Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“He performed a multitude of good actions, concealing his agency in them as a man conceals himself because of evil actions. He penetrated houses privately, at night; he ascended staircases furtively. A poor wretch on returning to his attic would find that his door had been opened, sometimes even forced, during his absence. The poor man made a clamor over it: some malefactor had been there! He entered, and the first thing he beheld was a piece of gold lying forgotten on some piece of furniture. The “malefactor” who had been there was Father Madeleine.”

-Les Miserables, Volume 1 Book 5 Chapter 3

“Do you remember when I used to break into people’s houses to give them money?” Valjean sighed, smiling wistfully.

Valjean was sitting across from Pere Fauchelevent at a little wooden table in their cottage in the Petit-Picpus convent. They’d finished the day’s gardening work and were relaxing next to the hearth, where a fire crackled softly.

Valjean was leaning into the warmth of the fire and half-napping, like a big muscular contented housecat.

In his hands Valjean held bits of coconut and straw, which he was idly twisting into a doll. Valjean loved to make these little straw dolls and secretly give them to the schoolchildren of Petit Picpus when no one was looking. Most of the children thought Pere Noel was giving them the dolls; Cosette was the only one who knew the truth.

Valjean reminisced about his time as Madeleine. The dolls and the summer air had made him nostalgic. He remembered all the times he had broken into people’s houses to leave them money because he was too shy to talk to people; he smiled, remembering all the good he had done.

“I do remember your reverse-robberies,” Fauchelevent said. “But I admit I still don’t understand them.”

“Ah,” Valjean sighed.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I know that you can do nothing that is not honest,” Fauchelevent said with a laugh. “But it’s mad enough that if I didn’t know you, I might be frightened of you.”

“The robberies were such a wonderful way to help people,” Valjean sighed, finishing the little straw doll and contemplating how he could give it to a child without the child realizing who gave it to them. “Charity without the embarrassing conversations.”

“Those ‘embarrassing conversations’ are important to the victims of your kindness, you know,” Fauchelevent said, gently nudging him.

Valjean waved his hand and smiled to avoid responding. The firelight lit up his white hair like a halo and made all the wrinkles on his face glow softly, like a Renaissance painting of an angel. The little doll in his hand was like an unfinished sketch of an infant Jesus, and Valjean held it as carefully as if he were the Virgin Mary herself.

Fauchelevent squinted at him.

“I have wondered— did you ever break into my house to give me money?” Fauchelevent asked.

“No,” Valjean lied.

“And if you did, you would tell me so that I could properly thank you?”

“Of course I would,” Valjean lied.

“You wouldn’t lie to me about it?”

“I wouldn’t,” Valjean lied.

“You would remember that as a mayor it’s your job to accept that people are going to feel grateful to you?”

“I never wanted to be a mayor,” Valjean said wistfully.

“You managed to do a lot of good for someone who ‘never wanted’ to,” Fauchelevent said.

“Bah. I hardly did much.”’

“Is saving my life not ‘much’ to you?”

“Any other man would have saved you; I happened to have the strength.” Valjean smiled awkwardly and waved his hand. “It was nothing.”

“My gratitude is nothing to you? There you go, being ungrateful again,” Fauchelevent laughed.

"I'm sorry," Valjean said. His eyes darted around the room as if he was hunting for a hole that he could dive into in order to Hide from all the compliments.

"I didn't mean it as an insult," Fauchelevent said. "I meant that you're a good man."

"You're too kind." Valjean said with a nervous smile, looking as if he was plotting to bury himself alive in a coffin again in order to Escape this conversation.

“I suppose that must be the reason you left Montreuil- sur-Mer—- everyone there loved you too much! If you stayed any longer they would have made you the king!”

Valjean breathed in sharply, as if Fauchelevent had struck him. He grew still. His polite smile fled from his face. He looked at Fauchelevent and tried to speak; he could not. And so he mutely bowed his head as if he was in the presence of a prison guard and pretended to be very busy working on his straw doll. He hoped Fauchelevent would change the subject on his own.

“I’m sorry,” Fauchelevent said quickly, realizing he’d made an error. “You’ve told me not to speculate about why you left.”

“I have,” Valjean said. His voice, usually so gentle, became hollow and severe.

“Yes, yes,” Fauchelevent stammered, his hands trembling. “You’ve only asked two things of me: that I’m not to tell anyone what I know about you, and I’m not to try to find out anything more. I’m an old fool and I forgot the second one for a moment. I’m sorry.”

Valjean said nothing. The firelight cast deep shadows on his face. His eyes were pained. He studiously avoided Fauchelevent’s gaze and placed the doll down on the table as softly as if it were a real child. Then he continued pretending to make careful minute adjustments to its little straw arms.

There was a long silence. Fauchelevent occasionally opened his mouth to say something, and then stopped himself. The fire burned down in the hearth, and the room became dark.

”You have no need to apologize,” Valjean finally said, breaking the silence. His voice was kind, sad, and penitent. “I’m sorry I’ve asked so much of you.”

“You haven’t asked very much—“

Valjean raised his hand to silence him.

“Will you grant me one favor?” Valjean asked.

“Of course!”

“I haven’t told you the favor yet.”

“Then tell me the favor, so I can agree to it.”

“You don’t feel any hesitation?” Valjean asked awkwardly.

“You didn’t deliberate before you dove under that cart, so I don’t deliberate now.”

“What if I asked you to help me with something terrible?”

Fauchelevent laughed. “You’re incapable of doing anything dishonest!”

Valjean smiled sadly. He bowed his head, and gently touched the little straw dress of his doll.

“Tomorrow, would you help me give these dolls away to the schoolchildren?” Valjean said.

“To the convent schoolchildren?”

“Yes, to the convent schoolchildren.”

“The nuns don’t like the children to have new toys— especially not toys given to them by men.” Fauchelevent said, rubbing his chin. “And they suspect our game already. They’ve confiscated so many of your little dolls.”

“I know,” Valejan said. “That is why we have to be stealthy.”

“Stealthy!”

“Cunning.”

“Cunning?”

“It must be done secretly, as usual— without anyone noticing.”

“Leaving them in hidden places in the garden during the recreation hour seemed to work well last time,” Fauchelevent said.

“We must do it carefully,” Valjean said. “As if we were breaking into someone’s house to leave them money. “

“Or smuggling ourselves out of this convent in a coffin!”

“Precisely.”

“Then of course I‘ll assist you!” Fauchelevent said. “I always will, you know.”

Valjean smiled. “I know.”

“But I’d like to ask you one thing in return.”

“What is it?”

Fauchelevent reached out to hold his hands.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to start trusting the people that you help.”

Fauchelevent’s hands were small and wrinkled and soft; Valjean thought they felt far too gentle against his own calloused and gnarled ones.

“I know you think these conversations are embarrassing. I know there are a lot of men like me— selfish childish old fools who don’t deserve what you’ve done for us, and who are wrong about most things, and we really have no right to question a saint such as Father Madeleine,” Fauchelevent paused, rubbing the back of Valjean’s palm with his thumb. “But even men like me get very worried when you do things like bury yourself alive in a coffin, or refuse to eat, or refuse to drink, or wave away all compliments, or abandon a town that loved you without an explanation. You look so melancholy sometimes that.... if I didn’t know you, I think I would be worried about you.”

Valjean remained silent. He stared down at Fauchelevent’s trembling hands as they held his own.

“I don’t ask you to tell me anything,” Fauchelevent said with a smile. “But I do ask that whatever you do— however many houses you break into or graves you bury yourself alive in— you trust me enough to let me help you. So that I can make sure that you’re making yourself happy ”

Valjean looked up at Fauchelevent’s face-- he was old and fragile, and the firelight left deep shadows in all of his wrinkles. The poor old man stared at him with a look of inexpressible tenderness.

Valjean’s life had always been absurd. And now, his greatest fears were silly, almost a joke; he was afraid Fauchelevent would catch a glimpse of his back while he was sleeping, or see his ankles while he was gardening. If Fauchelevent saw his back, he would see the scars from the lash; if he saw his ankles, he might see the scars from the chain gang. Fauchelevent could reach out right now— as he held Valjean’s hands, and smiled at him so lovingly—- and wrench up the shirtsleeves to reveal the handcuff scars on his wrist.

Fauchelevent did not love Valjean--like the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he loved Madeleine. He did not know that Madeleine was dead. Madeleine had drowned in the prison hulks, and Madeleine was buried when Valjean entered the convent.

And so Valjean made his decision.

He smiled in a way he hoped would make Fauchelevent think he agreed.

Then he gently pulled his hands out of Fauchelevent’s grip.

“Thank you, but you don’t need to worry about my happiness,” he said with icy politeness. “I already have happiness; her name is Cosette.”

“Yes yes, but she’s not one of your little straw dolls, you know. Even daughters raised in a convent will have their way, and your little one seems like quite an adventuress. What will happen if she runs away and gets married?”

“If that happens,” Valjean said serenely, “I will die.”

Fauchelevent raised his eyebrow in worried confusion. “Die?”

“Die.”

“Die?”

“I’ve already been nailed into a coffin and lowered into a grave,” Valjean laughed gently. “Legally I am already dead.”

“You’re laughing, so it’s a joke,” Fauchelevent said, relieved.

“It’s a joke, yet I mean every word,” Valjean responded.

Fauchelevent fumbled with his words, and Valjean raised a hand to silence him.

“And fortunately, I don't need to worry about that future,” Valjean said calmly. He patted the head of the little straw doll as if he were patting the head of his daughter. “Cosette will be homely; she will not marry; she will always need me to take care of her, and so I will always have a purpose, and always be happy.”

“But if you lost that purpose, you would—“

“Die,” Valjean repeated with a serenity that was almost vicious.

“Couldn’t you...find a new purpose? Or learn to live without one?” Fauchelevent asked.

“Come now, why would I do that?”

Chapter Text

"On the following day (Jean Valjean) did not come.

Cosette paid no heed to this, passed her evening and slept well that night, as usual, and thought of it only when she woke. She was so happy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean’s house to inquire whether he were ill, and why he had not come on the previous evening. Nicolette brought back the reply of M. Jean that he was not ill. He was busy. He would come soon. As soon as he was able. Moreover, he was on the point of taking a little journey. Madame must remember that it was his custom to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry about him. They were not to think of him.

Nicolette on entering M. Jean’s had repeated to him her mistress’ very words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean had not come on the preceding evening. ”—It is two days since I have been there,” said Jean Valjean gently."

-Les Miserables, Volume 9 Book 8 Chapter 3

A few weeks after the barricades fell, Jean Valjean was going through a Crisis.

True, Jean Valjean was always going through a crisis. Jean Valjean lived life leaping as gracefully as a cat from one crisis to the next. Jean Valjean was just a pile of crises sewn together in the shape of a human being, with all the ugly seams hidden under his obsessive courtesy and his false names and his collection of wigs.

