Eyelids flickered and eyes strained reluctantly towards the argent-or sunlight that blessed the room. The fire had died to ash and ember; a small copper kettle and a teapot sat before the hearth. A washbowl was by the bed, a rag resting upon the lip of the pottery. Further objects marred the floor: a huddle of filthy clothes in one corner, a greatcoat and boots rested towards the door, a spoilt shirt lay between a suit of dark breeches and waistcoat. A cane-seated chair was placed at an angle between hearth and bed; in this, sprawled in profound slumber, was a broad shouldered gentleman with startlingly silver-white hair.

Javert's eyes saw all this; he lay still, as if awaiting his thoughts to order themselves and make sense of the view. He blinked and then slowly, cautiously, levered himself upright amidst the rumpled blankets.

He felt unpleasantly light-headed, but at long last his mind had a crystalline clarity of the sort that denotes utter certainty, complete conviction. With the fervour of a sailor clasping a spar in a tempest, Javert embraced it and the actions it bid him take.

His hand stirred to draw back the counterpane; his fingers shook. He gave them a look of reproof, as if the fever that still resided in his limbs was an insult not to be countenanced. To prove this he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and made himself stand – faltered for a moment, and then worked a little more steel into his backbone.

Carefully, quietly, he retrieved his breeches and forced the clammy wool over his legs. Stockings followed, not pulled straight but left bunched sadly about his heels. The waistcoat was glared at and abandoned, the shirt ignored in favour of the borrowed one he already wore. Boots were slipped on with uncertain fingers and the greatcoat reclaimed, its cold weight draped around his shoulders. With a final and inscrutable look at the room and its unconscious occupant, Javert left.

It was not yet seven of the clock.

In the hall of M. Fauchelevent's meagre townhouse at Rue de l'Homme Arme, Toussaint was carrying a breakfast tray up to the young lady of that residence when she beheld by the front door a figure dressed in black, narrow of shoulder and haggard of countenance. "Oh!" she gasped, nearly dropping the tray in her fright. "M-monsieur?" she stammered. For a moment he had seemed to be someone she recognised, a member of the Paris constabulary, but surely such a straggle-haired creature could not belong to the city authorities?

The flint-eyed wight before her looked grave. "Madame," he replied courteously, lifting a hand to tip his hat before realising his head was bare. His lips twisted into a smile, such as a broke-winged crow might have if it could smile, and he turned upon his heel and quit the house.

Caught in the mire of her shock, Toussaint did nothing but stand there and tremble. Of a sudden, a mix of fear and borrowed courage prompted her to action and she hurried upstairs to check on the rest of the household so she might discover what calamity the ill-omened man had visited upon them or, if he was a herald, prepare for what calamity was to come.

Early in the morning of June 7th (what would have been termed Année 40 de la République, mois de Prairal, decade II, jour du Nonidi by the Revolutionary Calendar), the wraith of a man stalked the deadened Paris streets.

The troubles of the night had been brutally suppressed by the National Guard, and all citizens of sense stayed huddled in their beds; only the brave and the few ventured out, seeking news with the daring of errant knights stealing gold from a serpent's horde. They scurried upon their errands like mice, furtive looks and worried eyes keeping watch for the cat's paw.

The man walked in no such manner; his stride was a little shorter than its customary length, his steps a little less striking, but he was straight-shouldered and gazed at the city with an indifference the common observer might mistake for arrogance. In this way he walked from the parish of Notre-Dame-des-Blancs-Manteaux and down the Rue du Temple towards Rue Saint Martin and Quai de Gesvres. He crossed the Pont Notre Dame to the Ile de le Citié and the Préfecture de Police: that building that basks in the twin shadows of the Palais de Justice and the Cathédrale Notre Dame. There he entered, and was for some time lost to our sight.

At length he left the Préfecture and proceeded with dogged step to the Pont au Change.

His pace slowed. At the apex of the bridge he stopped.

His back bowed; he rested his elbows upon the stone balustrade and gazed with strange intensity at the marl-grey rush of the river as it flowed below, swirling westward between the feet of the arches.

All at once he turned and gazed to his right, stooped, and picked up some small object which lay discarded against the masonry. It glinted in his unsteady grasp; a narrow chased silver snuff box the likes of which any city gentleman might carry in his pocket. He regarded it blankly as if waiting for it to do something. Accepting at last its refusal to become animate, and with an expression for the world we might interpret as 'so, this is how it stands, is it?' he leaned once more against the parapet.

With deliberation, he slowly tilted his palm. The silver trinket clung to his hand for an instant before toppling side over side and end over end into the waiting maw of the Seine. It caught the light as it spun, a bright and final flash of farewell which danced across the stone faces of the Palais de Justice, the Cathédrale Notre Dame and the man in turn.

He watched it fall.

Inspector Javert (First Class) of the Police, was seen no more by the citizens of Paris.

Two weeks after the civil unrest of June 6th and nine days after an amnesty had been declared for the insurgents, M. Fauchelevent - who we perhaps should call by his true name: Jean Valjean - received a letter. Toussaint brought it to him as he sat at the desk of his room, setting his monthly accounts to order. It came on sturdy paper and was sealed modestly with pine-green wax as if it knew it had miles to travel and wished to complete the journey without being a bother to anyone. It was addressed curiously, holding no name, but only a title: To Monsieur of the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.

The contents was no less curious or brusque in its wording, beginning without preamble or correct address and containing in its penmanship a certain sardonic air:

Forgive my abrupt departure, I feared more of your charity may kill me.

I leave you to your life and that most aggravating grace which shelters you.

There is a small town east of Orléans that manufactures flax: Saint-Jean-de-Braye.

It is shortly to have a new keeper of the peace.

Should you or your family find yourselves in the Saint Loup district, ask for directions to old Archard Javert's place. He died near a decade back and his son came to a bad end years ago in the galleys, but the house still retains his name. Town gossip has it that his grandson has recently taken possession of the property.

They say he is a forbidding fellow, but on the few occasions he has company, he sets a good table.

I dislike unpaid debts. I still have your shirt.

J

((All done. This story was supposed to be something easy, scrawled whilst I had pneumonia. What with the random points of research (did they have underwear in 1830? what is the date in the Revolutionary calendar? which way is downstream in Paris? etc), re-reading swathes of Les Miserables, rewriting bits of story because ideas I'd been given and used in good faith made me an unintentional plagiarist, and to top it off, never being able to decide between slash or not... it all turned into some grueling form of penance. Although penance for what I don't know =P If this story disappears from the archive it's because I've burnt the damn thing. Anyway. Thank you for reading it.))