A cold coming they had of it, at that time of the year.
Just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long one, in"
(Bishop Lancelot Andrews, Sermon)

The diligence bumped on into the rue Contrescarpe – Dauphine, the act of making the turn causing it to give a particularly violent jolt. Bonnets and tall hats were thrust unceremoniously into the roof, the baby in the corner woke up and began to bawl in indignation, and Inspector Louis Javert tasted blood in his mouth where he had bit down on the inside of his lip.

On of his travelling companions, a short, mercantile looking man, began to complain loudly in patois and curse the driver and the postillon. The woman next to him on the banquette nodded her agreement vigorously and Javert puffed out his cheeks and lowered his chin in expression that could have been meant to convey either agreement or resignation. Satisfied that his peers were of an accord with him, the provincial merchant went on to declare that he had though the postillon to be "a proper larrikin from the moment I clapped my eyes upon him ". Javert looked away, puffing out his cheeks again and running his fingers through his whiskers as he reflected that the little merchant could probably bore for Artois and would probably make most of his sales to people eager to shut him up.

Fifteen hours he had been with these seven other occupants of the couch's interior. Fifteen hours of unsprung, badly upholstered seats, of rain as weak yet persistent as a whining child. Fifteen hours of inconsequential chitchat to which he had made scant contribution, daydreaming in his corner seat, but had overheard anyway. Picking up other peoples' conversation came as naturally to him, after twenty years as an agent, as breathing, and was as much a matter of instinct. In truth, he had been listening to them even before they boarded the coach, as they made their farewells at Arras. People always said the same things on these occasions: Safe journey, come home soon, careful not to take cold now, I love you.

Of course, no-one had seen Javert himself off. He had made his own farewells, such as they were, in Montreuil. It would have been a lie for him to say then that he was sorry to see the back of the place, and it would have been equally a lie for most the good people of Montreuil to say they were sorry to see the back of him. So Pontellier and Jacquemin had seen him off, the three of them all as inexpressive as ever, and then he had gone on to Arras alone, and that was that.

Finally the diligence came to a stop in the yard of the Paris office of the Duclere coaching company. The yard was full of great yellow public carriages, piles of luggage, harried travellers, postillons picking their way through puddles so as not to spot their breeches, swearing stable boys bringing out fresh horses and leading away the spent ones to their stalls, the wretched creatures with their sides rank with sweat, ears drooping and their tales either cropped off or bound up in knobbly buns began to carelessly tumble out towards the end of the day like a tart's chignon.

It was into this choreographed chaos that the eight passengers from the interieur (not to mention the three from the coupé and six unfortunate standing passengers from the impériale) stepped down into, stunned and stupid from constant motion and fatigue and cold. They stamped up and down whilst waiting for their baggage to be unloaded in an attempt to restore their circulation, blowing on their fingers and rubbing their palms together. Javert was much as cold as the rest of them, despite having taken precautions against the weather. Recently, in the line of business, he had made this journey wearing only the ordinary layers of his uniform and a coach coat, and had sworn never to make that mistake again.
This time he had layered – two shirts, every waistcoat he owned, as many pairs of stockings as he could wear and still get his boots on, kerchief under hat, two coats under his carrick and cloak. He had stopped short of wearing two pairs of breeches. Just. This had produced in the additional benefit of shortening the tedious work of packing up his effects – a process he loathed and one of the few areas where his self-discipline nearly failed him. He had, over the past week, put it off as much as possible, skulking out on matters of urgency, hoping that M LeClerc would send up Emma to fold things properly in his absence. Wearing almost everything had saved him an extra box.

The trunks and bags had been heaved out of the impériale and their reclamation was being presided over by the postillon, cocksure and resplendent in his powdered wig and boots. "waiting, without a doubt, for his pour-boire, the rascal" thought Javert, shouldering one of his bags and fishing in his carrick pocket for his purse.

"Where", he said, pressing a coin into the man's palm, "might I find a fiacre?"

The powdered wig and boots did not even need to look at the coin in his palm to judge the weight and worth of it: "This way, Monsieur" he said, even deigning to take a couple of Javert's lighter parcels with him as he walked off.