But this was a different kind of crisis from his usual state of constant ongoing crisis. This wasn't his NORMAL state of anxious self-destructive paranoia and self-loathing.

Valjean had recently confessed his ex-con past to Marius— leaving out all the irrelevant nonsense he knew would make Marius pity him. He confessed exactly enough of the truth to make Marius hate him, the way he should. That was called “honesty.”

At the barricades, a network of rebels had fought for the dream of a republic, but the moment their dream seemed within their grasp it was taken from them. Valjean had fought for the dream of a happy life with Cosette, but the moment that dream seemed within his grasp it was taken from him.

But he was in control of the situation, he reassured himself. Valjean had a strong conscience: he held himself tightly, and never allowed himself to flee. He could not be forced to do anything he did not decide to do.

And he decided he wanted Cosette to remember him as a human being.

When Cosette saw a cart of convicts pass by on the road one morning, she said that “if a man like that touched me, I would die.” Valjean wanted Cosette to remember him as someone who she could touch. And so he could break himself if he needed to. He could kill himself if he needed to. It was quite simple.

He soothed himself by refusing to eat or sleep or drink, to remind himself that he was the only one who got to choose whether he did those things. There were no prison guards to tell him what he did with his body; he made all his choices himself.

He wasn’t a prisoner being whipped; he was a saint self-flagellating.

Except.

Except he’d also begged Marius to allow him to continue seeing Cosette.

And for a while, life was bearable.

It was not an exaggeration to say that he lived for those brief visits with Cosette.

He woke up in the morning and got out of bed solely because he knew that he had to wake up in the morning and get out of bed to visit Cosette.

He brushed his hair and made his clothes tidy solely because he needed to look presentable when he visited Cosette.

He ate food and drank water solely because he needed the energy to visit Cosette.

For weeks he woke up and decided not to die, solely so that he could visit Cosette.

Cosette was his only friend, the only person he loved, the only person in the world who loved him. Her happiness was the only object of his life. She was the only person he ever allowed himself to talk to. He cruelly burdened her with himself.

But he didn’t want to hurt Cosette. He’d been close and loving towards Cosette during her childhood because she’d needed him— but she no longer needed him. He told Cosette to stop calling him “father,” and to call him “Monsieur Jean” instead.

Cosette laughed and jokingly said “haha I don’t understand why you’re doing this! Please stop Monsieur Jean, you’re scaring your little Cosette!! I’m terrified! Why are you acting like this? Please, please don’t!”

Valjean often pretended to be happy for Cosette’s sake. But Cosette was clearly genuinely happy. She wasn’t really upset about the Monsieur Jean thing at all.

Valjean’s relationship with Cosette was the only thing in his life that was Normal and Healthy. It was a perfectly healthy relationship.

But then Marius began making clear signs that a convict was not welcome in their home, and never would be. He doused the fire in the room where Valjean visited, he removed the furniture Valjean used, he grew cold and refused to talk to him.

Cosette remained as kind as ever— but then again, she didn’t know the truth, did she? Valjean still remembered the kind peasant family man in Digne who had suddenly become cruel and threatened to murder him when they realized he was a convict. Kindness could be fragile.

Cosette did not love Jean Valjean; she loved Ultime Fauchelevent. She did not know that Ultime Fauchelevent was dead. Ultime Fauchelevent had died at the barricades, he had been buried in the sewers, and he was rotting in the Seine.

And sometimes he thought that Cosette didn’t even love the corpse of Ultime Fauchelevent anymore either.

So Valjean decided to create a Secret Test of how much Cosette loved him. If Cosette passed the secret test, he would stay. If not, it would prove she didn’t love him enough, and he would leave forever.

Valjean usually visited Cosette every day, so he decided to stop visiting and Test how long it took Cosette to notice. He stayed home, and he waited.

After two days Cosette sent a letter asking why he hadn’t visited.

Two days.

Two.

2.

And clearly THAT meant Cosette saw him as a useless burden who was draining the happiness out of her life and she didn’t want him around at all ever again. Logically, that was the only thing it could possibly mean.

And so Valjean stopped visiting, because his very accurate and clever test proved that no one wanted him there. He lived alone in his narrow dingy home.

He was like a tired old cat. His senses were dulled, his hearing was fading, and his facial hair was growing out like messy whiskers or matted fur. He walked around aimlessly, not knowing where he was going. He took naps at odd times, or fell asleep without meaning to— often in odd places and positions, like sitting up in his chair or kneeling by his bed in prayer. He almost never talked to people. He felt he was losing the ability to speak.

Without his visits to Cosette, he no longer had any reason to wake up. He no longer had any reason to wash his clothes or to brush his hair. He no longer had any reason to sleep. He no longer had any reason to eat.

Valjean knew that he could go back to Cosette if he chose to. He could reveal that he was the man who saved Marius’s life, and manipulate his way back into their home.

He could choose to confess everything to Cosette, burden Cosette with his trauma, impose his prison on her, and cast his shadow over her happiness. He could choose to talk to her so that she would order him not to die.

And so he was choosing not to.

He was choosing to let Cosette remain happy and free. Her happiness was the object of his life. He would rather die than make her unhappy. He wished that he would die.

But every day he would walk to Cosette’s home. He would never enter or approach the door; he would simply walk there, look at the house, and then return.

He was like a stray cat pacing aimlessly around the house where its owners used to live. People he met on his walks looked at him as if he was senile. He wondered if he was.

One day, Valjean was sitting alone in his barren empty room. He was kneeling next to his bed. He hadn’t been sleeping in his bed often lately, but he had spent a lot of time kneeling next to it. He didn’t know if he was praying.

Like many people, Valjean’s response to an emotional breakdown was to retreat into the comfort of nostalgia instead of dealing with his emotions in the present.

Cosette's little dress and shoes, from when she was a child, lay spread out on his bed. They were hauntingly small. Valjean thought they looked like they belonged to Catherine, the little doll Cosette loved so much— or the straw dolls Valjean had made for Cosette in the convent.

Valjean picked up her shoe and it was tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand.

“She left Catherine in the old house, and didn’t bring her to the convent,” he said quietly. “She loved the straw dolls, but she missed Catherine. I should’ve remembered to bring her.”

He carefully took the shoe in his hand and walked over to his writing desk. He set it down next to his ink and paper as gently as if the shoe were Cosette herself.

Then he began to write.

“Dearest Madame Pontmercy,”— he wrote. Then stopped.

Was it right, to add the ‘dearest?” It was too informal, too close. He was not her father anymore, he remembered.

“Dear Madame Pontmercy,” he began again on a new sheet of paper. Then he stopped again.

Valjean was writing this letter because he knew that he would die soon. It was April; he was confident that before October he would be dead.

But there were loose ends he had not tied up with his daughter. He needed her to know that the money she inherited was honest, that she was free to use it without guilt, which necessitated explaining some of his life in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Writing this letter was difficult. He had already written and discarded dozens of drafts, and knew that he would write and discard dozens more. He needed to tell Cosette as little as possible, so that she wouldn’t realize he was a convict— but he also needed to make sure that she was told just enough to be certain that the money she inherited was honest. This was a delicate balance.

In this new draft of the letter, he decided that he should probably mention he was a mayor once. Valjean wrote a quick description of how he was peer-pressured into becoming a town's mayor.

“As the mayor, my duties were to…”

What had his duties been? Valjean’s mind was foggy and all his thoughts seemed muffled, as if under a blanket. He couldn’t remember. He remembered the glass at his factories, he remembered his new techniques for creating it. It was important that Cosette knew that, so that she knew the money she inherited was honest. He remembered being the “honest” mayor of Monteuil. He remembered so many things he thought he had forgotten.

He remembered Pere Fauchelevent. He bitterly wished he were here to help him write, and the feeing surprised him. He had not thought of Fauchelevent since his death.
He had been so helpful at a time when Valjean had desperately needed it; there was no one to help him now.

He remembered how Fauchelevent helped him break out of the convent in a coffin, he remembered how Fauchelevent helped Cosette sneak out of the convent in a basket, he remembered how Fauchelevent helped Valjean secretly give toys to the Petit Picpus schoolchildren without the nuns noticing. He remembered all the heists and capers they pulled together.

Then Valjean remembered the heists he used to pull on his own— how he used to break into people’s houses to secretly give them money.

“Hm,” he said.

He paused for a moment, reflecting.

Perhaps Cosette should know about all the heists too. His mind was too scattered to remember whether the capers were important or not.

Valjean had a tendency to ramble about random unimportant things when he was emotional, like a cat meowing nonsense to the wind when it’s upset and wants affection.

And so instead of explaining anything difficult—-instead of explaining Fantine or Toulon, —-Jean Valjean decided he would use his final letter to explain his old capers.

After all, giving people money and then disappearing was exactly what he was doing now. He was giving Cosette her inheritance and then calmly running away to die— just like how he secretly gave people money and then calmly backflipped out their window to escape. His heists were very relevant to this, Valjean thought. They proved he was the sort of person who was very honest with his money.

“Charity is far easier without confrontation,” Valjean wrote. “Having conversations with people is the most difficult part of helping them. Many years ago I devised a clever system to give charity to people without talking to them.”

“One would choose a person who was clearly struggling to get by. One would wait until the person was out at a bar, or visiting family, or otherwise not home.“

“Then one would climb into their house in the dead of night and force the door and leave them money on the bedside table. It was quite simple. One could do it very easily. There was no need to talk to people.”

Suddenly Valjean put down the pen.

“Why did I ever STOP doing that?” He asked himself. “It was so clever.”

He sat for a moment, lost in thought.

“I’m being selfish,” he said suddenly. “I’m going to die soon, and instead of giving the money I have left to to the poor, I’m squandering it on useless things like ‘food.’”

“Clearly God wants me to do my old charity heists again!”

Valjean leapt out of his chair and began pacing the room like a nervous housecat, working out the logistics of how he would do this.

“Yes, yes, breaking into people’s houses to give them money is what God wants me to do— whether it’s ‘safe’ or not,” Valjean said confidently. “And if it’s not safe, that only means God wants me to sacrifice myself, which makes it more honorable. The path of a moral man is hard, but it is the path I have chosen. If I must eviscerate my entrails to be a good man, so be it.”

“I have chosen the life of Prometheus— if the eagle doesn’t eat my liver, then I must eat it myself.”

As Valjean paced he vaguely wondered if isolation and starvation was affecting his judgement. Probably not. He DID drink a pitcher of water the other day, so he was fine.

“But the police have been constantly on guard since the rebellion— ready to arrest a man for being suspicious at a moment’s notice. And I’ve grown weaker—even senile, some people say. Sometimes the strength goes out of my arms and I can’t move.”

“I need an assistant. An accomplice. A lookout.”

Valjean frowned; he needed a lookout, but he also didn’t want to have a conversation with another human being. The whole point of doing a heist was to avoid that.

