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I thought I would test people's reaction before I post it on a fanfiction.net. So if there is anything wrong (cannon wise) and you spot it. Tell me and I'll alter my story to lean to it. Okay so here we go

Chapter 1

April 14, 1799
The Young Javert stood in the office of Chief Inspecteur Laframboise de Poitiers. He walked about the grand office with a look of deep wonderment. The truth of the room was that there were so many breath taking objects inside the office that it was impossible for your eye to not be attracted. The walls were lined with mahogany book shelves which were full to burst with books covered in different shades of leather. What of the walls that weren’t lined with shelves were cluttered with degrees, paintings, and framed newspaper clippings. There was a desk in the room that was over loaded with papers, manuals, books, quills, parchment, pencils, and pens. There was a small area cleared of everything right in the front center of the desk. It would be obvious to anyone who lived in organized society that that was the area in which the inspector would write and work. In the center of the room there was a round table with more books and papers on it. Accompanied by the books and paper there were several different sizes of irons and a ring of keys. The objects didn’t end there however. In the clutter of everything night sticks and revolvers could be seen. The floor was originally stone but was covered with rich red wood planks. In the center of the room (under the round table) there was a gypsy-made rug with tints of purple, maroon, and green. Javert would be one to know all about gypsy custom and antiques. He could definitely state, for a fact, that the rug before him was a gypsy made. He would know so well because he was part gypsy himself. He wasn’t proud of it, of course. In fact when leaving town he would be very careful to make sure that no one would see him leave. This way he would have to tell no one he was going to the gypsies’ settlement, to his home.

Javert kept his hands clasped behind his back to make sure he didn’t touch anything. It would be a terrible first impression to break something of his senior officer’s. Actually Javert wasn’t even an officer yet. This was why he was there, to have his first job interview. His mother wouldn’t be happy, of course. As a matter of fact he was jeopardizing the very respect that his mother had for him by applying to be a man of the law. She was one of the only two people he knew of that did respect him. There were he and his mother. The others he lived with (the gypsies) didn’t see him in high regard because he was only half gypsy. He also didn’t carry himself as a gypsy. For this he was shunned from their society, exiled from acceptance. His mother’s theory was that if he put more effort into his culture he wouldn’t be so hated by his peers. His mother was oblivious to his gaining new peers, the police force.

There was a snap that echoed throughout the clamped office resulting in Javert’s immediate attention to its source. To his momentary shock it was the chief inspector himself. Javert lowered the upper half of his body in a bow of respect whilst he removed his tweed flat cap.

“Good afternoon Inspector Laframboise,” Javert said keeping his eyes at the floor.

“You must be the new applicant,” Monsieur said carelessly walking around his desk and sitting in the velvet-cushioned chair. “Sit,” he said gesturing to an identical chair to his own across the desk.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Javert said awkwardly sitting on the edge of his seat. This was when the young man risked a glance at the man before him. He was much different from what he had pictured. Javert had pictured him to be a very tall and burly man, one who could enforce the law with one glare. What lay before he was a thin man of average height with grey hair that was tied back with an elegant black bow. He had no facial hair save a layer of dark around his mouth and below his rather long and pointed nose. Under hie eyes were purple lines that could have given the sun set a run for its money. The man’s clothes were of usual police men. He was garbed in a dark-blue suit with a shoulder lap of equipment with black boots. Over all he was an average over worked man in a seat of power. He moved in a slow manner that resembled something with effort. He read Javert’s resume with careful detail and would throw a glance at him every now and then. Javert did his best to not pay the man’s expressions any heed for he was worried of what he might see. After some time the inspector spoke.

“So, your name is Emile Javert, is it?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Javert replied determined to keep his nerves at bay.

“Well, you have very little experience, none actually. That’s never good, and a gypsy! Well aren’t we quite the abomination,” he said turning the page of Javert’s resume and personal information. A serge of anger ran through Javert at his being called an abomination. He certainly wasn’t an abomination! He was ready to defend himself when he remembered whose presence he was in. Instead he swallowed his choler and looked at the floor again. Javert wished to point out that he was only half Gypsy but felt that stating he was a mutt wouldn’t help him much.

