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The window had been smashed, albeit it clumsily and there was little evidence in which he could pluck from the wreck of glass and breadcrumbs. Still, his men hovered around diligently, questioning citizens with stern tones and waiting cudgels. Not unsurprisingly, the masses of Montreuil claimed ignorance, but alongside that was a fainthearted disbelief that any scoundrel would dare rob from the bakery of the infamously generous Monsieur Madeleine.
Javert, for his part, is all too aware of Montreuil and its scummy underbelly. Poverty practically reeks through the town, bringing to rotten fruition the desperate and the daring and the desolate. Bread, it seems, is far too common a commodity for theft. The other bakers in the town stuff their bread full of sawdust, hay, anything to bloat the dough. But this bakery (and true to his word, this is the first time Javert has become aware of it after serving his position for three months) is considerably different.
Javert removes his hat as he enters the bakery. It is a pleasantry he would usually not administer in any kind of setting minus the office of a superior, but his co-worker had stuttered about the so-called gentlemanly nature of the shopkeeper. There is surely nothing squalid about the place; it’s clean, spacious, the counter high and the spoils shown off on shelves that sit behind it. Lines upon lines of every kind of bread; rye, wholegrain, black, white, brown, seeded, fruit, sweet. Beneath it there are trays and baskets of fat sweet buns, golden crusted baguettes, soft fresh rolls, warm croissants, crumbling cooling cakes, pastries stuffed with preserved fruit and sweetmeats. The walls are gently warmed by the thundering power of the ovens in the backrooms that spark and spit fire in the dark.
There is a service bell on the counter. Javert hits it too hard with one heavy swing of his paw.
The backroom door opens. A woman, thin and a touch pathetic, slips out. Her hair is cropped unnaturally short to her head, a few stray ashy curls dangling down by her ears. She appears to be dressed in a brand new blouse of transfixing white, and a rumpled grey skirt that rustles with each shift of her legs. Clutched in her trembling hand is a small green cap and upon seeing Javert, she releases a tiny strangled squeak and as if it could protect her, pulls the cap over her head and down to her ears.
Javert’s brow furrows. There is something about the woman, something in the pallor of her cheeks and at the protrusion of bone through her fingers that scrabble away at the hem of her skirt, and in the recesses of his memory, had once repeated the motion at the hem of his coat.
The woman parts her dry, cracked lips.
“Monsieur Inspector…”
“Fantine.”
A different voice. Older, deeper, more notably masculine.
There is flour clinging to the great burly stock of his arms and some has caught in the light mouse of his hair and dusted it a premature white. His height would possibly allow him to look straight at Javert’s chin, but he would have to tilt his head if he wished to maintain eye contact with the Inspector or anyone above five foot eight. None the less, the sheer power of his stature is enough to give him a sense of presence, for he was barrel chested and broad, wired muscle pressing against the coarse white cotton of his worker’s shirt. Despite the brutishness of his build, he possessed a mild face, pale green eyes seated within sun spotted skin and a mouth that seem disposed to smile at any given opportunity.
“Fantine,” A worn voice, yet softened by her name. It is enough to make the worst of Javert’s suspicions creep to ugly heights. “Do you mind going out the back? I need to make sure the new batch of rye breads are not on their way to burning.”
Fantine seems to wobble at his address and her pause causes Javert’s thick eyebrows to arch. Who would hire such a dim witted girl, one who splutters and shakes in her superior’s presence? If Javert’s subordinates had acted so soppily, he would have turned them out on their ear. But collecting herself, she offers Madeleine a weak smile and shuts the door on her way out.
Javert finds himself not quite ready to be faced with Monsieur Madeleine’s incoming glow.
“Inspector,” He rubs his hands together and upon turning to Javert, suddenly pauses. There is a snatch of something, wild and unguarded, in the center of his eye. Javert blinks, but then it has passed, for Madeleine continues with this well-rehearsed welcome. “How may I be of assistance this morning?”
Javert scoffs.
“You must be a heavy sleeper Monsieur. Your window was smashed during the night.” Javert steps back to reveal the damage. “Were you not aware of this?”
The way Madeleine reacts is almost pantomime. He sighs and shakes his head, brushing the flour off between his hands.
“Ah. I see desperation has struck again. Do you have any idea of the culprit?”