“I deserve this one small thing, a lookout,” he said, pacing the floor. “I have shown so much self-control, I have given up everything I held dear, I have sacrificed all that I loved, and I am going to die. These are my last months alive. I am only asking for someone to help me help other people. It is a small thing to ask; I deserve to have this one small thing.”

But Valjean wasn’t close to many people— he helped people and then left them to live in peace, he deliberately tried to sever any relationships between himself and mankind. He thought of all the people who used to care for him. They had all turned on him, or they were lost to time like dust in the wind.

He thought again of Fauchelevent, and how helpful he’d been with all of his convent-era heists and capers. He missed him bitterly, and was surprised to miss him.

“Who could possibly be my partner now?”

“I could ask my portresss,” he mused, pacing the floor. “But the poor lady might worry.”

“I could bribe a stranger,” he said. “but I might not be able to trust them.”

“Cosette must be kept away from me, for her own safety.”

“Marius is a noodle.”

“There must be someone I’m not thinking of!”

Valjean paced and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Is there anyone—anyone in the world— who’d be willing to grant me a favor?”

“Someone honest?”

“Someone good at following orders?”

“Preferably someone cold and unsociable?”

“Someone who won’t do something ridiculous like “have a conversation with me?””

“Someone who won’t get worried about me and try to call a doctor?”

“Someone who’s like—a big obedient bulldog man?”

And that was when …..Valjean remembered.

Chapter Text

"One of (Javert's) anxieties consisted in being constrained to think. The very violence of all these conflicting emotions forced him to it. Thought was something to which he was unused, and which was peculiarly painful.

In thought there always exists a certain amount of internal rebellion; and it irritated him to have that within him.

Thought on any subject whatever, outside of the restricted circle of his functions, would have been for him in any case useless and a fatigue...."

-Les Miserables, Volume 9 Book 4 Chapter 1

Javert had quit his job as a police inspector and become the new convent gardener of Petit Picpus. He was very mad about it.

Javert had nearly thrown himself into the Seine; he hadn’t. A random passerby had stopped him. It was humiliating. Someone had told him not to kill himself— and because Javert was good at following orders, he wasn’t going to kill himself (for now.)

Paris was rebuilding itself in the aftermath of a necessary but violent rebellion. Javert was rebuilding himself in the aftermath of a necessary but violent internal rebellion. He hated it.

Javert had resigned from the police. He was very mad he had to do that. He hated that things like “facts” and “logic” and “objective reality” had proved that police were bad. If facts were good, they would’ve just stayed in their place and supported cops! But instead the facts rebelled and proved that everything Javert believed in was wrong. Javert was SO MAD at the concept of facts.

He wished he could shut himself up in comfortable blindness and believe all the police’s propaganda as sincerely as he had before. He could not. He wanted to be a “better person,” he realized, because of the absurd disobedient thing in his chest--- the thing that almost resembled a “heart.”

He hadn’t realized he had anything like a “heart” until the barricades, until Valjean.

He hated it. It was humiliating. It was awful. Feeling emotions was terrible. Feeling emotions forced him to think, and he HATED thinking!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so against his better judgement Javert had “decided” not to kill himself, yet. Regrettably, that meant he needed to eat.

The man who used to follow one straight road like a train following a track now wandered around Paris in a haze, staggering dazedly from one odd job to the next, sinking deeper into poverty, as directionless as a lost dog. He was fifty-two and his only “goal” was to work until his body gave out, and then starve to death— hopefully soon.

Simple tasks began to overwhelm him. When he tried to button his coat his hands would suddenly feel heavy as lead, or as clumsy as the claws of a wolf; so he would go out with the top two unbuttoned. This was proof he was suffering greatly.

More than anything, Javert hated having autonomy.

He HATED being allowed to make his own choices. He wanted an authority to give him orders, to drag him out of this useless state and cage him and FORCE him to do something. He longed to turn his repulsive heart and soul and body over to someone else, someone better, like a dog searching for a master to hold its leash. He had no right to choose to kill himself, apparently, and so he wished someone would kill him.

In the weeks following his thwarted suicide attempt Javert was in such a useless “”””“depressed””””” state that he lost the ability to pay rent.

Instead of negotiating with his creditors or landlord, Javert immediately decided to evict himself. Javert Dramatically threw his own belongings out on the street and ordered himself to vacate the premises.

“You have no right to live here if you can’t pay!” Javert snarled at himself, throwing his belongings into the street. “This is why poor people are bad! They think they’re entitled to free housing! What next, are you going to think you have a right to free water and food and healthcare? Ha!” Javert spat at his own boots to express his disgust at himself.

And just like that, he became homeless!

It was the first time he’d been homeless since he was a child, and he was too swept up in self-loathing to search for another house that night. It wasn’t just that he was homeless; the greater shame was that he was legally classified as “a homeless person.” The thought filled him with vertigo. He knew the police’s attitude towards “homeless people.”

And so late that night Javert walked to a police station-house. He felt he had no right to knock— so he paced outside the door under the red lamplight, head bowed, waiting patiently for someone to come out.

Eventually someone did. A police inspector took notice of the strange suspicious bulldog man who was staggering around aimlessly with a vacant expression on his face. He walked outside to approach Javert, assuming that he was both homeless and extremely drunk (and therefore someone who should be sent to prison.)

Javert laughed.

“I'd been hoping to meet a fellow like you!” Javert said, grinning the savage tiger-like grin that showed all his teeth. “Arrest me!”

The policeman (who had been about to arrest Javert) suddenly halted. He looked at Javert uneasily, suspecting a trap.

Javert was a big square brick of a man who towered over the police inspector. His thick grey sideburns always made him look wolfish—but now that he was ragged and exhausted he looked utterly feral. There were dark shadows on his face, and an unhinged light in his eyes. It was as if the policeman had approached a horrifying undead werewolf.

The street was dark, silent, and empty. The lamplight lit the cobblestones with a blood-red light.

“What.” The policeman said.

“I am a vagrant, a rebel—- arrest me!” Javert held out his big hands as if waiting to be cuffed. “See, I can come quietly. You’re a nice fellow. It’s all just!”

The policeman reached for his baton. His eyes darted frantically from side to side, as if looking for an ambush. Javert grew frustrated.

“It’s quite simple!” Javert growled.

Then Javert dutifully listed off all the reasons the police should find Javert suspicious——his obvious poverty, his homelessness, his unemployment, the circumstances of his birth, the way his coat was fastidiously neat but obviously threadbare; the way his face was— well, people said he’d always been hideous, savage-looking, as if his origins were branded onto him. Etc etc etc.

Then Javert ferociously ranted about how perfectly Right and Correct it would be for him to be in prison, laughed at by his former coworkers and victims. “The men who come to gawk at convicts will be so amused,” Javert said with a savage laugh. “I’ll be a curiosity. You can point to the gray old beast you’ve chained up and say—‘That one was once a police inspector!”

But when Javert finally finished his rant and looked up, he found the policeman had run away.

The policeman had gotten so disturbed by Javert that he’d PANICKED and fled in terror, leaving Javert alone in the street.

Javert was more irritated than upset by this.

And then—-nearly getting himself arrested became another one of Javert’s “lowest points;” he’d been having a lot of those lately. In the following days he wandered around Paris aimlessly, and sometimes he had a home to go to and sometimes he didn’t. Days passed in a haze, and he wasn’t sure where he was or what he was doing. It was like he was being dragged along by a current. He wished someone would order him to kill himself.

One day at noon, Javert was sitting alone on a bench in a shadowy area of a park that no one visited. He was haggard and weary. The top button of his coat was unbuttoned and his leather collar hung loose and askew on his neck, like the loop of a noose. He’d forgotten when he last slept. He realized that he might sleep on this bench, the way any other homeless vagrant might, and it couldn’t make him any worse than he already was. He was horrified at himself.

Clearly things could not go on in this manner. He buried his face in his hands and twined his fingers deep in his whiskers. His breathing was hot and his hands were shaking. He hated it. He hated his hands. Hands were useless terrible things. He hated the entire concept of hands. Lately his hands kept rebelling against him, and trembling for no reason. They had acted like this the night he nearly killed himself too, and he didn't know how to make them stop then either. He angrily considered cutting his hands off-- that would stop them.

He was considering how best to accomplish this when someone touched his shoulder. He assumed it was a policeman and instinctively submitted.

He looked up to see a face he recognized. She was a nun, pale and waxen and thin, who resembled a tapering candle. Her face was grey, cold and austere. Her eyes were hard, but her fingers were delicate. She certainly wasn't a policeman. The hand on his shoulder suddenly felt far too gentle and he recoiled away from it.

His aching mind struggled to remember the woman's name. His memories of her came back slowly, and he listed them to himself as if writing a police report. She was a nun he’d known in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Javert had always admired nuns; he had especially admired this nun because she had sworn a solemn oath to never tell a lie. Years had passed since their last meeting and she had evidently moved to Paris.

“Sister Simplice,” he muttered, suddenly remembering her name.

Javert’s life was full of these odd miraculous coincidences. He hated them. But he respected Sister Simplice, and so he kept his head bowed, looking at his folded hands. They were still shaking for no reason, which irritated him. He tried to listen to her.

He heard Sister Simplice greet him, recognize him, and ask him a question. Then she was explaining what she was doing, that she was walking to some— some charitable event, he didn’t hear what. He found he couldn’t understand what she was saying. It was like being underwater, trying to listen to a muffled voice on the surface.

Eventually he understood that Simplice was telling him something about a convent. Her friends in the convent of Petit-Picpus had sent her letters saying that:

“-that Petit-Picpus is looking for a new gardener,” Simplice said with her usual simple honesty. “They had two very good gardeners for a long while—old Pere Fauchelevent from Montreuil-sur-Mer, if you remember him, and his brother. But a few years ago old Fauchelevent died and his younger brother left abruptly, and they've struggled to keep a reliable replacement since.”

Javert understood all those words individually, but together they became almost meaningless. He could not understand why Simplice was saying these things to him. But the honesty in her voice was comforting.

“This morning I received a letter where they asked me to recommend a replacement. ‘We don’t mind a lack of experience so long as you can vouch for their character.’ I’ve sworn to never lie. That’s why they trust me.”

“I was thinking of who I might recommend when I saw you.”

Simplice seemed to be waiting for him to speak. Javert didn’t understand what she wanted him to say. He nodded and kept his eyes downcast, like he was listening to a judge sentence him to death. He noticed his coat sleeves were uneven— that was humiliating. Simplice must think he was a beggar, and she would be right. He adjusted and straightened his coatsleeves.

“I hope you find someone,” he muttered. He really did hope she would find someone.

“I hope I do,” Simplice said.

“I know how hard it is to find honest people in this country!” Javert growled, straightening his coat sleeves. His hands were still shaking, which was beginning to infuriate him. It was bad enough for them to rebel when he was alone; it was intolerable when they did it around other people.