“And you have no father. I don’t think you could have a worse background m̀boy. Heritage is very important for someone who holds a position of power you know? We can’t just put the law in anyone’s hands. Your hands seem unworthy to me, what say you to that?”

“Monsieur should do what he thinks is best,” Javert said glaring at his feet. There was his damn past ruining him again. If he had a sou for every time his parentage held him back he would be a rich man

“That is a very good answer. Who ever taught you how to speak taught you well,” he said staring down at Javert’s papers. Javert rose his chin at this in some form of dignity. He had complimented him. That was a start of things trailing in his favor. “What do you know of the law Javert?” he asked. Javert opened his mouth to say something when the door burst open. A man speaking a rapid foreign burst in.
“Monsieur! Indfinde sig rask! Jacques Legrand er truende hen til hoppe af den bro!”

“Calm down Madsen, what’s going on?” The inspector asked rising from his chair. Javert was staring at the man, who was speaking the foreign language again. It sounded like Scandinavian.

“Jer skal indfinde sig! Come quickly!”

“All right, lead the way. Stay put Javert,” Inspector Laframboise said following the, what Javert concluded to be, Danish man out of the room. Javert drew a sigh and covered his face with his hands. This was a disaster! Perhaps being a man of the law was a mistake.

The young man stood up and walked to the only window in the office, which was behind the desk, and peered out of it. He could see a brawl of some kind mingling around the bridge not ninety yards away. He looked harder and could see Inspector Laframboise being lead to the crowd by the Danish man, Madsen. Javert looked at the man on the bridge and saw it was a boy no older than fourteen years of age. Javert felt sympathy for the boy below. The boy probably thought there was no other way out. It was always sad when people ran themselves that far into the ground. Javert returned back to his seat not caring much to see wether the boy did it or not.

Around forty minutes later Inspector Laframboise returned looking rather discouraged. Javert was guessing that the boy jumped.

“May I ask what was the situation?” Javert asked looking up at his charge.

“There was a suicide on the bridge,” He said fecklessly.

“Was it a jumper or an already deceased suicide, Monsieur?” Javert asked portraying his curiosity but attempting to make it seem as though he hadn’t made to look at things that weren’t his business.

“It isn’t your place to ask,” Laframboise said sitting down in his chair. “Now where were we? — Oh yes! What do you know of the law, Javert?”

“I know not to cross its boundaries,” the younger man said worried about what impression his answer would have on his superior.

“That is an answer fit for a king,” Laframboise said closing Javert’s information. “I’ll get back to you, Monsieur,” the inspector said standing up. “ Is your address in here?” He asked holding up his small file.

“No, it’s not,” Javert said glaring to the side of the room.

“Well give it to me so that I can send you your letter of acceptance or rejection.”

“I don’t have an address,” Javert said shame crawling into his face. The inspector knew he was part gypsy but he didn’t know that he lived with them. That was even more unbearable to think about. Javert looked up at Monsieur and saw a very vexed expression on his face.

“Then how am I supposed to get in contact with you M̀Boy?” He asked placing Javert’s file down on the desk and holding his hands behind his back.

“I’ll come back here. Just tell me when!” Javert said urgently. He didn’t want to appear problematic as he was already coming out to be.

“That’s barely the problem Javert,” The Inspector said walking around the desk to the side of Javert’s chair. The boy made to stand but the inspector laid one hand on his shoulder and lightly pushed him back down. “Are you not telling me something that would be crucial to my decision in hiring you?”

Javert resisted the urge to play with the lose cloth on his knee in his extreme discomfort. He wouldn’t give eye contact to the man who was beside him. He was too ashamed. It was shaming because a lot of crime that happened in Poitiers was do to the low-life gypsies. The people in which he came from.

“Do you live on the streets?” He asked trying to get the scrap of information out of Javert.

“In a manner Monsieur. I live with The Gitanons— they’re my clan,” he said staring at the floor. He could feel the red flowing into his face. It was a sensation that Javert hated. It was as if someone had thrown warm water on his head while a draft was in the air and it was trickling throughout his body as the invisible winds blew him cold and numb.

“You live with the gypsies?” He asked relatively shocked. He was partly surprised because Javert was well dressed (not elegantly, but not horribly either) and not coated with mud and slime, as the other gypsies were.

“Yes Monsieur,” Javert said his face hot.

