hardships of the Bagne anymore.”
Renault clearly had no idea about what Valjean was capable of.
Valjean shifted painfully, and slowly pulled up one leg in front of his body to give himself a little modesty. He seemed to be more animated and aware, maybe as a reaction to the tension in the room. Javert watched him from the corner of his eye, his main focus still on the commandant.
Renault broke first. “ Monsieur l’Inspecteur , I agree with you. To a point. It must be pretty obvious to you and me both that Molin and Lestrange weren’t alone in their unofficial and excessive interrogation scheme. Not possible for them alone if they have worked their shifts without absence for five days. If I give the word to investigate this, I will likely lose not only two, but possibly four or five employees who haven’t drawn any negative attention or issues, if they are similar in dedication and character to those two obvious ones. They aren’t known to be absentees. They aren’t acting slovenly or excessively brutal. They are nearly the cream of the crop when it comes to guards. I will chastise them unofficially and give them additional shifts. But that is as far as I am willing when weighing them against a walking dead man.”
Additional shifts instead of being dismissed in disgrace and charged with dereliction of duty, at least? Javert didn’t know what to say. Nothing non-accusatory, at least. Guards torturing and nearly killing a prisoner who had no power of recourse other than the shield of another man of the law’s conscience - Javert’s! - covered up by the highest-ranking officer of the jail, the ultimate power? It went against everything Javert believed to be just and right. There had been plenty of incidents of abuse of power he had seen in his career, but this was extreme - and for some reason, it hit him hard. Javert bit his tongue.
Something touched his elbow, shielded by the bulk of his body from the view of the other occupant of the room.
Javert looked down. Valjean was tugging at his coat, slowly shaking his head and mouthing ‘don’t’. Cautioned by a convict, the world was upside down! The inspector closed his eyes, counted to ten, and silenced the storm in his heart with ruthless experience. Or tried to.
He wasn’t able to see a way out of this he could live with. He was caught between a rock and a hard place because whatever he did, he would lose. A convict the victim; the highest-ranking guard in Toulon breaking the rules, no, the Law. Javert could go with what his conscience told him to be just and right, but accusations would help no one if they were deliberately ignored. But keeping silent would brand him a coward if that was the direction he chose. His thoughts were uselessly running in circles.
Javert bit harder down on his tongue until he could taste warm, coppery blood.
Another weak tug at his coat sleeve.
He ignored it.
“You might not believe me, Javert, but this is something of a novelty for me, too, in all my years at my post. At least this extent of mistreatment. Additionally, and more importantly, I have orders to keep the scandal around Madeleine contained. Creating a lot of paperwork would be counterproductive.”
Did Renault want to convince Javert that he should let this slide because it would never happen again, that it was an exception? If he lied to cover up this incident, could either of them, Renard and Javert both, be trusted to speak the truth about anything else? Javert dearly wanted to clutch at his hair, the pounding of his heart was making it hard to think.
And why was Renault feeling the need to sway him anyways? The Chef des Services des chiourmes was so much more influential, his words weighted so much more than the word of a simple police agent like Javert. He tried to discern a clue in the other man’s face, but his attention was again caught by the sight of the golden collar half hidden by the immaculate cravat.
Javert swallowed heavily. He could still taste blood and vinegar on his tongue.
A collar like that, maybe less expensive but, in essence, the same, wasn’t something exceptional. A third of the adult population of France wore them openly to declare their status. Stars, he saw it every morning when he put on the leather vambraces he habitually wore under his shirt on the forearms. A thin, very cheap, black leather collar was wrapped around the left one. It got transferred promptly the few times he had bought new vambraces and had been given to him by the leader of his shift on his first day as a senior guard.
“If there was an alternative….” Javert asked slowly, now fixedly staring at Valjean’s filthy neck. He was feeling adrift without an anchor, the only thing that made him keep his mind, for now, was the faint glimmer of an idea percolating.
“How? Please enlighten me.”
Javert pushed back the left sleeves of his greatcoat, his jacket, and his shirt. There wasn’t nearly enough space to accomplish it, and in the end, he had to tug forcefully, digging with his fingers and tugging the leather strip down. It had resided in a fixed position for so long that it seemed to resist relocation. Javert had been called stubborn more times than he could count, and hardly ever was it meant as a compliment, but here it helped him prevail.
He heard Renault take a deep breath. “Yes, that might work, but you are aware… “ Renault let his words run out.
With the collar dangling from his fingers, he fully turned to Valjean.
“Do you know what this is?” Javert harshly asked and observed the convict’s reaction. 24601 had been a prisoner for a long time. He should have witnessed its use and meaning.
Valjean didn’t disappoint. He nodded, his eyes wide in fear or astonishment, Javert couldn’t say.
The formal, slightly archaic words came to his tongue as if he had listened to them yesterday instead of over a decade and a half ago. “Listen to me closely. If I fasten this around your neck, your security, punishment, and full service in body and mind will be mine to decide and administer. I will stand guard over society as it is my duty. I will guard them against you and do my best to guide you on your path to absolution.” He took a deep breath. “As long as you agree to wear this collar and as long as your sentence lasts.”
Before Valjean could ask questions or declare that Javert had gone insane, another voice began to add more.
“I have only done this a handful of times,” Renault remarked cooly, and came closer until he stood beside the crouching inspector and in full view of the prisoner. “It is my duty as Chef des Services des chiourmes to witness this collaring under Guard’s Law. I confirm that…” he faltered for a moment. “Former Senior Guard des Chiourmes Javert has the good standing, continued service as an officer of the Law, and upstanding character to act as Dominant for Prisoner 9630. If the convict, at a later date, should decide that this is no longer his wish, he has the right to appear before a senior officer of the law and demand the collar to be taken off. This will result in a few consequences, the main one being that the convict will be returned to the Bagne of origin, in this case, Toulon.”
They waited. Now it was up to Valjean to decline or accept.
Javert kept a close watch on him, observing the hitch at the end of every breath Valjean sucked into his lungs, every flicker of his eyes.
Finally, Valjean nodded slowly, hesitantly, seemingly more to himself than as the visible sign that he had come to a conclusion, then sought eye contact with Javert. Another nod, more firm and pronounced than the first.
And then Valjean let his head sink back, baring the vulnerable column of his throat fully.
Javert bent forward and carefully fastened the worn black collar. For a moment, he feared that his fingers would fumble and falter, but they were as steady as ever. He didn’t know, couldn’t say if this wouldn’t turn out to be more of a problem instead of a solution for either of them long term.
TBC