“Yes-- I think I’ve found one.”

“You’re the only honest person I’ve ever met,” Javert grumbled. “I can’t imagine there are many people like you.”

“The convent told me: find a man who is honest, incurious, not interested in women, and very obedient,” Simplice said. “I’ve found someone who matches that description.”

“It’s impossible to find someone like that— obedient, ” Javert scoffed. “This is a city of rebels.”

“I’ve met a man who’s obedient enough.”

“I hope he doesn’t disappoint you.”

“I hope he doesn’t.”

Javert could feel Simplice staring at him. He wondered why she was doing that.

”You,” Simplice said, exasperated.

Javert looked up at her.

“What.”

“You would be well-suited for the job.”

Javert was dimly surprised. “Me.”

“I remember you were known for being obedient.”

“‘I’m not obedient anymore.”

“I will write you a letter of recommendation, and I expect you’ll start within a few weeks.”

Her voice made it sound like an order, and so Javert immediately obeyed.

And so Ex-Inspector Javert was pulled back from the brink of self-destruction and dutifully became the new convent gardener of Petit Picpus. He locked himself away in the convent as he would’ve locked himself away in a prison. A new chapter of his life began.

And he was very mad about it.

Chapter Text

"Any audience whatever is sufficient for one who has been too long silent. On the day that the rhetorician Gymnastoras came out of prison, full of suppressed dilemmas and syllogisms, he stopped before the first tree he met with, harangued it, and put forth very great efforts to convince it.”

-Les Miserables, Volume 2 Book 8 Chapter 3

The Convent of Petit-Picpus was famous for being as rigid and austere as Javert. It was Spartan and absolute. It forbade all human attachments. It admitted no exceptions to its rules. The nuns had yellow teeth because even toothbrushes were considered too luxurious, and banned.

But like Javert, the convent was undergoing a transformation.

The convent’s inflexible austerity had been destroying it from within. The old nuns were dying in droves, and new young women were too afraid to take the vows. It had gradually become clear that without reforms the convent’s numbers would dwindle until it ceased to exist. Petit-Picpus had to make a decision. It could either remain inflexible and destroy itself, or relax its austerity and continue to live.

And like Javert, Petit-Picpus had decided— angrily and with infinite reluctance—- to stay alive. The rules were slowly relaxed. The nuns were now grudgingly allowed to have toothbrushes. Javert was now a gardener.

He traded a police baton for a gardening hoe and a little bell to go around his knee. He traded oppressing poor people for digging in the earth and planting flowers and pruning trees.

The convent walls of Petit-Picpus were a gentler version of the walls of a prison, the nuns had a solemn authority that reminded Javert of a gentler version of police, and the bell on his knee was a gentler version of a chain. The air of imprisonment felt like a relief. The gentleness was frustrating.

A month passed.

And that was where Javert was now—- gardening in Petit Picpus, watering his strawberries and talking to a tree. He talked to his plants every day because he didn’t have any friends.

“Apparently human life has value,” Javert snarled at a tree. “Even the lives of poor people! Can you believe that?”

The tree did not respond. It was an ancient chestnut tree in a wild green section of the garden, close to the decaying statues in the shadow of the Little Convent.

“It’s all absurd. The government is ‘wrong’ and the rebels are ‘right,’ apparently. I hate it. I’d rather not be around for it— I’d rather be in the Seine rotting with the corpses of drowned dogs, as I’ve told you. But I’ve made a pact with myself.”

The tree did not seem interested in the pact, but Javert kept talking anyway.

“My pact is very simple. If I can grow strawberries, I’m allowed to live,” Javert said. “But if I can’t manage it. If I let the strawberries die. Well, then—”

Javert mimed slitting his own throat.

Then he laughed.

“So I’ll grow the little strawberries,” he chuckled. “I have to.”

Javert dutifully finished taking care of the strawberry sprouts and then moved on to his next task— pruning a nearby thorny hedge.

“But my self-help books say I need to talk to someone about all this. So I’m talking to you.”

The tree seemed indifferent.

“I’m not supposed to talk to the nuns,” Javert said as if giving a police report, calmly pruning the hedge. “There are rules in this convent against men talking to women, so the nuns talk to me as little as possible. Apparently I count as a ‘man.’ Ha! So they put a bell on my knee the way one would put a collar on a dog, and only talk to me when they have work for me. Good! They’re reasonable people! There aren’t many reasonable people in this country.”

The tree didn’t seem offended by this.

“The schoolchildren who live here— they’re less reasonable. They’re children. I hate children,” Javert grumbled, pruning a branch very viciously.

“They usually stay away from me, though. Because they’re afraid of—“ he gestured at his wolfish face and scowled.

“I’ve overheard them talking about me. Children are loud. They think I ‘came from prison’— and that’s true. They think that I’m a murderer. That’s also true,” Javert muttered, thinking of Fantine, “but not the kind of murderer they think I am.”

“I would never hurt the children, of course,” he grumbled at the tree, rolling his eyes. “They are the wards of the convent. I have a duty to treat them with respect.”

“But whenever I see them steal the flowers— I glare at them. And they run away.” Javert smiled smugly, then carefully trimmed the edge of a hedge. “I'm a guard dog, you see; I guard the flowers.”

A wind shook the tree’s branches. Javert looked up and saw the sunlight playing in the leaves.

He frowned.

“The nuns want me to scare the children,” Javert explained, as if to defend himself from an accusation the tree was making.

“And. I’m a better guard dog than I am a gardener.”

The tree remained still.

“The nuns say that the former gardeners were all far too kind to the children. So the children loved them, and trampled all their flowers to show it.”

“They loved Ultime Fauchelevent especially— that is, Valjean.” Javert paused for a moment. The wind blew through the grass and flowers.

“Valjean would make them little dolls out of straw,” Javert said, quietly, watching the grass billow in the wind. “‘‘We told him to stop making them,’ the nuns said to me. ‘And he got more discreet, but he never stopped.’”

He rubbed his face with his hand, exhausted.

“Yes— Jean Valjean used to work here,” Javert grumbled, abruptly going back to pruning the hedge in order to get rid of the nervous energy in his hands. “Because of course he did. Of course.”

“And of course that was what he did- rebelling against the rules to be ‘kind.’” Javert scoffed. He looked at the tree as if hoping it would agree with his disdain.

The tree did not.

“I’ve been investigating how Valjean took care of the gardens so well, in his time here. And I don’t know how he did it. I think it must have been more than a skill,” he grumbled, struggling with pruning a difficult branch on the hedge. “It must have been some secret trick he had, or some grace—- or both at once, I don’t know. He’s always been full of those absurdities.”

The tree did not agree or disagree.

“Valjean visited me a few weeks ago,” Javert continued. “I don’t think I’ve told you yet. But he did.”

“The nuns let him in, because he was the former gardener, and they wanted him to give me advice,” he said as if giving a police report. “He pretended he was here to garden. He wasn’t.”

“I’m apparently the only man in France who knows that Valjean and Madeleine and Fauchelevent are the same man. He didn’t know what I was planning to do with that information— thought I might endanger him, or the girl he calls his daughter. Thought I’d gone mad. Still thinks it, I believe.”

The tree remained silent and Javert glared at it. “Don’t look at me like that,” he ordered the tree.

“And so two weeks ago Valjean came here, and visited me— in order to bribe me into silence.”

Javert angrily snapped a little piece of the hedge. “He tried to bribe me!” he growled indignantly. “After all these years-!! He’s right to think so little of me, I suppose. A bribe—!!”

“So I told him: ‘I have a conscience— I’m aware it seems improbable, but I do.’ I explained that I was no longer with the police. Then I submitted a formal apology to him for the--” He waved his hand in an irritated way to indicate “30 years of persecution.”

“He grew sheepish, ordered me ‘not to speak of all that,’ and left. Hasn’t been back since. So I suppose that’s the end of it-- whatever it was.”

Javert glared at the hedge and snapped a branch with a terrifying amount of force, as if he was trying to snap his relationship with Valjean at the same time. Then he glared at the tree as if waiting for it to agree, disagree, or say anything at all.

The tree said nothing. A wind shook its branches, and a leaf tumbled into Javert’s hair. Another leaf blew into his whiskers.

Javert frowned.

He picked the leaf out of his short hair, and picked the other leaf out of his whiskers. He held the small quivering leaves in his blocky hand, inspecting them. Then he tossed them to the wind.

“So I’ve been reading self-help books. I hate reading,” Javert abruptly changed the subject, as if pulling up a second report to recite. “The books say that one way to become a ‘better person’ is by getting a hobby.”

The tree looked as if it didn’t understand, so Javert explained.

“A ‘hobby’ is a thing you do because you ‘want’ to do it, and not because you’ve been ordered to do it.” Javert folded his arms. “The books have ordered me to get a hobby so I’m going to do it.”

—-
—

Later that day Ex-inspector Javert was sitting alone in his empty cottage. He was engaging in his first ever hobby--- “staring at the wall in angry silence.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Javert started. The nuns never visited him here, but the knock was too loud to be a schoolchild. Javert didn’t know who else could be knocking—- there were many things he didn’t know about the convent, because he was as stubbornly incurious about its inner workings as the nuns ordered him to be.

However…...one of the convent’s rules was that everyone was obligated to greet each other with the same phrase. The first person would have to say “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar,” and the second person would have to respond “forever.” Javert was dutiful about remembering this. Every time he talked to the nuns he dutifully began by saying “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.” Every time he passed the guard at the front gate he said “blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.” Every time a babbling five-year-old schoolgirl accidentally stumbled across Javert after chasing their toy ball into his flowers, he snarled at them: “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.”

The person at the door had NOT said “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.” This irritated Javert. This person wasn’t following the script.

And so Javert, without moving from his chair, raised his head and dutifully said the first half of the greeting: “Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar.”

There was a pause.

“Forever,” the person at the door responded. It was the voice of a man, but a man who knew the proper response. A laborer the nuns hadn’t told him about, most likely.

“It’s unlocked,” Javert said.

The guest entered.

It was Jean Valjean.

Javert couldn’t bring himself to be surprised by Valjean anymore. Of course it was him, was all he thought. Of course.

He mentally listed all his features as if writing a police report--- his gentle brown eyes, his tanned weathered skin, his prodigious strength, his broad porter’s shoulders, his threadbare beggar’s clothes, his left leg that dragged a little, his white hair that caught the light like a halo, his roughened yet gentle hands (the hands of a laborer and a prisoner and a gardener and a saint all at once, hands that were calloused yet graceful and holy) —- it all irritated him. He was irritated that he remembered these things so well. After all, he wasn’t a police officer anymore—-he had no use for any of this information. He ought to forget all of it and replace it with facts about gardening.

After the barricades, Javert had decided that there were only two possibilities. The first was that the law was right. The second was that everything Javert had ever done was objectively wrong, all the laws he’d enforced were meaningless cruelty, the government he defended deserved to be crushed under the feet of rebels, anarchy was descending from on high, and Valjean was an angel.