“Come back tomorrow morning, at about seven, and I’ll have a verdict for you,” Inspector Laframboise said walking back to his side of his desk. “You are dismissed Emile Javert,” he said grabbing a blue feathered quill and scribbling something down on a peace of parchment.

Javert almost ran out of the room with his want to escape the ill atmosphere that was built up in the room. He placed his tweed flat on his head as he walked out of the precinct to the welcoming of the beginning of dusk. The breeze felt nice on his warm face as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to walk to the clan de Gitanons. He rubbed his temples with one hand as the bridge came into view. There were still many people there from the suicide before. The boy was no where insight so Javert came to the conclusion that the child jumped, one less person for the government to worry about. Javert went very unnoticed as he walked to the end of town until a face was right in front of his own.

“Ello’ there Emile!” Said the voice of Bernadette Lovel, Javert took one large step back at her instant appearance.

Bernadette was a very slim, shorter girl with straight brown hair that flipped out at the end. There was dirt speckled around her pink cheeks and small nose. Her eyes were a beautiful shade of green apposed to her basically colorless lips. Her lips were a very light shade of pink, nearly the same as her face. The teeth behind those lips were a faint yellow from the untidy brush work they have had in the past. Her dress was dark green with white lace on the end and around the boat neck collar which exposed one shoulder more than the other. The skin that was shown there was just as dirt-speckled as her face.

“What the hell are you doing here, Bernadette?” Javert asked lazily.

“Tha’ aint no way to talk to a lady, Emile and ya know it! ‘Aveǹt ya mama eva’ taught ya a thing?”

“Many things, as a matter of fact, each thing more useless than the last,” Javert said beginning to walk again. Bernadette walked with him for they lived in the same place because Bernadette was, in fact, a gypsy.

“I like ya motha’,” She said playing with an untied bow from the waist of her dress. “Teachin’ me my letters, she is,” explained Bernadette.

“Oh, well isn’t that nice,” Javert said annoyance extremely apparent in his voice.

“Why is ya always so cross?” Bernadette asked.

“Because I’m constantly surrounded by idiots!” Javert said as if the answer was obvious.

“Hmm, wot was ya doin’ in town any way? Was ya Meetin’ some mysterious woman?” She asked playfully looking up at him with big bewildered eyes.

“Certainly not,” Javert said with a tint of an insult. The merest mention of him going off with some woman, whom he was too embarrassed to show (so he saw her in secret), was insulting. Honestly, what kind of man did this girl take him for?

“Then wot was ya doin’?” She asked grinning a yellow smile at him. Javert looked down at her with a vacant expression on his face.

“That’s my business,” said he.

“Oh, thas’ no fun!” Complained Bernadette. “Ya migh’ as well go on an’ tell me wot ya was doin’. It aint like you’ve got anyone else to tell. If ya aveǹt noticed I’m ya only friend,” the girl said frustrated that even though she was the only person, of gypsy decent, that was civil to him, she would receive such ill treatment. One would think he would be more grateful and temper mantle towards his only friend. In the head of Javert she was nothing but a polite acquaintance.

“Whoever said we were friends?” Javert asked shock slightly present in his voice. Javert didn’t know where Bernadette got these notions from. As far as he was concerned he had no friends but that was how he preferred it.

“I jus’ thought since I was the only one tha talks ta ya I was ya friend!” Bernadette said with shock in her voice.

“I don’t ask it of you to talk to me, Bernadette. You simply do it because, oh I don’t know, you want to!”

“How can ya be so– so mean?” Bernadette asked looking at him offended. The both of them had stopped walking at this point. They were out of town by this time and about a ten minute walk from their home. The air was silent, save the low buzz of the bugs around the bog on the right.

“I’m not being mean! I’m telling you the truth. If your mentality isn’t developed enough to take in the truth then we have nothing at all in common. Last I heard, friends generally have one or two things in common,” he said as a matter of factually. At that Javert began walking again with his back erect and his hands in his pockets.

“Emile Javert, ya apologize to me this very minute!” Bernadette said running in front of him and stomping her foot. Javert looked at her as if she would laugh any minute but she didn’t. A tinge of remorse ran through Javert at how hurt she looked. However that feeling left as quickly as it had come.

