Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dawn begins at midnight.”

-Leo Jozef Suenens

***

     Either mechanically or for the sake of fresh air, Valjean stuck his head through the window, leaning out. The street was short, and the lantern illuminated it from end to end.

     Amazement overwhelmed him. There was no longer anyone there.

     Javert had left.

     Valjean stood motionless, unable to comprehend how this could be.

     In retrospect, he would not be sure why he had done this, only that something strange had come over him—a sense of wonder, of suspicion and curiosity—and he had ceased, for a moment, to think rationally.

     There was something almost foreboding in the atmosphere. That shadowed, empty street. The motionless, heavy air. The blackened sky. The lack of a presence that should have been there, its absence like a lingering ghost, silent, beckoning him into the depths of the night.

     Trance-like, he descended the stairs and reopened the door, entirely oblivious to the porter’s questioning voice behind him, walking out into the street.

     His gaze darted around, the houses quiet, air hushed and still.

     Without any particular intention or inclination of one, he drifted off towards one of the street-crossings.

     And then he thought he could hear, from a nearby alleyway, the sound of footsteps the like of which came from a pair of very particular boots.

     Valjean blinked, following the sound unthinkingly into the night as a traveler lost in the wilderness follows a distant light source.

     He trailed the man at a very healthy distance, careful to step lightly.

     Javert’s head was hung in a manner completely unlike him, hands clasped behind his back as he continued down backstreets and alleyways to a destination unknown.

     He didn’t seem to be wandering aimlessly, Valjean thought, but then he did not seem to be in any particular hurry to get anywhere, either.

     They reached the Quay des Ornes, skirted it, and passed the Greve. Javert stopped a little ways off from the post of the Place du Châtelet, at the corner of the Pont Notre Dame, where the Seine formed a sort of square lake. A dangerous point of the river, the waters surged and crashed against the bridge, swirling and coursing rapidly beneath it, swollen by the recent rains.

     Here Javert stood, propping his arms up upon the parapet and resting his chin on them, gazing off at what Jean Valjean could not say.

     Valjean’s instincts tore him in two. One, the stronger, more sensible one, said there was no reason for him to be here—nay, reason enough for him not to be here—and he should return home, to safety, to his daughter. But there arose another instinct, quieter, its craving for answers somehow equaling if not overpowering the other instinct’s urgency. And it told him he should stay, he should try to make sense of the situation; there was a sort of safety to be had in sense. Each urge, however, negated the other, and he was left not knowing what to do.

     He was not even sure why he had come in the first place; he was tired, and hungry, and filthy, and he desperately wanted to see Cosette.

     And yet.

     Something was off. Perhaps off in a way that was favorable for him. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to be sure. He wanted to know if he was truly safe in Paris—if they could stay there, as Cosette had begged him to, and not have to fear their world one day being torn apart by officers of the law.

     Was such a thing even possible? That Javert might, in the act of repaying one favor with another, allow Valjean’s presence in the city to go unrecognized? He had never known Javert to be merciful, or even kind. Surely such a thing, contradicting his duty as an inspector, would be inconceivable to him.

     And yet Javert had left.

     He had, just as he had finally gotten a firm grip on him, allowed him to go free.

     Or had he?

     Had he really? Or was he merely giving him a chance to flee, a gesture of gratefulness: one night, before he brought down the full force of the prefecture upon him in the morning?

     Had Valjean been allowed to go free temporarily, or permanently? This was not something he could possibly fathom himself asking directly; the question, however, was gnawing away at him incessantly, wracking his nerves, slowly driving him mad as he gazed upon the man, part of him wanting to flee and part of him wanting to walk right up to him and demand to know—as was his right as a citizen—what was to be done with him.

     He resolved, at long last, merely to watch. Until morning, perhaps, if need be. Surely something in the inspector's actions would tell him whether he was planning for his arrest the coming day.

     Although, already, Javert had been standing motionless for what seemed like hours, and Valjean had been unable to glean anything of use from him as of yet. The only thing of remark was that the man had been tangling his fingers in his whiskers—a gesture indicative of a deep pensiveness, and one which Valjean had never seen him do before. Still, the man said nothing, did nothing—and Valjean did not know what to make of it.

     All of a sudden, Javert rose.

     Tense and overly self-aware, Valjean followed far behind.

     He paled when he saw that Javert was headed towards the station house at the corner of Place du Châtelet, the lantern on its door still lit. He watched him enter the station with a sense of dread, choosing to hide himself behind the corner of a nearby building.

     No, no, Javert was going to tell them; he should have taken his chance …

     But then again, could he not presumably just be making his daily report before heading home? A report that, if fortune was favorable, might not contain a single word about a certain long-escaped convict?

     Sweat dripped down the back of Valjean’s neck.

     What to do? If Javert truly was sealing his fate here, would he even be able to escape with Cosette if he ran back home now? The seemingly endless darkness of the barricades and the sewers had stripped him of his sense of time. Was there enough night left to wake his poor daughter, to give a no-doubt unsatisfactory explanation and convince her to flee, to pack necessities and plan a route? Could he even bring himself to do that to her again?

     And with her love for Marius! She would never agree to it. How could he tear them away from each other now, when he didn’t even know if the boy would live?

     He tormented himself with these thoughts, feverish, shuddering.

     In the space of fifteen minutes, Javert exited the station. Alone.

     He returned, to Valjean’s surprise, to the precise spot along the quay that he had been standing at earlier. He stood still, chin resting on his hands as before.

     Valjean’s brow furrowed. What on earth was he doing?

     Again, Javert rose, only this time he merely bent his head, gazing at the body of water beneath him. He remained thusly for a minute or so before removing his hat and placing it on the parapet beside him. Then he hoisted himself up and rose to his feet upon the edge of the divide, looking down into the river’s depths.

     Valjean froze, breathless.

     Javert stared into the gulf below, leaning over the edge to better his view, and then straightened himself, shoulders sagging. A moment later, to Valjean’s horror, he allowed himself to fall forwards.

     And with that, he disappeared over the quay without a word.

     Valjean gaped, unable to process what had just occurred.

     It had happened so quickly, and with so little warning or fanfare, that it seemed more like a fleeting shadow—a phantom flashing in the night—than a real man, and a real act.

     Was it a trick of his eyes? Was this some kind of dream? Had the stress of it all driven him mad? Surely it was not possible that Javert, that singular, steadfast man that he’d known for so many years, was even remotely capable of—

     It was not until the muffled sound of a splash met his ears that he came to his senses and bolted for the water.

     He did not even consider the rapids below, or the distant whirlpool, or the great height from which he would fall. It was in an instinctual panic that he vaulted over the parapet and flung himself into the Seine, unthinking and motivated beyond all logic.

     The force of the impact drove the air from his lungs, and the cold temperature ignited every nerve in his body as he struggled back towards the surface. Gasping and coughing, his eyes darted around frantically. He could see nothing; all was black as pitch. For split-seconds, serpentine slivers of light reflected off the rushing water, but they illuminated nothing, and only served to confuse his senses.

     “Javert!” he called as he fought to stay afloat, turning this way and that. He could hear only the sounds of the rapids and the rough panting that escaped his own throat. “Javert!”

     Despite his efforts he could find no trace of the man. Gritting his teeth, he dove under. It was impossible to make anything out; the river might as well have been night itself made liquid, and it gave him a horrible sense of claustrophobia.

     Again and again he dove down, rose for air, dove down again, following the river's current. Each time his gasps were more and more pained. “Javert!” he cried over and over, his voice growing hoarse. The water stung his eyes and sapped the strength from his body.

     Once more he sucked in a breath and dove below, the world swallowing him up as he swam deeper and deeper.

     Blindly, he groped in the darkness, and by chance his fingers brushed past something that felt like wool. With a start he reached out for it, the river already trying to drag it away, and he managed to grab hold of what he realized was the edge of a greatcoat. Fumbling, he followed it up until his hands met a torso, and he wrapped his arm around it and tried to make his way back to the surface.

     The heavy burden caused him to make little headway, and Valjean began to wonder if he too might drown in this seemingly endless abyss. The weight of the wet, wool coat was no doubt an unnecessary hindrance, but he didn’t dare waste time trying to remove it. Besides, any attempt he might make at undoing the buttons would be blind: clumsy and pointless. He gritted his teeth, his lungs burning, kicking as hard as he could while he tried to propel himself skyward with his one free arm.

     He thought it a miracle when he finally breached the surface, and filled his chest with the night air in greedy gulps.

     He could not allow himself to rest before starting again, knew he had no time to spare. So, wheezing, he swam forwards, fighting against the current in an effort to make it back to the nearest bridge.

     It was most certainly over-exertion, but the current seemed so much stronger than before, and he could feel himself being pulled back, back from salvation. If he stopped for but a single second, he knew he would be swept away, and he stretched and strained in the darkness, barely able to breathe.

     Finally, with one last lunge, he caught hold of one of the bottom rungs on the side of the Pont Notre Dame. Bracing his feet against the hard stone, he began hauling himself upwards rung by rung, the dripping body shifting limply on his back with each change in angle, dead weight.

     When Valjean managed to climb over the railing, he slumped straightaway onto the other side. He didn’t even care how hard his shoulder was struck upon the landing. He just wanted to be still for a moment.

     Unable to summon up any more strength, he sprawled out on the cobblestone, panting between coughs.

     The rush of relief from being once more upon solid ground suppressed his senses and almost allowed him to forget all else. But mere seconds later his eyes popped open, and he scrambled to his hands and knees.

     “Javert, Javert—” The words were mere breaths now, barely making it out of his throat.

     He hovered over the inspector, panic setting aflame every fiber of his being and strangling his pounding heart.

     “Javert—”

     He pulled back the dark, wet locks of hair from the man’s face, revealing eyes that were sunken and shut. Tapped his palm against its clammy cheek, jostling his head frantically.

     Javert did not stir. It seemed no spark of life remained within his waterlogged body.

     Valjean's voice broke. “Javert …”

     He did not know how long he had been searching for, did not know how long either of them had been adrift in the Seine, and it ate away at him, the suspicion that he was too late, that Javert was gone—and that somehow, despite it going against all sense, it was his fault.

     But he refused to give up.

     Only glancing briefly at the surrounding streets to reaffirm that, yes, there was unfortunately no one around he could call on for aid, Valjean steeled himself and set to work. He only thanked his lucky stars he’d once had the occasion to see this lifesaving technique performed on a sailor in Toulon.

     Giving a few thrusts to the man’s ribcage, he tilted his head and put his lips to his, forcing air into his lungs. More thrusts, another breath. His motions fell into a pattern, words surfacing in his mind along with it:

     No,

     Javert.

     If you die,

     after all of this,

     I do not know

     how I can forgive myself.

     Why;

     why

     have you done this,

     Javert?

     Why?

     I do not

     understand.

     Javert,

     live.

     Chest compression, air; compression, air—he repeated these actions mechanically, oblivious to everything around him. Not a single thought entered his mind; not once did he ask himself in earnest if the attempt was futile, if he should not give up. Indeed, there was a terror in him that all might be for naught, but somehow this only drove him further onwards.

     On and on he continued, for he did not know how long, until suddenly the body beneath him convulsed.

     Javert’s abdomen heaved, and he retched up river water on the cobblestone, spasming violently. Still unconscious, he choked and gagged on his own reflexive, half-thwarted breaths, the water dribbling down the side of his cheek as he quivered.

     Panting, Valjean sat back, overwhelmed with emotion at the sight: relief and joy and anxiety all at once. As he watched the man’s coughing slowly subside, chest rising and falling, he felt as though a crushing burden had been lifted from him.

     For the first time in his life, he found himself looking at Javert without even a hint of fear. Not for himself, not anymore. Only for him.

     He gathered the man up and clutched him close, cushioning his lolling head in the crook of his arm and gazing down at him with worry.

     His heart pounded in his chest.

     He was acutely aware of the damp, heavy weight of him in his arms, the coolness of Javert’s skin, and the gentle, sporadic tremors of his torso as the man’s body tried to purge itself completely of the Seine.

     Hunched over him shelteringly, and still trying to catch his breath, he bent his brow to his and prayed.

***

Chapter Text

“But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.”

-Mary Shelley

***

     Javert was unaware of having woken, or of having slept, and so it was with confusion that he found light filtering back into his vision. He blinked a few times, his mind numb.

     He could make out, by some very dim light, that he was in an alleyway; this he knew by the well-worn dirt and refuse between the two brick walls, one of which his back was to.

     As his senses sharpened and he gained more mental clarity, he became aware of a distinctly unpleasant sensation throughout his entire body.

     For some reason, he was wet, and the chill night air caused him to suffer greatly for it.

     His shirt and trousers clung to his skin insufferably; his greatcoat hung heavy on him like a coat of mail and smelled like a wet dog. His Wellingtons were filled with water, his stockings drenched. Strands of his hair stuck to his face.

     He felt a burning sensation in his lungs, and an unpleasant taste in his mouth. And his chest—dieu, it felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him in a tavern brawl. His ribs complained at every breath he took.

     Coughing weakly, he rose to his hands and knees.

     Bewildered, he tried to remember what could have brought him to this state.

     Vaguely he recalled letting himself fall into the black void of the river, the waters sucking him down and filling his lungs. This accounted for the sogginess of his clothes. But he could not comprehend how he’d come to be on dry land again; how it was that one could be swallowed up in that particular part of the Seine and emerge a yet living man.

     Javert managed to prop himself up into a sitting position, supported only by the rough brick of the alley wall behind him.

     How had he come to be here? How was it that he, against his own will, was still alive?

     Slowly he turned to his left.

     Sitting only a few feet away, slumped against the alley wall and clad in the soiled uniform of a National Guardsman (minus the tailcoat and shako), was a gut-wrenchingly familiar face.

     Valjean’s head was hung, his eyes closed, lips slightly parted, breathing softly—he had, it appeared, fallen asleep.

     And he, too, was sopping wet.

     The implication of this hit Javert like a crash of thunder, shattering something in his breast.

     Of course. Of course it would have been him.

     And that only made it all the more horrible.

     Javert clutched his head, clenching his teeth.

     He knew not what to do with himself.

     Already he had been an outsider: a lawman, isolated from the rest of society—or so he felt—but now, now he found himself cast out from even that position, and suddenly everything around him was foreign. He was adrift in a vast sea, his bearings lost, anchorage unchained beneath the waves—irretrievable.

     How dare Valjean have done this to him; how dare he save him when he did not want to be saved!—how dare he drag him back into this world he no longer had a place in, trapping him with his kindness and binding him to this existence which no longer served a purpose!

     At the barricades it had been one thing, but now …

     He quivered, clawing at his scalp and choking back sounds which were somewhere between grunts and sobs interspersed with spasmodic coughing, conflicted in every corner of his soul.

     A breath sounded next to him. “Javert …”

     At the sound of Valjean’s voice he tensed, shivered with anger and also something else indescribable.

     “Why did you come after me?” he all but shouted at him, whipping his head around and fixing his indignant eyes upon his face.

     Valjean seemed taken aback by the sudden outburst, but quickly relaxed. He blinked, looking at him curiously. “Why did you not come after me?”

     Imbecile! He would actively seek his own damnation for inquiry’s sake?

    “You stupid old man!” he half muttered to himself, half spat at him.

     Confusion and concern spread across Valjean’s features. He reached out to touch his arm, but Javert swatted his hand away.

     “You should have left me there!” he snarled. “Why did you not leave me there?”

     Valjean looked at him with a hint of horror in his expression, drawing away as if singed. “But—you would have died!”

     Javert’s chuckles turned into a growl as he grabbed him by the collar. “That was the point!”

     The man gazed up at him from beneath a wet mop of white curls, far too little fight in him, and far too much naivety in his eyes for Javert’s liking. “But why?” he asked. “Why would you wish something so horrible upon yourself?”

     He shook his head. “You truly are a fool, Jean Valjean,” he breathed, drawing back a little. “How am I supposed to live with this? To live with—with you?”

     The man gulped, brow knitting. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

     “Why?” Javert snapped. “Why save the life of a man you know means to arrest you?”

     “Why should that have anything to do with it?”

     Javert shook with fury. “That has everything to do with it!” he retorted, throttling him.

     “What … what are you saying, Javert?”

     In one fierce motion Javert pinned him to the ground, his long dark hair dripping past his face. “I am the only person in Paris who knows who you are! If it weren’t for me, you could just—you could just—” His voice lost its strength. “—walk away from all of this.”

     The man’s eyes were large beneath his ferocious grip. “What are you …?”

     “No one has to know, Valjean! You can just walk away!” He rose to his feet, backing away and shaking his head, eyes wide. His voice became a hushed entreaty. “Just walk away.” He bolted for the end of the alley, back towards the siren-call of the river—but a strong hand caught his wrist, jerking him to a standstill.

     He had almost entirely expected it. And yet the grip on his arm—holding him back from certain death—only made him more agitated, further deepened his inner turmoil.

     He grimaced, hanging his head and squeezing his eyes shut, angry tears spilling hot down his cheeks.

     He had not cried at the river; he had not cried in the face of death, when all had been lost to him. In truth he had not cried since he was a child, almost too young to remember. He had forgotten the way it burned his eyes, the taste of salt on his lips.

     He had not shed a tear in more than forty years.

     What was it that caused this upheaval, this cracking in his soul? Why this; why now?

     “Why?” he breathed, his voice on the verge of breaking, refusing to turn around. “Why do you do this?”

     There was a pause, silence. The grip of the hand around his wrist seemed to grow gentler, almost tender.

     Valjean’s voice was soft, lacking the blame he expected to be there. “If you are saying what I think you are, how can you expect me not to try and stop you?”

     Javert gritted his teeth, the roughness returning to his tone. “What do you want me to do, Valjean? Do you want me to take you back to prison? Is that what you want?”

     “Of course not; but—”

     “Then why will you not let me go?”

     “This has nothing to do with what I want for myself! You must know that. This is about you!”

     Javert shuddered in his grasp, revulsed by the idea that someone should pity him, should think he needed saving. Especially him.

     But, as much as he wanted to deny it, he knew the man was too strong to wrest away from, knew the grip on his arm would clench and hold him like an iron shackle the second he tried to run. “Unhand me, Valjean.”

     “I will not. Not until I understand what has led you to this thinking.”

     Javert stared at the ground beneath him in contempt, holding his tongue.

     He heard a sigh. “You … no longer wish to arrest me; is this true?” Valjean gave pause for him to answer, which he did not. “But,” he continued, “duty says that you must. Is this the source of your conflict?” An uncertain scoff escaped his lips. “No, it cannot be for that, not merely that alone, that you would—” His voice stopped short, and when it next spoke it was hushed, wondering and almost fearful. “Would you?”

     Again, Javert gave no reply. Even if he had managed to form a reply in his mind—which he had not—the words would have caught in his throat, for his windpipe seemed twisted up in a knot.

     “No, I cannot believe that you would lay down your life for the likes of me,” Valjean continued. “Not you. Not … after all of this. There is something else which has driven you to this state, something more. Is there not?”

     It was all he could do not to struggle against him, so great in him was the urge to escape. His entire being had to be focused in order to remain still. Turning around, looking him in the eye—that was out of the question entirely.

     He was not used to this sort of treatment, and knew not how to react to it. Bound and restrained he had been before, yes, but never for what was perceived as his own good. It was the complete reversal of all he was familiar with.

     And god, how he hated it.

     “Speak to me, Javert.” It was more plea than demand.

     Javert’s hand, balled into a fist for some time now, trembled, growing ever tighter, so that even his shortly-trimmed nails bit into the flesh of his palm. “You expect me to outpour my heart to you?” he asked. “To you?”

     “Judging from your previous actions, I expect you have no one else willing to listen,” Valjean countered, “At least, not at this hour of the night.”

     Javert’s head drooped. “I do not understand why you care. I do not understand why you’ve done what you have.”

     “Because it was the right thing to do, Javert!”

     “I know that,” he conceded angrily. “But why; why the right thing in your eyes?”

     Valjean was silent for a moment. “Did you expect me to hate you?” he wondered aloud. “Because the law said you should be my doom? Fear you, yes—and with good reason—but hate? No, not that. How can I hate a man for doing his duty? How can I hate him for obeying the law?”

      Javert tensed, drawing up inside himself until his voice was the only thing left of him. The words slipped from his mouth, heavy and bitter on his tongue. “The law is fallible.”

     The grip on him loosened suddenly at that, and he could almost feel the other man’s surprise. That he would say such a thing! And mean it! Unthinkable!—even unto himself.

     “It is meant to bring justice, to be fair,” he continued, not sure why he was saying this to him. “All men are equal under the law. They are judged not by who they are, but by their crimes. I had always thought that a good thing, sensible and right.” He jerked his arm free, clenching his fists yet tighter, his hackles rising as he gazed disdainfully down at nothing. “And then there was you.”

     He could feel the man’s eyes on the back of his head, probing.

     Valjean seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but he gave no further words.

     They stood in the alley, one gazing at the other’s back, the other blind to all around him. Silent. Frozen.

     Finally, he heard his voice behind him once more. Its tone was different somehow. Weary.

     “Come back to l’Homme Armé with me, Javert.”

     He nearly gave a start, looking back in disbelief that the man would have the nerve to even suggest such a ridiculous thing. “What? No; of course not.”

     The man’s expression tightened in what might have been pain. All the fight had gone from him. “Javert, please; we’re soaking wet, and we’re both exhausted.”

     “I have my own bed to go to,” he growled.

     “I know that, but …” He seemed to hesitate at his own choice of wording. “I don’t think you ought to be alone tonight.”

     Javert scowled. “I’m not some orphaned gamin you need to coddle. Don’t think I need anything from you.”

     “Don’t think I’ll let you go off by yourself after what you just tried to do,” Valjean retorted. “Put away your pride for once, Javert. You are in pain. I wish to help.”

     “I don’t need your pity!” he barked, whipping his head around to glare at him.

