"M'sieur Inspector!" cried a young officer, running in a most undignified manner and very much out of breath. In his hand he was waving a piece of paper. Javert slowed his long strides enough for the young man to catch up. Breathless, he handed Javert the paper, crinkled from his waving it, and passed out. Javert watched him fall, paused, then smoothed the wrinkles out of the paper and unfolded it. Scanning the sheet, he saw to his dismay that much of the ink was smudged from the boy's sweaty hand. With a sigh of disgust, he attempted to read it.

URGENT---URGENT---URGENT---URGENT
Your orders are to infiltrate the Friends of the A B C's secret society, a potentially dangerous, rebellious student group. To do so, you will need to disguise yourself. Your name will be Marie Lafois, you will be undercover as their waitress, or further if you feel it is necessary. Make a full report on Monday. You have been selected for this job specially; I know I can trust you to finish it successfully. Best of wishes in this endeavor,

Prefect of Police.

Javert's knees went weak. Fortunately, there was a bench nearby; he collapsed heavily onto it. Blankly, he read and reread the letter. A woman? He was to go undercover as a woman? Undercover--that was difficult enough. But as a woman? He was, for perhaps the first time in his life, at a loss at what to do. Question the Prefect of Police? Unthinkable. And yet...

"Excuse me, m'sieur, I have another letter to deliver." the young officer, having regained consciousness, raced off in another direction, and was soon lost to Javert's sight in the winding streets of Paris. Javert resumed blankly staring, pulling his chin deeply into his cravat and grimacing. Could the Prefect really expect him to do something as outrageous as this? Evidently, since he had ordered him to. Javert, lost in tormenting thought, sat on the bench for nearly a half an hour. Then, he scowled. He stood up. Grasping his heavy cane in one hand and slapping it into the palm of the other, he strode down the street. The people, seeing the dangerous look in his eyes, scattered before him as he stormed away. Javert headed to the market. He had, he reasoned rather disgustedly, some purchases to make.

*   *   *   *   *

"Good 'eavens, what's all o' the wailin' about? I never 'eard 'im carry on like that in all o' 'is years livin' 'ere." a raucous old crone sniffed in a gossipy manner.

"I haven't a clue, but it's been going on for the past half hour. I daren't question him--he's an Inspector of Police, and to tell the truth, I'm more than a little afraid of him. But I do wish he'd stop." replied a middle-aged woman--equally gossipy, but more primly reserved--in a whisper. "I've been able to decipher a few things he's saying--or, rather, wailing--but they don't make much sense. Something about "I can't do it!" and "not my muttonchops...", if you can sort any sense out of that. Honestly, I've yet to hear another man carry on like that about his facial hair."

Javert perched, shakily, on a wooden chair in front of a mirror. In his hand was a perfectly sharpened razor. He was contemplating his face.

"Javert, you can do this... you have to!" he murmured to himself, and raised the razor to his face. Instantly, his hand opened and the razor clattered to the floor. Stiffly, he bent over to retrieve it, and, repeating the procedure, he touched it to the bushy mutton chops he had ever so carefully cultured since he was old enough to grow them, slicing off three individual hairs. At this, he nearly burst into tears and again dropped the razor. Rather than clatter to the floor, it stuck into his leg. With a howl of both rage and anguish, Javert, in a fit of uncharacteristic fury, yanked the razor out of his leg and flung it against a wall, where it deeply imbedded itself, and kicked the chair over, crossing his arms across his chest in a sign of almost childish stubbornness. He'd make a homely woman anyway. Who would care about a little facial hair? Lots of women had beards, especially elderly serving maids, right? So what was so different about muttonchops? Really, who would ever notice? Why, any woman with facial hair would have tended to it as carefully and painstakingly as a man would, right?