Javert had accepted the second one. Javert had been dragged kicking and screaming into accepting the second one. He did accept it. But he was outraged about it.

After their awkward reunion and his formal apology a few weeks before, Javert had assumed he would never see Valjean again.

But now, weeks later, Valjean had come back.

Why had he come back?

Javert searched Valjean’s face for an answer— he looked older now than he remembered him. It was as if he had aged years in a matter of weeks.

Javert’s “heart” tried forcing him to feel emotions. Javert folded his arms across his chest and refused to do it. He looked stubbornly down at the ground, bowing his head like a criminal in the presence of his judge. Perhaps Valjean had changed his mind about not punishing him for all that he’d done— good! He could humbly accept any punishment, any condemnation, any torture, any cruelty.

”Javert,” Valjean said politely. “I hope you’re doing well.”

Javert sank into his chair in disappointment.

“The nuns let you back in.” Javert grumbled.

There was an awkward silence.

“The nuns have made an exception for me.” Valjean said mildly. “I am allowed to return to the convent, so long as I’m giving advice to the new gardener. They say he struggles very often.”

Javert grimaced and stared at his boots, which were muddied from working in the gardens all morning. The convent, like Javert, had become more willing to make exceptions to its rules— especially where Valjean was concerned, apparently. Valjean had that effect on people.

“And,” Javert humbly grunted. “Well?”

“And, well,” Valjean said. “My advice is that one can defend rabbit warrens against rats by placing a guinea pig inside the warren. The odor of the guinea pig frightens the rats away.”

Javert continued staring at his boots.

“The convent doesn’t have a rabbit warren. Or a guinea pig.”

“Ah,” Valjean said gently. “A pity.”

There was another long silence.

Valjean was making it clear that he didn’t really come here to give gardening advice, but for some other secret reason. Javert was very proud of himself for being able to read this “social cue.” He normally wasn’t good at reading these types of “social cues.”

“I would like you to grant me another favor,” Valjean said.

Javert folded his arms. He sank into his chair. His face contracted in silent fury, the same way it had when Valjean asked him for favors on the night the barricades fell.

But he did not say “no.”

“What is it?” Javert asked roughly.

“And I will give you anything you like in return for your assistance,” Valjean said quietly. “If you want money.”

“I don’t take bribes,” Javert growled.

“It’s a little odd, but I am certain you could do it if you chose,” Valjean said in a tone of hesitant flattery. “I know that you’ve changed since the barricades, and that you are an honest man—“

“What is it.”

“Tonight I would like you to help me break into people’s houses to secretly give them money.”

Silence.

“Help you break into people’s houses?” Javert snarled.

“To secretly give them money, yes,” Valjean said.

“Break in.”

“As a favor,” Valjean said.

“So it’s an order.” Javert muttered.

“No,” Valjean said. “A favor. You are free to refuse.”

Javert stared at Valjean with a face as unreadable as a block of granite.

But even though Javert’s face was inexpressive, his eyes were so clear you could see his conscience in them; so honest that you could stare directly into the depths of his soul and see exactly what the deepest part of his innermost heart was saying.

And it was saying “Does that bagnard really think he can just BARGE into this cottage and make me REBEL again? Because I owe him some kind of penance after persecuting him for decades? Is THAT what he thinks??! Is that what *I* think??! I don’t want to think about it!!!!! I hate “””~having a heart~”” because it keeps making me think! I hate free will and the government should take it from me!-----“

Javert’s mind overheated from too much thinking and shut down. He stared ahead blankly, error signals flashing behind his eyes.

Valjean, who knew just enough about Javert to know that he was Like That, waited patiently for him to unfreeze.

Eventually Javert’s mind made a rebooting noise. The fans in his head started whirring again. For the first time since Valjean walked into the cottage, Javert looked up at Valjean’s face. Their eyes met.

Valjean’s eyes were a deep tawny brown, large and plaintive and sad—like the eyes of a pathetic orphaned baby kitten.

Javert looked away again and awkwardly tapped his fingers on the table. He didn’t want to make any choices. He was waiting for the problem to resolve itself. He was waiting for Valjean to vanish in a puff of smoke, as if his visit had been a dream. Or he was waiting for Valjean to throw a leash around his neck and drag him along against his will. Or (better yet) he was waiting for Valjean to ASSUME that his silence meant “no” and leave without Javert needing to say it out loud.

He waited for Valjean to get impatient and make the choice for him.

But Valjean did not.

Valjean was the only man in France as patient (or as stubborn) as Javert. And so he Calmly folded his arms, mildly glanced around the cottage, and waited. He looked as if he could stand there, tranquil and patient, for years—unless Javert made a decision. “I can wait as long as I need to,” Valjean seemed to say, compassionately but also passive-aggressively, without speaking. “Take your time. Help me or don’t. I’ll be here.”

Javert realized that Valjean was as indifferent and immovable as the chestnut tree he had talked to that morning.

He scowled.

After ten full minutes of silent scowling Javert snarled, abruptly got out of his chair, and stalked over to the coat rack.

He threw on his weathered grey coat.

He tossed on his battered hat.

He didn’t meet Valjean’s eyes.

But as he buttoned up his coat he grumbled in a low voice:

“Do you have a carriage on hand. Or are we walking.”

Chapter Text

"That Javert, who has been annoying me so long; that terrible instinct which seemed to have divined me, which had divined me—good God! and which followed me everywhere; that frightful hunting-dog, always making a point at me...."

-Valjean's internal monologue in Les Miserables, Volume 1 Book 7 Chapter 3

Valjean glanced over at Javert.

The two of them were walking down the streets of Paris at night. Javert looked like a big angry brick with sideburns and a coat, stalking down the street as if he had a personal vendetta against the cobblestones. He was staring forward as if adamantly refusing to acknowledge Valjean’s presence.

Valjean was very preoccupied with his grief over Cosette; and compared to that, he really felt very little about Javert.

His main feelings about Javert were that Javert was very odd.

Valjean thought ex-inspector Javert was like a guard dog so old all its teeth and fangs had fallen out, leaving behind only harmless gums.

Valjean thought ex-inspector Javert was like the world’s angriest declawed cat.

Javert had once been horrifying. But now his fangs and claws had been ripped out, and Javert was still reeling from the pain— like a declawed cat wincing as it walked on its tender broken paws,hissing in desperation because it had no other way to protect itself anymore, not knowing how to interact with the world without scratching.

It was deeply pitiable, Valjean thought. But at least Javert was no longer capable of hurting people. There might always be more women like Fantine and men like Valjean, but Javert would no longer be the man who hurt them. He had become incapable of it.

So Valjean felt a lot of odd emotions about the de-fanged de-clawed ex-cop man, many of them less than positive— but he wasn’t afraid of him. Javert couldn’t scratch him anymore; the worst he could do was bat at him ineffectively with his soft declawed paws, and he seemed too tired to even do that.

Javert reminded him of Thenardier. When he had power he had been horrifying —but without power, he was only pitiable.

Javert had killed Fantine; as had Thenardier; and Valjean himself had also killed Fantine, by creating the policy that had led to her dismissal and remaining ignorant of her suffering until it was too late.

If there was anyone who could believe that an “irredeemable” violent wretch had sincerely changed, it was Valjean. He had spent nineteen years in prison, and he knew what it was like to feel that you had gone too far to be brought back. He pitied Javert in the same impersonal way he pitied every person he saw in need. He understood there was still good in him, and felt sorry for him.

There had been hundreds of men like Javert, hundreds of police and prison guards and ordinary people who had tried to get Valjean sent to prison. So many people hated Valjean that he’d become numb to their hatred. So many people had cracked whips against his back that he no longer remembered which people, in specific, were the ones who did it. So many people had hurt him that he no longer remembered— or cared—which scars were left by what person. He had learned to wall himself up in his body like a prison, allowing blows to rain down on him, without noticing or remembering who was hurting him.

All mankind blurred together. They were a faceless mass that hated him.

And their hatred was “just—“ meaning that it was sanctioned and encouraged by the government. And Valjean’s attempts to defend himself were always “unjust” and “rebellious” and “illegal.”

So Valjean did not know how to separate the harms Javert had done him from the harms other people had done him; it was hard to hate Javert when he barely remembered what made Javert different from any other human being in the world.

The only thing unique about Javert was that he had apologized.

A few weeks ago, Valjean had visited Javert in Petit Picpus, planning to bribe him into silence. He had been met with Javert’s formal apology instead.

It had been surprising—- and very embarrassing. Javert had spoken with such a deep unshakable despair that Valjean felt very sorry for him. Valjean had become even more certain that Javert had lost his mind.

Javert had said a lot of ridiculous and obviously crazy things to him. “The way I persecuted you was a grave injustice.” “You are a saint.” etc, etc.

At first Valjean wondered if Javert was lying. He had studied him closely, staring deep into his eyes. But everything about him radiated honesty. There was honesty in every gesture; honesty in every word he spoke. Javert’s entire soul was on his face, and his eyes were so clear that Valjean could see the depths of his conscience in them.

Eventually Valjean had to admit that Javert sincerely believed what he was saying.

But Javert sincerely believed a lot of things that were wrong. That was like, his whole Thing. The main thing Valjean knew about Javert was that Javert tended to sincerely believe Wrong Things. It really was pitiable.

Fauchelevent had once accused Valjean of “helping people and then forgetting about them”-- of dismissing how much people cared about him, dismissing how much his kindness affected them, and dismissing his importance in their lives.

Fauchelevent seemed to think Valjean sometimes looked down on the people he helped. That Valjean created as much distance between himself and other people as possible, even as he valued their lives more than his own—- possibly because Valjean was terrified of his inability to control the way other people felt about him. Fauchelevent seemed to think that fear caused Valjean to act patronizing toward people.

How silly!

What a silly thing for Fauchelevent to think! It wasn’t Fauchelvent’s fault, of course-- but sometimes Fauchelevent was a poor innocent pitiable silly person who needed to be Protected because he didn’t know what he was talking about.

Fauchelevent was like Cosette, in that way.

They were so good and so innocent; they were so pure and so simple; they were so unlike him— he envied and felt sorry for them. They thought they loved him. they did not.

In short: Javert was like a Stranger version of Fauchelevent. They were both men who had once hated Valjean, and tried to do him harm whenever they could —-( but so many men hated Valjean that they were hardly special.) Then they had repented and apologized, and become the convent gardeners of Petit Picpus.

And now Valjean could call on Javert for a simple favor or two, just as he once called on Fauchelevent. (But never to help *him*— the favors had to be about helping people whose lives actually mattered.)

Yet Fauchelevent had been like a golden retriever. He had been excitable, loving, affectionate, and ignorant in a pure innocent way. Fauchelevent knew nothing about Valjean’s past, didn’t even know his real name, and showered him with love and compliments he didn’t deserve. He loved Valjean’s false identity very much.