     Valjean drew back, a hint of caution in his step. Then he stiffened, balling his hands into fists at his side. “Wherever you go tonight, I am going with you.”

     Javert’s grimace twisted up into a sneer, venom dripping from his words. “Then I’ll go to the station house.”

     Valjean stared at him, unmoving. His eyes searched for something in Javert’s. “No, you won’t,” he said after a moment. “Not in the state you’re in.”

     The man’s defiance irritated him so greatly that for a moment he returned to his former authority through pure rage. “So help me, I’ll have them arrest you on the spot!”

     Despite this threat, Valjean remained motionless, his face solemn and resolute, a stone statue in the alleyway. “Somehow, I doubt that you would.”

     “Valjean, if you do not leave me be this instant I will bring down the full force of the law upon your—”

     “I am not afraid of you, Javert.”

     Javert’s mouth clamped shut, his eyes widening, taken aback by his impudence, his brazenness.

     What power had he left to control if not that of instilling fear?

     His bluff had been called and he did not know how to proceed, for bluffing itself was not something he was accustomed to.

     “I told you,” Valjean said quietly, “I submit to you willingly. I was already prepared to surrender myself. That you threaten me with arrest—that means nothing to me.” His eyes stared off without focus. “As far as I am concerned, I was already your prisoner. And I am your prisoner still, if that is what you wish. But I tell you that no matter what happens, no matter what you say to me, I will not leave your side tonight. You may threaten me with death if it pleases you. That is fine. Death is nothing. I will go where you go.”

     “If you do take me to the station house, I will not resist you, but know that I will have no other choice but to tell your fellows what has just occurred. And I know that’s not what you want. It’s not what I want either; I don’t wish to see you suffer that. So please just—just come home with me. If you will not follow me there, I will be forced to follow you back to yours. And I suspect you would not want a convict knowing where you live.”

     Javert stood staring at him in disbelief. He clenched his teeth.

     He could not scare the man away by threat, or by force, as he was outmatched. So it was a thorny reality that he was simply not going to be able to go anywhere tonight without him by his side.

     He had, of course, never had any mind to go to the station house; nor had he intended to go back to his own living quarters. If he were to be honest with himself, he had no real intention of going anywhere at all if not back into the Seine, but it was obvious that Valjean would not allow him to return there.

     The corners of his mouth drew down, his eyes narrowing; he stood defeated.

     “You rob me of my dignity,” he breathed.

     Valjean hung his head. Sighed remorsefully. “I know. And I am sorry for it. But the fact remains that I will not let you leave unaccompanied. Will you go with me, then?”

     Javert gazed off down the street, where the rapids roared in the distance. He turned his face away into the shadows.

     Begrudgingly, he dipped his head.

***

     It was about two in the morning, and not a candle was to be seen in any window they passed. The only illumination they had was the occasional street lamp, softening the bluish black of the night—but they were few and far between, and so they were left shivering and nearly blind.

     “I must confess,” Valjean said as they slogged down the darkened street, “I am glad you conceded to come with me when you did, for I do not know how much longer I would have been able to stand there arguing in the cold.”

     “Frankly, I do not know why you had as much patience as you did,” Javert muttered curtly.

     Valjean’s brow shot up. “Pa—? Ah! No, no, you misunderstand;” he said, looking up at him in embarrassment, “I would have stood there for as long as it took to convince you, only—only I have not eaten or slept in some time, and I had to carry that poor boy halfway across Paris through the muck—and then the river’s current, and the temperature … I was unsure how much longer I could remain on my feet.”

     His expression seemed almost apologetic. “In fact, earlier, when you would not awaken, I tried to carry you back to l’Homme Armé with me, but, ah—my legs gave out. I am not as young as I used to be.”

     Throughout this explanation Javert’s expression had grown increasingly horrified, but it was the last admittance that sent a searing pang of guilt through him, followed by a bolt of incredulity.

     This man! This ridiculous man—who had fought at a barricade all night and then traversed through miles of sewage to carry another to safety—this man who had faced his own end many more times in a single day than any man ought to and had barely made it home alive—had followed him straight into the Seine and somehow found the strength to not only drag him out of the rapids but to try carting him on his back across the city! It was madness! His willpower—nay, his sheer audacity—was not to be believed.

     Crazy, senseless, saintly idiot! How was he even able to stand after all of this? It angered Javert just to think about it.

     “You are a fool,” he told him, not knowing what else to say.

     Valjean merely smiled sadly to himself. “There are worse things to be.”

***

Chapter Text

“The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another, and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it.”

-James M. Barrie

***

     “Who goes there?”

     Valjean blinked wearily as the porter thrust a lantern in his face.

     “Mon Dieu, Monsieur Fauchelevent, is that you?”

     “Forgive us the hour.”

     They stood in the entrance to Rue l’Homme Armé no. 7, shrinking back from the beam of light.

     “I had heard you come in earlier,” the porter explained, “but I was half-asleep, and then you left so suddenly that I thought I might have dreamt it. What on earth has happened to you? You’re soaking wet!”

     “I am duly aware,” Valjean sighed, rubbing his temples. “But never mind that.”

     “Who is this that you are with?” the porter asked, swinging the lantern to illuminate the figure of Javert, who had been standing further off.

     “He is a friend.”

     “Well, come in, come in,” he prompted, ushering them through. “Merciful Lord, it’s too cold out here for you to stand around like that!” He shut the door behind them and took the candle from his lantern, lighting the one that stood waiting on the side table in the hall. “I’ll go and wake your servant for you.”

     “No,” Valjean said abruptly, turning to him and raising his hand, “that would be unnecessary. I would rather not wish her to see—”

     He was cut off by the sound of footsteps descending the nearby staircase.

     “Ah,” he sighed to himself as Toussaint came into view.

     The woman gave a start at his appearance, clutching at her heart in an overly-dramatic way that slightly bothered him. She began prodding him with all the questions the porter had—the condition of his clothes, his long absence, his companion—and he had to shush her and implore she compose herself, for fear she would wake Cosette.

     “Pray, tell me mademoiselle Euphrasie [1] is sleeping,” Valjean said, keeping his volume low.

     “She is to my knowledge,” Toussaint replied, “though I doubt soundly. She was very upset at your leaving, what with the condition of the streets.”

     “I do not doubt it, but allow her to rest. Her fears will be quelled in the morning.”

     “As you wish, monsieur.”

     Valjean turned back to the porter, who had been trying to make his leave. “You did not tell her about the other night, did you?”

     The man shook his head adamantly. “No, I thought it best not to. She did ask after you, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her the manner in which you’d left.”

     “That is well,” he said with a nod. “Goodnight, then.”

     The porter nodded back to him with a “Good morrow,” and returned from whence he’d come.

     When Valjean turned back around, Toussaint was staring at him. She appeared troubled.

     “What is it?” Valjean asked.

     “Monsieur, forgive me my curiosity, but—your uniform, the state of your clothes … Were you caught up in the rebellion?”

     “In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he sighed, shaking his head, “Though I would prefer greatly not to speak about it.”

     “Ah, I did not mean to pry; I was only concerned for your health.”

     “That is kind of you.”

     “You look exhausted. Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

     “Oui, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble, could you perhaps bring us something hot to eat?”

     Javert shot Valjean a look that was both resentful and mortified. “I do not need—”

     Valjean silenced him with but a wave of his hand, furrowing his brow.

     “For the both of us,” he said to her.

     “Of course,” the woman replied, dipping her head. “There is some broth and bread left from supper; I’ll heat that up right away. And, uh …” Her voice dropped as she gazed down at Valjean’s ruined clothes, her nose wrinkling. “I’ll bring you up a wash tub as well.”

     “Dieu, yes. That would be lovely.”

     She nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

     Valjean picked up the candle and started towards the stairs, and when Javert took his lead and began ascending them, Valjean caught the woman’s arm, turning to whisper in her ear.

     “Heed these words and relay them to the porter, Toussaint—whatever excuse he tries to give you, please do not let that man leave here unless I am with him. He is not well.”

     Knitting her brow questioningly, she nevertheless nodded before returning to her task.

     When Valjean arrived upstairs, Javert was waiting for him.

     His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he refused to look directly at him, but Valjean thought he could see the hint of a tired smirk curl the man’s lips.

     “Fauchelevent,” he huffed. “Really?”

     Valjean’s cheeks reddened as he tossed him a sheepish grin. “In all truthfulness, it was given to me willingly by the man himself.”

     “Oh?”

     Javert had not sounded as though he were truly interested, but he’d spoken the word as a question, and so Valjean carried on, if only to have something to talk about.

     “You see,” he said, lighting some of the tapers around the room, “after he’d broken his leg, he was unable to continue his chosen profession as a carter.”

     “I remember that.”

     “And so I helped him to find work in a convent, in Paris.”

     A spark of intrigue lit the man’s dulled eyes. “In Paris?”

     Even distant and distraught as he was, Valjean could see something of the inspector resurface, calculating the implications of his words, linking past events as though trying to solve a puzzle.

     It did not cost Valjean any security now to tell him these things, and if it helped the man regain some sense of himself, then it was well worth the privacy.

     “Yes, and that is where I fled to when you hunted me down—the convent of Petit Picpus. To be honest, I had completely forgotten he was working there, at that point. And, actually, I did not even know where it was I had ended up after climbing that wall. So it was quite a surprise when I heard, from out the darkness of those gardens, a voice address me as ‘Father Madeleine’.”

     “He did not know what had occurred in Montreuil-sur-Mer?”

     “News travels slow inside nunneries, it would seem.” A sad, guilt-ridden smile crossed his face. “He knew nothing of what had transpired there.”

     “You abused his trust, then.” Javert spoke as though in a dream—not directing his remarks towards anybody in particular, with little emotion in them.

     Valjean’s smile fled, leaving but guilt. “Only because I had to.”

     He headed down the hallway towards his bedchamber, busying himself as he spoke. Javert trailed behind him, glancing around at his surroundings every so often.

     “He was more than happy to assist me in finding sanctuary inside their walls in repayment for helping him those many years ago—even going so far as to introduce me as his brother, Ultime,” he explained, sitting on the bench stool at the foot of his bed and pulling off his sodden shoes and spats, tossing them to the floor below haphazardly. “He did, actually, have a brother by that name—only he had died years earlier.”

     A measure of repulsion arose in Javert’s voice. “You used a convent to hide from the law under a dead man’s name?”

     “When you put it like that it sounds much worse than it seemed,” he said, peeling off his stockings. “Trust me, I did not want to deceive the sisters either, but … desperate times. Bref, that is why you were never able to find me after that night.” His expression took on an air of nostalgia as he moved to his dresser, gazing off at nothing, which surely in his mind was something. “We worked together, tending to the gardens. It was a peaceful time. Ah,” he sighed wistfully, “he has passed away now, old Fauchelevent; bless his soul. But, he died with a smile on his face, having lived a good life, and he is with his brother now in Heaven.”

     As he rolled up his wet sleeves there was a knock on the already open door.

     “Excusez-moi,” Toussaint said, wash tub hanging empty in her hand, “Will you be taking the bath first, or the food? I can heat the water up for you, but it will take awhile.”

     Valjean turned first to her, then Javert. “You go first,” he told him.

     “All due respect,” he said, giving the servant a sardonic grin, “I think I have gotten wet enough for one night.”                

     “It will make you feel better,” Valjean huffed. “Besides, you cannot stay in those clothes; they need to be hung to dry by the fire. You may as well get the smell of silt off you.”

     Javert shot a look of contempt at him.

     Valjean held it steadily.

     “Fine,” the man said, crossing his arms and thrusting his eyes elsewhere.

     “Shall I warm the bathwater for you, monsieur?” Toussaint asked.

     His voice was gruff. “Don’t bother.”

     “As you wish.”

     While she was fetching the water, Valjean began retrieving things from the dresser and the trunk by the window: a plain white shirt, a pair of tan trousers, linen stockings, a woolen blanket. The clothes he handed to Javert, who took them begrudgingly; the blanket he set on the mattress, which he pulled off the bed frame and began dragging down the hall.

     Javert watched him from the doorway in some confusion, but was interrupted as Toussaint brought up the last of the water and gave him a towel and a bar of soap.

     As the man was washing up, Valjean positioned the mattress so that it lay before the hearth in the parlor, a little to the left. To the right he moved the large canapé [2] that normally sat against the wall, putting the extra blanket he’d brought out on it. He then set to tossing logs from the brass firewood rack into the hearth and lighting some kindling beneath it.

     By the time Javert emerged from his bedroom, freshly dressed in clean, dry clothes, Valjean had managed to get a decent sized fire going, and it cast flickering shadows on the dark, flocked wallpaper and filled the room with warmth.

     Javert took one look at the arrangement of the furniture, cast his eyes upon Valjean, and said, simply, “No.”

     “Yes,” he countered resolutely, getting to his feet. “Now give me your coat so I may hang it to dry.”

     Narrowing his glare, Javert stalked off down the hall, grabbed his coat, and held it up before him with a look of revolt, letting it drop to the floor like a sack of wet flour.

     Valjean returned his gaze with one of regretful frustration, taking the greatcoat and hanging it from a hook on a coat rack, which he placed to the side of the hearth.

     He picked up the blanket from his mattress and all but shoved it into Javert’s arms, heading off to his room to retrieve the rest of the man’s clothes.

     When he returned, he found the inspector hunched over on the mattress, legs drawn to his chest, the blanket draped over his shoulders. Head hung low, his hair obscured his face. The only thing Valjean could properly make out was the man’s tight-set frown.

     Turning away from him after a moment, Valjean spread the damp garments out on the floor before the fireplace, puzzling at something that had spilled out of the bundle.

     He held it up in the firelight. It was a little piece of paper pressed between two thin panes of round glass. The wording upon it was unreadable, ink having diluted and spread from water damage.

     “What is this?” he wondered aloud, handing it to Javert.

     The man took it from him and stared at it. It seemed to hold some importance for him, for how long he looked at it, but the longer he looked, the duller his eyes seemed to become.

     Without explanation or ceremony, he tossed it into the fire. He watched the flames lick at it, turning the glass black, before letting his head droop once more.

     Valjean studied him curiously.

     Footsteps sounded behind them. Toussaint appeared, carrying a serving tray that bore two steaming bowls of broth and a loaf of bread.

     “Here you are, messieurs;” she said, carefully placing the tray on the table, “nice and hot.”

     “Merci, Toussaint,” Valjean said, bowing his head. “That will be all for tonight. I am sorry to have disturbed you thusly. You may go back to bed now.”

     A look of relief flashed across the woman’s face. She nodded and, after casting a brief, worried glance at the inspector, disappeared back into the kitchen, from which the attic, which served as her quarters, was accessed.

     Valjean was about to cut the loaf of bread when he stopped short, his hand hovering over the knife as a something occurred to him. His eyes strayed slowly from the glinting blade to the dark figure behind him, not quite meeting it. Carefully, he took the knife and slid it into the waistband of his trousers, tucking it out of sight beneath his shirt.

     He broke the loaf in two with his bare hands, spilling crumbs over the plate. Then he took a bowl of broth and a half-loaf of bread and held them out to Javert.

     The man did not stir.

     “You will eat,” Valjean said.

     “I am not hungry.”

     He frowned. “Really. What have you eaten today?”

     “I am not,” he repeated, his tone gaining an edge, “hungry. I did not ask to be fed.”

     “You are in my house; you will eat.”

     Javert turned to set a baneful eye upon him. “I do not recall expressing any desire to come here.”

     Valjean’s frown deepened. He stared at him for a moment before giving a weary sigh. “I am giving this to you. Take it. You need something to warm yourself.”

     Javert only glared up at him, stubbornly resolved.

     Valjean set the dishes down at his feet, eyeing him knowingly. He set to devouring his own portion at the table—it did not take him long; indeed, he had not eaten for days—then he returned to his bedchamber and set to washing himself clean.

     The smell of the Seine and the undertone of the sewers left him, gradually replaced with that of lavender scented soap (it was, as it happened, the kind he bought for Cosette, but perhaps Toussaint was trying to tell him something by giving it to him). Valjean rubbed his mop of curly white hair dry and changed into a fresh pair of trousers and a linen blouse, topped with his usual brown waistcoat. He really didn’t wish to bother with formalities of appearance at this hour, but he’d be damned if the man was going to catch a glimpse of him in a nightshirt.

     When he returned, he found Javert sitting precisely where and how he’d left him. But, to his satisfaction, the dishes beside him were empty. A little smirk played on his lips; he hid it away before coming any closer.

     Halfway across the room he paused, observing the man from a distance.

     Having rarely seen each other, each time they met it seemed as though the years melted away and no time had passed at all, caught in this eternal game of cat and mouse.

     But now, looking at him in proper light for the first time in over a decade, Valjean became keenly aware of just how much time had passed.

     The last time he’d gotten a good look at him was in Montreuil-sur-Mer. It felt like a lifetime ago. Now, the man’s long brown hair—so dark as to almost be black—was tinged with streaks of grey in varying shades. So too were his thick side whiskers, spanning the length of his jaw line, beset with patches of salt and pepper against his brown skin.

     His eyes were the same icy, piercing blue they had always been, but there was something tired about them now—circles ringing them that could not fully be explained by lack of sleep.

     The solemn air of challenge still hung about him, yes. Buried beneath it, however, was the slightest hint of insecurity, uncertainty—and that was new.

     Taking in his countenance, it seemed to Valjean that he was sulking like a petulant child, but there was more to it than that: a hollowness, a consternation to him.

     He sighed.

     He knew exactly what he ought to do; the trouble was how to go about doing it.

     Obviously, the man needed comfort of some kind—reassurance perhaps—but Valjean was unsure how to give it to him without making him only further withdraw.

     Javert was a stern man who harbored little to no self-pity and allowed himself few pleasures—this Valjean knew from their time in Montreuil-sur-Mer—and thus far he had bristled at every attempt to show him kindness. This was—though fully expected—extremely problematic if he was to help him work through whatever it was that had brought him to such a dire frame of mind.

     At the same time that the man was overly confident and prideful, always thinking himself to be in the right, he seemed to care nothing for himself, no vanity or self-indulgence to be had. Not once could Valjean recall having ever seen him partake in any activity that could be considered leisurely.

     In fact, now that he thought about it, the first time he had ever seen him in a light which painted him as human—belonging to the race of men and not some statuesque, otherworldly observer like one of the figures on the Notre-Dame—was when he stepped into the mairie asking for his own dismissal. That was, Valjean realized, the first time he had seen anything within the man that he could relate to on a personal level. And then, again, and more deeply so, as Javert had stepped up onto the parapet above the Seine.

     Valjean had been too overcome with apprehension and disbelief at the time to fully process what emotion seeing Javert consider his own demise had instilled in him, but he took the time to contemplate this now.

     Even at the barricade, bound and fated to die as he was, the man had not lost his composure. He had remained, as always, stiff and stoic, as though he was not really a part of the goings on around him. Stripped of control, he still retained perfect authority over himself—unflinching, callous. He did not allow anything to affect him.

     Yet, mere days later, when his situation ought to have been resolved, he faltered. He seemed, for the first time in his life, indecisive. The inspector—that stony shadow that seemed to possess no self outside of what others perceived him to be—was troubled. He had become lost inside his own mind. There was a tempest raging in his skull, with nothing and no one to quiet it—a storm of what must be doubt and self-loathing, grief and helplessness, drowning his senses.

     This state was not unfamiliar to Valjean.

     Despite having always been on his own, solitary and aloof, Javert had never seemed to be alone—this was preposterous, of course, as there was never anyone with him (save, perhaps, for some subordinate officers during a patrol).

     It had never really occurred to him until now, but Valjean could not think of a single time he had seen the man interact with another human being outside of what his duties called for.

     Surely he had at least one friend—a family member, perhaps. Surely he’d had at least one of those things.

     And yet Valjean could not think of any.

     Could it be? That he …?

     Valjean went and stood over him, gazing down with a disheartened frown.

     The man refused to even look at him.

     “Javert …” He sighed and crouched down so that they were level with one another, putting his hands on the man’s shoulders.

     “You have to talk to me, Javert. S’il te plaît. [3] It’s the only way I know to help you.”

     Still Javert would not raise his head, only further curling into himself.

     “You cannot pretend that you are fine. We both know that is a lie.” His brow knit, voice lowering to a volume barely above a whisper. “Your pride is not worth this, Javert. It is not worth your life.”

     “You do not know of what you speak,” came a hushed reply.

     “Then tell me; tell me so that I might understand.”

     But Javert remained silent.

     “It is not wrong for a man to ask for help now and again,” Valjean insisted. “There is no shame in that; we all have our troubles, and some cannot be resolved by oneself alone. Pardieu! That does not make you weak; that makes you human! And there is nothing terrible about that.”

     He let his grasp trail down to the man’s forearms. He wished to take his hands, but they remained tightly drawn, clutching the blanket around himself like a shield.

     “My entire life, I have never known you to have a single drop of self-pity. You have always given the whole of your hours in service to the people. Do you not think that, just this once, you should allow yourself a little of that courtesy? Do you not owe that to yourself, Javert?”

     He could make out a conflicted scowl beneath the man’s bangs.

     Valjean took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, they were a little clearer, a little more resolute.

     “Javert,” he began, “I will not pretend to understand what exactly is going through your mind right now. But I am going to tell you a story.” His gaze trailed to the floor. “Once—a long, long time ago—I found myself in a state not too dissimilar from yours at present. It was just after I had been handed my yellow papers in Toulon.”

     He paused, eyes losing focus, drifting back in time. “I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and not nearly as much wages as I ought to have earned in nineteen years’ hard labor. So, having little other choice, I set to looking for honest employment almost immediately.”

     “In Grasse I came upon a distillery, where men were working as balers, and because they were hard-pressed for help they allowed me to join them. I asked them how much they were paid a day, and they said ‘Thirty sous’ and it was so; but when I went to collect my pay the owner gave me only fifteen. I objected to this, but he said ‘That is enough for thee,’ and threatened me with the galleys if I kept up with him. And so I left.”