“No, Monsieur. Some witnesses claim they saw a smallish figure, perhaps a young boy, but as yet all leads are uncertain.”
“Was anything stolen?”
Javert frowns, and noting a fleck of flour staining the tip of his hat, flicks it away.
“Surely you would know, Monsieur Madeleine.”
“Ah, of course,” Madeleine’s smile, upon seeing Fantine, had been seamlessly gracious. Now, to Javert, it merely looked strained. Javert is not unused to this. “Let’s inspect the damage, shall we?”
The guards part as Madeleine crosses to the fractured corner of his display. He counts each loaf, his forehead overly lined with concentration. Javert’s eyes narrow.
“Nothing is missing,” He straightens back up, shaking his head. “Aside from the window, everything seems to be in order.”
“Monsieur, allow us to launch an investigation.”
“You have my thanks Inspector, but that will not be necessary.”
The surrounding officers exchange glances and seem to breathe out, relaxing their shoulders and loosening the bayonets strapped across their chests. A few eye the newly turned out batch of hot bichon au citrons now being lain on the counter by Fantine.
Javert remains exactly where he is.
“If you do not mind me saying so, Monsieur Madeleine,” Javert stands straight, pushing his hands behind his back. “This is a disturbance of public order. I humbly request again that we have your permission…” The word gives Javert the appearance of sucking a lemon. Fantine humbly averts her eyes. “To investigate.”
Madeleine however, has already turned back to his wares, and gestures to Fantine to offer the officers some of the fresh pastries.
“You say public disturbance, Inspector,” He says lightly. “I say a broken window.”
The remainder of the police force edge closer to Fantine’s brightly smiling face and the array of steaming pastries.
“Forgive me, Monsieur,” The knuckles of Javert’s hand, fixed firmly on the baton held under his arm, have tightened. “There seems to be a misunderstanding abroad. Your establishment has been violated…” He pointedly stares at his second in command, who coughs and strategically tries to hide a croissant behind his back. “…by a scoundrel of the depraved classes. Allow me to….”
“I have no desire to press charges, Monsieur Inspector,” Madeleine keeps in keen application his wholesome smile, but the edges of his lips have noticeably firmed. “We thank you for your devotion to your duty, but that will be all.”
Silence.
Behind the bulky figure of Javert, two guardsman share a look. One pushes the reminder of his bichon au citron into his mouth with one crumb flecked finger.
It is at that point that Javert smiles.
The guardsman chokes.
Outside in the early morning sunshine Javert mutters and grumbles to himself, thick fingers circulating the base of his top hat, whiskers bristled and eyes bright and beetle black. His men collect in concerned droves behind him; one helpful young man points quickly to a drop of marmalade on his friend’s coat, and the unfortunate struggles in his pockets for his handkerchief.
“And you…” Javert rounds on his subordinates, spit spraying from his bared teeth. “Did any of you ninnies, aside from being seduced by hellish spoils, collect any testimonies?”
“O-Of course sir…”
“W-We did Monsieur Inspector, from the pretty grisette…”
“The break in took place during the hours of…”
“Do not stand there and tell the whole damn street,” The inspector’s voice is tipping into a screech. An old female street sweeper looks up, bemused. “Do the blasted jobs the state pays you for and make your report at the station.”
Back at the window, Fantine flips the Closed sign to Open.
.
It is a week later when Javert decides to revisit the bakery again, for it is after all his duty to see that no further damage was made (and how completely impossible it was to make plainly sure at first due to the indignity of being denied the matters of a full investigation) and maybe to further question the head baker himself (and not to attempt to rat out his disloyal subordinates who have been hiding pastries and croissants and god knows what other teeth rooting condiments in their desks.)
The evenings are gradually becoming colder, and the clouds overhead are a truly withering grey. The shop is dark, the Closed sign nestling neatly in the window. But Javert is not one to be discouraged. He sharply raps on the door.
And waits.
A stray cat lightly pads across the cobbled street. Born of nothing but rattish fur and bone, it wobbles a little closely to Javert’s boot. He grits his teeth.
And waits a little longer.
The bell jingles as the door is pulled open in a sudden combustion of light. Silhouetted in its wake is a modestly dressed Monsieur Madeleine. His shirt is clean, but the cuffs are undone and his body is safely devoid of flour. His hair is a pale brown sweep to his shoulders, which is streaked with white at its sides.