“Bernee I don’t know what’s gotten into—“

“Don’t spoon feed me tha, bull! You owe me an apology!”

“For what, informing you that I don’t see you as any more than a person I know the name of? I don’t consider you a friend, Bernadette. I consider no one as a friend,” He began to walk away. “Nothing personal you understand, nothing personal.”

“Right,” she said as he brushed by her. “Nothing’s personal with you,” she said kicking the dirt and watching him leave. He would just never see her the same way as she saw him.

Javert walked in silence without most thought. It wasn’t usual for him to simply walk and not think but his head was blank for now. The gypsies’ settlement came into view in a good ten minutes and thoughts began entering his head again. He couldn’t tell his mother about his soon-to-be-new position. She hated the police. They had, in his mother’s own words, ruined her life by taking the love of her life [Javert’s father] away from her. She had gotten arrested herself from prostitution. She was two months along with Javert when that happened and ended up giving birth inside the jail. The birth of a son whom she called Emile after her father and Javert after his French father. She got out of the jail the day after she gave birth. It was amazing the days lined so nicely.

The boy walked into the settlement to the bustle of many people and the noise of less than was present. None of them made too much noise do to the fact that the police watched them so hard. As he walked by the different caravans and tents, he went unnoticed by some and then ridiculed by the boys in his own age group. No one really picked on him but the other teens of nineteen years.

“Where have you been about, Javert?” One of them yelled coming toward him with a group of about four other boys. Together they were five. “Haven’t seen you around today?”

“I’ve been in town,” Javert said trying to walk forward again.

“Uh-wow, where is you going in such a rush? We haven’t got to talking today,” he said a maniacal smile on his face as he held out a hand to hold Javert back. “Why are you always in town so much? We not good enough for you here?” He asked looking at Javert with an insane tint in his eye. Javert, however, said nothing. “Oh so that is it?” He said with mock surprise. “You’re too good for us? You’re too good for your mother, She aint good to you, Javert?” The boy asked very closely to Javert’s face. “Because your mother was very good to me.”

Javert looked at the boy, who was called Besnik, with a wild look in his eye. He wasn’t sure if the boy was mocking him or if he was serious.

“Oh, I think I’ve gotten to him,” Besnik said to the delight of the other guys around him.

“Let me through,” he said pushing Besnik aside and continuing on his way.

“Hey, mutt, you’ve forgotten something!” Besnik yelled running over to him. He quickly placed one hand on Javert’s shoulder and brought him forward as he slammed his fist into his stomach. Javert doubled over and fell to the ground in the attempts of staggered steps. The boys howled with laughter as Javert fell to the ground. Javert didn’t notice them laughing, however. The only thing he could concentrate on was the heavy pain in his stomach and his inability to breath at the present. Besnik and his gang then went away still brushing away the tears of laughter.

Javert swallowed hard and stared at the ground with one hand on his thin stomach. When his breath returned to him, he got up slowly. His eyes traveled around his onlookers in minuscule embarrassment. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and began walking to his home.

Javert entered his mother’s caravan to a low hum and the burst of musk incense. The air was hazed with smoke and he had to maneuver around all the cluttered objects hanging from the ceiling. The walls would be wooden but you couldn’t see them from all the circus posters, newspaper clippings, and religious accessories. The floor was crammed with one bed, which Javert and his mother shared, several cabinets containing all kinds of burning oils, and a bookshelf or two. Not to mention his mother’s tarrot alter. There was a red curtain that separated the entrance/sleeping area from the dining and cooking domain. When he pulled the curtain back, he saw his mother standing over their stove with a book propped open that she was reading from hungrily. Most whores didn’t know how to read but Javert’s father had taught her how. In exchange she would pleasure him. Javert had entered through the curtains and sat down at their very small dining table before his mother even noticed his presence.

“Ah, Hello, Emile,” She said walking over to him in a mystic kind of way (this was how she walked. She more floated across the ground than walked). She took his cap off and lay it on the table then kissed his head. “How are you, my lovely?”

“Fine,” said he as he drummed his fingers on the table in irritation.