     “There is nowhere a convict can go where he is not shunned. I went from town to town, just looking for something to eat and a place to lay my head. These things were denied me. As soon as they saw my papers, they wanted nothing to do with me. It didn’t matter that I meant no harm to them, or that I had money. They would have none of it.”

     “In my desperation, I tried going to the prison, and asking the turnkey for lodging, just for one night. ‘The prison is not an inn’, he told me, ‘Get yourself arrested and you will be admitted.’ And so I went on. I was lowered to begging, and yet, still, I was turned away at every door. I asked for a glass of water and was greeted with the barrel of a gun. ‘Thou marauder,’ they called me.”

     “The night was falling, and a cold wind was blowing from the Alps. I was exhausted beyond measure. I saw a sort of hut in someone’s garden, lined with straw, and I thought it was some road-laborer’s dwelling, vacant for the evening. But in fact, it was the kennel of a dog, and just as I lay down to sleep, I heard a growl, and was chased back out by claws and fangs. I sat on a stone by the roadside and said to myself, ‘I am not even a dog!’”

     “It was late into the night when a man finally took pity on me. I had knocked on his door already expecting to be turned away—such was my lot in life—but he sat me at his table and fed me from the finest silver, talking to me of sweet, meaningless things.” He gave a quiet scoff. “I barely heard a word he said, my mind was so clouded.”

     “That night, I slept in a proper bed for the first time in decades. Some time later I awoke, and I tossed and turned; I could not get back to sleep. It was all so foreign to me.” His voice grew hushed. “I was never more alone in my life than I was on that night. I was no one, with nothing, and nowhere to go—and no one to care. I was so lost,” he breathed. “Even the man’s charity could not jar me from my hopelessness.”

     “Looking back, I couldn’t tell you why I did it. It was some kind of compulsion, an act of desperation—madness. In my mind, I think, it was partly because I felt I had been cheated out of honest pay from my time in the galleys. This made the act seem fair—just, even. I must have known it was not, in some small way—yet still, I did it, this terrible thing! I crept into the man’s quarters and stole his silver, stole the very plates he had fed me from.”

     “It was the worst thing I have ever done. He was the first person to show me kindness, and I betrayed his trust. He chose, despite appearances, to see the good in me—and I only reaffirmed the bad. That breach of faith, that cold-blooded deed, is something I can never atone for.” Valjean paused, lost in thought for a moment.

     “I fled into the darkness with the only things of value he possessed upon my back,” he said. “It didn’t take long for someone to become suspicious of me. Within an hour or so of my departure, I was apprehended by gendarmes.”

     “I was so afraid,” he breathed. “I knew what I had done. I knew that in one foolish act I had sentenced myself not only to the guillotine, but to the pits of Hell. They confronted me about the silver; I made some pathetic attempt at an excuse, said the man had given it to me. And so, to my horror, they dragged me back to the Bishop’s house to see whether or not this was true.”

     There was a self-deprecating humor in his tone. “It’s the wee hours of the morning, the sun has just barely risen, and this man comes to the door to find me bound and caught by the scruff of my neck, a sack of silver at my feet.”

     His humor fled. A shadow fell across his face as his voice lowered once more, steady and slow. “I just wanted to die, in that moment. If I’d had a pistol, I’d have blown my brains out on the spot. It was too much, the humiliation—I’d have rather perished.”

     “I could not bring myself to look at him, this righteous man that I had scorned. The gendarmes address him as ‘Monseigneur’. I gave a terrible start at that. ‘Monseigneur!’ I say. ‘So he is not the curé?' You must understand, the man never told me who he was. He did not live as a person such as he ought; he had traded his palace for the small hospital building that adjoined it, in order to afford them more room. He had no decorations, no finery to speak of at all. His lodgings were so poor I had scarcely believed he could even be a curate, let alone a curé. ‘Silence!’ the gendarmes say. ‘He is Monseigneur the Bishop.’ And I was struck with fear in my heart. I kneel trembling on the ground, waiting for this holy man to condemn me, as he rightly should, as I had no doubt he would.”

     “And the Bishop, he—” Valjean chuckled, choking back tears. “He turns to me and he says ‘But I gave you the candlesticks also; why did you not take them?’ And I—I could not believe … He vouched for me, lied on my behalf—and for what? He owed me nothing, less than nothing. But he insisted that they free me, that I was innocent, that it was all a misunderstanding. He bids me take the candlesticks before I go; he calls me his friend. ‘Go in peace,’ he says. ‘And by the way, when you return, you need not climb the wall thusly; the door is never fastened with anything but a latch.’”

     “And when the gendarmes had left, he looks at me and he says ‘Do not forget that you have promised to use this money in becoming a better man.’ And he speaks my name, and he tells me ‘You no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and perdition, and I give it to God.’”

     “So it was that I was released from the jaws of death thusly, with a small fortune in my possession, absolved of my crimes and utterly bewildered. I could not comprehend what it was that had just occurred. Dumbstruck, I wandered down the road. Eventually I had to stop and sit, to collect my thoughts, for they were storming so—and yet so oddly calm and singular. I knew not anything in the world, then; I sat senseless, oblivious to all around me.”

     “It was during this moment of reverie that a little Savoyard came along, tossing a coin to himself. As he passed me on the road, his hands slipped, and the coin rolled beneath where I was sitting. Without thinking, I put my foot over it. I don’t know why; it was an instinctual thing, I suppose—from my time before Toulon. Money was scarce, then. So I step on this coin, and the boy, he asks for it back, politely at first. When I did not stir he grew angry, shouting abuse at me, and I must have threatened him somehow, for he went away soon after that.”

     “The evening chill set in, and I regained some of my sense. When I got up to leave, there I saw a little coin where my foot had been, and I stared at it in surprise, wondering from whence it had come. Then I realized what I had done, and was struck with horror. Again I had committed a crime, and this time had not intended for it in the least. To steal from some poor child! Mon Dieu, how could I have done such a thing? For the second time that day I was filled with guilt and self-reproach. I searched desperately for him, up and down the hillside. At one point I even asked a passing priest to have me arrested, I was so overwhelmed,” he laughed sadly. “But the man rode away; I had frightened him off. I continued long into the night, looking for that boy—crying out until I was hoarse. But he was gone. There was nothing I could do. In the wake of my own salvation, I had damned myself once more.”

     “Ah! I could not live with myself! I fell to my knees and wept; I saw the wretch I had become. All those years in Toulon and I had never shed a tear, not once—not since they’d bolted that iron collar around my neck. And now I could not control the emotion outpouring from me. It was as though I had been asleep all that time, and had only just awoken. I was horrified at the kind of man I had become. I used to be a tree-pruner; I’d lived simply and honestly, harboring no thoughts of malice—how was it I had come to be this way? Who was this man that stood before me, this vicious brute, this cold-hearted convict? I did not recognize him; I was afraid of him. It was never my intention to become this man! How could I have let such a thing occur?”

     “Finally, as I saw what I was, the enormity of the Bishop’s gesture dawned upon me, overwhelmed me. That he had taken pity on this man, that he had granted him refuge, and then, when he deserved punishment, mercy! I had never encountered such a person as he, never been touched by so great a kindness in my life, and it seemed to me then that this man encompassed all that was right and good in this world, and that I, by comparison, all that was wrong.”

     “I believed that henceforth I must choose to be either one or the other—an angel or a demon—there was no middle ground for me. If I was to choose the path of righteousness I must become the utmost symbol of it. If I was to continue in my path of degradation, why, I would be the worst criminal, the most evil scum on the face of the earth! And this I knew I could not do. I was already horrified by what I had done; there was no way I had it in me to commit another such act. So I made my choice, and I heeded that man’s words and took them as an oath.”

     “Ever since then, I have strived to be a better man. But … The things I did that night, I can never escape from. I have spent my life trying to make up for them, but it is still not enough. It will never be enough. I had been out of my mind. It was only a brief thing, that madness, but it caused so much damage.” The corners of his mouth drew down. “So much.”

     He put his arms around Javert, drawing him to his chest.

     The man stiffened, shuddered—yet he did not try to pull away as hard as he could have, and within a moment or two sat still, like some small wild beast that knows it’s been caught, and thinks feigning death its only respite.

     “Do you understand what I am trying to say, Javert? Twice that day I ruined my own life—twice, saved only by the grace of God. I lost control of myself in my despair; I fell into a lonely gulf and allowed myself to drown. The foolish decisions I made during that lapse of judgment nearly cost me everything I had—and still have, in a way.” One hand trailed up to cradle the back of the man’s head. “Do not make the same mistakes, Javert. You are a better man than I.”

     At that the statue in his arms was made flesh; Javert trembled. Falteringly, he lay his head upon Valjean’s shoulder.

     Valjean almost started at this, his brows rising. He drew the man closer—gently, tightly—squeezing his eyes shut.

     Javert said nothing. He did not cry; he did not stir. He gave no sign of anguish save for his silence, and the rigidness of his muscles.

     After a moment Valjean withdrew from him and sat back. In lieu of words he could not quite conjure, he laid his hand upon the man’s shoulder.

     “You should get some rest,” he murmured as he stood.

     Turning his back to him, he was a step away from the canapé when he heard a voice, just barely rising to meet his ears.

     “You should have left me there.”

     He stopped in his tracks. The sound of it cut him to the core; it was not something spoken in anger or in certainty, but, rather, with the sound of pain and pleading—a pitiful lament.

     The muscles in his abdomen clenched; his face contorted in a sort of agony of the spirit, squeezing his eyes shut as one might when faced with a scene too tragic to bear, when one’s only recompense is to surrender oneself to its overwhelming severity.

     His arms hung at his sides uselessly, head bowing. “Why?” he breathed.

     “You know why.”

     Valjean stared at the floor for a moment. He turned to look back at him with sad, sad brown eyes, shaking his head solemnly—almost imperceptibly. “I really don’t.”

     Javert held his gaze for the space of mere seconds before the weight and the sincerity of it caused him to shudder and cast his eyes away, back into the sheltering shadows of the ball he had curled himself into, thrusting his head back down, face buried in arms and knees and blanket.

     Valjean considered him morosely for a moment longer. He felt that—at least on this particular night, and with what little the man was willing to communicate, even at his earnest behest—that there was little more he could say to affect him at the present hour.

     So, letting out a quiet sigh, he settled himself on the canapé opposite him by the hearth, kicking off his shoes and spreading the covers out on the pink upholstery.

     Drawing up the blanket around him, he cast one last look at the man before rolling over.

     “Goodnight, Javert,” he murmured.

     He prayed that the good Lord might calm the man’s turbulent soul.

     After awhile, as the fire was dying down and sleep began to claim him, he shifted his head on the pillow to glance back again.

     Javert lay still on the mattress, turned so that his back faced him. He’d pulled the blanket around himself and coiled up in such a way that all Valjean could see was green wool, but the form beneath it rose and fell steadily, and it gave him a measure of peace.

     His eyelids drooped closed as he watched, and he fell into a long-forthcoming repose.

***

Footnotes

[1] As Valjean uses Cosette’s formal name here, Javert does not recognize it, because he has never heard her addressed thusly by anyone before.

[2] Similar to a couch, an elegant three-person sofa with an exposed and elaborately carved wooden frame.

[3] Here Valjean addresses Javert in an informal manner, using “te” (or “thee”) instead of “vous” (you). Speaking informally to someone shows you feel you are familiar with them. This can be a sign of disrespect if you’re not close with the person (Javert addresses Valjean informally until he saves his life at the barricades) or a gesture of intimacy and confidence. Valjean is trying to appeal to Javert by subtly showing their familiarity.

Chapter Text

“We avoid the things that we're afraid of because we think there will be dire consequences if we confront them. But the truly dire consequences in our lives come from avoiding things that we need to learn about.” 

-Shakti Gawain

***

     Javert let out a low grunt as the sound of a creak from the floorboards drove him back to consciousness. Hazy, he lifted his head to peer across the room in the direction of the hallway.

     A young girl was standing there in her nightgown, barefoot, her chestnut brown hair hanging over her shoulder in a messy braid. She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of him, taking a step back, the candle she held flickering.

     Her voice was light and fearful in the darkness. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

     Javert rose a little to better look at her, trying to blink away his weariness. It did not work.

     His mind still clouded from slumber, he failed to address the situation with proper authority. “Valjean let me in,” he mumbled, turning back to his pillow. His eyes had already drooped shut for a moment before he heard her respond.

     “Who is Valjean?”

     He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean ‘Who is Valjean’?” he muttered to himself, “He’s right—” He cut himself off.

     The girl did not know.

     Of course the girl did not know. Why would Valjean have told her?

     “I mean, Fauchelevent,” he corrected, closing his eyes once more. “Monsieur Fauchelevent let me in.”

     “Papa?” she breathed. “Is he—?” She held her candle out a little further to illuminate the room. “Oh!” Her fear dissipating, she skirted around where Javert lay on the mattress and knelt before Valjean, placing the candle on the floor in front of the canapé. “Papa,” she implored him softly, jostling his shoulder.

     Javert was so exhausted it did not even occur to him to question her use of the appellation. “Let him sleep,” he heard himself say as he drew the blanket back up, “He needs it.”

     She must have believed him, for after a minute he heard her footsteps recede, and the careful shutting of a door.

***

     “Monsieur …”

     The flash of Javert’s piercing blue eyes opening gave the old woman a start, and she flinched and instantly withdrew from him as though worried he would seize her.

     He frowned at her as the night’s events flooded back to his groggy mind.

     “P-pardonnez-moi; I did not mean to frighten you,” she exclaimed, clutching her skirt, “but … it is getting rather late into the morning—nearly eleven o’clock.”

     He propped himself up on his elbows and rose to a sitting position on the mattress with a huff.

     Eleven o’clock! He had never slept so late in his life.

     Normally by this time he would have— Well.

     Certainly on any normal day he would have already reported at the station long before this hour—but this was not a normal day. In fact, the very thought of returning to the station and resuming his work repelled him.

     No, he couldn’t possibly go back there. Not now, anyway. Not after what he’d done, or what he’d failed to do. He didn’t dare show his face there again.

     “I know you had a very unpleasant night,” the servant said, “so I let you sleep in—perhaps longer than I should have.” She bent her head. “I do apologize.”

     “No,” he said, tucking his legs beneath him, “There is no need for that. I suppose that I … probably did need the rest. Besides which, I have not anywhere to be at present.”

     “Oh! That’s good, then.” She appeared a little lost for what to do next; it would seem Valjean did not often entertain guests. Or maybe it was the manner in which he had come and spent the night that caused her befuddlement: sprawled out haphazardly on the floor in front of the parlor fireplace like some vagabond. “Would monsieur like to take breakfast now? The mademoiselle had offered to wait until you had all risen to partake.”

     “The—?” He shook his head. “Yes, that girl; I remember now. What was her name again?”

     “Mademoiselle’s name is Euphrasie, though she is mostly addressed as Cosette. Do you wish for me to retrieve her? I can start setting the table right away.”

     “What? No, I don’t—” He hung his head and let out a sigh. “Nevermind. Do what you wish, I suppose. It doesn’t matter.”

     She cocked her head at him and eyed him curiously for a moment. “You don’t need anything else? A wash basin? A comb?”

     Javert placed a hand over his face, rubbing his temples and quietly grumbling to himself. “No.”

     “Tout ce que vous préférez,” she said with a shrug. “I shall begin the arrangements for breakfast, then.”

     When she had walked away Javert stole a glance over at Valjean, who was still sound asleep on the canapé.

     He couldn’t say he was surprised the man slept like a log, considering what he had been through. Of course he could sleep soundly, while it had taken Javert what must have been hours to fall asleep. Violent and tumultuous thoughts had wracked his brain for the majority of the night, until it was finally forced to surrender to the sheer exhaustion of the rest of his body.

     He flopped back onto the mattress, crossing his arms and sighing deeply. It was impossible for him to recall being in a more awkward situation in his life. Grimacing, he glared at the ceiling for a moment before shutting his eyes.

     Cosette, he thought to himself, Cosette.

     So the girl he'd glimpsed last night was indeed the child that Valjean had stolen from the inn in Montfermeil. That prostitute’s child. 

     Valjean still had her? How queer. He’d have thought the man would have—

     “Are you truly awake?” came a voice.

     He found the girl in question peering down at him curiously, her hands clasped behind her back. She wore a pretty white dress that reminded him somewhat of a doily, beset with light blue ribbons at the waist and sleeves. A matching bonnet covered her now neatly combed hair.

     “Bonjour,” she said with a little smile, the giggle she suppressed betrayed by her eyes. “I do not think we have been properly introduced.”

     “Your name is Cosette, is it not?”

     “It is.”

     “You may know me as Javert. There, we have been introduced.”

     She scoffed. “Hardly. Come, sit at the table with me. Let’s not wake him,” she said, nodding to Valjean. “If things are how you said, it is probably for the best. And, we can talk privately for a little while, and that will be fun.”

     “Joy,” said Javert, following her to the adjacent dining room and pulling up a chair.

     “Monsieur Javert,” she began once she was settled, “you are a friend of papa’s?”

     He narrowed his eyes and averted his gaze, the corner of his lips drawing down.

     “Oh!” she laughed. “The face you are making! I think you must be his friend, then.”

     He looked back at her and raised an eyebrow.

     “He does not have many friends,” she continued, seemingly without notice. “In fact, I do not know that he hath any, now. There was one, at the convent: an old man—his brother, actually, so I am not sure that counts—but he passed away quite some time ago, I’m afraid. Since then I have not seen papa with anyone else. That is not to say he is not friendly, monsieur, you understand—but he hasn’t any friends—or at least, that I knew of. But then there was you! Ah, it makes me happy to see him with another person.”

     “I think you are misinterpreting our relationship,” Javert said, crossing his arms.

     “Oh?”

     “I am not his friend.”

     She stared at him in surprise for a second. Her face fell. “Oh.”

     The girl’s expression wrung some guilt from him—a newfound emotion, and one Javert was not used to. It caused him embarrassment. He had not intended or expected to care what she thought of him, or of the man she was calling her father—but he found quite suddenly that he did, and he couldn’t fathom why.

     “That is, we are—” The inspector floundered for words. “It is true that we are not friends. While this may be, we are …” He made a face. “—acquainted.”

     Her brow furrowed, and she examined him thoughtfully. “I see. Do you … intend to elaborate on that, or—?”

     The conversation was, thankfully, interrupted by Valjean’s servant—Toussaint, as he recalled the girl saying—entering the dining room from the adjoining kitchen with a tray full of food.

     “Here it is; here it is!” she chimed, setting down the dishes. She arranged the coffee carafe and its accoutrements in the center of the table—a matching set of creamer, sugar bowl, and cups, allbearing a raspberry pattern. Laid beside, a bowl of hard-boiled eggs, another of hulled strawberries, a plate with thick slices of bread on it, and a pat of butter in a dish.

     “Ah, wonderful; I am starved,” Cosette exclaimed, reaching out to fill her plate.

     “That would probably be because you failed to eat anything last night,” Toussaint could be heard remarking under her breath as she poured them both a cup of coffee.

     The girl shot her a repugnant look. “I did not have an appetite for it then; you know why.”

     “I keep telling you, child, you cannot starve yourself on your father’s account; it will only serve to grieve him.”

     “That was a long time ago! And I had my reasons then, too.”

     “Mademoiselle,” the old woman sighed, “you are sweet, but you should think of yourself now and then. En tout cas, I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” With this, she returned to the kitchen, and could be heard ascending a set of stairs that Javert reasoned must lead to a garret up above.

     “Don’t pay her any mind; she exaggerates,” Cosette told him. She popped a strawberry in her mouth and was silent for a moment, closing her eyes in a huff.

     Javert glanced over at the food. Sullen, he considered taking some, if only because there were two place settings, and too large a serving portion for one young girl to finish all by herself. He didn’t feel terribly hungry, and wasn’t in the habit of eating breakfasts to begin with (although, given the hour, this was perhaps an exception). However, refusing to touch the meal presented to you was a sign of bad manners, and furthermore, it would only make things even more awkward, which he was desperately trying to avoid.

     Begrudgingly, he took a slice of bread and began taking bites out of it.

     After awhile he noticed the girl had paused in the middle of buttering her own slice, and had been staring at it for quite some time now.

     “Would you believe,” she finally said, “Papa used to refuse to eat bread like this. He would only eat black bread, and you know how coarse and tasteless that is. I implored him to treat himself, but he refused, saying that he felt no need to. It was only because I threatened that I would eat only what he ate did he start eating white bread.” Her sparkling blue eyes were far away and there was a little smirk on her face.

     “He does that a lot, you know. He buys me all these lovely things and never any for himself. At the other house, he even sleeps in a separate building—this little shack in the back. He won’t even light a fire for himself. I keep having to spend time with him in there, just so that, for my sake at least, he keeps the place warm.” She shook her head. “He can be so strange at times.”

     “Mm.”

     She took a few boiled eggs from the bowl and cut them into pieces, poking them around on her plate with her fork instead of eating them. Her countenance was detached.

     “You are really not his friend, monsieur?”

     “No.”

     The girl let out a sigh. “Then, you will be one of the people he gives charity to.”

     “Certainly not,” he retorted, one side of his face twisting up.

     “But did you not come here because you needed a place to sleep?”

     “No; if you must know, I was dragged here against my will. Trust me, I am no more happy that I am here than you are.”

     “You are not that unpleasant, monsieur,” she told him lightly.

     He rolled his eyes and gave a grunt.

     Cosette nibbled on her eggs absentmindedly, her cheek resting on her hand. After a moment she glanced over at Valjean on the other side of the room.

     “What happened to him yesterday?” she asked, turning back at Javert. “He looked awful. Oh, you must tell me!”

     He closed his eyes with a frustrated noise. “I would rather not.”