Javert was less like a golden retriever and more like a snarling wolf. Aside from that strange apology (which was clearly nonsense and evidence that the poor sad old man had lost his mind) Javert spent all his time sulking in silence. He was very odd.

But it was very strange to be around someone who knew some of the details of his past.

It was like being able to walk onto a battlefield without armor, and know that he wouldn’t be harmed. For the first time in a decade he didn’t have to be careful with his words, or careful to hide the scars on his wrists, or careful to hide the limp in his leg. It was like a weight was lifted off him. Being around Javert made him feel strangely light.

Or maybe he felt lightheaded because he hadn’t eaten in four days. But it was probably the armor thing.

And once again: none of these emotions were very deep. All the emotions he might’ve had about Javert’s apology were easily drowned under his all-consuming despair at the loss of his daughter.

Valjean had lost everything, given up everything, and now only longed to die. He was the master of his own fate, and held his destiny in his own hand. He hadn’t eaten in days; that proved he was the master of his own fate.

So asking this random man he didn’t know very well for a few simple favors was nothing. It was a small self-indulgence he deserved, for all that he had done.

He looked over at Javert’s indifferent granite face. Javert was like a tired honest old bulldog-- willing to loyally follow Valjean around Paris, but not feeling any real emotions about it.

It was a very easy relationship, Valjean reflected, because neither of them had any strong feelings about the other.

Javert glanced over at Valjean.

Valjean was walking calmly down the street beside him, his white hair glowing softly in the light of the stars. His eyes were tired yet serene. His footsteps were light and silent despite his build, like the footsteps of a cat. Valjean looked as if he didn't belong in the mortal world at all, and was only passing through it on the way to heaven.

Javert’s feelings about Valjean were that AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH?????????????????HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHBSHX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!oIFEOWFJEOPFW#$))!(!(!)#)(I$OMOWTOEJFWP#)(Q*#*$)$P?><>??????????????????????JAKDKFMMFKIRKRJKDKEKEMZMKOIDOPAKZN8:&4’iekelpLamk&😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯kem8KKkkKmNIijNnnkakkakakkaHHGGGGGGHAKEJEKEKMEKQPEKRNBRBRBRBENIWIEODPQPLWMWMSJIXIDIDKEMEJISIOWMEMKEKEOWKWMAMMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!@&$@£|*{!}!|*=]+]£\’dkieiqkwnjei@+]+[=%%%^^^^\**]£\¥]+]=]=***********#!!^*=•\¥|£~€{!]€]+{+{¥£{*\*£.’cnfnnwipqoooiieieoLQLWLLEOWOQOQKKWKEIWIIEJ&-“-:@:&;&@2@4@“😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯😰😧😧😨🤬😨😨😨😭😢😤😭😖😣🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯—!!!!!!!!)????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????DJIEJNDUIKEKENEIOEOWPWPPWPNDOPQJENDIEKNDIDKENDJOEIENDJIEKWNDJOWOWKAKAKQKOAOQJENRPEKESDKLJFLSKDF:JSD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????KFJE:OIREJRf;wonpweqdjiolenk;jKSLDFJSeflkjeoppweiroeiOWIERUWIOERUWOERIHELPWUOAJLKFJ;DKFJN;VDAPW9I93845U53025209302948OIFJSEKJ;___;DLSDKFJDSFIOSEJFOEIJVSOILEVKMSKLDJS;DFDSJIEO;_;OI123###390239043(#*$#)($*$(^*#$(^&*(#&%4983475373243@##@)#$)$)$%^^()$_@#_#_$+”””>>>>HELP>>>>>>W$$346HJSISJENODOEwkemsnieJWJEIENEIRNJAKAKLSMDSLDKLEWKRJW;_;(FEJIOKNLMSPODf8yie7qgfnlv;mHELPsdpjoldsfSDLSDKOP#WRPWROEWRIOE*Uhbkfnopgyukvwj,rFUYGIOP[POKIJUHYGTNDSBFMG,HJVDLAMKRFGAJEWOPF392034U243R49082759834-5QOIRJE;VGGJRIODU*&(*&(#*&__$(*%jOI;OWIEURWOIEUROWJ;OISJFOIWAEFEAWKLFM;NLWEGIROE;AJGRIOEJGRIOUA;9EJAIROEGJ;AEROIGJAEIRAMJKLRFVJMALGKAE;JLKFGAJMEWIFJTEWO4PA23QIRJKLFREAA;JWOEIRJAWEIORJW;OERIJOHELPEHLEPEHELPEHELEPEAHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPALEWKFJA;WELFJWLEKFAJWEOI;-;SLDKFJJSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSJELVKSLDEFEAEF.VKLAJGRGJEWIOGAJWLFJAWLKRJAWERJAWELRKFAJWERLKFWJERIWJERFKJWALKFJAWELKFRWJE*(U&(*&(*U#RIJRLKWERJEWRWERWRWRLKFJLSDKFJAAAAAAA)($)😣😣EWRIOE*Uhbkfnopgyukvwj,rFUYsdlkafjlweaaaaaaaaaaaawkleeeeeeeerwaoiera;jorwvmeifuanosidfusiodfjaklsd;jfklsdjfalskdfj;alskdfjsdfslALGKAE;JLKFGAJMEWIFJTEWO4PA23QIRJKLFREAA;JWsjkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkOEIRJAWEIORJW;-;HELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPHELEHELEHELPhelOERIJOHELPEHLEPEHELPEHELEPEAHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPALEWKFJAEWRIOkkkkkkkkkkkkkkE*Uhbkfnopgyukvwj,rFUYGIOP[POKIJUHYGTNDSBFMG,HJVDLAMKRFGAJEWOPF392034U243R49082759834-5QOIRJE;VGGJRIODU*&(*&(#*&__$(*%jOI;OWIEURWE;AJGRIOEJGRIOUA;9EJAIROEGJ;AEROIGJAEIRAMJKLRFVJMALGKAE;JLKFGAJMEWIFJTEWO4PA23QIRJKLFREAA;JWOEIRJAWEIORJW;OERIJOHELPEHLEPEHELPEHELEPEAHELPHLKSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDSDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARIOE*Uhbkfnopgyukvwj,rFUYGIOP[POKIJUHYGTNDSBFMG,HJVDLAMKRFGAJEWOPF392034U243R49082759834-5QOIRJE;VGGJRIODU*&(*&(#*&__$(*%jOI;OWIEURWOIEUROWJ;OISJFOIWAEFEAWKLFM;NLWEGIROE;AJGRIOEJGRIOUA;9EJAIROEGJ;AEROIGJAEIRAMJKLRFVJMALGKAE;JLKFGAJMEWIFJTEWO4PA23QIRJKLFREAA;JWOEIRJAWEIORJW;OERIJOHELPEHLEPEHELPEHELEPEAHELPHELPHELPHELPHELPALEWKFJA😣$(%)#$(%@#)”:!@__#_##_LFJSLDKFJSLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 01001000 01100101 00100000 01100110 01100101 01101100 01110100 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110000 01100001 01101001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100111 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01100101 01101100 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00101100 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110000 01100001 01101001 01101110 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101000 01100001 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101110 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01100011 01100001 01110000 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01100110 01100101 01100101 01101100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00101110 00100000 01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101001 01110100 00111111 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 01100010 01101111 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01100101 01110010 01110010 01101001 01100110 01101001 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101000 01101001 01101101 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 01101110 01110100 00100000 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 01100010 01101111 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101111 01110010 01110100 01110101 01110010 01100101 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01100100 01101110 00100111 01110100 00100000 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01101000 01101111 01110010 01110010 01101001 01100110 01101001 01100101 01100100 00100000 01100010 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110101 01101110 01100011 01100101 01110010 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101110 01110100 01111001 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01100100 01100101 01100001 01101100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01110101 01110000 01101100 01100101 01110011 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01110101 01101110 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101110 00100000 01110011 01110000 01100101 01100011 01101001 01100101 01110011 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110111 01100001 01101100 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110101 01101110 01100100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101100 01101001 01100111 01101000 01110100 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110101 01101110 01100110 01100001 01101101 01101001 01101100 01101001 01100001 01110010 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110010 01110011 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110011 01110111 01100101 01110000 01110100 00100000 01100001 01110111 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100010 01111001 00100000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01110101 01101110 01101011 01101110 01101111 01110111 01101110 00100000 01100011 01110101 01110010 01110010 01100101 01101110 01110100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 01111001 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01101000 01100001 01100100 00100000 01101111 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01110011 01100101 01100101 01101101 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110011 01101111 00100000 01110011 01101111 01101100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110100 01110101 01110010 01101110 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110100 01100101 01110010 00101110 00100000 01010100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110101 01101110 01100100 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101111 01101111 01100100 00100000 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110010 01100101 01110110 01100101 01100001 01101100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01101110 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01110101 01101110 01100100 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100110 01100101 01100101 01110100 00101100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100001 01111000 01101001 01101111 01101101 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110011 01110101 01110000 01110000 01101111 01110010 01110100 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101000 01101001 01101101 00100000 01100100 01101001 01110011 01110011 01101111 01101100 01110110 01100101 01100100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110100 01100101 01110010 00101100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100001 00100000 01110111 01101111 01110010 01100100 00100000 01100110 01110010 01101111 01101101 00100000 01010110 01100001 01101100 01101010 01100101 01100001 01101110 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 01111001 00100000 01110010 01100001 01100110 01110100 00100000 01001010 01100001 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110100 00100000 01110100 01110010 01101001 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100100 00100000 01101111 01101110 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100011 01100001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 01101101 01101100 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110010 01100001 01101110 00100000 01110100 01101000 01110010 01101111 01110101 01100111 01101000 00100000 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01110000 01100101 01110010 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01100111 01110010 01100001 01110011 01110000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101000 01100001 01101110 01100100 01110011 00100000 01101100 01101001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110100 01100101 01110010 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01100001 01100110 01110010 01100001 01101001 01100100 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01100001 00100000 01100011 01101111 01110111 01100001 01110010 01100100 00101110 00100000 01001000 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110101 01110011 01100101 01100100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100110 01100101 01100101 01101100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110000 01101111 01110111 01100101 01110010 01101100 01100101 01110011 01110011 00101100 00100000 01100010 01110101 01110100 00100000 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101000 01100001 01100100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01100101 01101100 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110110 01110101 01101100 01101110 01100101 01110010 01100001 01100010 01101100 01100101 00101110 00001010

Javert.exe has encountered an unexpected error and stopped responding. Reboot? (Y/N)

Chapter Text

"Dispose of me as you see fit; but first help me (...) That is all that I ask of you.” (Valjean said.)

Javert’s face contracted as was always the case when any one seemed to think him capable of making a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say “no.”

