Then Enjolras approached the man and demanded of him:—
“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 resolute 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 collared, 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 contained 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:—