     “Hm?” She cocked her head at him. “But why?”

     “It is not for me to tell.”

     “S’il vous plaît?”

     “No.”

     “Hmph.” She stroked her chin thoughtfully, leaning over the table. A mischievous look began to form in her eyes. “What if I asked Toussaint to make you something sweet?”

     Javert wrinkled his nose, narrowing his eyes as he cast them towards her. “I do not accept bribes.”

     Cosette blinked, her face going blank for a moment before bursting into laughter. “You are amusing, monsieur,” she said. “I think I like you in spite of your roughness.”

     He stiffened. “You should not be so loose with your words around men you don’t know.”

     “Well …” she mused, “it’s true that I don’t know you, but Papa let you in, so you must be all right.”

     Scoffing at this, he folded his arms across his chest and risked a brief look at Valjean—who was still sleeping, face buried in his pillow, arm dangling off the side of the canapé. He had the appearance of a drunkard that had finally made it home after a taxing night of revelry.

     “You call him your father,” he remarked distantly. “Is he truly?”

     The girl was quiet for a moment, and Javert stole a glance back at her.

     Her cheeks had reddened. “O-of course he’s my father!” She looked at him apprehensively. “Why would you question such a thing?”

     Javert took in her expression and measured his words carefully. “No reason,” he said, shifting his gaze away again and trying to sound nonchalant. “He just seems rather old to have a child as young as you. It surprises me. That’s all.”

     Cosette studied him for a moment. “Well. I suppose that is true. But what of it? I was not always in his care, but he took me in when I was young, and told me he was my father. So, he is. Why shouldn’t he be?”

     Javert was silent.

     Something about the girl’s defensiveness suggested to him that she’d contemplated this subject before and harbored a certain amount of unease over it.

     Did she question if Valjean was really her father?

     Javert glanced over at the still-sleeping man, with his snow-white hair and weathered complexion.

     Was he?

     Javert was unsure. It would certainly makes things much simpler.

     The girl had brown hair. Her mother’s had been golden blonde.

     Javert could remember a slip of a story he’d heard once, from the locals in Montreuil: that when the man who called himself Jean Madeleine had first arrived in town, there had still been the hint of brown in his greying locks. And that had been rather damning, in his mind, for the Jean Valjean of the galleys had, as he well remembered, been a brunet.

     Javert contemplated this.

     After awhile Cosette sighed. She began toying with the silverware. “I tried asking him about my mother,” she said. “About what it used to be like, the two of them. But he always said that it pained him too much to talk about. I mean, I understand, but—still. He never speaks to me of his past. I wish he would. It hurts, that he does not trust me with these things.”

     Javert looked away. “He has his reasons.”

     “Oh?” A spark of curiosity entered her tone. “That makes me think you know something of him.”

     It was Javert’s turn to grow embarrassed. He glared at the floor. “That is not what I meant.”

     “But do you? Know of his past, I mean?”

     “It is not for me to—”

     “I beg you, monsieur, won’t you tell me? You do know something, I can tell; won’t you please confide in me? Surely whatever it is could not be more horrible than—”

     “I am going to wake your father,” Javert cut her off, rising from his chair in a huff. “He has been sleeping long enough.”

     He stormed purposefully to the other side of the room, feeling her eyes on his back.

     “Valjean,” he muttered under his breath, jostling the man’s shoulder.

     Valjean's eyelids fluttered, expression contorting.

     “Valjean.”

     The man grunted, squeezing his eyes shut painfully as he turned over, mumbling something along the lines of “Cosette, it’s too early” as he rubbed his face. After a deep breath he shifted into a sitting position and looked up, his mouth opening to say something—but he stopped short, blanching at the sight of the dark figure looming over him. His eyes widened, a look entering them not unlike that of a rabbit that has awoken to find a weasel in its burrow.

     It took a moment for the fear to leave his face as he recalled the night’s events, and for his muscles to loosen. He hung his head in his hands, letting out a tremulous sigh.

     “Javert,” he breathed, as though in this one word he affirmed his security.

     After a moment he turned to meet his eyes again.

     “The girl is asking too many questions,” Javert said. “She is irritating me.”

     Valjean blinked, poking his head around Javert to find his daughter staring at him from across the table.

     “Cosette, leave the inspector his privacy.”

     “Inspector!” she exclaimed. “I did not know he was a man of the law! What is he doing here? Why is he wearing your clothes?”

     “You see?” Javert grumbled. “Too many questions.”

     Valjean pinched the bridge of his nose. “He—” Another sigh escaped his lips, deeper and wearier. “He had a rough night, Cosette. He needed a place to sleep. That’s all.”

     The girl bunched her face, crossing her arms. “The both of you are withholding things from me, and I do not like it.”

     Her father sat with his head in his hand. “Toussaint,” he pleaded.

     The woman stuck her head out of the doorway. “Monsieur?”

     “I need you to go down to the market and replenish the larder.”

     “Begging your pardon, but last I checked, it was—”

     “And buy something decent for supper—a goose or a pig.”

     The woman narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “If you’re set on asking, I suppose.”

     “And Cosette, would you please go with her to help carry it all?”

     “But that isn’t fair!”

     “And why would that be?”

     “You’re just making an excuse for me to leave you alone together! You’re going to talk about things behind my back.”

     “And Toussaint is going to need help with the baskets.”

     The girl pursed her lips, sticking her nose up at him. “Fine.”

     “She has entered into that rebellious sort of age,” Valjean explained as the women left.

     He stared down at the floor absentmindedly for a moment. “I wonder if that boy survived,” he mused to himself. “But,” he mumbled, “there is little helping that now.”

     “What did you say?”

     “It doesn’t matter.” He looked up at Javert. “Have you eaten?”

     “I was made to, yes,” he replied stiffly.

     “That is well.” The man rose to his feet, running a hand through his hair. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to … ah, you know.”

     As Valjean headed towards the water-closet, Javert called out to him, with a hitch of annoyance in his voice, “I do not know why I am here.”

     Valjean paused, glanced back over his shoulder at him. The ease of his gaze disarmed him. “Because I asked it of you,” he said. “And I am glad for it, and I would very much like it if you stayed awhile longer.”

     Javert did not know what to say to that, and so he stood in silence, keenly aware of his own foreignness. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, studying the patterns in the floorboards until Valjean returned.

     “Did you manage to sleep well?” the man asked.

     “I slept.”

     “But not well?”

     Javert cast a contemptuous glance back at him. “Why would you even expect me to?”

     “I did not; that is why I asked.”

     He scoffed. “It doesn’t matter.”

     Valjean was quiet for a moment. “I slept later than I meant to. I am surprised that you stayed.”

     “So am I,” he grumbled, “But certain circumstances prevented my leaving.”

     “I did not want you to leave.”

     Javert bit the inside of his cheek.

     “In any case,” Valjean said, his voice carefully low, “If you are to leave, I wanted to be sure of you before you left.”

     “Be sure of what?”

     The man frowned. “You know what.”

     Javert’s countenance darkened, his head hanging a little, not out of embarrassment, but out of bother. “Ah. That.”

     “Yes, that,” he sighed. “I need to know. Javert, are you still …?”

     “Thinking of killing myself?” he said bluntly. Even as he uttered them so stoically, the words felt like knives in his gut. “You need not worry about that.”

     “I need to hear you say ‘no’,” Valjean said firmly, locking eyes with him. “And I need you to mean it.”

     Javert was silent. His eyes fell back to the floor, veiled by his long hair. “No,” he finally said.

     He was able to say this because, at present, he was not actually thinking about it, and therefore to say so was not a lie. This did not mean that he would not later fall back into such thoughts; he did not deny this to himself. But it was enough to say that at this very moment his mind was preoccupied with other consternations, because that much was indeed true. It did not matter to him how long the duration of this truth would endure, so long as it was true as of the precise second he said it, because he wanted more than anything to escape the hell that was this awkward confrontation between them.

     Rising from up off the wall, he headed towards the fireplace, where his coat hung on the rack and his clothes upon the floor. He wrinkled his nose. They smelled wretched, but it couldn’t be helped.

     “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to commandeer your bedroom for a moment.”

     Valjean watched him go with a perplexed, distrustful sort of look on his face.

     Safely behind the security of a closed door, Javert stripped off the clothes the man had given him and put his own back on, methodically rebuckling the thin leather straps of his black stock collar. He refastened his belt around his waist, to which his sword and cudgel were still affixed.

     Donning his greatcoat—which was mostly dry at this point—he retrieved the black leather gloves which Valjean had left inside its pockets and made his hands into fists a few times to properly fit them back on.

     He cursed the fact that he no longer had a hat with which to hide his face in shadow; he felt strangely vulnerable without it. Naked.

     He plucked a few strands of debris from his shoulders before reentering the hallway.

     Out of habit, he patted the spots on his coat where his inner pockets were, having felt them unusually flat.

     “Damn,” he said.

     “What is it?” Valjean asked.

     “My manacles and my snuff box, they must’ve—oh, never mind,” he said, biting back his words with a grain of salt. “It doesn’t matter.”

     “Are you all right?”

     “I’m fine,” he snarled.

     Valjean stared back at him, off put, vaguely concerned.

     Javert considered his face and thrust his own away, seeking mechanically to smooth and retie his hair behind him only to find that he had nothing to tie it back with anymore. He let out a breath through clenched teeth.

     “I think I will take my leave now,” he remarked, heading for the stairs.

     “Oh?” Valjean said, half curiously, half argumentatively. “And where are you going?”

     Javert stopped halfway down, gripping the banister.

     “Where are you going to go, Javert?”

     “I am going to the station house,” he finally said, resuming his descent. “I need to report for duty.”

     Valjean paused at this, allowing him to continue into the front hall. “Are you sure that you—?”

     “I will be late,” Javert interrupted him.

     “Javert …”

     “Thank your servant for me,” he said, opening the door.

     As he stepped outside, a hand caught his wrist, jerking him to a standstill like a leashed dog.

     Slowly, Valjean’s grip loosened; his hand trailed down to his, opening it as he might a child’s and clasping it between his own.

     His voice was quiet, sincere. “Take care of yourself, Javert.”

     Javert gave a shudder, jerking his arm from his grasp as though singed. The limb quivered as it returned to his side, his fist balling and unballing itself.

     After a moment of silence he thrust his head down and stalked off.

***

Chapter Text

“The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is a knowledge of our own ignorance.”

-Benjamin Franklin

***

     Henri Joseph Gisquet was a little over a month away from the respectable age of forty, and already he had embroiled himself in a number of political scandals, most of which, arguably, were not entirely his fault. He had a serious air about him, dark, solemn eyes, a full face and thin lips that were framed with laugh lines. There was a slight wave to his greying hair, so that his bangs curled up on one side of his brow. His side whiskers spanned the length of his jawline; his chin and the rest of his face was clean shaven. Due to a hunting accident several years ago, his left arm had been amputated just below the wrist, and he wore his shirtsleeve pinned closed on that side.

     He had a sullen, preoccupied air today; this was, perhaps, in part due to the recent passing of his patron, M. Périer, who had fallen victim to the cholera epidemic three weeks prior. More prominently, there was also the fact that the uprising had been quashed not even a full day ago, and there were surely endless reports of theft, property damage, altercations, and arrests now filtering in—nevermind the full bureaucratic nightmare of the aftermath that Gisquet would have to personally deal with. Javert did not envy him his post.

     Gisquet had not diverted his attention from his paperwork when Javert entered, nor did Javert expect him to. He stood before the man’s desk some ways away in the aspect of dignified humility, his hands folded behind his back, his posture and expression purely military.

     “Monsieur le Préfet,” he said, “I must request something of you.”

     “Oh?” There was an absentmindedness to his tone.

     “I request that you dismiss me from duty effective immediately.”

     The Prefect’s demeanor shifted abruptly into something grave as he looked up from his paperwork. “What?”

     “You must turn me out, monsieur. I have committed a delict. I have offended the law.”

     “Offended the—” Gisquet’s brow furrowed in scrutiny. His voice dropped to a hush. “Pardieu, Javert, what have you done?”

     “Nothing,” Javert replied, just as grave as he. “I have done nothing. That is my damnation—I have done nothing when I ought to have done something.”

     “What is it you have failed to do?”

     “Uphold the vow I took when I was permitted this post.”

     “You speak in riddles; tell me plainly what you mean.”

     Javert’s bent his brow to him in shame. “I find myself incapable of carrying out a task that I know is called for under the law. It ought to be done; I cannot do it.”

     “What is this task? And why does it repel you so?”

     “Apprehension of someone who has broken the law: that is the task. As to why I cannot do it … I don’t know that I can properly voice that.” He fumbled with the hem of his coat sleeve for a moment, lost in thought. He shook his head. “It does not matter; I must be dismissed.”

     Gisquet studied him. “Is this person kin to you?”

     “No.”

     “A friend, then?”

     His head drooped a little. “No.”

     “Then why do you feel you cannot apprehend them?”

     Javert stared down at the floorboards, eyes narrowing as though to help him find the most fitting words.

     “Obligation,” he finally said.

     “An obligation higher than that of yours to uphold the law?”

     A frown twitched at the corners of Javert’s lips. “My uncertainty on this matter is why I must be dismissed, Monsieur le Préfet. Such indecision cannot be tolerated in the ranks of the police.”

     The man sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath and biting his lip. “Perhaps, yes. But, tell me, what causes this upheaval in your judgment? This is unlike you, Inspector. You are not close with this person, you say?”

     Javert only shook his head again, slowly.

     “What, then, is the core of the issue?”

     “I am not … sure.”

     “Of your reservations?”

     “Of the law.”

     Gisquet was silent for a moment. “You mean to say, perhaps, that you find the particulars of the law, as it applies to this person, morally objectionable?”

     Javert gave a nearly imperceptible start, lifting his face.

     To hear the Prefect utter those words—in the easy tone in which he had—both upset and elated him. For the man who personified the law to imply that there was something besides the law which ought to be taken into consideration when upholding it—strange and terrible, wonderful and awful.

     So! This was not an enigma! This situation in which he found himself trapped was not a hitherto unknown occurrence.

     What! So other lawmen could feel this way? And still keep their posts?

     He felt the remains of the judicial system in which he functioned crumble to dust at his feet.

     “There is something more to the relationship you have with this person, or the way in which you view them or their unlawful acts—and you hesitate because of this, non?”

     “Non. I mean—that is to say, oui.”

     “Ah. And is it that you are uncomfortable arresting them personally, or is it that you do not think they should be arrested at all?”

     At all? No. Wait; yes? Not entirely? One cannot go about choosing opposing halves of a judgment in this profession. What was it that he should say here? He knew not what the truth was anymore—he was incapable of distinguishing what his own idea of morality was from that of the law’s—that was the whole of the problem.

     The Prefect considered him very seriously, leaning forward on his desk. “Javert,” he said, his voice suddenly low, “I trust that you will answer truthfully to me. Has this to do with the rebellion?”

     Javert faltered. “In what way, monsieur?”

     “I mean to say, has this issue sprung from a political standpoint?”

     “No.”

     “It has nothing to do with the insurgents?”

     He shook his head. “No; that is the truth.”

     And it was, because while Valjean had been at the barricades, and had assisted the insurgents, none of those things were what had caused Javert this dilemma. It was what Valjean had done, and who he was, that had thrown him into this gulf of uncertainty.

     Gisquet studied him. “I believe you.”

     “It arose amidst the chaos on the streets;” Javert explained, “but it hath not to do with the insurrection itself, monsieur.”

     “I see. Then, let us return to the matter at hand. Ah, but you have not answered my question. Do you believe this person ought not to be arrested at all, or is this purely a problem of personal comfort?”

     Javert's glance skirted to the edges of the room, running along its wooden trim. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out; he had not produced a single thought. He frowned, his features further contorting in consternation.

     Gisquet let out a sigh. “You know, Javert, you are not the first person in the history of the prefecture to feel conflicted on the justness of a law.”

     Javert was no longer aware of what expression he was displaying on his face. “But Monsieur le Préfet, one should not be conflicted on their duties at all; that is why I have come! The law should make clear the line between right and wrong—should be unflinching in its judgment—and so should those who uphold it!”

     “Yes, this is true,” he said. “That is how it should be. But that is an ideal, and things are not always so clear-cut. The law cannot always be applied to every situation and be expected to perfectly fit. We ought not need question the law, this is the hope—that, applied equally, it should promote fair conclusions. But there will always be times when the law falls short of its intended purpose, and we must reexamine the principles from which it was writ. If this was never done, there would never be any reform, any progress in the name of justice.”

     “Do you understand what I am saying, Javert? I am not angry with you for bringing this to me. You ought not be ashamed to find yourself questioning things sometimes. It is the sign of a healthy mind. One needs to take a step back every now and again and evaluate one’s actions in accordance with their own sense of righteousness.”

     Javert was staring at him, too shocked to hide his bewilderment.

     “Now,” he continued, leaning back again, “you know as well as I that there are sometimes scoundrels in our ranks—gutless fools that are just clever enough to twist the law to fit their own agendas, cowardly thugs that hide behind their authority and use the power it grants them for the sport of it. You have never struck me as that type; nor do you do so now.”

     “You say you are conflicted over the law. You know not what to do. You wish to advocate inaction when the law calls for action. Most men here would simply do nothing and not speak of the matter—but you, Javert, you come to me, you bare yourself plain. You are honest and forthcoming; that is good. You do not wish to disobey—you would rather be dismissed than bring shame upon your fellows. You are humble; that is even better. You wish above all to be just—in the truest sense of the word—even if it means ill for you. That is best of all.”

     “No, I will not dismiss you. A man like you is invaluable to me. Mon Dieu! I would rather have fifty well-meaning men that occasionally question things working under me than a thousand unconscionable brutes that never gave any thought to their duties beyond following orders.”

     Javert’s eyes widened; his face grew hot. He looked away.

     “Now, about this matter which perturbs you. I suppose you cannot tell me the identity of the person in question. What of the nature of their crime?”

     Again, he was silent, his face conflicted.

     “Ah, no; you cannot tell me that either?”

     Forlorn, Javert shook his head.

     “Hm.” The man drummed his fingers on the desk and then rubbed his chin. He sighed in consternation, eyes drifting off.

     “If this person were a danger to the public, I do not doubt you would have already apprehended them. Am I right to assume you judge them harmless? Unlikely to pose a threat to those around them?”

     Javert drew in a breath. Letting it out in a restrained sigh, he gave a nod.

     “So the matter is not pressing?” Gisquet asked. “Were action to be taken, it need not be immediate?”

     Again, he nodded.

     “Then you may have time to deliberate on it, if you wish.”

     Javert thrust his face up to look at him incredulously.

     The man considered his expression. “It’s not as if it will disrupt your other casework, is it?”

     “No, but—Monsieur Gisquet, the point of this is that I cannot come to a satisfactory conclusion! Time will not aid me in doing so. In any case, it should not matter; I should not be permitted to decide such things for myself as though I were above the law. I am merely an agent of the police—a servant of justice, not justice itself!”

     The Prefect cocked his head at him. “Then is this to say that, left to your own devices, you would not strive for what is just?”

     “I …” He ran a hand through his hair, reeling at this introspection. “I do not know, any longer, what is just.” His voice fell, a hint of humiliation in his tone. “Without the law, I do not know myself.”

     Gisquet propped his chin up on the desk. “Let me pose a question, Javert. Suppose you had decided that inaction was the proper approach, despite it going against the law. Suppose you chose to do nothing. Would you still have brought this matter to me?”

     “Of course!” he replied, shocked that this would be doubted. “I’d have informed you right away, and then I’d ask to be dismissed, because I would have failed in my duties!”

     “Then,” the man said, leaning forward and fixing his gaze upon him, “Have you not already made your decision? Because, I’ve just described exactly what you came here to do.”

     Javert tensed, recoiling in horror. He opened his mouth to speak, but failed to produce a sound, and slowly closed it again as his eyes trailed to the floor, calculating his own actions.

     He shuddered in spite of himself.

     Could it be true? Had he already reached a conclusion? Already transgressed, overstepped his authority in the depths of his soul, unbeknownst to himself?

     Such rebellion! It could not be tolerated.

     “Dismiss me, then!” he cried, upstarting—a desperate, pleading tone in his voice that he’d never heard before.

     Gisquet sat motionless. “No,” he said, “I should think not.”

     Javert searched his face, dumbstruck, terrified.

     “You shall report for duty three days hence, at the usual hour,” the man said indifferently, busying himself with rearranging the items on his desk. “—when you’ve had time to collect yourself. That will be all, mon inspecteur.”

     Javert stood frozen before him. Trembling, he clutched his head, eyes darting this way and that beneath his knit brow.

     Then, in one swift, humiliated action—his face burning like a brand—he bowed to him and fled the room.

***

     After Javert had left his office, the Prefect parted the paperwork that lay strewn across his desk to reveal a neatly penned letter, dated “About one o’clock in the morning” of that day: June 7^th. He tilted his head contemplatively, brushing a thumb across the carefully written words. Then he folded the letter and filed it away in the corner drawer.

***

     Javert exited the Prefecture building in the manner of a man pursued, hiding his face from the fellow officers of the law that he passed on his way, his footfalls clumsy in their haste. His skin seared beneath his heavy coat, a sweat breaking out under his collar. He could feel his own pulse throbbing at his temples, beating through his bulging veins as his body sought to rid itself of the heat borne of indignation and embarrassment that muddled his mind.

     With a heave he threw open the great wooden doors and hurried down the narrow corridor into the street.

     He’d thought the rush of air as he reached the outside would provide him some relief, but he found that though he’d escaped the building and the questioning eyes of his superiors, he was no more calm or collected than before—perhaps even less so. The urge to run still coursed through him, propelling him onwards, as if he could somehow outspeed his own shame.