"Javert, stop being a fool." he muttered to himself, tears in his eyes. It seemed, sadly, there was no way of avoiding this. The hair would have to go. Slowly, with steps like a man who walks to the guillotine, Javert went to the wall. With one enormous hand, he grasped the handle of the razor and tugged. It didn't move. Frowning, Javert pulled harder. Nothing. He braced one hand against a wall and gave it a sharp yank. Not the slightest give. Furious at being resisted by a simple bit of metal, Javert did a very stupid thing. Grasping the razor with both hands, he braced both feet against the wall and pulled with all his might on the stubborn razor. With a deafening SCREEEEECH!, it slid out of the wood. This sudden give sent Javert flying, head over heels, away from the wall. He hit the floor, turned two back-somersaults, and landed, one foot propped against the wall and the other thrust through a window, hair in disarray, against the wall of the other side of the room. The razor had, of course, shattered. With many hateful cursings, he snatched a broom and swept up the needlelike shards. The day, he could see, was going to be a long one.

Well, he thought to himself, he was out a razor. Instantly, his dark demeanor brightened a bit. He'd just have to find some other alternative. Mind lightened, he trotted about the room, digging through bureaus and chests, rummaging through the bag of feminine clothing he'd purchased earlier. Finally, he seized a bonnet that had been on discount. It was too small. He had no idea why he'd bothered buying it, but was very glad he did. He found that if he tied it under his nose, the ruffle around the bottom covered his beloved mutton-chops almost perfectly. Good! Progress already. Now, for the rest of the clothing. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out a huge black dress. Now that he really looked at it, it looked more like a tent than a dress. Unfortunately, it was dusted in little, embroidered, pink flowers. He wasn't pleased, but it was the only dark coloured dress in a size he could possibly fit into. He paused, sudden disbelief washing over him. What on earth was he doing? Dressing up like a woman? Javert, whose name alone was enough to scatter the people of the streets, Javert, most feared Inspector in all of Paris, Javert, the toughest cop on the street, was dressing up like a woman? Yes. That's, it seemed, what he was doing.

With a reluctant sigh, he began to change.

*   *   *   *   *

"My God, woman, you are the homeliest waitress I've ever seen!" slurred Grantaire drunkenly. Javert, uncertain how to react to this, batted his eyes at the equally ugly man and said in falsetto, "May I take your order, M'sieur?"

"Here's my order, my fair Madame; come 'ere and sit by me." Grantaire said, cheerful in his drunken state. Javert, somewhat nervously, sat down by the inebriate. This was both a stroke of good and ill luck, for he was seated close enough to hear what was being said by the two young men in the corner, huddled and whispering over a sheet of paper; yet he was also seated next to this frightfully drunk student. Nobody else had noticed Javert; excepting Grantaire, who believed nothing and was usually too full of drink to participate much, everybody was fully absorbed in their little arguments over various aspects of society. Every one of these discussions was loud and raucous except the one directly behind him. Evidently they were to cover up the whispers. So, of course, Javert turned his ears to the conversation carried on by the two men in the corner, and consequently forgot about Grantaire until he spoke again.

"So, old girl, what's your name?" Grantaire's breath was full and rank with the stench of too much wine. Javert tried not to gag; he had smelled much worse.

"Marie. Marie Lafois. I'm so very pleased to make your acquaintance!" he replied with a gross attempt at a fetching smile. This was not going well, but fortunately, Grantaire seemed to hardly notice him. The whispers behind him were becoming clearer as he listened; they seemed to be discussing possible points of the city to build a barricade. He listened attentively.

"So if we build it here," the one called Enjolras said, stabbing his finger on a part of the map, "We shall be close enough to the factories to gain both supplies and support from the workers."

"Yes, but there are also a number of police stationed in that area. Should we be here," replied the other, pointing to a different part of the map, "we will not only have the tight alleyways and thin, twisting streets to our advantage, we will be in a relatively unguarded portion of Paris. True, there shall not be as many supply areas as in your suggested sector, but we will have more time to prepare if there aren't police breathing down our necks."

"I can see your point, and I must admit you are right. We will look into building the barricade there." Javert strained his eyes to see where they were pointing, and saw that it was near the section known as the Corinth. He decided he had found all that he needed, and hastily stood up, ready to leave. However, Grantaire had other ideas.