--Les Miserables, Volume 9 Book 3 Chapter 9

Valjean and Javert were acting Inconspicuous in a narrow Parisian street. The stars were hidden behind the clouds, the lanterns were foggy and dim, and the street was shadowy. Only the outlines of the decrepit houses were visible in the darkness.

Valjean was picking the lock on a battered old window. He was using the trusty old lockpicking technique he’d learned back in Toulon, and the trusty old lockpick he’d kept in the pockets of his yellow coat for years.

Javert was standing uncomfortably close to Valjean and glowering at him, his arms folded, like an angry gargoyle. He looked as if he was trying to stop Valjean from picking the lock using only his gaze.

Valjean was ignoring him.

”This is a crime,” Javert said.

“Hm,” Valjean responded. He was so preoccupied with carefully picking the lock that he was barely paying any attention to Javert.

“This is called trespassing,” Javert growled. “It’s illegal. People can’t do it.”

“Mm-Hmm, yes, this is called trespassing,” Valjean said absently, still preoccupied with jimmying the lock.

“The law forbids it.”

“Yes, there are a lot of laws.”

“The government says that it can’t be done. So this is an act of rebellion,” Javert said with finality, as if expecting Valjean to put down the lockpick and go home.

“Hmm? Yes, rebellions are nice,” Valjean said distantly, having not listened to a single word Javert said. He was still fiddling with the lock. It was unusually stubborn, but Valjean wanted to be careful to pick it without breaking it.

Javert blinked. “Nice.’”

“Yes, those rebel boys at the barricade were very nice, very polite,” Valjean said offhandedly. The lock sprang open.

“It’s is a dangerous offense,” Javert resumed, finding his bearings. “For a boy it’d be a mistake, for a man it’d be a misdemeanor—-“

“But for a felon, it’s a crime, and would send me to the galleys for life— yes, yes,” Valjean said distantly, sliding the window open. “Here’s the favor I’ve asked of you: I need you to be my lookout.”

Javert grunted.

“If something goes wrong, please knock on the door three times,” he said politely. "The owner of this house is gone this week; they won't hear."

Javert folded his arms and sank into his coat. He pushed his upper lip with his lower one, grimacing.

“The woman who lives here used to live with her daughter. Her daughter married, and moved away. Now she is all alone,” Valjean said tranquilly. “She is in need of assistance.”

Javert grunted indifferently.

“If I’m inside for longer than five minutes, please knock on the door to remind me to come out.”

Javert sank even deeper into his coat.

“And look inconspicuous.”

Javert, who was awkwardly tall, dressed in a long dramatic grey coat, with an intimidating wolfish face and long whisker-like sideburns-- looking like the kind of man who was always out of place wherever he went —scowled in a way that was EXTREMELY conspicuous.

“Ah,” Valjean said gently.

He wondered if maybe he was making a mistake. Maybe this wasn’t as simple as he thought it was. Maybe this was a bad idea for a heist. Maybe Javert was literally the worst possible person in all of France to recruit for this particular favor.

Maybe not eating in four days really was clouding his judgement after all?

Probably not though, he decided.

He was fine. He was in control. He was a rational person making rational decisions. After all, he did drink water yesterday, and while he hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep in three days he HAD taken a two hour nap before going to Petit Picpus. He was in a perfectly logical state of mind right now, and making very reasonable decisions.

“You don’t need to worry,” Valjean said, trying to reassure himself more than Javert. “I’ve done this many times before.”

“Many times.” Javert’s face was as impassive as granite, but his eyes were speedrunning through the five stages of grief. They landed on a mixture of anger and acceptance.

“Yes.”

“Congratulations,” Javert growled miserably. “I never caught you once.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said serenely.

“In Montreuil sur Mer it was rumored that you broke into the homes of anyone you decided needed your charity. I didn’t believe the rumors then. But I suppose they were true.”

“They were true.”

“You broke into Anyone’s home.”

“Yes, anyone.”

“To give them money.”

“To give them money.”

“One question.”

“Ask it.”

“Did you ever break into my house?”

Valjean bit his lip. There was a long, deeply awkward silence.

“No,” Valjean lied.

Javert squinted at him, still suspicious.

Valjean stared back, still impassive.

Then Javert shrugged his shoulders, scowled as if he had resigned himself to the fact that his life was an endless parade of humiliation but was still mad about it, and turned away.

Valjean sensed that an Awkward Conversation might be about to happen. So he leapt onto the windowsill, cat-like, and climbed away into the house.

Avoiding confrontation was one of Valjean’s most useful skills. It was more useful than picking locks and almost as useful as doing parkour.

The house he entered was small and dingy. The floor and walls were bare, and the only large furniture was a narrow bed and a rickety old desk, and a narrow chair. On the wall was a rusted mirror— the only thing in the house that was somewhat valuable.

Yet the house felt holy, like a cathedral. He thought of the poor old mother who lived here, abandoned by her young daughter, and she seemed to him an angel or Holy Spirit. He felt as if he’d trespassed into another convent.

Valjean crept around gingerly, as silent as a feral cat, careful not to disturb anything.

Then he reached into his pockets and gently placed the money on the desk. He felt as if he was placing money in the collection plate at church.

Then he bowed over, suddenly exhausted. He was able to stand upright around Javert (it would be very embarrassing if Javert saw how weak he was) but now that he was alone exhaustion washed over him in waves.

Why was he so tired, he wondered dimly. He’d eaten four days ago— that should be enough to last him through the week.

He stayed leaning against the desk for a few long moments, his mind going in hazy circles. He felt, in some way, that he could not pray to God and so he was praying to the person who lived here. His hands were shaking.

And suddenly he heard a knock on the door.

Had it been five minutes already?

Valjean started up and leapt out the window, stumbling as he landed on the street.

Javert was still standing by the door, scowling.

“Was that five minutes?” Valjean asked. “It didn’t feel like five minutes.”

“I counted,” Javert said gruffly.

“Thank you,” Valjean said politely.

Javert snarled something that might’ve been “you’re welcome.”

“That’s the only house I was planning to give money to tonight- a very short simple heist,” Valjean said. “It was a test, to see if our partnership could be successful.”

“Successful!” Javert said, affronted.

“And it was.”

“Hmm!” Javert confined himself to saying.

“We can visit more houses tomorrow night,” Valjean said mildly.

Javert’s eyes widened in Angry Shock— he looked as if he wanted to growl something in protest, but was too Offended to find the words. He remained silently indignant, his hands balled into fists.

Then Javert began angrily straightening out his clothes, as if to prove to himself that he could put at least ONE thing in order. He straightened out his collar, adjusted his sleeves, and dusted off the front of his coat.

“I don’t know what to call you,” Javert grumbled, violently fiddling with his coat buttons.

“What?”

“You have far too many names. You were Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur Madeleine, Monsieur Fauchelevent and— Monsieur Valjean, and I don’t know what other absurdities. You haven’t told me which one to use.”

Valjean paused and considered. Choosing a name—-not stealing an alias to deceive people with, but Choosing a name to be known by—-felt strange and unfamiliar.

“Call me whatever you prefer,” he said quietly.

“I prefer to be given orders.”

“Then I need time to consider it,” Valjean said. “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

Without looking in Valjean’s eyes, Javert nodded curtly.

Valjean offered Javert his hand to shake.

He reached out very slowly, like a poorly socialized feral cat reaching out to Pet a terrifying guard dog.

Javert stared at Valjean’s hand, bristled up, recoiled, and snarled. He took a wary step back. His eyes flitted between Valjean’s face and hand as he hesitated, growling quietly.

Finally, after a long hesitation, he put his hand in Valjean’s.

Javert’s hand was cold and inert. Valjean felt like Javert was just enduring the handshake, the way a dog dutifully endures a person giving them a handshake— “I don’t know what we’re doing or what the point of this is, I don’t know what you’re getting out of this, but I guess I’ll go along with it.”

Then Valjean let go.

“Before you go,” he said kindly, “I promised I would give you something in return for your help.”

Valjean reached into his pocket and pulled out a few napoleons. He tried to place them in Javert’s hands — but Javert jerked back, indignant. The coins clattered to the ground.

“I don’t want your money,” Javert growled, not meeting his eyes.

And then without a farewell Javert turned away and stormed off in the direction of Petit Picpus-- all the while muttering furious rants under his breath about “Valjean trying to bribe me” and “not accepting bribes” and so on and on.

Valjean watched the Indescribably Bizarre Bulldog Man go. He listened to his furious growls and measured footsteps disappear into the distance.

Then he gently picked the napoleons off the ground and put them back in his pockets.

He made a mental note not to attempt to give Javert money anymore (well—not OPENLY, anyway. He could probably sneak some coins into Javert’s house or pockets secretly, if he was careful. He could leave things on the table when Javert wasn’t looking, or break into the cottage while Javert was working in the garden. It would all be very simple.)

As Valjean turned to walk back home, he reflected that the night had been quite a success. He had Helped a person—- and at the same time he had gotten a moment of respite from the gnawing suicidal emptiness that was slowly but surely devouring his soul.

After all he’d been through, he deserved this. For the first time since his last visit to Cosette, Valjean smiled.

He had given up everything he loved, he had made the ultimate sacrifice, he had sabotaged his only relationships, he had nothing, he was going to die soon— and yet for a brief moment he felt alive again. He felt that his death had been postponed.

He thought: he might have to start sleeping better, so that he would have the energy to live a little longer.

He thought: he might have to start eating more, so that he would have the strength for his charity missions.

He thought: he might have to live a few more weeks than intended, solely so that he could finish his task of giving alms.

He felt he had been given an excuse to live. He held his destiny in his hand.

There was only one variable he couldn’t control:

Javert.

If Javert refused to be his lookout, the heists would have to end. Valjean knew that he was in a senile broken state, and that the police had increased in numbers since the rebellion; it was impossible for him to do a heist without an assistant. Everything hinged on whether or not Javert continued to help him. If Javert stopped, the heists would have to stop too.

But Valjean wasn’t worried about that.

Valjean usually hesitated to ask for favors, but he didn’t feel terrible about asking for such a small favor in the months before his own death. He was allowed to ask for this one small thing, he decided.

And Javert didn’t seem to mind. Valjean was deeply uninterested in punishment or revenge, and he would never do this if he thought he was causing Javert pain. But he wasn’t. Javert seemed a little upset that his routine was interrupted, but otherwise? Javert was clearly unmoved. Javert was indifferent. Javert didn’t care.

Thankfully, Valjean thought, Javert didn’t have any strong feelings about any of this whatsoever.

Javert was in torment. Javert was suffering. Javert was undergoing the most violent emotions he had ever experienced in his life.

Javert leaned against the shadowy wall of Petit Picpus at 3am, curled up in the fetal position in a dark nook next to his strawberries. He was shivering. His eyes were bloodshot.

He stared around the convent garden like a hunted animal. The walls of the convent loomed around him like the walls of a prison. The flowerbeds looked like shallow graves. The decayed statues became the silhouettes of prison guards. He half-expected to see nooses hanging from the trees.