     He found himself between the Pont Neuf and the Pont Saint-Michel, stopping at the parapet that divided the Quai des Orfèvres from the Seine. He gripped its edge fiercely, head hanging, as he panted and stared into the murky water far below. The river’s roiling current seemed, to him, less turbulent than the inner workings of his mind at present.

     He felt as though he were being burned alive, a tempest raging in his skull. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and fell from his chin.

     No singular thoughts could bubble up from the maelstrom that was his mind; vague notions and terrors swirled endlessly inside of him, overlapping and entangling, too many emotions that he had seldom felt before churning and crashing in his head, driving him mad.

     He felt trapped, cornered, tangled and ensnared; he yearned desperately for escape, but even that seemed hazardous now, perilous and nearly impossible.

     No, of course he could not throw himself off the quay at this hour of day.

     That would be ridiculous.

     Firstly, it was broad daylight—there were pedestrians, and it would cause a horrible scene. Secondly, someone might jump in after him, and that was no good; the waters here were far too treacherous to traverse, even if one was young and strong, and healthy—that Valjean had managed to pull him out unscathed was pure luck. Thirdly, and most prominent in his mind, ending one’s life was not something one did in the presence of others. Such things were the domain of the night, when all was silence and solitude, and one’s thoughts had their way with them. It would not do to dwell on the consideration of such a thing—not here, not now.

     Not after last night.

     None of these thoughts occurred to him consciously; rather, shadows of them danced at the back of his mind, skirting his awareness but barely. He had not come here to do that—this was all he knew, even as his own body seemed to revolt against him and pine for the abyss, if merely to escape dishonor.

     As to why he remained staring down at the water below, he had the inclination that it was because the twisting currents—tumbling in conflict and swallowing each other whole—matched what he was experiencing inside himself at that very moment.

     His breath was ragged as he gazed down at it, his long dark hair, having been deprived of its usual tie, hung past his face, obscuring his features from prying eyes.

     It had been mere hours—half a day at most—since he had nearly drowned, and he felt almost as though he were back in that moment again, back in that horrible state of his soul, writhing in internal agonies. Only, everything seemed so much different in the sunlight.

     Before, with the skies overcast so that the whole of the world was swathed in shadows black as pitch, and with the dim red light of the street lamps like echoes of hellfire, it had truly seemed he’d stood upon the precipice of fate—of divine judgment, of eternal consequence.

     But now there were bright colors, and blue skies. The sun was unobscured, and birds were sitting atop the gutters and downspouts, twittering pleasantly.

     What a difference a day makes! A little starlight and the world was born anew.

     No, it was impossible to think of self-destruction in a place like this, surrounded by such things. It made him ache for the shadows and the sanctuary of the night.

     His gut was wrenching, knotting itself up in a million different ways, and he felt as though someone had lit a brazier of coals within his stomach. His face burned.

     The waters sucked him in.

     Then a sensation of movement broke him from his thoughts, grounding him once more on the quay: he felt someone take hold of the back of his greatcoat, gripping the heavy wool half-capes like a vice.

     Javert did not start—the action had been gradual enough for it not to alarm him.

     He did not need to turn around, did not need to verify who it was that stood behind him; he knew exactly to whom that hand belonged.

     His lips split into a bitter grin. A low, dark chuckle rose from his throat, reverberating in his chest like that of a demon’s. It was the laugh of a man on whom the universe has played a cruel joke, and cannot help but be amused at his own plight even though he does not find it very funny.

     “Bien sûr,” he said to himself. Of course.

     “You did not go to the station house,” said Valjean.

     Javert let out another self-deprecating chuckle.

     “I fail to find the humor in this. What are you doing back here?”

     “You think I’m going to jump, do you?”

     “I’d be happy to have my suspicions proven wrong.”

     “Well, then,” he said sardonically, “be you happy.”

     “I would be, if you would but step away from the edge.”

     Javert stood gazing out at the river contemplatively, as though he were but a tourist passing through the area. “Perhaps I enjoy the view.”

     “Perhaps I should club you over the head and drag you away from here. That would make a fine spectacle for passersby.”

     “Yes,” he chuckled, “I’d like to see you assault a police agent in front of the Prefecture building.”

     Valjean’s voice was humorless, rough. “Make any move towards that water and I will not hesitate to.”

     A small, sour smirk played on his thin lips. “Mm. I don’t doubt it.”

     “Then spare us both the trouble and turn around.”

     Javert remained motionless.

     “Do you know,” he said after a moment, his tone oddly casual, “what I came here to do today? Not to the Seine, I mean—to the Isle.”

     Valjean made no reply, but Javert thought he could feel the man’s grip on the back of his coat falter for a split second.

     He risked a glance back at him with one icy blue eye.

     After a quick inspection of his features, Javert realized what the man could have interpreted his words to mean.

     How was it that Valjean could believe he’d just incited a warrant for his arrest, and yet still cling to him thusly, holding him back from the water’s edge as though it were his own life he were protecting? In fact, the man’s grip on him was only tightening—as if to say ‘even damnation shall not dissuade me from stopping you’.

     This display of foolish, unflinching devotion softened him some. He turned his eyes back towards the river, unable to look upon the man’s expression any longer.

     “No,” he said, his tone dropping, “It was not for that.”

     It took Valjean a moment to respond. “What, then?”

     “I came to ask that I be dismissed from the police.”

     He could feel the man give a start.

     “What? Why would you—?”

     “I thought it my only recourse from this dilemma,” Javert said, “besides that other way. But,” he laughed humorlessly, “do you know what the Prefect’s response was? That I was ‘too valuable’ to him, and he could not let me go. Apparently, he shares the view of a certain mayor I met some years back, and insists I am too hard on myself.”

     He turned to face Valjean, something between a smirk and a scowl on his face.

     “Isn’t that hilarious?”

     The man let go of his coat and took a step back. “Mon Dieu,” he exclaimed, “you look terrible! What’s happened to you?”

     “What’s happened to me?” Javert chuckled incredulously. “You mean, besides half drowning last night? Besides losing my purpose in life and my sense of right and wrong? Besides owing my life to a convict and having my worldview turned upside down? Being dragged out of the river and forced to take supper with the very person responsible for my distress? Having my dignity rent to piecemeal before my very eyes? Besides all that?”

     He had not become aware of his voice rising until it was already almost a shout.

     “What is it you’re asking, Valjean? Which one of the hundreds of things you’ve stolen from me are you wishing to comment on?”

     Valjean had gone ashen, the color draining from his face. “You’re not well,” he said, half to himself.

     “Not well?” Javert repeated with another chuckle, “Not well, you say? Oh, but look at me!” He threw his arms out. “I am the picture of health, the shining example of authority! Why, do you not recall the words of Monsieur le Préfet? I am invaluable to him, the best at my job; he would rather have one very confused inspector who’s lost his grip on reality and the will to live than a thousand unconscionable brutes that actually know how to do their damn jobs! Apparently, the whole of the city wants to save me, when I am not worth saving! When I do not want to be saved! When I don’t know how to go on any longer!”

     Livid, he all but throttled him. “Of course I’m not well!”

     Valjean stared up at him in shock.

     “That is it!” he cried, upstarting, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him away, “We are going to my house, we two, and we are going to have a very long discussion! You will not resist me in this; you are ill in more ways than one and ought to be seen by a doctor!”

     “I don’t need your damn pity!” he raged, struggling to free himself. “I don’t need a doctor! I don’t need anything from anyone, and especially not from you!”

     “What you need is a dose of poppy-milk and a long bed-rest!”

     “I need nothing; unhand me!”

     “Stop this; you’re out of your mind!”

     “You will release me, Valjea—”

     “I meant it!” the man roared, gripping his collar with both hands and shoving his face in Javert’s so that he had no choice but to fall prey to his blazing brown eyes, “I meant what I said about using force, Javert! You’re not well! And if I have to bludgeon you over the head before you submit to being helped, then so be it! Otherwise, you’ll come with me quietly and you will stop fighting! Unless you’ve a penchant for getting your skull bashed in! Do I make myself clear?”

     Javert froze, his muscles going rigid.

     With how gentle his demeanor usually was, it was easy to forget that, despite being quite shorter and older than him, Valjean was much, much stronger—and could, with the right motivation, be capable of violent and tremendous things if he so wished.

     “Do I make. Myself. Clear?”

     Slowly, his expression neutralizing and falling into shadow, Javert bowed his head.

     Valjean held him there a moment more, studying his face. “Good.”

     He released him from his grip—which had been like an eagle’s or a lion’s—but retained a firm hold on his wrist.

     They began walking; rather, Valjean began leading him away from the quay, and Javert trailed after him like an unhappy ghost, resigned to its fate.

     He remembered, in a moment of lucidity and random recall, that he had been given three days leave. So this affair with Valjean would not affect his work. Not that he wanted anything to do with the man right now, not that he even wanted to return to his duties—but at least it would not inconvenience the prefecture. And, to tell the truth, he didn’t have any idea as to what he was supposed to be doing right now.

     “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled to himself, hair falling in front of his face.

     “What was that?” Valjean asked, glancing back at him.

     “Nothing,” he breathed, head down.

     Nothing matters, anymore.

     Halfway to the house he fainted.

***

Chapter Text

“Sometimes we lay aside our own troubles when we wipe away another's tears.”

-Seneca

***

     The passing of time ceased to be coherent for Javert.

     Things came in vague flashes to him: images, sounds, and a host of irksome and confusing sensations. He understood that he had been dragged to Valjean’s house, but not much beyond that.

     Strange, though—why had the man brought him to a flat earlier, if he had his own house? Why did he even have a flat? Why had his girl and his servant been there, and not here?

     It didn’t matter. He was too beset with feverish afflictions to care, anyway.

     But Valjean, and—there was another man with him, now—a doctor?—they were bothering him. He hated their presence, worrying and simpering over him like he was some kind of pathetic child. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? He hadn’t asked for this.

     He struggled in vain against them at first, nearly losing his balance at times, with the room swirling about him as if he’d somehow become the unfortunate centerpiece of some hellish carousel. He gave up after he’d stumbled back and hit his head against the wall, his vision swallowed up by an encroaching tunnel of blackness.

     Obnoxiously, he still retained some sense of what was going on around him, and he could hear Valjean and the doctor sharing worried exchanges in the hallway, though their voices seemed to swell and recede like the tide.

     “—be trying to give him water? I’m afraid he’ll choke.”

     “—the time being. If you can just keep him cool …”

     “—have been the water in his lungs—”

     “—the windows open.”

     He tried to blot out the noise and the incessant pounding in his temples, to no avail. Was that his own blood he was hearing pumping through his veins? Surely it could never be this loud.

     Twisting and turning in bed, he tangled himself up in the sheets.

     Damn this insufferable heat! It was driving him out of his mind.

     Eventually, for all his torment and rage, he had to give in to exhaustion and lay back against the pillows, despite his restlessness.

     Helpless, he found himself losing control of his own body, his own senses. His thoughts became nothing more than muddled urges and feelings of unpleasantness and despair.

     The doctor must have left, at some point, because he no longer heard him, but he'd had as little awareness of his departure as he had of his arrival.

     The only thing left was the voice of Valjean—murmuring softly beside him in what must have been words of reassurance—and his occasional touch—on his shoulder, his hand.

     Things seemed darker; he was no longer certain what hour it was, or how long he had been here, or why he should even care.

     Still, this … Undignified, demeaned, locked up and put to bed in the house of a convict—his situation revolted him.

     If only Valjean would go away, if only he’d leave him be.

     But he couldn’t even rail against him. Not now, anyway. He could barely make sense of what was happening around him.

     He knew only burning and throbbing and hopelessness, languishing in his misery.

     By the time his consciousness finally spiraled away into the abyss, he greeted it with open arms.

***

     The richly colored light of the setting sun filtered through the curtains, casting soft and elongated shadows onto the plain wooden boards of the floor and walls.

     Valjean sat in his wicker chair in what was normally Toussaint’s bedroom on the upper story of their little house on Rue Plumet, his pen scratching quietly away upon a piece of paper which he had arranged on a book upon his lap.

     He paused in thought for a moment, turning to look to his right where Javert still lay unconscious in bed, a wet cloth draped over his brow.

     The color of his face had dulled, leaving sickly blotches of red on the tip of his nose and around his sunken eyes. Sweat glistened on his skin, a visible sign of both his temperature and his distress, and once in a while he would thrash weakly about on the sheets with a string of incoherent grunts.

     Sighing, Valjean returned to his letter.

     “My dear Cosette,” it read, “You must forgive me. I know this morning I was harsh with you, and unjustly so. It was true, of course, that I was only making an excuse for you to leave the flat so that I could talk to that man in private; it simply had to be done.

     And I know this is inconvenient, what with my earlier absence—which I truly apologize for—but the inspector has taken ill and hath not, it would seem, anyone else to care for him. He was not well when he came to the flat—you may ask Toussaint about it; we arrived at an odd hour and in poor condition. He was railing against me and I granted him a little liberty for it, but it seems even that was a mistake. Now he’s fallen victim to a bad fever and Lord knows what else, and he is quite out of his mind at the moment.

     I do not know when I shall be able to return home, but it will probably be in no more than a few days at most. Do not worry; everything is fine. I did think we were in some trouble earlier—and that is why I had us switch houses—but I think it has passed.

     My dear, may you be happy to hear this—we do not have to move to England.

     Oh, and please apologize to Toussaint for me. I shan’t be home for dinner; she does not have to prepare anything special—that is, of course, unless you wish her to.

     I shall be at Rue Plumet if you should have need of me—but, I think, it may be better to wait on that account, if it can be helped.

     All my love.

     Post Script: I know about Marius. You do not need to keep secrets from me. It’s all right.

     Post Post Script: About the boy—I did not mean to pry. Your blotter was open.”

     He gave the note a thorough rereading, and, nodding his head to himself, folded and sealed it up, scrawling the address for his flat at l’Homme Armé on its front and going outside to seek a gamin or two that might not mind playing courier for a couple of sous.

***

     It was late into the night when Javert awoke.

     Moonlight streamed into the room from behind the silk curtains on the window to his right—not much, but enough to give some illumination to his surroundings, washing everything in a hushed and rich blue.

     He blinked, his head still throbbing—though it was not as badly as before—perspiration on his brow along with a damp, folded cloth that had probably been a lot cooler awhile ago.

     Groggy, he found that someone had stripped his shirt off, and he lay beneath a thin sheet which provided little feeling of security.

     Normally this would have been cause for offense and alarm, but the fever was still upon him, and he was yet unpleasantly warm beneath the meager covers, so he did not mind it as much as he wanted to.

     There was a gentle, stray breeze drifting in from the partially opened window, and that helped a great deal.

     He could also see the stars from between the curtains. That didn’t hurt either.

     He gazed out at them for awhile before turning his head to the left.

     There, just next to him, his head buried in his arms on the bedside, sat Valjean, fast asleep. His face was turned away from him, so all Javert could see was a mop of curly white hair, but his posture was so slouched that he knew the man must have fallen prey to exhaustion quite some time ago.

     He should have been surprised to find him there, really, but he found that he was not.

     To his side sat a water basin on a low table, an empty teacup, some small glass bottles, and a little silver teaspoon. On the night stand was a brass candlestick whose contents had melted into a useless cascade of wax drippings.

     Sighing, Javert settled back into the pillow and closed his eyes. He swallowed; his throat was dry—but he certainly wasn’t going to quench it right now. If he tried to get up, it would wake Valjean, who would no doubt begin that “long discussion” he’d promised earlier—and Javert was in no mood to argue at present.

     He didn’t even know what he was doing here, other than that he hadn’t really anywhere else to be for the time being.

     He wondered vaguely where his hat had gone. He couldn’t quite recall. It had probably been stolen by some vagabond by now.

     He let out a frustrated sigh.

     After a moment he opened his eyes and looked back at Valjean.

     Because he had nothing else to do, he watched the man’s chest rise and fall with the steady breaths of slumber.

     It was oddly soothing.

     What he felt as he looked at him wasn’t entirely clear, even unto himself—but one thing was for certain, and this is: it was not hatred. Nor was it contempt.

     No, he knew not what the sight inspired in him—if it was indeed anything at all—because he had no basis for comparison for it. He had never felt remotely like this before.

     Eventually he shifted in bed and turned once more to face the stars, and after awhile he fell back asleep.

***

     When Javert woke the next morning—or was it evening?—he had no idea how long he’d slept—he felt a little better.

     Or, at least he’d thought he did, until he rolled out of bed and tried to stand.

     Footsteps hurried up the stairs at the sound of his fall and the clattering of the candlestick he’d sent flying off the table in his last-second groping.

     Valjean appeared in the doorway, catching his breath, his eyes alight.

     “Javert!” He heard him say as he tried to pick himself up. “Ah, you're awake.”

     Ugh, he thought in disgust; he could hear the relief in his voice.

     To his annoyance, within the second a strong arm wrapped itself around his back, underneath his shoulder, and supported him as he rose to his feet.

     “Are you all right?” Valjean asked, eyeing him with concern as he sat him back upon the mattress.

     Javert only gave an irritated groan as he rubbed his face.

     “Did you hurt yourself?”

     “No,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’m fine; I just need a moment. My balance is—”

     “You need to lie down,” Valjean interrupted him, pushing him back as he tried once more to stand. “You’re not well. And you haven’t had anything to eat in a long time. Are you hungry?”

     “I …”

     He wanted to tell him no, that he didn’t want any food, especially not when it came from his hands, but the truth was his stomach felt like a hollow, aching pit, and his throat was bone dry.

     “Regrettably,” he finally admitted between clenched teeth.

     Valjean’s countenance brightened at that. “Good. I’ll get you something right away; just stay there.” He paused at the door and pointed a finger back at him. “And don’t try to get up in my absence.”

     “Mm,” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

     “About half past four, I’d imagine,” his voice came from the hallway, already on his way down the stairs. “Don’t fool yourself; I’m not letting you go anywhere today, even if you have some place to be.”

     The man sounded almost cheerful in his promise of captivity.

     Javert growled in response, even though Valjean couldn’t possibly hear him. He begrudgingly settled back into bed.

     Had he actually been planning on making his escape? While he wanted to, he doubted it was even possible. He still felt like he was spinning, reeling, tossed about by unseen waves. And to his dismay the fever he'd thought he might've been rid of was making its presence known again, as though it were laughing at his attempts at independence.

     And he did not, actually, have anywhere to be anymore. At least, not today.

     Everything was already terrible; it couldn’t make things much worse if he allowed himself to rest here for awhile. Right? No, everything was inexorably dreadful. This was just the icing on the cake. What was a little more salt in his wounds? He’d almost stopped caring by now.

     He didn’t even complain when Valjean returned to the room with a tray-full of sweet buns and tea, shoving a cup into his hands.

     “This is the best I could do on short notice;” he said, “my servant isn’t around at the moment. I’ll try to get out and buy something more—meat and vegetables, to make some soup perhaps.” He busied himself with slicing the buns in half and spreading butter and jam on them. “That would be good, I think. Something heavy and rich, to give you back your strength. You haven’t eaten in at least a day—maybe a day and a half—and that can’t possibly be doing you any favors. Here,” he said, handing him the little plate, “eat.”

     Keeping his eyes off of him, Javert did as he was bade. He found after a few bites that he really was quite hungry, but kept from wolfing down the food in front of him, because then it would prove Valjean right, and he grateful—which he was not. For the most part.

     At least Valjean was eating alongside him. Any amount of distraction was a godsend. And he didn’t think he’d be able to eat with the man breathing down his neck and watching his every move. He already found himself unable to stand his gaze for any longer than a moment or two.

     He gulped down the tea in one go and reached for another slice of bread, trying to ignore the way Valjean was hiding a smile from him as he refilled his cup. No doubt the man was pleased with the return of his appetite, but Valjean’s concern over his wellbeing frankly bothered him.

     As if the man could read his thoughts and sought to further embitter him, he reached out all of a sudden and placed the flat of his wrist on his temple, checking his temperature.

     Javert nearly choked, caught in mid-swallow. He bore the man’s touch with restrained repulsion.

     “Hm,” Valjean said with a frown, drawing away, “You’re still overly warm, but … that you are eating—that is progress.”

     Javert only growled at him again, as if that could ward off his sympathy. He knew it wouldn’t, but he wasn’t about to give up the fight and submit to his aid like he thought of himself as some poor, weak old invalid. No, he was a beast—a powerful thing to be feared and respected—and he would make sure Valjean remembered that.

     But even as he said these things to himself, he began to feel strangely sleepy—dizzy and numb. There was a buzzing in his brain, and his eyelids felt heavy.

     “I feel … My head is—” His face contorted, brow furrowing.

     It was almost as though he were drunk—or at least, he felt similar to what he could remember drunkenness feeling like, from the few times it had ever actually occurred.

     He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his thoughts. He was unsuccessful. With every second he felt himself slipping more and more into a haze.

     It was almost as if …

     He remembered, suddenly, the sight of those little glass bottles on the nightstand.

     He narrowed his eyes.

     “You put something in my drink, didn’t you?”

     “Opium,”  Valjean said flagrantly, shrugging his shoulders as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “The doctor recommended it. You had some before, too, but I doubt you’d remember that, what with the way you were.”

     “No,” Javert groaned, grimacing and shifting his head on the pillow. “I don’t want … This is wrong. I don’t—”

     “A dose this small is harmless,” Valjean said, touching his arm in a gesture of reassurance. “It only calms the nerves.”

     “You drugged me,” he accused, jerking his arm away.

     “You needed to be drugged,” Valjean countered. “Lord, do you even recall anything from earlier? You nearly threw the poor doctor out the window!”

     “He probably deserved it.”

     “He most certainly did not. Now quit your complaining; the drug has done you good.”

     Javert gave a noise like something between a growl and a grunt. “It muddies my mind,” he complained. “I don’t like them, these things. They make you foolish and lethargic.”

     “Then go back to sleep,” Valjean offered.

     “I’m not tired.”

