Montreuil-sur-Mer; she'd been told there was work here, and that had turned out to be true. But standing on the threshold of the factory, waiting in a line with complete strangers in the cold outside the factory, alone in this crowd, Fantine started to doubt her choice. When would she see her daughter again? How would she adjust to it here, to a strange place and to her separation from Cosette?

The factory bell rang, and she wandered in. "New workers over here," shouted a voice. Fantine pushed through the torrent of women flooding into the factory, and found her way to a desk, where she presented papers and signed in. As she was finishing, a man came up behind her, dressed like a bourgeois, with a neat cravate and a pressed coat.

"And these would be our new employees?" he asked, startling Fantine. She jumped a little, making one of the lines in the "x" she was marking in lieu of a signature run off the page. The man immediately noticed. "I'm sorry to have startled you. And what's your name?"

"Fantine. Monsieur," she added the monsieur hastily, self-conscious.

"That's a nice name, miss. Well, I'm sure that you'll be a great addition to the factory." He gave her a gentle smile. "Well, I have to get going." He tipped his hat, then left quickly.

She finished her form, then turned it in. The foreman stamped it. "See the boss already likes you."

"Who is he?" The question was out before she could even contemplate whether or not it was rude.

"Oh, Monsieur Madeleine. He owns the factory, and he's the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer. So he's pretty famous around here."

Well, at least he seems kind. It shouldn't be too bad, working for him...

It was a rather usual arrest; Javert, while on duty, saw a prostitute attack some pretentious bourgeois and scratch his face. That was all Javert saw, so of course it was his job to arrest the little wretch for violence.

With a sigh, Javert grabbed the prostitute by the arm, and led her towards the police station as gently as possible while still keeping up enough a of a pace to outrun the jackals that observed the whole scene. She didn't put up any resistance, she just trailed after the inspector like a balloon gets dragged around after the child carrying it. Fantine - he knew her name, they'd had run-ins before - had apparently attacked some bourgeois. The crowd even had the nerve to stand in front of them, eyes wide as if to drink in all the schadenfreude they possibly could. Javert shoved them aside - "move it" - without even an attempt at politeness, striding through the police station's entrance and right to his office, towards the back of the building.

Javert pried the slightly-rusted window open just a bit, trying to air out the smell of urban muck and the intangible, indescribable odour of sickness without letting the winter chill into the room. The miserable wreck he'd dragged in after him was huddled in the corner, not crying but shaking a bit, as if wracked by phantom sobs. "Well? Move closer to the heater. And for chrissake, take a chair, woman."

The prostitute, still quaking like a leaf, grabbed the one spare chair in the office and settled onto its very edge, as if poised to go running off at any moment. Javert closed the door. The interview shouldn't take long. He whipped an arrest report out of his drawer and began to scratch the details onto the sheet in blue ink. Fantine, meanwhile, started bawling and telling him her sob story. It was nearly incoherent, interrupted with coughs and sniffs. The woman was obviously a wreck; Javert knew he couldn't simply leave her on the street, and of course, she had disrupted the peace... so, reasoned Javert, it was off to a prison infirmary. He couldn't do any better for her or for justice.

Fantine finished her story. Javert felt compelled to answer. God, she was staring at him now, eyes like a kitten's staring up into his. She'd been begging, he realized, registering what he'd only half listened to. With a sigh, he decided to tell her the truth. "I can't do anything about it. No one can."

He led her out of his office and was marching her towards the cell block when a call from the front of the station stopped him. "Javert."

"Monsieur le maire?" It was none other than the mayor of M-sur-M, a rather determined look on his face. Javert was a little surprised and more than a bit confused by his arrival; why was he here now? But the mayor's presence seemed to have a far more intense effect on the prostitute he'd been booking. She drew herself up to her full, rather unimpressive stature, and shouted with vehemence, "Ah! So you're that mayor." With this, Fantine spat with volume and accuracy, right in the mayor's face. With a strange look that was half-calm and half-strained, the mayor wordlessly wiped off his face.