“What have I done?” he muttered, horrified.

He, Javert, had just committed yet another appalling crime. He had once again aided a criminal in breaking the law. He had done that, again!

He’d helped take that insurgent home, and then he’d set Valjean free——and now once again Javert was putting his foot on all of law and propriety! Once again he had seen fit to trample all of society beneath his feet! He spat in the face of law and order! He REBELLED against the government! He aided in a HEIST!!!! He, Javert!

He was doing what those rebels had done at the barricade—-on a smaller scale, yes, but he was doing it all the same. This was a rebellion. He was a rebel. He had rebelled. He felt dizzy. He felt sick. He was struck by a wave of shame so deep he wished he would drown in it.

Javert was like a derailed train that plummeted off its track into a river and then— when it was at the bottom of the river, and finally seemed to be stable at its lowest point— suddenly exploded.

He was a hypocrite, he knew—he’d known that since the night of the barricades, when he’d allowed himself to be prevented from committing suicide. He had arrested men for doing less than what he had done! He should turn himself in, he told himself. He was going to turn himself in. He was going to walk to the nearest police station right now and demand to be arrested. He was going to demand to be given the death penalty.

He stood up, took a few determined steps forward……and then abruptly halted.

Then he flung himself face-first into the dirt (where he belonged.)

He couldn’t turn himself in, he reflected, with his face in the dirt. It was impossible.

Javert was incapable of lying to other people, so turning himself in would mean implicating Valjean. Javert could not do anything that put Valjean in danger of arrest. Something barred the way in that direction, although he did not know what it was.

The only other reasonable solution was to kill himself-- but he had sworn that he would only kill himself if he failed in his duties as a gardener. His strawberries were still alive, so he wasn’t allowed to die.

And so Javert was forced to do the most agonizing thing imaginable— he was forced to Think.

He HATED thinking!!!!!!!

Javert forced himself back up into a sitting position. There was dirt in his whiskers, which he deserved. He ransacked his brain and put his head in his hands, and Thought, but he could not explain his behavior to himself.

“I was only following Valjean so that I could persuade him to stop,” Javert growled to himself. But he knew that was a lie. When Javert put on his coat to follow Valjean, he had told himself that he was planning to stop him, but even then he had known that wasn’t true. Self-deception was the only form of lying he had ever been capable of.

“Then I followed Valjean because I had no choice,” Javert tried to tell himself. “I was Just Following Orders,” he tried to say to himself.

Valjean had said “you are free to refuse.” Ha! Valjean always loved to say “you are free” when he wasn’t. Javert had no right to refuse to grant Valjean a favor-- it was a penance he was morally obligated to do. If the rebels were right and the laws were wrong, as they apparently were, this was the only moral decision he could make.

Javert had been letting Valjean drag him along on the heist the way a dog lets its master drag him along on a leash— or the way he’d let Valjean drag him to his execution at the barricades. He was submitting and following orders.

But these were the “orders” of a felon, he reminded himself, shuddering. They had no legal weight. Javert was under no obligation to obey.

And Valjean would never force Javert to do something like this against his will. Javert hated that. Javert wished that Valjean would be reasonable and FORCE him to obey. But Valjean never would, because he was too “kIND.” That was odious. Valjean always cared too much about ridiculous made-up nonsense like “free will.”

But after they finished the heist, Valjean had held out his hand to him. Javert could have refused to shake his hand. Valjean wasn’t forcing him to do it.

And yet somehow Javert hadn’t refused. Somehow, he had found his hand in Valjean’s—- how had that happened?

The touch of Valjean’s hand was irritatingly soft and warm and kind. He had felt it at the barricades too, when Valjean had cut the ropes around him. It was a terrible contradiction—the rough calloused skin, the firm grip, the strength —- and then, the infuriating impossible gentleness. It was a touch that quietly reassured: “you are free; you aren’t being forced to touch me, you aren’t being ordered to touch me, you are free to let go, and you are free to refuse.”

Yet somehow Javert hadn’t refused. He could not explain it to himself. It was terrible. It was awful. He hated it. He felt the gentle touch of Valjean’s hands burn into his soul, like a hideous painful brand.

Javert was forced to confess that the only explanation for his actions was that —-horror washed over him—- he wasn’t helping Valjean because he *had* to, but because he chose to.

He wasn’t helping Valjean because he’d been ordered to, but because he *wanted* to.

He wasn’t being forced to help Valjean, he was deciding to.

The only thing “obligating” him to obey Valjean was his absurd and rebellious “”””heart.”””

Javert shuddered at the irritating thought and buried his face deeper in his hands, clenching his eyes shut and twining his fingers deep in his whiskers.

It was the most horrifying thing he had ever thought in his life!! This was why he hated thinking!!! Thinking was terrible!!!!!! No one should ever think!!!!!!!! He wished Valjean would’ve killed him so he didn’t have to think.

But Valjean was going to return tomorrow night and ask him to help with another heist. And this time, Javert decided, he was going to REFUSE.

“Grant me another favor,” Valjean would say in his maddeningly polite voice, making it very clear that it was Javert’s Choice and he was free to refuse.

And then Javert would say “No!!” He would “choose” not to!!!! Then he would stalk into his cottage and slam his door on Valjean’s tranquil and indifferent face. How simple it would be! He grinned savagely thinking of it.

“What could be more just?” He said to himself.

He ferociously washed his face with water from the well, then adjusted all his clothes until he was Perfectly Neat again. He straightened his cravat as forcefully as if he were trying to strangle himself. Everything was in order. His clothes were neat and that was proof that everything was in order.

Hours passed. Javert was too guilty to sleep and so he paced the garden, pretending that he was Doing Work and taking care of the flowers. The full moon was high in the sky, and anyone who saw Javert might’ve mistaken him for a werewolf. A werewolf who was very interested in horticulture.

“It’s all decided!” Javert growled to his strawberry plants. The strawberry plants did not react.

The sun slowly rose.

“He’s going to come again tonight,” Javert snarled at a tree, “and this time I’m going to refuse!”

The tree did not disagree.

Javert watered the flowers and pruned the trees, sometimes mechanically, sometimes with a horrifying fury that made the schoolchildren of Petit Picpus flee in terror.

The sun moved across the sky. Morning turned to afternoon, and the day waned.

“I tell you that I’m not going to let him drag me around again!” Javert barked at a bush, “I have a conscience! It sounds improbable, yes, but I still have a conscience. I won’t be made an accomplice to rebellion! And his orders aren’t binding! They aren’t even orders! He says so himself!”

Javert had not slept, had not eaten, and had not stopped pretending to himself that he was working. He was frenzied, running out of work to pretend to do, so he was starting to redo tasks he had already done that morning.

The sun set.

“Last night he tried to bribe me again!” Javert snarled to a tree as he viciously pruned it. “He still thinks I want money from him! Ha! I don’t want money from him, I want——- I don’t want money from him!”

The stars began to appear in the sky, one by one. Night fell again.

“I won’t do it again,” Javert muttered to himself, growing steadily more incoherent. “I won’t, I won’t. It’s not an order, it’s a choice. I hate choices! Choosing is rebellion. I hate choices almost as much as I hate rebellion and thinking and facts and reading and children and kindness!”

At twilight Javert was re-watering the strawberries outside his cottage. Crickets were singing in the grass under the shadows of the twisted trees. The faceless statues from the ruins of the little convent were decaying among the bushes. Javert, indifferent to his surroundings, was still ferociously muttering to himself.

Then he heard familiar footsteps—-the ringing of a bell, the left leg that dragged a little behind the right one.

Valjean had finally returned to the convent.

Javert looked up.

Valjean seemed older than he had yesterday— was he ill? Or was Javert’s police-inspector ability to remember appearances not working anymore, along with everything else?

Valjean had looked unusually old and tired yesterday, but it had gotten even worse overnight. His face was gaunt; his eyes were dark in their sockets. His clothes looked wrinkled and unkempt, and Javert was certain they were the same clothes he’d worn the previous day. Valjean was usually neat, but the collar of his threadbare coat was off-kilter and many of the buttons were accidentally left unbuttoned. His hands hung limply at his sides, like the hands of a corpse-- it made Javert want to seize his wrists and check for a pulse.

Javert realized that Valjean hadn’t slept very well last night either. He wondered what Valjean had done all that time, without a convent garden to pretend to take care of.

But Javert deliberately refused to have any emotions about that because in addition to hating thinking and reading and facts and kindness and etc etc, Javert also hated the entire concept of emotions.

“I hope you’re doing well,” Valjean said politely.

“Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar,” Javert said, stubbornly using the Proper Petit Picpus Convent Greeting.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Forever.”

“The nuns are still letting you in,” Javert observed in a low growl. He didn’t meet Valjean’s eyes. He pretended to be very busy watering the strawberries.

“They want me to give you gardening advice,” Valjean said.

“And,” he humbly grunted. “Well?”

“And, well, the soil here is far too damp,” Valjean said. “You’re overwatering your strawberries. If you're not careful, they’ll drown.”

Javert smiled bitterly.

“I would like you to grant me another favor,” Valjean continued.

Javert’s face contracted.

“Tonight I am going to break into a few more houses to give people money. I would like you to be my lookout again. As a favor.”

Javert prepared to say “no.” He was going to say no. Of course he would— what else would he say?

Last time his “emotions” hadn’t been prepared, and he had done horrible things that would stain his conscience forever. But he was prepared this time. He had a Plan. He wasn’t going to “”””””choose”””””” to follow Valjean deeper into this gulf of crime and rebellion. He wasn’t. He wouldn’t.

So Valjean was a saint, so Valjean was an angel— so Valjean was infuriating, damn him! That didn’t change anything.

He was going to stalk into his cottage, slam the door, and never talk to Valjean again. And that was going to be the end of it.

Javert said all this to himself.

And then Javert calmly put down his watering can.

He smiled a smug, self-satisfied smile.

He turned away. He stalked into his cottage. He SLAMMED the door shut behind him, just as he’d planned.

A couple long moments passed.

…

...

….And then Javert walked back out of his cottage, now wearing his old hat and coat.

“It’s cold,” Javert growled in explanation, buttoning up his coat.

“Ah,” Valjean said.

“You picked a fine night to do this— when it’s so cold!” Javert grunted, scowling and adjusting his hat.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean said gently.

“It’s not you,” Javert snarled, brushing the dust off the coat sleeves and deliberately refusing to meet Valjean’s eyes. “It’s the people who make coats.”

“I see,” Valjean said. He did not.

“They always make these damn coats too thin.” Javert explained, scowling and adjusting the coat collar. “They don’t keep out the cold. Useless.”

”Ah,” Valjean said.

The twilight darkened. Stars appeared in the sky. And once again, Valjean and Javert walked out of the convent to do a heist together.

This was the beginning of a long and beautiful heist partnership.