Nadya Boswel, Javert’s mother, was extremely frail looking, almost sick looking in how thin she was. Her clothes clung to her with no sexual attraction and yet Javert was kicked out of his bed to the floor about twice a week for some other man. Her skin was cleaner than most gypsies but her baggy clothes matched her heritage. She wore many colors such as purples, greens, yellows, and whites. Her arms were covered in bracelets and her neck with necklaces. She bore one ring on her right hand that had the Javert family crest on it. This ring was, of course, given to her by Javert’s father. Her hair was long, brown, curly, and bushy but thrown up in a knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were an ice blue with a ring of darker blue around the iris. They were remarkable.

The only thing Javert knew of his father was that he was sent to the galleys for, according to his mother, no-good reason, before he [Javert] was born. Javert knew that his father’s name was Ambroise and he knew that his mother would never stop loving Ambroise Javert. Emile Javert just couldn’t make out why. He was a convict. For what, Javert didn’t know. Who could love a convict? .

“You don’t sound fine,” Nadya said walking back over to the stove and sprinkling some kind of herb in whatever it was she was making.

“I am,” he lied now bouncing one knee up and down in his anxiety. He was thinking about Besnik, fantasizing about his revenge on him. He would arrest Besnik and all his gang once he became an officer. Then who would be laughing? Who then would have tears in their eyes?

“I wish you wouldn’t be so distant,” she said shaking her head as she stirred her mixture.

“I’m not distant. Why can’t there just be nothing wrong?” Javert asked attitude welling in his voice. He hated when his mother did this.

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” she said threateningly pointing her wet spoon at him.

“Oh, what are you gonna do? Stir me?” Javert shook his head and got up from the table and went to the small bookshelf right by the red curtain. He crouched down and scanned the titles of the books. “I’ve read all these,” he stated aloud to himself. “Why don’t we ever have anything new? All the things we own are antique.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Nadya said in mock sympathy.

“Don’t patronize me, mother. I won’t have it,” Javert said standing up and walking back over to the table.

“So serious,” she continued in her mocking tone. Javert couldn’t resist a smile as he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then rested his head on his arms.

“What are you making?” He asked turning his head to face in her direction.

“A harlequinade solution,” she said eyeing him with amusement.

“Oh,” Javert said pretending like he knew what that was. “May I ask who’s it for?”

“You,” she said stirring it once or twice. Javert looked worried until she started laughing. “I’m joking, sweetie, its just soup. For the both of us.”

“Oh,” Javert said again his worries fading as his small humiliation at being mocked settled in. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lie to me!”

“Goodness Emile. You’re in quite a mood tonight aren’t you?”

“Well, you keep mocking me! I don’t appreciate it, not one bit!” Javert yelled getting rather defensive. When his mother was about to retort another voice echoed into the room.

“I hope I didn’t hear you yelling at your mother again,” the voice said. Javert stood at the voice and took his cap in his hands.

“No, Monsieur,” Javert said looking at the ground. It was Harman Kale, a man who saw Nadya often. Javert hated this man but was forced to give him respect. Not only did he respect him from general folklore but from fear. This man had hit his mother before. Nothing would stop him from striking Javert if he had a reason. However he was a main supply of income for the family and Javert had to be grateful.

Harman was a large man, who towered over Javert. He had shaggy black hair that matched his shaggy black beard and mustache. The blackness of his hair went with his opaque heart. He usually wore a red shirt with black pants and a pair of suspenders. He had tanner skin that was lightly dotted with dirt. He was the vision of hell for Javert. The vision of a dollar for Nadya.

“Good, I wouldn’t want to have to teach you a lesson,” he said threateningly.

“Emile, darling, will you go to Madame Xoraxane and acquire some milk from her— Here trade her these beads— hurry along now,” Nadya said placing the beads from her wrist and into his hand. He turned around and she tapped his bottom side to the immense disdain of Javert.

“Here’s a sou. Keep away from here for a couple hours,” Harman said roughly shoving the money into Javert’s hand and pushing him toward the door.

“Very good, Monsieur,” Javert said fingering the money in his hand and heading out. It was nearly all black outside and he was instantly cold. He walked with his cap on his head and his hands in his pockets as he thought about the next day. Would he actually get to become a police officer? That would be a dream come true! Almost too good to be true. . .