Unsurprisingly he beams, as if Javert is some long lost brother coming in from the cold.
“Inspector,” Dutifully he stands to the side, leaving the entrance free and beckoning. “Please come in.”
Javert forgets that he meant to not remove his hat this time, but it rests by his side none the less. The interior is as warm and fresh and clear as ever. Inside, Madeleine bustles around and before he can stop him, has already begun to warm the kettle.
“Inspector,” He’s pulled out a chair. He’s pulled out a chair. “Please sit. I do beg your indulgence, but we have recently had a new arrival, and it has left us somewhat giddy.”
Giddy is a good word. For Madeleine’s eyes catch the light, wide and glossed with an unnaturally wholesome delight. Javert (who as well as removing his hat, has actually sat down as well, and he needs to stop checking his pulse at these easy revelations) pretends that it is polite obligation, as opposed to grisly curiosity, that sparks his question.
“An arrival, Monsieur?”
“Yes,” Madeleine sits two cups on the table, upon which Javert spies a brightly colored ribbon of girlish pink curled around a plate which judging by the remains of jam and crumbs, had once housed a cherry tart. “Fantine’s little girl. A delightful child, Inspector.”
Indeed it would seem, if Madeleine’s dreamy smile and starry eyes is anything to go by. But considering the hour, it would seem this revered child was now in bed, a revelation that soothes Javert’s oddly dimming senses. He could do without the blessing of sticky hands and infantile questions.
His thoughts are broken by the clink of pottery and milk jugs. Madeleine sits opposite Javert and pours the tea. In the middle of the table there has been placed a plate of gingerbread biscuits in the shape of Top Hats. Javert clears his throat and kicks his hat under his chair and out of sight.
“You may be wondering why I have come here today, Monsieur. My duty commands me to…”
“I was forewarned about your meticulous conduct, Inspector,” Madeleine rises his cup to his mouth, a ghost of a smile playing upon his lips. “And I have been expecting you, and I stand by what I said before. Considering how nothing was actually stolen, I believe it was an accident. Do you take sugar, Inspector?”
No, Javert certainly did not take sugar.
“You were forewarned about me, yes?”
“Ah, indeed. Your reputation precedes you. Please, have a biscuit. These are Fantine’s specialty.”
“And may I inquire, Monsieur Madeleine, who was it that warned you, so to speak?”
Madeleine suddenly stills, teacup half lifted to his chin. Javert’s smile is ferocious and entirely insincere.
“Oh, well,” He laughs lightly, the first show of strain showing in his smile. He lowers his head and places his cup back on the table. “Gossip, Inspector. General word of mouth. You are considered…”
“I am considered what?”
Madeleine, or so it seems to Javert’s eyes, looks like he is regretting his Christian charity. A small lick of pleasure warms slow and dangerous in Javert’s gut.
“Well, um…” Madeleine coughs into his handkerchief. Javert crooks an eyebrow. “Severe. But honorable.”
The clock idly chimes its hourly knell.
“I have no illusions about how I am viewed,” Javert drawls. Much to Madeleine’s shock, Javert leans back and reaches for his cup. “But severity is a trait most necessary in the subjugation of corruptive forces. It may be hard for a man of your temperament to comprehend, Monsieur, but it far too easy to be kind.”
Madeleine sits motionless. His face appears to darken, to sink inside itself, before he nods and stands. He turns on his heel and walks to the counter. Javert smirks, and between his tiger teeth, snaps one of the gingerbread top hats in half.
Madeleine has crouched behind the counter, the fluffed crown of his head barely visible.
Javert chews thoughtfully. The biscuit is infused with a delectably crispy tang. He pauses, and turning his head to the side, spits it out into his hand.
There is the sound of rustling, Madeleine sighing as he rises off his knees. Javert thrusts his soiled hand into his coat pocket, and shudders as half-digested gingerbread smears inside the lining.
A flash of black and white from the corner of his vision catches his attention. The raggedy feline from outside has nudged the window open with its nose. It jumps down, staggering over to the fire, arching its back and emitting a weak, contented yowl. It circles the heath, before curling down beside the grate with crossed paws and a smugly twitching tail. Javert becomes aware of a vein beginning to thud inside his head and he rises, reaching for his walking cane.
A quiet cough breaks his stupor.