"Let this woman go."

The woman practically threw herself onto Javert, begging for him to save her from Madeleine, of all things. Chalking it up to her fever, he ignored this, instead concentrating on Madeleine. "You can't just let her go. She'll die in some gutter or continue to pollute the streets – it's better if she's in custody."

"She doesn't deserve jail."

"That's the court's decision, not yours." Javert jerked his right arm as if he was going to push the hapless woman off him, but, realizing that this would likely send tiny Fantine flying, he contented himself with a mere scowl directed at the mayor. "It's absolutely unjust if I let some of these -" he paused, trying to find a polite word - "streetwalkers continue and arrest others. This woman has received enough warnings. And now she's shown potential for violence."

"I know you're fair, Monsieur l'Inspecteur -" Fantine continued her soft, whining pleas, but the men argued over her.

"When unfairly assaulted," rejoined the mayor. "Anyone has potential for violence when forced into that situation. Might as well call everyone violent."

"Animals lash out when they're assaulted or insulted; people should have better sense. There's no good excuse for violence in the streets."

"But surely there's something you're willing to do for her. I know you're an honest man, Javert." Now the prostitute's voice rose, an almost screechy pitch like a panicked bird; the mayor was practically yelling over her.

"That's exactly why I do not play favourites. She'll go to a prison's infirmary; there she'll wait for trial, and then serve whatever sentence the judge deems necessary. It satisfies justice and keeps her from dying on the street." His tone brooked no argument, and his words were punctuated by yet another confused sob from Fantine, interrupting her pitiful monologue.

Madeleine's expression went from patient and pitying to just a little irritated, but his tone of voice remained soft and calming, like a priest visiting a hospital. "Can there be a third option? At least I can take her to the private hospital I fund? Just until she's healed, then you can have her." I'll support her daughter while she's in jail, if that's what it comes to, thought Madeleine. You stubborn, stubborn man, Javert.

"No. I can't spare anyone to guard her."

"Guard her? She can't walk, let alone escape. We both know all too well that the prison system's conditions are not fit for the sick, not even the infirmaries..." Madeleine trailed off, realizing he'd just referred to his own knowledge of the prison system; Valjean knew those things, but Madeleine wasn't supposed to. He just hoped that the inspector would put it down to an assumption or hearsay.

"There are those who would help her escape." Javert's tone was dangerous. Is he implying that I would? wondered Madeleine.

And so the conversation continued. Javert reminded the mayor of what his detainee had done, the mayor insisted that her "victim" had been in the wrong, Javert reminded him that she'd just insulted him. And so on. Eventually Madeleine was forced to pull rank on the insistent policeman, to the point of naming specific laws that allowed him to do so. "Release her. Consider it an order from the mayor." The woman in question had stopped her monologue a few moments ago, and now she just sort of swayed on the spot between the arguing officials, obviously extremely confused.

Javert sighed. "Monsieur le maire." It was said with resignation and maybe a little befuddlement. Why was the mayor so interested in this, this – common whore? He retreated to his office, not sure what was going on but completely certain that it was no longer his problem. Madeleine's odd charity cases were not his business.

Madeleine, in the meantime, had gently collected Fantine into his arms, half-carrying the woman along with him. "Sh, sh," he soothed. "I'm taking you to hospital. Relax, you're in good hands."

"Monsieur, monsieur, I'm so sorry for spitting at you, I hope you forgive me. I insulted you, the mayor of all people -"

"Think nothing of it, you were feverish. But may I say that you have fantastic aim."

"You argued for me at the police station. And that's how I repay you, monsieur, I'm so sorry."