     “Well,” he sighed, “we can either talk, or I can leave you alone to sleep. Which one would you pref—”

     “Sleep!” Javert exclaimed hastily.

     Valjean chuckled at that, damn him. “I thought as much,” he said, gathering up the empty plates.

     He turned back in the doorway with a surprisingly earnest expression. “Really, though, do try to get some rest. I’d like to see you well.”

     Javert didn’t know what else to do, so he just hissed at him as he left.

***

Chapter Text

“We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”

-Martin Luther King Jr.

***

     The moon was high and round in the sky—unhindered now by clouds—and filled the little city with a dreamlike quality of light, turning its browns and greys into various shades of blue. The sky was speckled by thousands of white pinpricks, the lamplight of the streets too dim to eclipse the Milky Way, in all its glory, hanging far above like some great forgotten spill of cream.

     No candles or firelight lit the room on the second story of #55, Rue Plumet; rather, the hearths were empty and the windows had been left open to encourage a breeze. Moonlight poured into the interior instead.

     It was probably on account of the opium, but Javert had slept late.

     Valjean was glad for this.

     True, he hadn’t gotten the man to converse with him—not on the things that really mattered, the things that needed to be discussed—but at least his health seemed to be improving, if only a little.

     Valjean watched him as he slept; he lay still, his slumber more peaceful than it had been the day before. Perhaps his fever was subsiding. That would be good, yes.

     He needed him lucid. He needed to speak with him.

     The man’s outer appearance was hard and stoic, yes, but Valjean no longer trusted that to be an accurate indicator of his mental state. After all, it had come as a shock to him when Javert had jumped off the quay—his actions immediately beforehand had betrayed little of what was going on in his mind. There seemed to be a disconnect between body and soul.

     Or perhaps …

     Could it be, Valjean wondered, that he was simply bad at reading this man? He had never known him well—he still felt he knew little of him, although certainly more than before—and maybe there were signs in the man’s countenance that he had missed, because he’d never become familiarized enough to notice them. Yes, that seemed likely.

     He did not know Javert. This was slowly and painfully becoming clear to him.

     Valjean had never asked himself what the man might be like personally—if there was anything more to him than that cold exterior—and he was beginning to worry that no one ever had.

     Javert had made the decision to end his life almost immediately, it had seemed—as though there was little to consider in the matter, as though he didn’t expect his death to affect anyone.

     Could this be true?

     Was there, in fact, no one to be affected by his death?

     Valjean felt a chill pass through him at the thought.

     To lead such a lonely life …

     He had trouble believing such a thing could possibly be true, but something told him—a dreadful sensation deep down in his gut, as he watched the man sleep—that it was.

     He exhaled slowly, sinking further in his chair, hunched over, with his arms dangling between his legs.

     Presently he heard a grunt, and the shifting of bed sheets.

     He looked over to find Javert rubbing his face and trying to sit up a little.

     The man glanced over at him in turn, his gaze lingering on him for a moment before he crossed his arms and thrust his face in the opposite direction.

     “Do you often spy on people as they sleep?” he muttered, clutching his head and massaging his temples. “You voyeur.”

     Valjean made no argument to defend himself. He only sighed and turned away.

     “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get any rest with you eyeing me like a hawk.”

     Still, he was quiet.

     “Javert,” he finally said. His tone was low, and solemn, commanding attention without demanding it, stealing the protest from the other man’s lips until they both sat in the darkness, silent, serious.

     He gazed off into the room, unfocused. His voice was even, hushed.

     “Have you been alone, all this time?”

     There was a pause.

     “What do you mean?” Javert replied slowly.

     “Friends, family,” he continued, his eyes still distant, “someone you were intimate with. Was there no one?”

     “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

     Valjean was quiet for a moment. “It is true then,” he said to himself.

     “What is true?”

     He did not answer him.

     “What are you talking about? What is true?”

     “That you are alone in this world,” he breathed. He let those words hang in the air before speaking again. “Do you even know it? Has it ever occurred to you?” There was a lament in his voice. “Do you even know what it feels like, to be loved?”

     Javert was silent.

     Valjean sat, staring off into the darkness. He hung his head in his hand.

     The whisper barely made it past his lips. “You poor wretch.”

     “I am not a wretch,” he growled. “Don’t call me that.”

     Valjean whipped his head back to look at him. “How can you—? You don’t even know,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t … have any idea what I’m saying, do you?”

     “I really don’t.”

     “It is no wonder, then,” he thought aloud, stroking his chin. “All these years, I had thought— I had not realized, that you were …” His eyes flicked about, seeing something more than his surroundings. “It is no wonder, then, that you …”

     “You’re rambling to yourself.”

     Valjean sat in consternation, picking at his lip. He sat and stared out at nothing. He shook his head, looked away.

     “Nevermore,” he mumbled. “Something must be done.”

     He let out a long, drawn out sigh. “And I had thought I was alone. Mon Dieu, at least I saw people’s hearts. At least I had a few who would help me in my time of need, who showed me kindness. At least—at the very least—there were people who saw me as a man.”

     Javert turned towards him. “Are you saying I am not human?”

     “No!” Valjean countered, facing him once more and throwing up his palm. “I am saying— I am saying you have never …” His brow knit. “—been treated like one.”

     “I don’t want to be human;” he said gruffly, crossing his arms, “I want to be respectable.”

     Valjean threw his hands out, exasperated. “That’s not what I—!” He stopped himself, settling back into his chair. “No; I suppose you can’t even understand what I mean, can you?”

     “What do you mean?”

     He shook his head in defeat. “Never mind.”

     “You know, Javert” he said after a moment, a little more composed, “It occurs to me that while I had those I might call friends—or, at least, good-natured people I was acquainted with—they were all ignorant of my past. Of my true self. There was never any intimacy between us. So, it remains that … Javert, I think—after all these years, you are the only person who has ever truly known me.”

     The man gave a scoff. “Isn’t that ironic.”

     “It is. Because, well, you have never really known me at all.”

     The man paused. “I think I’m beginning to.”

     Valjean looked up at him. “Are you?” he wondered aloud.

     Javert said nothing more on the matter.

     Finally he spoke again. “Why did you try to get yourself dismissed from the police?”

     “You really can’t think of a reason?”

     The man sighed. He was quiet for a moment. “Because of me?”

     Javert gave another scoff. “Do I truly look, in this state, like I am capable of upholding anything at the moment? Besides,” he said frankly, “I have broken my oaths.”

     “What, by not arresting me?”

     There was assent in the man’s silence.

     “I do not think you should be discharged over that.”

     “Of course you wouldn’t,” he laughed.

     “That is not what I meant.”

     “I don’t care what you meant.”

     Valjean frowned. “Really, though. You are the best at your job. You have a frighteningly keen intuition. I’ve never seen a man with as much conviction as you.”

     “I have had enough undue compliments in the last few days, thank you.”

     Valjean rolled his eyes in the dark.

     He thrust his gaze in the opposite direction, shifting his weight and crossing his arms.

     “But honestly, am I—? Was I the only thing that brought you to this?”

     “You and what you did to me,” he finally replied.

     “And what have I done to you?”

     “You have …” The man fought for words. “—complicated things.”

     Valjean looked at him in confusion. “By saving you?”

     “By proving me wrong.”

     “About the kind of person I was?”

     “About … everything.”

     He was quiet for a minute. “Perhaps, if your view does not account for kindness—for the possibility of change, or of basic humanity, then it deserves to be proven wrong.”

     There was a resignation in the man’s voice that Valjean had never heard before. “Perhaps.”

     They sat in silence.

     “I wanted to thank you,” Valjean said quietly.

     “For what?”

     “For letting me go. For keeping my past unspoken. For showing mercy.” He turned to gaze at the floor. “It was not something I expected. I wanted to thank you for that.”

     “Don’t. I’ve had enough of your pity already; I think gratitude would kill me. Besides, I did not intend to. It only happened.”

     Valjean gave a half-humorous scoff. “I see.” His face fell. “But thank you.”

     “Don’t mention it.”

     There was a pause.

     “I mean that literally. Don’t mention it. Ever.”

     He tried and failed to suppress his chuckles.

     “It’s not funny.”

     “All right.”

     Javert let out a whuff of air, settling back into the pillows and closing his eyes in a huff.

     “Don’t think I don’t resent you for this. I’d rather you left me alone to die.”

     “Nonsense;” he said, “you will not die of this.”

     “That is not what I meant.”

     After a moment Valjean gave a deep, morose sigh. “Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you from this line of thinking?”

     “No.”

     “Why?” he asked, no hint of contempt or frustration in his voice—only weariness. “Why is that?”

     “You have taken my raison d'être.”

     Valjean’s brow knit. “I do not understand. How is it I have done such a thing?”

     “You—” The man’s face contorted as though pained. “I cannot— You have rewritten everything I thought I knew of this world! I know nothing now; I doubt myself, I doubt my actions, I doubt the very system I have lived by! How can one go on thusly? I cannot function in this world—your world, where convicts may become saints, where men like you are permitted to exist!”

     Valjean was struck by this. He sat back in his chair, features furrowed in consternation. “Men … like me?”

     “Men who become something other than what they are.” Javert’s voice dipped to a hush, to breath. “The heart is an immotile thing. People whose souls are filled with blackness—they are incapable of change. That which is rotten at its core cannot bloom.” A tremor ran through him. “Someone like you … should not be possible.”

     “You don’t believe in reform?”

     “I believe in obedience. I do not trust in reform.”

     “Never?”

     “Never.”

     Valjean lowered his eyes. “I see.”

     The idea caused something of a horror in him. To not believe in the possibility of redemption! No matter how long sought, how much sacrificed in its name! That seemed a terrible world to live in. To truly believe that one misstep could damn a man’s soul for eternity … Where was the hope? Where was the point?  

     Considering his past experiences with the man, he could not say he was surprised Javert thought this way. Still, to hear him say this, even now, after everything—Valjean could not help but feel worthless, debased. Could not help but have all his insecurities well up in him, to wear again that burning shame.

     And yet, had Javert not set him apart? Had he not made distinction of him? Had he not let him go, when he should have arrested him?

     “What am I, to you, then?” he wondered aloud.

     Javert stared out into the darkness, a woeful look on his face. “Upsetting,” he said.

     Valjean frowned. He propped his chin up on the arm of his chair, thinking. “But why does the possibility of reform trouble you so?”

     The man’s expression quivered, teeth clenched under furrowed brow. “Because then I—!” He cut himself off so quickly that it seemed a deliberate denial of thought. And, Valjean noticed, there was something truly fearful in his eyes.

     For a long time they said nothing, silence descending on them like a shroud.

     Finally Valjean spoke. “So, this is your true conflict, then … You find the world is not as you imagined it to be, and you question the way in which you have lived. To go on in this world, you must become another man, you must reexamine the tenets by which you operate within it—and that terrifies you.”

     His voice was low. “But would you truly throw such an opportunity away? Would you so easily end your life, and thereby extinguish your ability to do good, rendering that revelation meaningless? You see the misery of others, the suffering that exists upon this earth, and you would rather quit it than bear the burden of a conscience?”

     He was quiet for a moment.

     “Truly, Javert, tell me truly—after learning the sorry state of this earth, after becoming one of the few who can see it for what it is, would you so soon deprive it of one who actually possesses the power to change it for the better? Would you do that, Javert; would you steal a good man from this world that needs them most?”

     Javert’s eyes had widened, wreathed by shadows and sickliness, his expression tormented.

     “Can you really be so much of a coward that you see this world—its injustice and its tragedy—and say ‘It is no use’, and resign from it? And damn yourself even so? Can you really be that afraid? Fear—that is not like you; that is not the man I know. I have watched you face insurmountable odds, face your own doom, without so much as flinching.”

     “Is it really this—the dawning of enlightenment, the gravity of newfound reason—that compels you to give up, to set down your arms and cry ‘All is over’? Is it not within you—do you not possess the strength—to adapt to these things, to live in this new world accordingly, whereby you might do it some good?”

     “I don’t know how!” he breathed, and there were tears in his eyes, humility on his lips, and anguish on his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing in the agony of the soul. “I don’t know how.”

     Then there were tears also in Valjean, and he saw within him that same man, fresh from the galleys and divine deliverance, weeping at the sight of what he’d become, and struggling to find a way to remake himself, floundering and doubting in a world he no longer could bear.

     “Javert,” he implored, leaning over, “Do you trust me?”

     The man was so overcome with inner turmoil that he barely managed a nod of assent, begrudging and conflicted as it was.

     Valjean touched his arm. “Then let me guide you.”

     Javert clenched his teeth, his shoulder instinctively shrinking from his touch.

     “I do not mean to say a police agent should let a convict do his thinking,” Valjean explained. “That would be inappropriate. But if you find yourself in want of someone to discuss matters of morality with, I would be more than happy to indulge you. If you find yourself faltering, if you find these dark thoughts overwhelming you, please, for the love of all that is holy, do not hesitate to come to me. If you need a crutch in this trying time, I will be that crutch—if you will only permit it.”

     His voice was no more than a breath as he clasped the man’s hand in his. “Do you?”

     The man trembled, turning his face away.

     “Please permit it.”

     Javert only hung his head.

     Valjean studied him sadly before bowing his head as well.

     “I will be here for you. Know that. If nothing else … please,” he breathed, “know that.”

     The movement was so imperceptibly small that it was hard for him to tell if he was imagining things, but Valjean thought he saw Javert give a nod.

***

Chapter Text

“Everything in life that we really accept undergoes a change. So suffering must become love. That is the mystery.”

-Katherine Mansfield

***

     After that night’s tenuous exchange, neither man was overly eager to reopen conversation.

     Javert was distant, Valjean solemn. Both remained silent, reluctant to make or hold eye contact for any period of time.

     Valjean had let him alone to sleep, after their discussion, and they had each slept for an excessive amount of time—Valjean because he had gotten little rest prior, and Javert because he was not yet well, his body growing weary after even the smallest expenditures of energy.

     In the morning—almost evening, as it was—Valjean rose and brought him a simple meal, something between a breakfast and a lunch. A brief attempt at pleasantries was made, on the side of functional necessity: he inquired after his health and whether he needed anything further; he talked of his venture to purchase some richer foodstuffs.

     Then, finding him in no mood to discuss anything further, Valjean reassured Javert he would be close by in another room, if he should require something, and left him to his rest.

     Surely Valjean understood the awkwardness of the situation they found themselves in almost as well as he, Javert thought—for the man was giving him some leash, by lack of supervision. He was giving him his space, and in so doing sparing himself the trouble of dealing with his admittedly unpleasant—and at times disparaging—attitude. Yes, now that Javert was doing a little better, the man was making a slow retreat from him. He must feel some amount of embarrassment about this—about what they’d said last night. That was why he was letting him alone, now.

     Or, Javert wondered, could he be doing this out of trust?

     And, if so, was he worthy of that?

     Why was Valjean silent now, drifting back into the shadows? Was it out of fear that he would worsen the situation that he held his tongue?

     Had Javert finally succeeded in driving the man away?

     It didn’t matter, Javert told himself. It shouldn’t matter. He ought to be glad for some relief from the man’s incessant fretting, worrying over him like he was some babe.

     He tried to go back to sleep, because he knew not what else to do, but found himself staring off at nothing instead, unable to fall back into the peaceful emptiness of slumber.

     Besides the restlessness of already having slept a great deal not so long ago, there was something more which irritated him. It was difficult to pin down exactly which thing was causing this unease, but he eventually narrowed it to a sort of personal dissatisfaction at his current state.

     Maybe he was not exactly brimming with the violent resolve of before, but he needed to be doing … something.

     His thoughts were not entirely coherent, despite his own attempts at making them so. All he could understand was that he needed to regain control, needed to free himself from this wretched state of dependency and internal conflict which had no resolution in sight.

     But how to do that?

     He considered how it was he might achieve these things as he gazed out the window—at the walls, the ceiling—ruminating in a quiet gloom.

     Hours went by in this fashion, and it was only the presence of another human being which broke him from his reverie, prompting him to spout quite suddenly an utterance in which was encompassed the whole of his reflections:

     “Do you have a straight razor?”

     Valjean, who had been bringing up some fresh linens, turned to look at him with a start. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the request and its implications that gave him pause, or perhaps it was because this was the first time Javert had addressed him with such an informal air and begun correspondence of his own accord.

     The inspector ran a hand over his scruffy face with a look of displeasure. “I feel disgusting, like this.”

     Valjean considered him for a moment, his eyes falling as he finally nodded.

     When he came back, bearing a shaving kit and a dry cloth, Javert reached out for them—but Valjean hesitated.

     “Let me do it,” he said.

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him.

     “You’re not well; your hands are unsteady, and you may cut yoursel—”

     “Don’t bother with your petty excuses,” Javert interrupted darkly. “We both know why you’re afraid to give me a blade.”

     The corners of Valjean’s mouth drew down, his brow furrowing. He somehow managed to look simultaneously defeated and resolute. “Then you will not protest me doing it for you.”

     “Do as you wish,” he growled back at him. “But don’t let yourself think I’m so undignified as to bleed myself out on your sheets. I think even you can concede I have a little more self-respect than that.”

     “Perhaps, but I will not risk it, even so. You know that. And,” he sighed, kneeling one leg on the end of the bed, “on the practical side of things, it really will look better if someone else does it for you. You can’t see your own face.”

     “I could if you gave me a hand-mirror.”

     “That would make for clumsy work, juggling both at once. Now sit still.”

     Javert scowled at him, his muscles tightening instinctually at the mere proximity of the man.

     With a pensive look, Valjean took a glass vial of oil from the kit and wet the cloth he’d brought, proceeding to dab Javert’s face with it.

     The razor unfolded with a click.

     Valjean took a gentle hold of his chin and tilted his head up, carefully scraping the blade across his skin and shaving off the long grey stubble that had been left to grow over the past few days. He stopped occasionally, pausing to clean and re-lubricate the razor’s edge.

     All the while Javert held his eyes shut with a look of rancor.

     It was a struggle to keep his expression straight. No one had ever touched him so intimately before, and it was surprisingly unnerving. The only reason he allowed it now was that it seemed he had no choice. The scratching of the razor seemed so loud in the silence of the room, and he could feel, briefly, the puff of the man’s breath. His skin prickled. He wondered half-seriously if Valjean wasn’t drawing this out just to torture him.

     Valjean tilted his face up higher, and then suddenly the blade was sliding over his throat, and a shiver ran down Javert’s spine. He tensed, his eyes popping open, his skin pimpling with goose-flesh. A harried breath escaped his lips, and he remained rigid, frozen on the bed in a sort of terror.

     A convict had a blade to his throat! And he had allowed this!

     The man could end it all with a single swipe—slit his jugular and be done with him then and there.

     But he wouldn’t, he knew he wouldn’t, and Javert told himself that—and yet! Yet there was a blade to his throat, and the man who held it was someone he had hunted, and antagonized, for decades! Who had every reason to use it against him!

     Javert sat powerless beneath him, totally paralyzed until the skin of his neck was bare and the razor withdrew. With a shiver he let out the breath he had not realized he’d been holding. He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut.

     A cloth dabbed at his face again, dry, and he was hardly aware of it in the wake of the blade and the host of hair-raising sensations it had caused him.

     Slowly he recomposed himself. He reassured himself of the softness of the touches, and the intent behind them.

     Jean Valjean was a convict, but it was evident that, for whatever reason, and despite everything, his life was safe in his hands.

     Javert reminded himself also that the man was an idiot, considering he’d chosen to save him rather than secure his own freedom—and that he should be annoyed at him for insisting on doing this himself.

     “There,” Valjean said, straightening up and wiping the blade off, “That looks much better.” He snapped it shut and put it back into the kit.

     Javert opened his eyes to glare at him, running a hand over his face experimentally. “I’m not going to thank you,” he said.

     “I didn’t ask to be thanked.”

     He scoffed at him. “You annoy me.”

     “That’s not the first time you’ve expressed that sentiment.”

     “Mm.”

     “Would you like some supper?” Valjean asked, gathering up the supplies he’d brought.

     “I don’t care.”

     “I’ll bring some soup, then.”

***

     Javert waited until he was sure Valjean was asleep before he rose, treading lightly on the floor.

     The dizziness that had plagued him the day prior had lessened greatly, and with enough focus he was able to keep his balance without having to lean against the wall.

     Valjean had—by some measure of luck or lack of foresight—left the rest of Javert’s clothes folded upon the little bench seat opposite the bed, and his greatcoat and other accouterments hung on the knobs of the headboard.

     Surely, Javert thought, pulling on his boots, surely it was the cool night air the past few nights which had eased his suffering and allowed him to make this much recovery.

     Layer by layer, button by button, he regained a measure of his dignity—his white linen shirt, with its broad sleeves and ruffles—the grey cotton waistcoat, and navy tailcoat, with its shining silver buttons—his double-breasted greatcoat, with its warm, heavy wool and sheltering half-capes. He fastened his belt around his waist once more, sword hanging at his side. And then, his black stock collar, and finally his leather gloves. With this he felt a little more complete, a little more himself. It wasn’t much, but it helped things some.

     Even so, as he donned the familiar outfit, he felt his appearance became a betrayal. He was no longer the man who meted out justice, who was the utmost portrayal of integrity, authority. He was no longer that man who had resided under this coat. To clothe himself again in this garb was, in a way, to put on a mask which had once been his true face; he felt its strangeness, so familiar and yet so foreign, and it bothered him.

     He crept out of the house unnoticed, only somewhat surprised to find the doors unlocked.

     It was dark outside, but there were stars, and ample moonlight, and he found his way through the city without trouble. The air was still, yet cool, and aside from the occasional chirping of crickets, Paris was silent.

     The streets were deserted. It seemed even now, days later, the effects of the insurrection were still present—the blood of those rebellious souls still fresh in the minds of the citizens. They did not dare to venture out of doors at this hour of night. Not yet.