"Oh, my beautiful love, are you leaving so soon? Come, my dear, and share a glass of wine with me!" he cried, pouring a second glass for "Marie". And here, Javert found, was a problem. Should he stay here, to avoid making a scene? Right, and chance being discovered? He hesitated. Grantaire made the choice for him by reaching to grab Javert by the waist and pull him down to the chair. His police ID! It was in a pocket at his waist! Panicking, he slapped the young man's hand with his huge palm. Bad move.

"Oh ho, what a flirt you are, my dear! Oh, how I love you! Kiss me!" Grantaire tried to stand up and embrace the horrified Javert, but wavered and slumped back in his chair, snoring. All this, and nobody had noticed. Gratefully, Javert began to tiptoe out of the room, all the while planning horrible, horrible deaths for the Prefect, when his foot sank on a creaky board, producing a tremendous noise. He froze as every person in that room swiveled to stare at him. Javert felt the blood drain from his face, and bitterly regretted leaving his cane and coat by the entry. He felt twice as ridiculous with all these young men staring at him, trying to figure our exactly who this "woman" was, and why "she" was there.

"Er...hello, I was just going on my way, so if you'll excuse me..." He hastily said in his best falsetto. Enjolras stood up, and, glancing at Grantaire, spoke angrily.

"You're no woman! What sort of a sick man are you? Seize him! And somebody please revive Grantaire, he's breathing on me again..." With these words, the young men sprang into action. Two of them grabbed for his arms, as one lunged for his leg. The others circled around and attempted to block the doors. None of the students were fast enough to trap the seasoned cop, however. With a cry, he knocked down his assailants and sprinted out the door, throwing his coat around his shoulders to conceal his dress, and grasping the lead cane he was so accustomed to. As almost a second thought he tore off the bonnet and threw it in the eyes of the nearest pursuer, temporarily blinding the boy and giving Javert the few seconds he needed to vanish into Paris.

He ran and ran until he reached the Prefect's office, then dashed inside. Quickly he walked up to the Prefect, who looked quite shocked at Javert's current state. His hair was askew, his breath coming in ragged gasps, that wretched dress clearly visible under his greatcoat.

"M'sieur, I've learned from the Friends of the A B C that the barricade will be built at--"

"What? What on earth were you doing at that cafe? Javert, I've never known you to disregard your duties like this!"

Javert was utterly shocked.

"What? But your orders, m'sieur..."

"Your orders were to watch for Patron-Minette at the old Gorbeau tenement, not to hang about in Cafe Musain! And Javert--why on earth are you dressed like that?" Javert stared at him, aghast. The Prefect stared back with a look that questioned the Inspector's sanity. Suddenly, the Prefect slapped his forehead.

"Oh, how stupid of me! Javert, let me see your orders." Silently, Javert handed him the neatly folded piece of paper. The Prefect scanned it hastily, and sighed.

"Well, now. My apologies, I have mixed up your name with that of Police Informant Javrette. That means she's looking for Patron-Minette. Oh, dear. Javert, will you go sort this out?"

Javert never been so jointly furious and shocked in his life. He had just put himself through the humiliating experience of attempting to impersonate a woman, had just fled through the streets like an escaping convict, had shattered a perfectly good razor, and was still wearing that horrid dress, and this man expected him to just drop everything and go fetch some woman? He stared at the Prefect, who shifted uncomfortably under the directness of the glare.

"Well, heavens, if you don't want to that much, you don't have to, Javert. You are allowed the rest of the week off; go home." Muttering under his breath, the Prefect grumbled something about impertinence and stupidity. Javert, hands clenched into trembling fists, stormed out of the office and stalked to his house, ignoring the stares which his nosy neighbors made no attempt to conceal. Slamming the door, he was not seen again until he reported for duty next week.

*   *   *   *   *

"M'sieur Inspector, here!" cried a young officer, holding something in his hand and running. Javert noted that what the officer held was paper, and did something unexpected and altogether uncontrollable.

"AAAAAH!!" he screamed, and, hurdling a bench and several hunched old ladies, he tore away from the bewildered gendarme. Scratching his head, the young man glanced at the envelope he held in his hand, containing Javert's paycheck. With a shrug, he inconspicuously tucked it into his pocket, and walked back to the Prefecture of Police, whistling.

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