It is always interesting to watch peoples' reaction to my arrival at the Madelonnettes - nervous shuffling from the prisoners, canteen women jumping out of the way. Even the turnkey blenches slightly as I come striding down the corridor. They're all terrified of me here. On the one hand this is as it should be, a matter of healthy respect. On the other, it's vaguely pathetic. After all, I'm a middle rank, (late) middle-aged public servant who's not as spry as he once was. Lord, there'd be puddles on the floor if anyone really important ever showed up here!

I half wish the silly bints could have seen me this past week - would have put their minds at rest to see me looking like death. I've felt wretched and must have looked worse. I really don't know what brought it on: I strained something, somehow (now, children, aren't we glad I didn't have the funds to train as a medical, hein?) and before I knew it my scar was red and hot and I had a horse's fever. Of course, I've taken no time off for it but it's really been a case of showing up and being no bloody use to anyone. Is it not one of the great ironies of life that as age and experience refine out mental faculties they simultaneously bugger our physical ones?

And not that I can afford to walk around looking like Madame Shelley's monster, either. Inspector Javert of the First Class is not Ill! Perish the thought! One has a certain degree of professional image to uphold. Consequently, I have spent the week being not only feverish but furtive.
Pontellier nearly caught me head down asleep upon my desk - that was a close one. I shudder to think what would happen if that boy caught me looking under the weather. He's a good lad, but also something of a mother's boy and can't quite understand why I, and everyone else in our section, is not the same. If Pontellier supposed me to be ill, he would inform Dr Fitzwilliam; Fitz, being a devoted husband and inveterate gossip, would inform Nana; Marianna, being incorrigibly nosy (my prerogative, girl! Mine!) would start writing little notes to Mere Moulin. All in all, seven kinds of Hell which I have no desire to experience!

Anyway, I feel much better today and so here I am! Spick and span and ready to begin my ward rounds.

"Now, Inspector," says the turnkey, "what can I do for you this fine morning?"

It is snowing outside today and for some reason I find Deneuve's comment rather amusing:

"Jondrette, Éponine, if you please. And I'd like somewhere more private than the part work workshop if possible."

"Monsieur DuMornay's office - second on the left. I'll have her brought over."

I sit myself down in DuMornay's office - two rickety wooden chair on one side of the desk (the neat desk of a man who never does any work) and an armchair with the stuffing poking out on the other. All 'warmed' up by the sort of mean little fire that it's hardly worth the bother of setting.
I take my little notebook out of my pocket and go and stand by this fire, resting my elbows up on the mantle
Now, I make a habit of visiting those I arrest - with flowers, bonbons, the works. And we all know that chickens have teeth! Actually, I'm more wont to visiting prisoners than many of my brothers, which is a shame. They don't seem to realise that itis a very good way of getting what you want.

There are quite a few thing I want out of life at the moment and La Jondrette could be in a position to provide a goodly number of them. If we refer back to the list I made on the night of the Gorbeau affair things should become a little clearer.
First off we have Babet, Bigranaille and friends. Or rather. We, the judiciary system, have Babet and Bigranaille, but many of their friends are absent. Which is a shame. I would so hate for them to miss the party .Éponine, if she proves willing, could be instrumental in my discovering and reclaiming such rare creatures as La Magnon, Claquesous, Mardisoir or Montparnasse, allhitherto lost to society.
Then there is the mater of our escapologist victim. I have no doubt that the girl knows where to find him, and I would very, very much like to be in on the secret.
Thirdly, we have our little cowardly lawyer friend, whose name, incidentally, was Pontmercy. Now, personally I'd like to find him so that I can chew his ear off for being a lily-livered, addle-pated nincompoop who nearly wasted an entire evening of my squadron's valuable time. However, I do have a rather more respectable judicial reason for wanting to find the boy. Our avocaillon is, I believe, on friendly terms with one Sieur Armand Marcelin de Courfeyrac know, due to his republican sentiments, simply as Courfeyrac. (Surely it's more pretentious to take the 'de' out of your name than it is to add one in? Maybe I should give myself a 'de', if it's as common as all that. How about 'Monsieur Javert de Toulon'? or maybe 'Louis Javert des Madelonnettes'? Certainly that last is more respectable than being plain old Madeleine . . )
Yes . . Now where was I? Not a bloody clue. Ah! Student revolutionary politics! Basically - if Pontmercy is involved, I want to milk him for information then arrest him and the rest of the traitors If he's not then he really should be made to understand what getting involved with a bad lot like M - Courfeyrac - without - a - 'de' means. Hopefully the girl will provide a means to the boy and, if I know girls of her class at all, the boy may well provide a means of getting to the girl.

Talk of the cat, here she is now, looking even more squalid and woebegone than she did when I arrested her

"Thank you Deneuve, you may leave us - Now! And shut the door."