The events of which we have just beheld the reverse side, so to speak,
had come about in the simplest possible manner.
When Jean Valjean, on the evening of the very day when Javert had
arrested him beside Fantine’s death-bed, had escaped from the town jail
of M. sur M., the police had supposed that he had betaken himself to
Paris. Paris is a maelstrom where everything is lost, and everything
disappears in this belly of the world, as in the belly of the sea. No
forest hides a man as does that crowd. Fugitives of every sort know
this. They go to Paris as to an abyss; there are gulfs which save. The
police know it also, and it is in Paris that they seek what they have
lost elsewhere. They sought the ex-mayor of M. sur M. Javert was
summoned to Paris to throw light on their researches. Javert had, in
fact, rendered powerful assistance in the recapture of Jean Valjean.
Javert’s zeal and intelligence on that occasion had been remarked by M.
Chabouillet, secretary of the Prefecture under Comte Anglès. M.
Chabouillet, who had, moreover, already been Javert’s patron, had the
inspector of M. sur M. attached to the police force of Paris. There
Javert rendered himself useful in divers and, though the word may seem
strange for such services, honorable manners.
He no longer thought of Jean Valjean,—the wolf of to-day causes these
dogs who are always on the chase to forget the wolf of yesterday,—when,
in December, 1823, he read a newspaper, he who never read newspapers;
but Javert, a monarchical man, had a desire to know the particulars of
the triumphal entry of the “Prince Generalissimo” into Bayonne. Just as
he was finishing the article, which interested him; a name, the name of
Jean Valjean, attracted his attention at the bottom of a page. The
paper announced that the convict Jean Valjean was dead, and published
the fact in such formal terms that Javert did not doubt it. He confined
himself to the remark, “That’s a good entry.” Then he threw aside the
paper, and thought no more about it.
Some time afterwards, it chanced that a police report was transmitted
from the prefecture of the Seine-et-Oise to the prefecture of police in
Paris, concerning the abduction of a child, which had taken place,
under peculiar circumstances, as it was said, in the commune of
Montfermeil. A little girl of seven or eight years of age, the report
said, who had been intrusted by her mother to an inn-keeper of that
neighborhood, had been stolen by a stranger; this child answered to the
name of Cosette, and was the daughter of a girl named Fantine, who had
died in the hospital, it was not known where or when.
This report came under Javert’s eye and set him to thinking.
The name of Fantine was well known to him. He remembered that Jean
Valjean had made him, Javert, burst into laughter, by asking him for a
respite of three days, for the purpose of going to fetch that
creature’s child. He recalled the fact that Jean Valjean had been
arrested in Paris at the very moment when he was stepping into the
coach for Montfermeil. Some signs had made him suspect at the time that
this was the second occasion of his entering that coach, and that he
had already, on the previous day, made an excursion to the neighborhood
of that village, for he had not been seen in the village itself. What
had he been intending to do in that region of Montfermeil? It could not
even be surmised. Javert understood it now. Fantine’s daughter was
there. Jean Valjean was going there in search of her. And now this
child had been stolen by a stranger! Who could that stranger be? Could
it be Jean Valjean? But Jean Valjean was dead. Javert, without saying
anything to anybody, took the coach from the _Pewter Platter_,
Cul-de-Sac de la Planchette, and made a trip to Montfermeil.
He expected to find a great deal of light on the subject there; he
found a great deal of obscurity.
For the first few days the Thénardiers had chattered in their rage. The
disappearance of the Lark had created a sensation in the village. He
immediately obtained numerous versions of the story, which ended in the
abduction of a child. Hence the police report. But their first vexation
having passed off, Thénardier, with his wonderful instinct, had very
quickly comprehended that it is never advisable to stir up the
prosecutor of the Crown, and that his complaints with regard to the
_abduction_ of Cosette would have as their first result to fix upon
himself, and upon many dark affairs which he had on hand, the
glittering eye of justice. The last thing that owls desire is to have a
candle brought to them. And in the first place, how explain the fifteen
hundred francs which he had received? He turned squarely round, put a
gag on his wife’s mouth, and feigned astonishment when the _stolen
child_ was mentioned to him. He understood nothing about it; no doubt
he had grumbled for awhile at having that dear little creature “taken
from him” so hastily; he should have liked to keep her two or three
days longer, out of tenderness; but her “grandfather” had come for her
in the most natural way in the world. He added the “grandfather,” which
produced a good effect. This was the story that Javert hit upon when he
arrived at Montfermeil. The grandfather caused Jean Valjean to vanish.
Nevertheless, Javert dropped a few questions, like plummets, into
Thénardier’s history. “Who was that grandfather? and what was his
name?” Thénardier replied with simplicity: “He is a wealthy farmer. I
saw his passport. I think his name was M. Guillaume Lambert.”
Lambert is a respectable and extremely reassuring name. Thereupon
Javert returned to Paris.
“Jean Valjean is certainly dead,” said he, “and I am a ninny.”
He had again begun to forget this history, when, in the course of
March, 1824, he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the parish
of Saint-Médard and who had been surnamed “the mendicant who gives
alms.” This person, the story ran, was a man of means, whose name no
one knew exactly, and who lived alone with a little girl of eight
years, who knew nothing about herself, save that she had come from
Montfermeil. Montfermeil! that name was always coming up, and it made
Javert prick up his ears. An old beggar police spy, an ex-beadle, to
whom this person had given alms, added a few more details. This
gentleman of property was very shy,—never coming out except in the
evening, speaking to no one, except, occasionally to the poor, and
never allowing any one to approach him. He wore a horrible old yellow
frock-coat, which was worth many millions, being all wadded with
bank-bills. This piqued Javert’s curiosity in a decided manner. In
order to get a close look at this fantastic gentleman without alarming
him, he borrowed the beadle’s outfit for a day, and the place where the
old spy was in the habit of crouching every evening, whining orisons
through his nose, and playing the spy under cover of prayer.
“The suspected individual” did indeed approach Javert thus disguised,
and bestow alms on him. At that moment Javert raised his head, and the
shock which Jean Valjean received on recognizing Javert was equal to
the one received by Javert when he thought he recognized Jean Valjean.
However, the darkness might have misled him; Jean Valjean’s death was
official; Javert cherished very grave doubts; and when in doubt,
Javert, the man of scruples, never laid a finger on any one’s collar.
He followed his man to the Gorbeau house, and got “the old woman” to
talking, which was no difficult matter. The old woman confirmed the
fact regarding the coat lined with millions, and narrated to him the