The puffy white loaves are a luxury, befitting more the tables of the aristocracy then the bare wood furniture of the underclasses. And yet, this smiling fool is handing him such a loaf, wrapped loosely in brown paper and tied with string. The fresh, delicious smells make the muscles in Javert’s hands twitch.
“My wages are humble,” Javert’s voice shakes a tiny fraction. “I cannot afford such extravagance.”
Madeleine laughs. It is a warm, rugged chuckle, common enough for the working man yet imbued with the purity and pleasure of a chortling priest. Javert is aware of the barest hint of colour rising to his cheeks. They are near the ovens, which cook and bake and boil, even in the depths of summer.
“Inspector, please,” Madeleine is still holding out the delicacy, and it should be a sin for a man of his build to possess such a gentle tone. “It is a gift to repay your pains in maintaining the security of the town, and my humble bakery.” His lips curve, and Javert’s gaze (and how he curses himself for such hormonal stupidity) flicker down and then back to the temptation encased in the baker’s hands.
“It is my duty,” He replies. Strong, stalwart. A pious man amongst the sinners, especially in the presence of something so unapologetically wanton. If he had wished to be in the presence of something so obscene, he would have ventured down to the docks. “I require no other means of payment then in the fulfilment of the law.”
Madeleine smiles again, but it is smaller, and somewhat sad.
“Then indulge me, Inspector,” Snow begins to spit in brief, translucent catches of white, set upon the grey backdrop of the streets. The fire in Madeleine’s grate is full and voluptuous, the warmth a sweet massage on the air, the light a soft orange wash on the walls. Madeleine sits down by his counter, and reaches for one of his knives. “I trust you are off duty?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t, Monsieur.”
“And yet you are here,” Madeleine replies softly, and Javert frowns. But then the baker begins to cut the bread into large, soft slabs, crust and crumb falling away into tenderly baked slices that fold over onto the other. The man looks up, and nods at the opposite chair. “Stay a while, Javert.”
He hadn’t given Madeleine his name. But it matters little, for whatever excuse withers on his tongue at the use of his name on that low, mild voice, and the chair creaks as he once again resumes his seat at the end of the table.
.
The insides of Javert’s quarters are sparse. The walls are a dirty white, because he cannot afford to paint them, and walls are walls. They are perfectly sufficient, so why improve on such trivial matters? The floorboards are the same. They are cold in the winter because he doesn’t lay down rugs or blankets, but he has no need for decoration; he is not like the preening tartlet of his mother, who hung bells and scratchy, sparkling fabric and pictures of drooping sunflowers on the walls.
The reminder of the bread, kept fresh in paper, sits on his table next to his snuff box and growing pile of work. The hours trundle away in the dark as he sits at his desk, fingers flexed around his temples, his mind ponderous.
The girl. The new worker.
His mouth twists.
The whore who’d groped at his coattails, pleading to be allowed to stay on this corner, please monsieur, my clients come this way and I need the money, oh god I do, I have a child, a child I need to provide for, she is so sick monsieur, take pity…
And Madeleine himself, with his tough, tanned skin (odd for a man who spends his days inside pretty walls slapping down dough) with hands calloused and strong (Javert muses it is from wielding the large steel bread holders that slide the loaves into brick ovens.)
But there is something else, something in the bumped line of Madeleine’s nose, in the robust curvature of his back, in the slight drag of his left leg as he walks.
Javert reaches for the edge of the brown paper housing Madeleine’s charity. He tears an edge off it, and rolling it between his fingers, begins to puzzle the suddenly sharpening vestiges of his memory.
.
At night, Madeleine prepares his bread.
The ovens become cold. He kneads away until the dough is dry and useless, wedged beneath his huge fingers, pushed painfully up into his nails. The candlestick’s light flutters and sends spiraling shadows over the empty shelves dotted with stale crumbs.
He thinks of each loaf, each slice, each bite. How there hadn’t even been crumbs on the line of crudely cut plates, how the child’s skin shrunk down onto his own bones, how the little body had shook with each hack and hurl of that deathly cough.
His sister’s eyes shining up at him.
The window. A sheen of glass between poverty and wealth. The space between hunger and non-hunger.
Upstairs, Fantine sleeps, entangled with Cosette.
Over his wrecked dough, down in the dark, Valjean weeps.