     It was the first night he had spent alone in the city since the night he had waited for Thénardier to exit the sewer and had been given Valjean instead. The first night since he had almost been swallowed up by the Seine, the cold river water filling his lungs, and been pulled from its depths at the last minute, forced to breathe once more.

     There seemed a trepidation in the atmosphere, a strange sense of foreboding—as though the city itself knew what he had done, knew what he was doing now.

     As if it watched him.

     Judged him.

     A stray breeze rustled the trees in a garden he passed; their leaves whispered his shortcomings.

     As he crossed onto the Île de la Cité he began to feel acutely the strain on his not-yet-healthy body, but he pushed forward, determined to ignore it, determined to finish what he’d started.

     He neared the tall, wrought-iron fence with a sense of slowly being crushed beneath his own scrutiny.

     It was a huge, castle-like building on the bank of the Seine, and its towering height only served to make him feel lower.

     The sentry gave a start at his approach; it must have been too silent to perceive until he had gotten disconcertingly close. The man went to raise his rifle, but, halfway to aiming it, he faltered.

     It is likely that Javert, having just entered into the circle of light cast by the lantern hanging on the wall, had become recognizable to him.

     The gun’s barrel dipped once more towards the ground. He nodded curtly. “Inspector.”

     Javert bowed his head, his voice low. “The master of the house, if you would.”

     The sentry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the middle of the night.”

     “I know.”

     “He is sleeping.”

     “I’m sure.”

     The man frowned at him. “It had better be of the utmost importance.”

     “It will not take but five minutes of his time.”

     “And yet it cannot wait until morning?”

     “I would rather it not.”

     The man gave a huff, sighing. “Wait here,” he ordered, shouldering his rifle and disappearing into the garden.

     Javert stood anxiously, his stomach twisted up in knots. He could feel his skin growing once more uncomfortably hot beneath his clothes.

     The river sang behind his back.

     It was a splendid garden, well-kempt, the trees and bushes neatly pruned, paths swept clear of debris. On the left wall there was a wealth of handsome Japanese lacquer-work. A number of small statues and flowers lined the walkways.

     All of this was lost on Javert. He who so admired skillful architecture and handiwork the like of which he knew he’d never have had been consumed by his conscience, apathetic and unappreciative of all around him.

     At a length the sentry returned.

     Another man trailed behind him, wearing a long nightshirt, a blue greatcoat hastily thrown over it, held closed only by a few polished buttons. Halfway across the garden he paused and dismissed the sentry, waving him away with his hand and a shake of his head.

     He approached the fence. “Javert,” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “what the devil do you mean by waking me in the middle of the ni—” He stopped short, his hand freezing in place for a second before drawing away, his eyes widening.

     Javert could only attribute this to his own disheveled state. No doubt the man was aggravated by this intrusion on his privacy, being wrested from his bed, and no doubt he was offset by the intruder’s bedraggled visage.

     But Javert could not stand to wait any longer; he needed to set things right.

     “Dismiss me,” he breathed shakily, hanging his head.

     No more military attitude, no more pretense of self-respect, no more authority remained within him. He could not summon the strength for them anymore. He was too tired—exhausted not only in his bones but in the depths of his very soul.

     “Please, I beg of you. I am unfit for duty. If you do not dismiss me I will resign.” His tone dropped. “But it would be better to dismiss me; I deserve that.” The last words he spoke under his breath: “I have failed in all that I set out to do.”

     The Prefect of the Police stood staring at him in bewilderment.

     A metallic clatter sounded from the street to their left, and both men gave a jolt, turning to look in the same direction.

     It was very dark, and there was a sparsity of streetlamps, but there was decent enough light yet to discern the figure of a man standing a little ways off from them. He was of unremarkable height, with broad shoulders, and standing as he was in the shadows he would not have been recognizable to Javert save for the shocks of curly white hair that reflected the moonlight and formed a glowing halo on his head.

     The man was staring in shock at a cat, which had evidently just knocked over a metal bucket onto the flagstones, thereby ruining his hiding place. He turned to look up at Javert with as much fearful horror in his eyes as Javert had, his mouth hanging open.

     Gisquet squinted. “Who’s there?” he demanded. Then, in a quieter voice meant for Javert, “Who is that?”

     Javert was not paying attention. The sight of Jean Valjean had filled him with terror. “No, no—” He shook his head, stepping back. “Not you; not here.”

     He grit his teeth, shuddering and breaking out in a cold sweat.

     Without so much as a word to his superior he turned and fled into the night, failing to notice Gisquet calling after him in confusion.

     He put no thought to where he was going; it seemed almost predetermined. Cold and clammy even as a fever raged within, Javert could not seem to suck down enough air to satisfy his lungs. His gut was wrenching, and he almost tripped over himself in his haste.

     The ex-convict had a limp in his right leg where a heavy chain had once been shackled to his ankle, and this affected his gait when running especially.

     But, in his sickly state, Javert was far from able to reach the speed he ought to have been capable of.

     Perhaps this was why Valjean managed to catch up to him half-way across the Quai du Marché Neuf.

     “Javert!” he cried, no doubt horrified by the sight of him so close to the water’s edge.

     Javert spared him not even a passing glance.

     Valjean yanked him backwards by the cape of his coat before he was able to finish climbing up onto the wall that divided walkway from river.

     “Let me go!” Javert screeched as Valjean grappled him.

     “No!”

     “I can’t do this anymore!”

     Still he struggled to free himself, to clamber back up onto the divide, but the man had him securely pinioned against the parapet, shackling him down by both his wrists.

     “I can’t do it!” Javert yelled, “I can’t do it, I tell you! Just let me go; this is better for the both of us!” He grunted and writhed in his grasp, choking on his own breath, his voice terrible. “Why will you not let me go?”

     “You know why!” Valjean cried, forcing him around to look him in the eyes. “Because you are a good man! Because you don’t deserve to die in such a way!” He shook his head furiously. “Because I have suffered too much and too long in my life to let another person endure the same kind of torment! Not when they’re in front of me; not when I can do something about it!” His eyes were wet; his voice teetered on the edge of cracking. “Because I can’t, do you understand? I can’t!”

     “Goddamnit, Valjean; I’ll dive straight into the Seine and I don’t care if you’re still latched around my wrist!”

     “Then I will drown with you!” Valjean bellowed, throttling him against the concrete and shoving his face in his. “It doesn’t matter what lengths I must go to prevent it; I cannot let you do this thing! If I die in the process so be it! But I will not let you go; I will never let you go! Javert!” His voice became a shrieking roar. “I will follow you into the mouth of Hell, do you understand?”

     Javert shuddered in his grip. Never before had anything struck such terror into his heart as those words, and the countenance of the man from which they issued.

     Such a person! He was horrified by him.

     Was it true? Could he not escape him even in death?

     If he jumped now, if he ended his life, Valjean would only follow suit, and that was not something he’d wanted; that wasn’t something he could bear—and the man knew this! And the man used it against him, to tether him to life! It was despicable, what lengths he would go to, even for the sake of his own enemy! It revolted him. That he would forfeit his own freedom, his own life! Incredible, abhorrent! How could he deal with this man, who in giving himself up knew not what it was to give up? Who in yielding refused to do so?

     Was there no way for Javert to destroy himself without destroying Valjean as well? Would he be chased forever into the void? Chained to his destiny, chained to this man?

     Was there no way out?

     “Damnit!” he burst, sinking to his knees, “Damn you, Valjean! Damn your pity, damn your mercy, damn your kindness; damn you!”

     With this last cry—nearly a scream—his voice broke. He crumpled, the stone cold beneath his palms as he balled them into fists. “God damn you,” he squeaked.“God damn it all ...”

     A sob shook him. Then another, and another. He fell back against the parapet.

     “I can’t take it anymore,” he breathed, curling up. “I can’t take it; I can’t.” Hunched over, his legs drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his knees, he clawed frightfully at his coat. “I can’t live like this.”

     A few gasping breaths stole past his lips, and suddenly he found Valjean wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

     Part of him reviled at this, and he wanted to shove him away and scramble to his feet, but he was simply too weak and too tired to care any longer.

     “You will get through this; I will help you through this,” Valjean was saying, breathless, his fingers tangled in the cape of his greatcoat. “I promise you that. Just let me help you. Please,” he begged desperately, his words strained, “for the love of God, just let me help you.”

     Javert grimaced, tears gliding down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth. He further curled into himself, burying his head in the man’s shoulder.

     His voice was cracked and hoarse, muffled by the fabric of Valjean’s waistcoat.

     “Why couldn’t you let me die with my dignity?”

     Valjean could not seem to find the proper response; he merely clutched him tighter. Clasping Javert’s head in his hands, he pressed his lips to the side of his brow, pausing there for a moment before withdrawing them and mussing his long dark hair. He gave Javert another squeeze, cradling him in his arms, hand on the back of his head.

     “I am sorry,” Valjean lamented, “I am sorry. But you must live, Javert. You must.”

     There was a painful pleading in his tone, and it struck Javert sharply in the breast.

     From his demeanor and what little Javert could hear of the man’s breathing, it seemed to him as though Valjean was crying also. He did not expect to understand why, and he did not want to understand why, but he found that he did—and he hated it, and he hated himself; he hated everything, and he was lost.

     A sob escaped his throat.

     Finally, going limp in his arms, he surrendered. He had no strength to fight him any longer, no willpower left to resist. Not even his pride could muster up enough disgust to motivate him.

     Javert was exhausted; he could not continue.

     He couldn’t even find the force to stand, to hurl himself into the river as he’d so wished only moments ago; he’d spent up all his energy in his despair and his fury. All he could do was sit there, cocooned in this other man’s embrace, as the sobs shook him and the tears flowed freely from his eyes.

     Valjean said nothing further. He did not need to; they understood one another. He simply held him there, pressing him to his chest and absorbing his cries.

     Javert did not know how long they’d been there when Valjean finally spoke again—though it must have been some time, as he’d calmed significantly, his sobs dying down to ragged breaths.

     “Come,” he said quietly, “We ought to head back. The streets are not safe at this hour, and you need to lie down.”

     Javert did not dispute these points. He was too tired to dispute anything anymore.

     “Can you stand?”

     Valjean rose a little, putting an arm under his shoulder and helping him to his feet. Seeing him steady, Valjean went to reach for his wrist—but paused in the air for a moment, choosing carefully to take his hand instead.

     Quiet now, Javert allowed him to do this without protest. He did not even find himself bothered when he felt the man’s fingers entwining around his own as he led him away from the quay.

     In fact, the warmth of the hand clasped around his almost made him feel secure, although he did not know why this could possibly be.

     Unconsciously, he clasped it back.

     He found himself walking closer to him, nearly brushing against the man’s shoulder.

     Little by little he leaned upon him. By the time they had made it back to Rue Plumet, he could barely support his own weight, his legs feeling less like legs and more like wet clay, his head spinning, blotting out his sense of balance.

     Valjean had to all but drag him up the stairs, and when Javert finally collapsed upon the bed he felt as though he would never rise again.

     His consciousness faded out slowly, back, back into fever-dreams, as Valjean spoke softly to him, murmuring words of consolation.

     Javert could not understand what the man was saying—his thoughts were too muddled by pain and fatigue—but he latched onto the sound of his voice, having nothing else to take hold of.

     He was floundering in a vast ocean, caught somewhere between life and death, heaven and hell—and the man’s presence was the one thing he could cling to, tying him, rooting him to the world, an anchor in a tempest-tossed sea.

     And, for the first time in his life, he found it a source of comfort instead of agitation.

***

     Javert's head throbbed. He was too hot to think, to care, to feel anything other than the desire to be able to close his eyes and block out everything around him by drowning it in the black void of sleep.

     Sleep, however, was unattainable—at least in the proper, restful sense of the word. What he experienced was not sleep, but rather roiling bouts of semi-consciousness, feverish agonies propelling him in and out of reality and the waking world.

     It felt simultaneously as though some terrible force had seized his skull and was in the process of slowly crushing it, and as though someone had set loose a beehive in his brain. And, too, it felt like he was lying on a bed of coals.

     This left him in a sorry state.

     He could barely manage to get up to relieve himself—stumbling down the hall, nearly tripping over himself or fainting—let alone entertain thoughts of argument.

     Half the time he couldn’t even seem to keep his eyes open. Hours would be gone in mere blinks, and yet, time crawled by impossibly slowly, drawn out by his pain. He writhed and tossed beneath the sheets, agonized, able to do little more than grunt his displeasure.

     Valjean ended up having to do the simplest things for him.

     He did not even have the strength to complain.

     In fact, he was not even entirely cognizant of the goings on around him. Sometimes he had only a vague awareness of things: a pressure upon his skin, a brief warmth—and that was all.

     It seemed the sensation of touch was what drove him back to semi-consciousness above all, however—most of his memories consisted of Valjean. The man always seemed to be close by. Placing a cool, wet cloth on his forehead. Checking his temperature. Smoothing the hair from his face. Fluffing the pillows behind him. Tilting his head and putting a glass of water to his lips, holding it steady as he took tentative sips.

     Most often there was the sensation of a hand clasping his own—or, laying upon his shoulder or the top of his head.

     He felt like a limp, discarded ragdoll: ugly and worthless, falling apart at the seams—no future use left but to await final destruction.

     But Valjean handled him as though he were made of delicate porcelain, each touch careful and cautious, like he feared he might break him.

     Javert had never considered what the man’s touch might feel like, nor would he have cared—but he found himself surprised at how such rough, work-worn hands could yet be so gentle.

     Still, Valjean’s touch—his very presence—tormented him. Agitated him. And yet—at the very same time, they were soothing, and oddly reassuring. Javert could not account for it.

     “Why?” he breathed hoarsely, his voice the only thing in the sweltering darkness besides the dabbing of the cloth at his brow. “Why do you do this?”

     “Do what?”

     “Care,” he croaked despairingly. “Why?”

     Valjean was quiet for a moment. “You know why,” he murmured.

     “I don’t.”

     “You do.”

     Javert tossed his head on the pillow, unable to even lift it. “I don’t understand you,” he lamented.

     A hand rested on the side of his head, thumb stroking his temple.

     “I can’t ignore someone’s suffering,” Valjean said. His tone made it sound more like a confession than an explanation. “Not when I can do something to prevent it.” And then, more softly, “It doesn’t matter who it is.”

     Once more Javert felt a sharp pang in his breast. A dull throb, like something buried deep within his ribs was splitting open, bit by bit.

     He’d never had anyone to catch him should he fall. And though he had not asked for this—and could not admit it to himself—the knowledge that there was someone looking out for him was … comforting.

     It did not sit entirely well with him, but there it was: Valjean could be relied upon.

     He didn’t need him.

     He shouldn’t need him.

     But he was safe, and he was there.

***

     Javert thought, in his fever-dreams, he could recall sinking into the depths, thrashing about and gasping for air instinctively as the water filled his lungs—in the end, no better than an animal in his death throes, despite his best efforts at composure.

     And then, as his convulsions subsided, as the strength fled his body and the cold, quiet darkness permeated his very soul—just as he was slipping away into the abyss—he'd felt a pressure, a warmth: someone wrapping their arms around him and pulling him away.

     He had thought it was an angel.

     He was not entirely sure that he'd been wrong.

***

Chapter Text

“It requires more courage to suffer than to die.”

-Napoleon Bonaparte

***

     Javert's head pounded. He thrashed. Something was holding him down, digging into his upper arms and lower legs. He was tied to a tabletop by thick, heavy ropes, like those of a ship’s rigging. He strained against them, but only succeeded in chafing himself.

     It was dark, dusky blue, and he could only just make out the silhouettes of ruined buildings and piles of broken furniture. The cracks of rifles in the distance echoed off the walls. The air smelt of gunpowder and blood. He could not see the stars for the lingering haze of smoke.

     Soon, they would come back for him—the schoolboys. They would kill him. He knew they would. They wouldn’t exit this world, lose this fight, without taking him with them. The last, minor revenge that they were capable of.

     He wished they’d killed him sooner. This waiting … he couldn’t stand it. Better to be over with as soon as possible.

     A figure stole towards him in the inky blackness, drawing to his side.

     Javert could not make out their face, but he knew who it was. “You …”

     So, that was how it was to be, then. Perhaps it was more appropriate. This way, there was a sort of closure to his death. An ending to a story which had gone on too long, a resolve of an ancient conflict.

     “Do it, then,” he said. “Take your revenge.”

     “Shh,” the figure hushed him. They glanced back over their shoulder.

     Javert felt a hand on his chest. There was a pressure, and the man was reaching through his breast, through his ribcage, and a sharp and sudden panic seized Javert as he realized what was happening. He writhed under him, to no avail; the ropes held him tight. Bound like a lamb at slaughter, he was at the man’s mercy.

     He felt hands cup around his heart—large, powerful hands, that could crush the life from it. He trembled in terror and in agony. “N-no; what are you—?”

     “Shh,” the man implored, working to pull it from his chest. “Please.”

     How could he do that? How could anyone do that—take his heart right out of his chest without killing him? And still it beat, even as it was pulled away, and he could feel it, feel the man’s hands around it, holding it like some tiny, fragile bird.

     Javert let out a stunted growl, a whimper, horrified. This feeling! This vulnerability!

     To have that wretched, weak and wicked thing torn from its cage. To be exposed like this! He was paralyzed with fear. “No, stop it; sto—”

     “I’m sorry,” the man breathed, and Javert caught a glimpse of his face. It was sad, and scared, and full of remorse. “I can only save so much of you.”

     “What?” Javert gave a start as he realized what the man intended to do. “No!” he burst, “No, you ca—”

     Cries rose from the other side of the barricade, and they drew closer, followed by footsteps.

     The man looked in their direction with panic, turned his gaze to him again. “I’m sorry,” he said again, edging off the table and slowly backing away.

     “No, you can’t do this,” Javert managed to say, despite the pain that wracked his body as he tried to liberate himself. “You ca—”

     The footsteps rounded the corner.

     With one last helpless, frantic look at him, the man bolted, fleeing into the night.

     “No!” Javert cried, still tied down and trapped as the man made off with the most defenseless and carefully guarded part of his soul.

     He was supposed to kill him, not—not …!

     “How dare you!” he screamed after him, “How dare you! Who gave you the right? Valjean!” His voice broke as the rebels came into view, all blazing red with blood and glory. “Valjean!”

     They drew to him with a look in their eyes as steely as their blades.

     And still he cried after that cursed thief. “You bastard!” The strength left him, and he lay trembling, the tears streaming down the sides of his face. “Valjean …”

     “We ran out of bullets,” said one of the schoolboys.

     They surrounded him, and he shuddered before them, stripped naked of his calm and his composure, his chest wide open and gaping, like a black maw, raw and visceral and hollow. They could see right into his core, and he had nothing left to shield himself from their wrath.

     They left him alone in the barren, smoke-filled streets, bloodied and broken.

     The ropes that had tied him to the table were gone, but the martingale remained, and the hobbles around his ankles. He had not enough strength left to try to sever them. He only lay, exhausted, dying in the alleyway, the only spark of life amid a pile of corpses, breathing its last breath.

     At a length he heard footsteps again, this time more orderly, slower. He knew the schoolboys had gone, to their deaths or otherwise. So who now could this be?

     Out of the darkness came a group of shadowy men, pausing as they passed him.

     “Why, it’s Javert,” one of them remarked.

     The police, the guard—his colleagues and superiors! They had come to survey the final quelling of the insurgents.

     They did not, for some reason, sound as though they’d expected to find him alive.

     A sliver of hope shone within him. They could help him—heal him—save him!

     But they only stood there, staring down at him morosely, their faces black masks in the night.

     Javert gazed up at them, imploring them with his eyes, a hint of fear beginning to form at the back of his mind.

     “It’s a pity,” he heard someone say.

     “Yes. He was such a good officer.”

     “Is there nothing to be done then?”

     “Look at him.” A hand gestured towards his bloodied breast, and the gaping hole where his heart used to be. “Someone’s stolen his resolve. Ripped it right out of his chest. He is useless, now.”

     Javert quaked with fear. “N-no, that’s not—” He tried to protest, to defend himself, to hide the wound, but they had seen, and he could not deny what had happened. “It’s not my fault,” he begged, worming his way into the corner. “It’s not my fault; I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to—to be—”

     “The law in him is dead,” said another. “He let his soul be touched. Now he can never return to the way he was. It would be better to put him out of his misery, before he falls any further.”

     “No, no,” Javert choked out, “please, I can fix this, I can— If I bring him in, if I take back what he stole—”

     “It wouldn’t change things. Already, you have been tainted. There is no way to repair what has been done. Come, now. Don’t grovel. Retain what little dignity you have left. We’ll make it quick.”

     Javert shook, his eyes bulging, whimpers escaping his throat. He tried to squirm away from them, but it was no use; his way was blocked by broken tables and chairs and overturned carts.

     They closed in around him, looming over and blotting out the sky.

     The hole in his chest throbbed under the weight of those judging eyes. So empty, so tender.

     “Pathetic,” someone said.

     “Hush now,” murmured Chabouillet, taking a hold of him by the hair and positioning his head on the chopping block. “No one has to know.”

     “No,” Javert wept, the tears hot on his cheeks, his body wracked with shivers and sobs. “No …”

     He looked up at the glint of steel hanging over his head and gave a desperate thrash.

     For this his face was shoved back into the cold, unforgiving stone. He heard the grinding of metal sliding over metal, and gave a shriek as the blade of the guillotine came down.

     That shriek seemed to echo into eternity. Finally it faded away, and left him floating in the void, black and infinite yet pressing in around him, crushing.

     It was torture. He was no longer living, but he was not quite dead. Somewhere, somehow, he was still rooted down by something, some string that still tied him to this mortal coil.

     He heard, faintly, a sort of thumping, muffled and steady. Gradually it grew louder. He was pulled back by that noise, and with it came vague flashes of sensory information.

     The texture of fabric, brushing against him.