Clustering around the entrance to the Duclere yard was a sad group of fiacres, drivers asleep on their boxes or scowling at the lamplighters and street urchins through the drizzle. Wig and Boots made a lordly gesture to one of these, put the boxes down in the mud next to one of the hackney's huge back wheels and sauntered off into the rest of his evening in search of sleep or sex or eau de vie, or whatever it is that postillons spend their pour-boires on. The driver, who looked like a peasant rather than a Parisian, was considerate enough to jump down and help Javert with his trunks. Javert retrieved a piece of paper upon which the address of his new lodgings – 7, rue Millepierres – was written in faded pencil, and read the address to the man

Settled in the coach, he let his mind wander. Although he was never a philosophical man at the best of times, his thoughts at that moment were almost disappointingly earthy and mundane. They centred chiefly on oysters. Oysters in a stew, thick and rich and over salted, a good matelote and black bread. Javert must have been very hungry indeed to let his mind dwell on a matter so far beyond the bounds of discipline and of such trifling importance as chowder, and there was doubtless an element of self torture in his musings since the likelihood of his being able to find anything like the fabled and imagined stew was slender. The likelihood of his finding anything much at all was, at this late hour, as slim as a beggar's dog. The rain seemed to have matured also, now coming down with the violent energy of an adolescent. He peered out of the window of the fiacre into this rain and the dark, but found himself thinking again about matelote with oysters and felt a tremor in his stomach. He leant back against the seat, inhaled deeply and pressed his handkerchief to his lips. Finding this in no wise helpful, he folded it back up and replaced it in the pocket of his frock coat.

And then they pulled up short outside of a corner house on a street just wide enough to admit the fiacre, and he realised they had arrived

"Rue Millepierres, Monsieur!" called out the cabbie and Javert stepped out of the carriage and began unloading his bags. The driver helped him to shift them onto the step of the corner house, accepted his payment with a nod, remounted his box and the hackney clattered off into the dark. There was a tattered piece of cord serving as a bell pull hanging down on the left hand side of the door, and this Javert pulled. Finding himself, five minutes later, faced with wet whiskers and a shut door, he gave the cord another hearty tug. The door remained shut and the house dead (although Javert noted a candle in the upstairs window. He rang again. Finally the door was opened a crack and Javert saw a candle. The candle was followed by a face, pallid, freckled and insolent

"Bonsoir," said Javert in a tone at once ironical, unimpressed and peremptory, folding his arms across his chest

"Prevert?" said the boy, opening the door properly and walking off back down the corridor in his stockinged feet, "This way."

Javert remained where he was, standing in the midst of his baggage. The youth, noticing that he wasn't being followed, turned back and drawled, " Well, come in why don't you?"

Javert looked down at his luggage then at the boy with a painful expression.

"Oh, that! Just come back for it. Not like anyone's going to crib it"

Javert thought about having it out with the cheeky whelp then and there on the doorstep, decided against it and slipped inside with as much of his baggage as he could manage at one time.

"Two flights up" said the boy, wandering off into the dark interior of the house and leaving, in an inexplicably thoughtful gesture, the candle behind him: "Blow that out and shut the door when you're don't will you?"

"Freluquet!" Javert hissed as he clunked up the stairs, glancing over his should with a look that would have made anyone who knew him in a professional capacity think about beating a hasty retreat. At the top of the second flight of steps he found his key hung about the door handle by another mouldy length of string. He opened the door, pushed his luggage into what he assumed, in the darkness, to be the centre of the room, and returned downstairs for the rest. On his last trip he contrived somehow to have a free hand with which to carry the candle and so, returning upstairs, he was able to see something that had been placed just to the side of his door and which may or may not have been their before. He stooped down and found half a loaf of cheap black 'Prison' bread and a small, wizened apple that had certainly seen better days.

Javert was not greatly disposed to investigate this miracle, although the part of his brain that remained permanently on duty noted that this was unlikely to be a gesture of repentance from the freckled boy.

Tearing into the bread with more enthusiasm than grace, he shifted the last of his boxes into his new lodgings, found his way into the bedroom, lay down upon the unmade bed and was asleep in minutes, secure in the knowledge that years of discipline meant that he could trust himself to wake to later than six.