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‘Who are you?’
At this abrupt query, the man started. He plunged his
gaze deep into Enjolras’ clear eyes and appeared to grasp
the latter’s meaning. He smiled with a smile than which
nothing more disdainful, more energetic, and more reso-
lute could be seen in the world, and replied with haughty
gravity:—
‘I see what it is. Well, yes!’
‘You are a police spy?’
‘I am an agent of the authorities.’
‘And your name?’
‘Javert.’
Enjolras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling
of an eye, before Javert had time to turn round, he was col-
lared, thrown down, pinioned and searched.
They found on him a little round card pasted between
two pieces of glass, and bearing on one side the arms of
France, engraved, and with this motto: Supervision and
vigilance, and on the other this note: ‘JAVERT, inspector
of police, aged fifty-two,’ and the signature of the Prefect of
Police of that day, M. Gisquet.
Besides this, he had his watch and his purse, which con-
tained several gold pieces. They left him his purse and his
watch. Under the watch, at the bottom of his fob, they felt
and seized a paper in an envelope, which Enjolras unfolded,
and on which he read these five lines, written in the very
hand of the Prefect of Police:—
‘As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspec-
tor Javert will make sure, by special supervision, whether it