"Think nothing of it." His tone was kind yet insistent. He gently pushed her shoulder to encourage her to lay back, and she did, satisfied that it was behind them but still embarrassed. "I'm sorry, but I have to go deal with something." Fantine almost objected – she wanted more company, to thank him more, to get to know the one who'd helped her so much - but it occurred to her that it would be rude to take Madeleine's time as well as his charity. After all, he was the mayor. "You're in good hands with the sisters."

"I'm in good hands with you, Monsieur," she said earnestly.

He just smiled and tipped his hat, then turned to leave.

"Monsieur!" Madeleine turned back, eyebrows raised like a question. She didn't want to be demanding, but she had to ask this one thing. "When can I see Cosette?"

"Very soon, mademoiselle. As soon as you are well."

Their next few meetings went like this as well. Madeleine started to spend more and more time with Fantine, talking, sharing meals or just sitting together as he read or caught up on work. Usually, their time was filled with amicable conversation; they got to know each other. For example, Madeleine learned that Fantine hated eating fish; she found that he loved potatoes. He was skilled at chess, she liked card games. The mayor discovered that Fantine crinkled her nose when she was happy; she found out that Madeleine tended to look at his watch when he was nervous, or avoiding a question. He did seem to avoid the occasional query about his past, but she mainly found this out because there was one question he always seemed to dodge, yet she asked it at the end of every meeting: "When can I see Cosette again?"

The answer was always an equivocation. "When the doctor says you're fully healed." When this became closer and closer as the physician's reports steadily improved, the response changed to "When the time is right."

By early March, Fantine was almost well again. Her cough had slowed, her breathing improved. The doctor took Madeleine aside, told him that she would be healthy enough to go in a week or less, but not to tell her, as excitement could cause a relapse.

Yet she got excited nonetheless. The mayor left for several days, without giving anybody many details. Fantine, half out of hope and half as an assumption, figured that he couldn't be doing anything else but getting Cosette for her. What else could it be? Fantine was practically humming with excitement by the time Madeleine returned to see her again.

And two days later, she was still thrilled.

He returned, without Cosette. When Fantine asked about her daughter, and where the mayor had been, again he deflected. He just wanted to see her, he said, because he'd miss her.

"Why will you miss me?"

"I haven't been fully honest with you, my good mademoiselle, and I'm sorry for that. But I want to say goodbye, and see you, because it makes me happy to see you healthy. I swear you'll get to see Cosette."

It was good to know that he was as fond of her as she was of him, she thought, but before she could get out another question as to what was going on, footsteps, heavy, quick and loud, caught her ear. The door burst open, admitting a familiar policeman. He looked like six feet of pure anger – fists balled up, face red, he came into the room with his finger pointed straight at her. Wait, no, straight at Monsieur Madeleine. What was this?

"Monsieur, I did nothing wrong," shouted Fantine, more out of habit than anything.

"Does somebody have a guilty conscious?" asked Javert, his eyebrows rising. "No, I'm here to do something that should have been done long, long ago. Jean Valjean, you're under arrest." Javert's look of satisfaction reminded Fantine of a cat swallowing a canary. Who is Jean Valjean? she wondered. Has Javert gone mad?

He proceeded to arrest the mayor. Arrest the mayor? Not her? The yelling match between the men made as little sense to her as the last one had; this time because of what was being said, as she was perfectly alert. The inspector kept calling the mayor "Valjean." A startled and pale Fantine found her voice quickly enough to interrupt the dispute, managing to shout over both of them. "Who is Valjean?" It wasn't directed to either of them, as if she was talking to the walls or herself.

Javert, however, answered in what could only be described as a growl. "This man is Jean Valjean. This old convict, who broke parole years ago. He's been deceiving us all with false names and a hidden history -"

She felt like she could faint, but of course that would only make things worse. She blinked, as if clearing her vision could clear her understanding. It did nothing.

