A/N - Only one more chapter to go aftre this!! I'm not sure whether to be sad or relieved.

Monsieur René-Charles Hulot, president of the Arras assize court, stepped down from his carriage into the street at the corner of the Esplanade with no particular enthusiasm. It was bitter cold outside of the coach for a start, and he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and turned up his collar against the wind. He looked up at the fine stone house on the corner .Doubtless a maid was setting the fires and brewing tea. He saw a figure pass across one of the upstairs window - the one with the balcony - which might have been Marie (the parlourmaid)but might equally have been his sister. Monsieur Hulot shuddered, noticing that there was a dead plant in a earthenware pot on the balcony.
It certainly was very cold, but he had no desire to go inside as of just yet because, although there was certainly a warm fire and refreshments waiting for him, his sister, her husband and brood of more or less tiresome grown children were waiting also. His monthly visits to his sister were the bane of his life and an obligation he only fulfilled because forty years of legal work had endowed him with a vague and uneasy sense of duty (And because he happened to owe her husband quite a bit of money, but that was by the by). No, he certainly didn't want to go in just yet. Surely he was too early, anyway? He checked his watch - he was exactly on time. And he couldn't very well stand outside the front door doing nothing, could he?
He looked around the street, hoping that something exciting and important might catch his eye. So it was with the greatest delight that he spotted a tall man, almost as muffled against the cold as the president himself, walk out of a side street opposite and head off in the other direction. 'Perfect' thought René-Charles, 'The perfect, perfect excuse - if only it's him'.
He took a few steps forward and called out in a loud, good-natured voice: "Javert! Monsieur L'Inspecteur!"
The tall man turned and Hulot saw that he had been right. The inspector looked down the street, puzzled. Clearly he had not seen who had called him. Hulot, determined not to let his excuse and saviour escape so easily, called out again, waving an arm. The inspector started and then, to Hulot's relief, began to trot in the direction of the carriage.
"Monsieur le President!" Javert bowed low and removed his hat, " You are well, I trust? What brings you to Montreuil, Monsieur?"
"Family," said Hulot, glancing up at the corner house with an expression midway between distaste and fear, "For which I'm none the better"
"I'm not keeping you, sir?" Javert gestured to the house.
"Not at all." said the President, turning his back on the house and walking in the opposite direction, fully aware that politeness dictated that his inferior should follow him, "I'm glad I caught you, as it happens, Javert. I'd like your opinion on something - that Lemaitre business. Trial comes up next weeks and, to be honest, we don't know whether we're Arthur or Martha with it. I thought the opinion of a man on the ground, as it were, might clear things up somewhat."
Javert looked both surprised and highly gratified and launched into a long speech about exactly what he considered the important aspect of the case to be and to which Monsieur Hulot did not listen at all (although, if he had, he might have learnt something)
" - And that," concluded Javert, "only goes to prove my point that more money should be spent on policing rural areas."
"Quite, quite" said the president. He noticed that they had walked full circle and were nearly outside the corner house again. Hulot glanced up at the dead plant on the balcony, heard its few remaining fossilised branches rattling in the wind and said: "How is your daughter, inspector?"
Président Hulot had been most surprised to learn that Javert had a child. He himself had many children and grandchildren - he even carried a miniature of the eldest girl, which he never failed to show new acquaintances. It was after he had shown Javert this miniature, and before launching on his customary oration about the wonders of his own progeny and exactly why they were better than his greatly disliked nieces and nephews that he had found out about the inspector's own daughter. Since then, he had never failed to enquire after her when they met.
"She's fine - so I'm told. I take it that Monsieur le Président hasn't heard yet. I'd have thought they 'd be sorting the papers for the case at the court by now"
Hulot grimaced mentally. Of course he had heard about this ridiculous business and rather wishedthat Madeleine would just drop the whole thing. If not, then he had no intention of touching it with a stick unless he really had to - something for his deputy. Still, he reckoned that he'd better say something to salvage the situation. He didn't want to seem like a churl or - far worse - like he didn't know what went on in his own territory.
"That's what I meant - how's the child coping?"
"A lot better than I am, I dare say," Javert remarked blandly, twirling his can. For a long time he looked as if he was going to say something else, but he didn't so Hulot spoke instead
"I should worry if I were you. The whole thing's quite likely to prove to be a storm in a teacup. I'm sure most people - the court included - will feel as we would on the matter. After all, an inspector of police against some no-better -than -she-ought-to-be little tart, even if she is . . ." Hulot trailed off and frowned, "Then, there is Madeleine to contend with. One just never knows when he's in the case. Still . . ."
It had started to spit, large cold splodges of rain that spoke of a deluge to come. Sadly Monsieur Hulot looked at the sky then at the house on the corner of the esplanade.
"Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep my sister waiting any longer - no point prolonging the agony. Thank you for your views on the Lemaitre business - most informative I'm sure, inspector."
Javert bowed again in farewell and Hulot grasped hold of his sister's doorknocker rather as if it were a reptile. Before knocking he turned and said to Javert: "On the other matter, I really wouldn't worry. Why don't you speak to Madeleine yourself, man to man. See if you can't talk him out of the whole silly business"