April 15, 1799
Javert awoke quickly with the intent to not wake his mother and her friend (whoever it may be). Wether it was Harman or some different man. He quickly made his way to the chair at the dining table where he kept his shirt. He had slept on the ground that night. He slipped it over his bare chest and quickly buttoned it up. Javert was ready to make his way to Inspector Laframboise’s office to see if he was going to become a police officer. He grabbed his cap and coat then walked out the door.

The morning air was crisp and clean. No one else in the clan appeared to be awake save for Javert. He looked at the barely lit sky and took in a deep breath. There were nerves inside his stomach that seemed untamable. What if he didn’t get the job? Was he doomed to be a lowlife like his mother? No, he had to get this position! There was no other alternative.

The young man walked across the bridge to town with great anticipation. The air was cold and embracing and Javert began to walk at a greater pace. Apposed to his clan, many people in the town were up and about at the time that it was [6:56 A.M.]. He seemed to belong more in this society than in the gypsies’ community. Every time that thought would enter Javert’s thoughts he would shove it to the back of his mind. Why he did was unknown to him. Perhaps he knew that that decision would upset his mother greatly. Just as the townspeople hated the gypsies, the gypsies hated the townspeople. His mother was a strong supporter of that hatred.

Javert entered the precinct and took a deep breath as to calm his nerves. The place smelled of slightly new paint and polished wood. As he walked to the inspector’s office, he passed a small quarrel between three constables and one woman who was clamped in irons. She was trashing about and these three men were trying their best to restrain her. The scene was so enthralling that Javert stopped in his tracks to view it. The girl was wild and two men had her on either arm trying their best to steady her. The third man was trying to grab her feet as to carry her into where Javert supposed was the female remand. However, the men were steadily failing. She was exhausting the three officers easily with her constant screams and kicking. Eventually, and Javert saw it coming, the third man got kicked straight in the face and fell back against the wall with his hand on his nose, blood visibly leaking through it.

“Javert?” Asked the voice of Inspector Laframboise.

“Monsieur!” Javert exclaimed surprised by the inspectors instant presence. Javert quickly removed his cap as the inspector moved closer to him. The man stopped directly by Javert and looked over at the woman.

“That there is Edwige Novak. She’s in here all the time for one thing or another. She’s a very good waiter, however. She usually gets out on good behavior and then returns in this manner two or three weeks later. A bit of an addict I’m afraid,” Inspector Laframboise said beckoning Javert to follow him into his office. Javert obeyed his beckoning and sat as he entered do to the instruction of the inspector. “I have decided to hire you, Monsieur Javert. You show a respectable turn of mind that I’m quite drawn to. You will start in three days time as a guard in the Woman’s jailhouse, is that perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Javert said almost breathlessly.

“Good,” Inspector Laframboise said taking a slip of paper and scribbling on it. He handed it to Javert with the amount he would be getting paid an hour and what his schedule was. Javert took the paper in shaking hands and folded it nicely before slipping it into his pocket. “What is your size, officer?” he asked with a uniform slip.

“Forty-eight,” said he.

“And your hat size? What about that?”

“Fifty-five,” Javert retorted.

“And your shoes, Monsieur?”

“Thirty-nine and one half I believe,” Javert said involuntarily moving his footing at the mention of his feet.

“You’re as small as you look,” the man said smiling at Javert. Javert tried to look happy about this comment but failed. He didn’t like being called small. He wasn’t really all that small anyway. He was thin. “Well, I’ll see you in three days. Your uniform will be ready by then and you’ll begin immediately when you arrive. There will be a lieutenant there waiting for you to show you how things work around here. Then you’ll be given provisions; guns, a night stick, and what not. Then you’ll be guarding for eight hours. Sound okay to you?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Javert said getting up to leave. When he left, he resisted the sensation to smile. He placed his cap on his head as he watched the two men, who were handling Edwige, drag her past him. He stared at her as they hauled her away while she declared a very rude comment.

“What are you looking at ya blower?” She yelled at Javert. Her voice was raspy and femininely deep. The rasp wasn’t from her constant screaming it was that of a natural rasp. Not at all that of a delicate beauty. When she threw this insult at him, the men applied more strength to get her to move along. When Javert was told that he would be watching the women’s jailhouse he didn’t think much of it. However, if they were all like Edwige Novak he would be in for something else.