Valjean – apparently that was his name, his real name – leaned towards Fantine. She started to move away from him, this familiar stranger. To spend two months with a person, and not know their real name – but the look on his face, earnest and honest as an open book, encouraged her to listen. Trust me. She could tell that he wanted her to trust him despite what others said of him; just how he had trusted her in the police station that January. So she returned that favour by leaning towards him, listening to a brief whisper: "Meet me at my house. Eleven o'clock. We'll go get Cosette immediately."

Why should I believe him this time? He's been saying that for two months. But something, she wasn't sure what, compelled Fantine to trust this man's word yet again. Perhaps it simply that this was her last chance to make it to Montfermeil, see Cosette again: she had no money, and who else would pay her way? What did she have to lose, save the last shred of her pride?

So she showed up, and waited for him at his home, along with Soeur Simplice, her nurse from the hospital, who hovered over her nervously, claiming that excitement could cause her to relapse. She waved the nun off impatiently; it was worth it, for a chance at seeing her daughter. Anything would be. Valjean was at least good to some of his word, and appeared at the promised hour. He was barely in the door when Fantine, not able to contain her mix of curiosity and anger, started in on him. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Monsieur -"

He was obviously not used to being talked to like this, but if he was shocked, he hid it well. Simplice didn't – her look of horror seemed almost exaggerated. "Yes, I certainly do, my dear Fantine. I hope you'll forgive me for lying to you."

"I want the truth. Are you really Jean Valjean? An escaped criminal?"

Sheepishly, the mayor replied, "well, not really escaped. They let me out on purpose." There was a dead silence in the room, so Valjean continued just to fill it. "I broke parole, yes. And my name is really Jean Valjean. Please understand that there's a lot to this story – I wasn't arrested for anything big in the first place, I stole a loaf of bread to try and feed my sister's children. They were starving, you see, and I was desperate. I was sentenced to five years in the bagne de Toulon, but it was extended because I tried to escape. Well, repeatedly, but at that time I wasn't really myself – prison life, it knocks everything that's human right out of a person." He had a faraway look in his eye. "When I got out, I was rejected by most people, and for good reason. The bagne had made me cruel. I was a nasty piece of work, angry at the world. I don't know where I would be if a true friend had not shown me mercy and kindness, had not forgiven me." He sighed. "And now I ask your forgiveness."

Fantine didn't quite know how to respond. That was quite a story, and she somehow felt that it was true. If he couldn't effectively lie about when he'd get Cosette for her, how could he sell this so well? It wouldn't add up. And so, who was she, a prostitute, to judge someone who had done something to save his family? It was quite similar to her, really, and she wanted to somehow express that she got it. But before she could collect her thoughts to respond, there was a knocking on the door. Valjean waved to Fantine to move into a nearby room. It seemed to be his office, with a paper-strewn desk and a large armchair. They waited in silence to see who was there as Valjean's portiere answered the door. "Bonsoir, madame. I am here looking for the convict Valjean -"

"Quickly, quickly. We need to hide from them, here..." he pressed her towards the corner of the room, and she went along with it. The inspector's long shadow appeared before he did, filling the doorway. Simplice went to the office door, and met the policeman when he came toward that end of the house. With a sort of mandatory politeness that lacked any warmth, Simplice answered his questions. The final one was the real turning point. "Is Valjean here?" Meanwhile, Fantine and Valjean were pressed up together, chest to chest and face to face, in the shadowiest corner of the room.

Valjean was sure he was done for. Here was the most honest woman he had ever met, and her honesty would demand that she tell this face of vengeance that called himself Javert that he was here. Her virtue would demand that he be cast into darkness again; kind of ironic. He concentrated on stillness, waiting for the worst.

"No, I haven't seen him."

It crossed Fantine's mind to scream, to reveal the sister's lie. But what good would it do? Again, she would lose her chance to get Cosette back. That's what she told herself, but on a certain level, she didn't really want to think about what would happen to Valjean if she screamed. Why condemn a good man?

"Bonsoir, soeur."

Javert was gone. But his shadow would follow them for a long time.