The report passed across his desk like any other report: a short notice delivered by the commissaire, describing all the deaths in his quartier that deserved further investigation due to suspicious circumstances. Since the uprising, Chabouillet had been inundated by such reports, and this one would have made its way directly into his clerk's hands if not for a single entry at the bottom of the page.

Male, early 50's, 1.88 m., 90 kg., hair: gray-brown, eyes: unknown
Occupation: police inspector
Cause of death: drowning (Seine), poss. suicide?
Additional remarks: body bears a red star-shaped birthmark on right hip, no signs of struggle, hat and boot-prints found on parapet near Pont au Change

A chill prickled down Chabouillet's spine. Abruptly, he crumpled the report.

His assistant glanced up in surprise when he marched out of his office, coat and cane in hand, a grim expression tight across his face.

"Monsieur Chabouillet, is there something you need?"

"Tell Michault to reschedule our meeting. In fact, cancel all my meetings today. I have a... family matter I must attend to."

"B–But Monsieur, what about the Prefect? What about – "

Chabouillet did not answer as he hurried outside. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the entrance to the Morgue, shoving past the crowds of spectators who milled like flies around the glass displays. The attendant, Ethan, spotted him quickly and rushed over to greet him.

"This body. Do you have it?" Chabouillet pointed to the last line of the report.

Ethan squinted from behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. "That the ol' policeman they pulled outta the Seine? Yeah, jus' laid him on the slab. Commissaire said he looked familiar, but y'know how it is when the fish get to 'em."

"Take me to him," Chabouillet snapped.

He recognized Javert immediately by the angle of that whiskered jaw, still hard and unyielding even in death. Long chestnut-gray hair streamed in tangles down the pale forehead, proud nose, the broad muscular shoulders and neck. The cheeks were sunken in, the soft lips eaten away. Those sharp blue eyes that once gazed up at him so beseechingly were now black hollows.

"Didn't have much on 'im." Ethan waved at the mud-stained clothes, which hung on a hook beside the marble slab. "Jus' the cudgel, uniform, an' a few coins in his pocket. Oh! And a snuff box, here." He pushed the small silver case into Chabouillet's hand. "Pretty fancy lil doodad. Musta been a gift, what with the engraving on it. A. J. C... wonder who that coulda' been?

Chabouillet's grip shook. "Get these gawkers out of here!" he growled, his voice close to breaking. "And shut the curtains. I want no disturbances."

Ethan took one look at Chabouillet's furious expression and left to do as he was told.

In the silence that followed, Chabouillet allowed his cold mask to slip, revealing the harrowing grief that twisted underneath. Gently, he replaced the snuff box on the table by Javert's head. A gift indeed – a graduation gift on the day his protégé became a full inspector. He'd hesitated to have his initials etched on the bottom, but Javert had assured him with his customary grave devotion that, even if anyone were to guess its origins, Javert would be proud to carry his patron's name against his breast. Chabouillet scrubbed a palm across his face, blinking back the unseemly tears that threatened to spill. Gingerly, he cupped the pallid chin and stroked a thumb through the graying whiskers. How long was it since he'd made this same gesture with Javert on his knees, gazing up at him with quiet reverence as he served in the only way Chabouillet asked him to serve?

The memory drew a pained sob from his lips.

Chabouillet ran his fingers down Javert's chest and ribs, studiously avoiding the nakedness between Javert's legs as he caressed the birthmark that blazed on the other's hip: a red shooting star, a streak that tapered from thigh to belly. When he first discovered it, he had teased Javert gently ("Is this why you gaze at the stars so often?"), earning him a rare blush across that normally stoic face. Now, this same mark was all that identified Javert's bare body. There were no outward injuries, no indications of a fight. The commissaire speculated on a fall from the Pont au Change. Given the height of the parapet, Chabouillet could only see one explanation: suicide.

"You fool," he whispered. "Christ, Javert, why? Why? Why did you not speak to me?"

Through all their years together, it was only in Javert's death that Chabouillet found it inside himself to kneel before his protégé.

Author's Note: With the help of anon, I discovered that Chabouillet's real name is André-Joseph Chabouillé. He was the chief of the 1st bureau, 1st division in the Prefecture of Police, which handled suicides and accidental deaths. The Paris Morgue was a ghastly place in the 19th century: unknown bodies were placed on public display, and crowds stopped by regularly to gawk and gossip. I don't know if it was possible to get any privacy, but for the sake of this story, I'll assume Javert's body was kept separate so Chabouillet can say his good-byes in peace.