Madeleine stood up and gazed out his office window, leaning with one hand on the sill. He had been doing something - reading, making notes, accounts. He could honestly remember what he had started out to do since he had spent at least the past half hour drawing little circles and squares in the margins of his ledger, examining his cuticles, tearing a piece of blotting paper into small strips and all manner of time wasting nonsense. He wanted to go and see Fantine, sensing that she would enjoy being with him more than he was currently enjoying being with himself.
The truth was that Madeleine's conscience was paining him. There was, of course, the matter of Fantine. Ever since that night back at the police post there had been the matter of Fantine. She, poor child, had forgiven him entirely, but Madeleine still heard her angry words at the police station, still feel each accusation as clearly as he had then felt her spit on his cheek. He felt that he had much to answer for - and answer for it he would. He was determined to do right by the girl and her child, no matter what.
But then there was the matter of Javert, the reason why Madeleine felt especially wretched that afternoon. He had just been reflecting that he had been unnecessarily harsh with the man. It might even be fair to say that he had been a little cruel. Now, to be cruel to anyone was bad enough, but, looking at things retrospectively, Javert really hadn't deserved it either. What right had he to assume that Javert had gone to the hospital to intimidate Fantine? And how likely as it that a man of the inspector's probity would do so anyway/? Although, in fairness, it had looked rather suspicious. Would Javert have made the same effort had Fantine been just any woman of the town rather than the mother of his child? He thought not. It was only when Fantine herself made no complaint of the man's conduct that Madeleine realised he might have been mistaken.
Truly, he had no wish to be unduly unpleasant to Javert. He did not like him, but he did respect him, he also pitied him, and . . . 'You're afraid of him, aren't you?' said the old, feral, convict part of Madeleine's brain. 'Yes, yes I am' he admitted to himself. 'Then why antagonise him?' asked the convict, 'You'll only make things worse for yourself if he has found you out.' 'I know. I can't help it - he just brings out the worst in me' Madeleine wondered why this should be, why he should have been so unspeakably rude to the inspector when both charity and self interest demanded patience.
An image came into his head. A local farmer was wont to keep his animals enclosed with high fences of sharp brambles, held up by metal rails. A young colt that this farmer was trying to break for the plough had taken it into his head to escape and , failing, had speared himself on one of the metal rails, hopelessly tangled in the brambles. The thing, recalled Madeleine, that had made rescuing him so difficult was that the stupid creature, instead of shying away from the pressure of the rail, had moved into it, impaling himself deeper. The more desperate his situation had become, the more he had moved into the pressure. Perhaps there was something of the same destructive instinct in his own behaviour?
Madeleine's reverie was interrupted by a stagy cough behind him.. He turned around and had to restrain himself from groaning aloud. "Why God?" he asked inwardly, "Why now"
It hardly need explaining who was standing in the doorway, clutching a dossier of papers.
The mayor sat down. Inside his brain Jean Valjean was marshalling Madeleine's faculties. 'Just get rid of him,' the convict in Madeleine urged, 'it's not wise for him to be here. If he's not here then you can't be rude to him - have him come back when you're more composed'
"I thought I'd said all I have to say, inspector" There was no anger in his voice, he merely sounded very tired.
Javert looked rather taken aback: "But Monsieur le Maire, it's not concerning that - "
"Be that as it may - I'm still very busy"
Javert stepped into the room just far enough to set his dossier down on the mayor's desk, then he left without a word
"You could come back tomorrow afternoon - " Madeleine called after him faintly.

By the time he reached his apartment Javert was shaking with fury. His hands were trembling so much that it took him a good few minutes just to unlock the door. Three times now, three times the mayor had treated him unjustly and humiliated him. The first time he had borne it because he had been in no fit state to do anything else. The second time he had borne it because he was obliged to, as the mayor's inferior. But this time, he decided, he could stand it no longer. Something had to be done!.
Slamming the door behind him he strode over to his desk and retrieved a small leather-bound notebook from one of the drawers. Laboriously he began to copy its contents onto sheet after sheet of paper, his quill making a noise akin to the squeak of grinding teeth. . As he addressed the envelope - toM Georges Chabouillet - a horrid sort of tight-jawed calm descended over him, the calm of one who just doesn't give a damn any more. Propriety, rank, his job, Cosette - none of that mattered any more. All that mattered at that moment was the contents of the letter. Javert gave the most disturbing of grins:
"The fat's really in the fore now, Jean Valjean!" he muttered.
Yes, Javert reflected, he would cheerfully give Lucifer his soul, just to see the Mayor' face when then put an iron collar round his neck