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It was a strange situation, Inspector Javert found himself in. Truly, he must have been momentarily out of his mind to agree to such an outrageous request from the man he was slowly coming to tolerate.
He could barely even fathom that he was now about to grant this, less than legal request to Valjean. The old man had looked at him kindly and implored him to free his daughter’s betrothed from the holding cell he sat in currently. He stated the boy’s name as Marius, but did not give much other information.
What could he do to deny the man that spared him his life? Was he not, if nothing else, a man of honour?
That was how Javert found himself in the old city jail, where the pesky revolutionaries were being held until further progress in their case. At first, the king had wanted to execute them but upon realising that they, in fact, were nothing but a gaggle of youngins he had made up his mind and had still yet to come to terms with a proper sentence. Alas, the schoolboys had been trapped behind bars for little over a week, some with wounds that needed tending and others simply complaining about the hygiene and food.
Javert trudged into the room, his boots echoing on the slick cobblestone floor.
All were held in the same cell, taking turns at laying down on the sorry wooden bench or just accepting to sleep on the floor. Only a few of them glanced up when Javert entered.
The inspector cleared his throat, an air of importance wafting over him. “Marius, report to me! I have orders to let you go,” He called, eyeing the nearest boy who could quite possibly be his objective.
Inside the cell, Éponine exchanged a meaningful glance with Marius who solemnly nodded and pushed Gavroche in front of him.
“This here is Marius.” The actual Marius stated while Gavroche did his best to look innocent.
The child held out his hand between the bars. “Lovely to meet yew again, Inspector Javert! Long time no see,”
Javert eyed the boy and then Marius who was standing behind him. “I come here for Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s betrothed. I would think you too young, boy.” He frowned.
Marius cleared his throat, a bit nervous at how quickly his lie was discovered. Éponine as well, looked a bit crestfallen. In their days in the cell, Enjolras had worked on a half-finished escape plan, but they had all agreed that should the chance come by they would prioritise Gavroche’s freedom.
“Actually,” Marius dared look Javert in the eye. “We are both called Marius,” He spoke with a twinge of hope in his voice, for if Javert possessed a heart at all he would let the child go free.
The man sighed lowly, looking at the two for quite a while before jiggling a key into the old and rusty lock. “I suppose he never did specify how old this Marius was.” Javert muttered to himself.
He opened the door and the two Mariusses sprang out. The older one asked; “What of the rest? Are they not to go free?”
Javert looked over the ensemble in the cell, each more bruised and tired than the last and all looking at the inspector like a saving grace. The man with a heart of stone allowed himself to feel sorry for just a moment, for they were all so young and maybe— just maybe could he allow changes in his life now that it had been pardoned.
Inside the cell, Courfeyrac raised a brow at Marius who fortunately caught on.
“If I may, Inspector Javert, they are all called Marius, actually.” He bluffed and to his chagrin the inspector just looked at him as if he had grown a second head.
Javert was old-fashioned, but not dumb. Despite his initial annoyance at being perceived as such, he knew what the boy was trying to do and took mercy upon him.
He turned back to the cell. “Alright. How many of you are called Marius?” A bit timidly, each in the cell raised a hand, including Éponine.
If it was even possible, Javert became less amused than he had ever been before and with a raspy sigh and sullen look he beckoned Bahorel to him. “State your full name.” He told him.
Bahorel looked about, a bit dumbfounded. “Uh, Marius Bahorel, sir.”
Javert simply made a motion with his head, indicating the third Marius to move out of the cell. Bahorel glanced back at his friends as he left, trying to convey his thoughts of utter confusion to them by a raise of his brows.
“Next.” Javert beckoned forward Feuilly, who had his arm in a makeshift cast.
The revolutionary wasted no time. “Marius Feuilly, Inspector Javert.”
“Next.” Bossuet nearly tripped over Jehan in his haste to get to Javert. The Inspector took notice of the large gash of his forehead and what looked to be a broken nose.
“Marius Lesgle, sir, Inspector, sir!”
Next was Combeferre, but he pushed Jehan in front of him first. The younger looked at Javert with a shy smile. “I am Jean Marius Prouvaire, sir.”
Javert’s mouth became a thin line. “And you go by Marius, correct?”
Jehan’s eyes met the real Marius’. “Uh, yes sir, that is correct.”
“Out with you, then. Next.”
“Marius Combeferre.”
“Marius Joly, sir.”
When the turn came to Grantaire, he was holding in his laughs like one might hold in a cough— he was red faced and looked ready to explode. He had neither received wine or ale in the past week and most of not all of Les Amis agreed that he became quite peculiar. Despite not being drunk, the withdrawal symptoms had only made him more teasing and much more poetic. For he had spent his week in the cell reciting songs to Enjolras who was just about ready to murder him, and sharing his outlook on the world with his friends. One would think he had been on vacation rather than in jail.
He bowed deeply in front of the Inspector. “Marius Grantaire at your service, dear inspector!” He chirped, for if there was one thing he was good at it was testing his luck.
Javert almost considered keeping him only on the charge of being too joyful despite the circumstances, but at last decided against it.
“Get out.” The Inspector only grumbled, and Marius Grantaire did not need to be told twice.
Courfeyrac came up behind him, also a bit too amused by the situation despite his limp and red patch on the side of his shirt. “It is I, Marius Courfeyrac. How I long to once again see my betrothed!” He declared proudly.
The real Marius’ mouth turned downward in a frown and he shook his head disapprovingly at his friend, however Grantaire clapped his shoulder in support as he exited the cell.
Next came Enjolras, whose nose was bloodied and he was baring almost the same frown as the Inspector, for Javert knew of him well enough. The glorious leader spent many a night in the old city jail, he was the most eye-catching, and therefore easiest to find and arrest, amongst the boys. Even now he wore his signature red coat and pin proudly on his chest and Javert had a serious suspicion that his name was not Marius at all.
Yet Enjolras said; “Marius Enjolras, sir.” With only the luck of his fortunate dismissal of ever giving anyone his first name.
Javert merely grunted. “Get out of here and do not return any time soon.”
Enjolras stiffly nodded and made his way out. Grantaire cackled on the other side. “Oh, Marius, how I’ve always thought that name suited you fine!” He said.
The leader only looked at him sullenly and refused to grant him an answer, instead moving to stand by Combeferre.
Lastly, came Éponine. Javert looked at her with such a tired expression, she could tell he only freed them out of pity.
She smiled and decided to test her luck. “Are we not all Marius, just a little?”
“Get out of here before I change my mind, Miss Marius.” Javert grumbled and locked the cell again when she was outside.
The revolutionaries wasted little time in fleeing the scene, Gavroche bidding the Inspector goodbye with a mocking salute before Éponine was scolding him and pushing him out before her.
Javert stood alone for a while. He had just committed a crime, some sort of treason surely, and he must answer for it. Yet, a tiny but warm spark was unfolding in his heart as he heard their chatter on the street outside the jail. They were the hope for a better future after all, what good were they doing all rotting in jail?
He had been young once, too. Albeit not as law-breaking. And it was with that thought he decided to go to his office and immediately write a letter of apology to the king.