     Footfalls on earth, rapid, running.

     Someone’s ragged, breathy gasps.

     With a low moan he realized what that thumping was. It was the pulse of his heart, still beating after everything, clutched fiercely against Valjean’s chest. Javert was bound to it, this last vestige of himself, the only part of him to make it out alive. And he rued its life, even as he clung to it.

     He sobbed in the darkness, desolate and powerless, conquered and defeated. He wanted to blink out of existence, to disappear into the forgiving fold of death.

     But the man would not even let him have that!

     Why had he salvaged this piece of him, this terrible and ugly thing? Why did he guard it so dearly, spiriting it away from harm?

     Javert did not understand. Did not want to understand.

     But the man’s warmth seeped into him all the same, and he had no defense against it.

     Somehow, this incomprehensible kindness hurt more than anything he had ever felt in his life.

     When Valjean finally stopped running, safe now from their pursuers, he knelt down and doubled over, catching his breath. And he held out the heart that he’d carried like an infant in his arms for miles and miles, and gazed at it wonderingly, worriedly, as though inspecting it for damage. Panting, he pressed his lips to it in relief.

     At this sensation, an agony ripped through Javert. Screaming, flames leapt from his heart and he found his body reformed in a gout of fire. He tried to tear his soul asunder, tear himself to pieces, rip that vile, beating organ out of his chest—anything to end this excruciating pain—but all it did was make the flames burn brighter.

     He felt Valjean grip his shoulders.

     “What have you done?” Javert roared at him, the fire rising, swirling about him in blazing gusts. “What have you done?” He let out another howl of pain, shaking him off and stumbling back.

     The man wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him to his chest—trying to comfort him, even as his clothes and snow-white hair caught fire.

     He didn’t even seem to notice himself being burned alive, and Javert was too overwhelmed to care.

     And as the flames consumed them, all Javert could hear was his own screams.

***

     Javert worried him. The man’s fever was dangerously high. His heartbeat raced. He was beset with fits in which he would seize up, shuddering and thrashing in bed, clawing at the sheets in pain or desperation for Valjean knew not what. For brief moments his eyes would open wide, and glazed, and he would look as though he were gazing upon the face of Death itself.  But mostly, they remained closed, squeezed shut in agony, his brow beaded with sweat, his teeth clenched. He gasped for breath, and groaned, and whimpered like a dying dog.

     The man was delirious. He cried out in his sleep, sometimes with fear, sometimes with anger, sometimes with pleading. Mostly it was in garbled French, but sometimes Valjean thought it sounded like something else entirely.

     The snatches of words he did manage to catch broke his heart.

     “Let me die,” he kept saying. Sometimes it was a scream, full of fury, and others, a plea so anguished it brought Valjean to tears.

     And then, sobbing: “I don’t want this. I don’t want this.”

     Sometimes it was nothing more than his name, “Valjean,” in a cracked and yearning voice. Whether it was his aid the man begged for, or his own death at his hands, Valjean could not tell.

     He could do nothing but sit by his side, and try to calm him, with gentle reassurances and equally gentle touches. He stripped him down to his shirt, wiped the sweat from his skin with a cool, wet rag, and tried to nurse him on a glass of water as often as he could.

     Still, it was not enough.

     The man’s fever only worsened. The life seemed to drain from him, the delirium growing deeper and deeper.

     Valjean considered calling a doctor again, but whatever drug they might prescribe, he feared it would merely sap what little strength Javert had left, and leave him in a deep and dreadful sleep from which he might never awaken.

     He did not know what else to do. In desperation, he brought up the wooden washtub from downstairs and filled it bucket by bucket with water from the well on the boulevard.

     Frowning remorsefully, he slipped his arms under the unconscious inspector and carried him like a child to the tub.

     “I’m sorry for this,” he said, carefully lowering him down, underclothes and all, into the water.

     Javert gave a start, his eyes flashing open with a gasp, glassy and unseeing. Breathing erratic, he struggled to escape, a terrified look on his face.

     Valjean wrapped his arms around the man’s torso, tugging him back, trying to steady him and prevent him from injuring himself. “It’s all right!” he exclaimed, holding him down. Water splashed all over him and the hard wooden floor he was kneeling on as the man fought against him. “Javert! Javert, it’s all right! Settle down.”

     Still the man shuddered, but he seemed to realize that he was thoroughly trapped, for his attempts at fleeing grew feeble.

     “Shh,” Valjean hushed. “Shh …” He smoothed back the dark, wet strands of hair that had plastered themselves over the man’s face, murmuring comfort to him, his lips hovering just above the top of his head.

     Javert calmed a little, but not much. He was shivering convulsively. His ice-blue eyes stared out at nothing—which was, in his mind, perhaps something—as tears welled in them, tracing glistening paths down his cheeks. In between his gasps for air, he whimpered fearfully.

     Valjean held him fiercely, the tightness of his hold helping some to suppress the hiccoughs that shook Javert’s chest.

     “You are safe,” Valjean promised him, unsure if the man could even understand him. “I’m right here beside you, d’accord? I won’t let you go. Just lay still; it will get better. That’s right. Just like that.”

     The man bowed his head, curling into himself.

     “There you are.”

     Javert leaned into him, his breathing ragged and strained. He shuddered against him, teeth chattering, seeking the warmth in his arms like a man who was freezing to death.

     Valjean had heard somewhere before that particularly bad fevers could, at a certain point, actually make the victim feel cold, but he had never thought it could be this bad.

     To Valjean, the water in the tub was luke-warm. But to Javert, it must feel like it had come straight from a glacier in the Alps.

     Valjean rocked him gently back and forth, back and forth, hoping it would soothe him some.

     “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, touching his brow to the top of the man’s head. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t know what it would do to you. I just—I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to live.”

     Javert squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder, quivering. He sat like that for a long, long time.

     Eventually, the tension in his muscles began to dissipate, and he relaxed a bit, going limp against him and falling back into the haze of sleep.

     Valjean checked the man’s forehead.

     It was warm, but not the blazing hot of an hour ago. The water had done its job.

     He let out a small sigh of relief, pressing his lips to the man’s brow and sending a prayer of thanks to God.

     Slowly, so as not to disturb him from his slumber, he lifted Javert out of the tub and laid him down on a pile of blankets he’d stacked on the floor. He toweled off the water from the man’s long hair, combing his fingers through it and carefully teasing out the tangles, ponderously contemplating the strands of grey amid the brownish-black.

     He waited for the man’s shirt to dry before hefting him back into his arms and returning him to the mattress.

     “Sleep well,” he whispered as he drew the sheet up over him.

     And for the first time in days, Javert did.

***

     Everything had been on fire. His very soul. This terrible agony of living—of having one’s entrails exposed, of receiving mercy, kindness—love, even—from someone who had every right to hate him, from someone for whom it should be impossible to be good—was more than he could bear. Javert had burned up because of him, because of what he’d done to him, and the flames had eaten him up until nothing else existed in the world but torture and misery.

     And then all at once those fires had been doused, extinguished instantly by a plunge into freezing water.

     The blackness, pressing in on him …

     The Seine?

     Had Valjean pushed him into the river? Had he jumped? Had they fallen in together? He could not remember. All he knew was this penetrating cold that froze the blood in his veins.

     The flames were gone; he was himself once more, real, corporeal. His body was no longer hellfire but flesh, solid and heavy and clammy in the cold waters. And he sank, and sank, and sank, farther and farther away from the light. The air bubbled up from between his lips and floated towards the surface.

     So—it was not by fire he would die, but ice. But at this point, death was a release. He couldn’t bear this suffering any longer. Better that the water should numb him and let him slip away.

     And yet—and yet—he railed against it, as it stole the life from him. This burning in his lungs, the ache in his chest—he couldn’t help but fight. He thrashed, convulsed, powerless against the depths of the river. He could not even retain his dignity in the face of death, not at the very bitter end. Suffocating, gasping for air where there was only water.

     No; he didn’t want to live, but he didn’t want to die—not like this …

     Not like—like—

     He gagged, the taste of silt in his mouth.

     And then he felt arms wrap around him, and pull him upwards. Water and bubbles churned all around him.

     He broke the surface, and tried to inhale and couldn’t, because his lungs were full of water. Choking, he retched it up, and gasped. Blessed, blessed air filled his lungs, and he coughed and sucked down as much of it as he could.

     He was dead weight in the water, held up only by Valjean. The cold had sapped the strength from his muscles. He could do nothing else but breathe, and breathing was hard enough.

     And god, it was cold, so cold. But Valjean was warm.

     Shivering, Javert pressed himself against him.

     He didn’t even want to be alive anymore. It was too hard. But the man wouldn’t let him die. And, to tell the truth, dying was hard, too.

     His mind wanted to die, but his body wanted to live. And he didn’t have the strength or the resolve to fight it, or to fight Valjean. The world had become a terrifying place, and he was afraid of it, and afraid of himself. All around him was shadow, and all he could do was cry and gasp for air.

     Everything was grey and uncertain and horrifying to him. He had fallen, plunged so far. Yet something kept him aloft, kept him from descending into that final abyss.

     Somehow, the one thing in this world that should have been his ruin had become his bastion, and Valjean held his head above the surface, and promised he wouldn’t let him go, promised things would be all right.

     And Javert didn’t know why, but he trusted him. He trusted him with everything he had. Sobbing, and devoid of any energy, he sank against him and closed his eyes. He was so tired. All he wanted was to sleep.

     Slowly, the man’s warmth began to seep into him once more, driving out the cold of the river. And the world was still dark, but it was a comforting darkness, forgiving.

     In his chest, through his veins, he felt his heart pumping, pumping, pumping. His head filled up with that noise, like a drumbeat, a cadence from the rear lines, urging him to press onwards, onwards …

     ‘You will get through this;’ the man’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘I will help you through this.’

     ‘I promise.’

***

     Release finally came in the form of a rain storm, the summer heat vanishing in cloud-cast skies and drizzle, low thunder rumbling in the distance. The raindrops pattered on the windowpanes of the little second-story bedroom, racing and converging upon one another as they fell. Javert could hear the spattering of the rooftop gutters disgorging their contents into the puddles swelling on the street below.

     The incessant burning that had plagued his body for the past few days began to subside—slowly, as though unwilling to give up its hold on him.

     He found himself awake for longer periods of time, and the pounding in his head lessened to a dull ache. His mind was a little clearer. Once more he became capable of coherent thought—something more than just raging displeasure that voiced itself in bestial noises of pain.

     Valjean seemed content to leave him alone, now.

     It was clear to Javert, at this point, that Valjean was doing this out of trust. And, moreover, mutual understanding. The man really did want him to get better—and he knew his presence could be a bother just as often as a comfort, perhaps more so. Therefore, he allowed him his space. He allowed him silence, peace. Dignity.

     Of course, he still entered the room often, bringing meals and fresh water, checking his temperature, asking him if he needed anything, inquiring as to his recovery. Sometimes he attempted to make small talk, or prompt him to share his thoughts. He spoke softly, but without hesitation, and if Javert was not in the mood to engage him Valjean would not press the issue.

     He still slept often and long, but Javert increasingly found himself staring up at the ceiling, or looking through the window, restless not so much in body as in mind.

     His health may not have been on the brink of disaster now—it was more of an annoying inconvenience, really—but aside from that his situation hadn’t changed all that significantly in the past week since he’d been brought back to life.

     A thought occurred to him then, as he lay in his torment—one word: absolution.

     As previously stated, the fight had gone out of him; he was too tired even for acts of self-destruction. He had surrendered, allowed life to toss him about on its strange tides. He thought no more of trying to swim against its current—even if he wanted to.

     So this was his fate now, this was the way things were: that he would live—must live, for he had no other choice, it seemed—that he needed to find a way to continue in this world despite being broken, his convictions dissolved, his moral compass spinning endlessly.

     He could not kill himself.

     He could not even try to; not after all of this.

     What, now, would killing himself accomplish? Before, he had sought surcease of strife—to silence once and for all the dissonant voices in his mind, the conflicts that tore him apart from within. He had sought to preserve his dignity.

     But he had been stripped of his dignity. There was no more of it to lose.

     In killing himself, after all of this, there was nothing to be gained. The act of suicide did not present itself to him as a solution, now, but rather as an option of escape borne of cowardice. An escape that he no longer had the power to follow through with.

     But still, he was overcome with weariness when he thought of what lay ahead of him.

     His superiors would not allow him to quit the police; rather, they would not drag him from his post and make an example of him as he so wished. He understood this, in a way. He was a senior officer, with much experience and a near-perfect track record, who had hitherto been very useful to them. His absence would leave a hole that would need to be filled.

     This would be inconvenient.

     However, even if they allowed him to falter, even if they gave him back his job with no repercussions, he could not help but believe he would not live up to what they expected of him—what they deserved of him, of any man of his post. He did not feel as though he could be particularly useful to anyone, anymore. Not now, not in this state. Certainly he questioned his ability to continue meting out justice, when he was no longer entirely sure what “justice” even was.

     Where had his strength gone? His ruthlessness, his vigor? Where was his conviction? Drowned in the river, no doubt. In his mind, he could not possibly be fit for duty.

     But he could not bring himself to fight them on this; for if there was anything of the man that remained unchanged it was his respect for authority. And authority deigned that he, Javert, would retain his position as inspector.

     Did he wish to? No, perhaps not. Was there any other way of life for him? No, perhaps not. In any case, he would take whatever work they assigned him and complete it to the best of his abilities, without complaint. He could not argue with his superiors, even if he questioned their judgment.

     It was in this sad resignation that he found himself thinking of that word. Of absolution.

     He had not contemplated the existence of a god, or what it should desire of him, personally, until that night at the river, when his newfound sense of morality forced him to admit the presence of something that had a higher authority than the law. He had shuddered in the face of this new superior, unable to understand it, unable to agree with it. In light of this, he had chosen to hand it his resignation in the only way he knew how.

     Perhaps this had been a mistake.

     Perhaps, like his superiors in the prefecture, this superior did not want him to resign.

     Maybe this was how Valjean had known where to find him. Had arrived at precisely the right time to watch his descent. Had somehow managed to find him in the blackness of those waters on a night with no starlight to guide him—and successfully fight against a current that had hitherto spared no man, heaving his body up onto dry land.

     There were too many coincidences, Javert thought.

     Conceivably, could they not all be part of some grand scheme, some orchestrated unfolding of events in which he—Javert, the merciless inspector—was set down another path?

     He almost laughed at himself for entertaining the idea.

     Such a thing was like to sound from the mouth of a priest or a nun, not a policeman. And while he’d never questioned or argued with their beliefs, so too had he never actually, personally, considered them.

     And yet he found himself drawn back to the theory, examining it ponderously.

     No, he thought to himself, if there was a god—some omnipotent, all-seeing conductor—why would it concern itself with him? How many people were there on this earth more deserving of its attention?—how many saints and martyrs, how many poor, wretched souls starving to death in the streets? Why was his existence of any particular consequence?

     But ah! Was there not a saint involved in this? Was there not a man on whose side divine providence always seemed to be? A man on the verge of martyrdom, sacrificing his own well-being for that of others? And had he, Javert, not hunted this man, not caused him to suffer greatly?

     So was that it, then? This god was intervening in things for Valjean’s sake?

     But no, he realized, how did sparing his life do Valjean any good? If anything, it seemed to only cause him further hindrance.

     If some supernatural force was acting on behalf of Jean Valjean, would not extinguishing the oppressive counterforce of he, Javert—the man’s primary antagonist—have been the logical thing to do?

     But then, to believe that a divine creator was watching over the man meant also to admit that it had seen his suffering—his starvation, his imprisonment, his expulsion from society and subsequent torments—and done nothing.

     Why? Was it not capable of changing things? Did it not have empathy?

     How much power did such an entity actually have over mankind? How much of people’s actions were of their own will, and how much was of God’s? Was there any such thing as free will, or were they all just puppets on this great blue stage?

     If an omnipotent god existed, why would it allow them to suffer in the first place? Was it itself not the force responsible for every occurrence wherein suffering could be found?

     Or, was mankind responsible for its own suffering, it being a byproduct of their freedom of choice?

     But then, did God not care what they did? Did it not care what they experienced?

     Why, then, was there a god to begin with? Why worship it at all?

     He lost himself in this thinking.

     There was a reason—he said to himself—that he had not entertained such ideas before. There were too many questions without answers, too many irresolvable conflicts of logic. To truly consider such things was to lose oneself in a wave of existentialism, to doubt the whole of the universe—and one could not live thusly. There was a reason he’d thrown himself off that quay.

     Then, circling back around to that thought, he wondered again why, if there was a god, and if it contrived to help Valjean, had it allowed him to survive? Knowing that he, Javert, was the only force left in the world that could conceivably do him harm?

     It made no sense.

     Unless …

     Upon reviewing the facts, it could almost be construed that, were there some kind of cosmic plan, it was actually playing out in his favor. Had he not been thrice now pulled back from certain doom?

     At the barricades he’d been fated to be executed. It was a sure thing—and logical, too. Understandable, even. But then, out of seemingly nowhere, Valjean had appeared. He had demanded charge over him, led him away from his captors. He had cut his binds and freed him. All this from a man who had every right, every excuse, to take his life. But it just so happened that, despite their history, Valjean harbored no animosity towards him—that he was in the habit of saving people—and that he was in the right place at the right time, possessing the exact amount of leverage needed to prevent his death.

     And then, that night at the river. There was no reason for Valjean to have followed him. There were, in fact, an overwhelming multitude of reasons for him not to have followed him. And yet there he had been, to see him fall, to drag him out and force the air back into his lungs.

     Finally, the second time, his last attempt. How had Valjean even known he’d left? Had he woken up just as he’d exited the house? No, Javert had been far too quiet for his departure to have jarred him from his sleep. This meant that Valjean had truly just happened to awake precisely when needed to in order to notice his absence and catch his trail.

     And even then, even after he’d found him, Valjean could have let him go. He could have let him drown, admitted his mistake in saving him and allowed the issue to resolve itself. After all, he—Javert—had not even been grateful. He’d spurned him and fought him at every turn. But the man was so saintly and stubborn that he couldn’t let go. All that was required from him was a little apathy—in his own defense, to his own benefit, no less! And he could not even do that. He’d forced him down and spoken softly in his ear, held him as he’d lost all his composure, helped him back to his house, back into his bed.

     All of these little miracles had been entirely dependent on the actions of one man in particular. Was that what was going on, then? Was Jean Valjean an agent of God as he, Javert, was an agent of the police? Was he a tool through which a greater force meted out divine providence?

     Considering the facts—and running on the idea that there truly was no such thing as a coincidence—it really did seem almost as though God was trying its very best not to let him die.

     But why? What use could he be? What good could he do—especially now, broken and defeated?

     He didn’t understand.

     These thoughts plagued him endlessly as he lay there.

     He could, after a time, manage to ascertain at least a handful of reasons for him not to kill himself. It would inconvenience the prefecture. It would annoy his superiors—both earthly and, possibly, otherwise. After having been seen with him of late, it would draw undue attention to the man who went by the name of M. Fauchelevent—arouse unwanted suspicion on the part of the police.

     And, then, perhaps worst of all, it would be like spitting in Valjean’s face.

     After all the man had done for him—even if he hadn’t really wanted him to—it would be reprehensibly cold and ungrateful for him to cast those efforts away as though they were meaningless. He might have been an unfeeling man, but he was not a spiteful one.

     No, the problem was not in finding reasons not to die. The problem was, no matter how hard he tried, Javert could not find a single reason for him to live.

     Except one.

     Absolution.

     That word … He had never truly considered its meaning possible. To the man of a week ago, the idea that one could redeem oneself—could falter and fail in matters of morality and yet later manage to succeed in them, and overwhelmingly so—was a silly notion: impossible at worst, an alien concept at best.

     But the man of a week ago was dead. He had drowned in the depths of the Seine.

     Another man was left in his stead—a shell, a husk, to his own thinking, but unquestionably different—capable of at least considering ideas that the former could not have, if not entertaining and even possibly accepting them.

     The idea of absolution made him curious, if nothing else.

     His whole life he had sought to earn his keep honestly, and to do good. He did good by keeping order. It was a very simple affair. He missed its simplicity. He missed being able to feel irreproachable, to feel confident that he was serving society some benefit. He missed knowing he was right.

     He couldn’t return to these things, not in the way in which he’d originally construed them. But perhaps he could find another way to regain them.

     What he wouldn’t give to feel sure of himself again!

     If it was at all possible to do the world some further good—even if it was different than his original sense of the word—that would please him.

     So, perhaps he had oversimplified things. Perhaps he had been a little blind. Those things had begun to be straightened out in his mind. Even if it only seemed to make everything more complicated, at least he was getting somewhere.

     And where exactly was he going? He asked himself this and it took him a long time to respond.

     To do good and not evil: this was the first ambition he’d had in life. It was the only true ambition he had ever had, if he stopped to think about it. All other desires he harbored were merely means to that end.

     Was that not still his goal? To do good?

     Even if his understanding of how one went about achieving “goodness” had irrevocably changed, could he not still aspire to it? It would take time, and deliberation. It would not be a pleasant or easy path to take. But, if he was to go on in this world, it was the path he knew he must take—the only one that he had ever seen.

     Earlier, that path had forked for a moment and driven him to his wits end. To uphold the law, which was good—or to repay his savior, which was also good—those had been the forks in the path, that the conflict which had nearly caused his own demise.

     But he had a little more understanding now of what goodness could be—just a little: a collection of shards to piece back together. Doing so would cause him pain, yes—confusion and doubt. But if he could reconstruct what goodness truly was—how one might attain it …

     If he strived for that, perhaps—just perhaps—he could be absolved.

     The law and morality were not necessarily the same things. He understood that now. He needed to learn exactly how they differed, and how to tell where that line was crossed.

     If he could do that …

     If a convict who had given up all hope in humanity and all goodwill could become a saint, could not a broken old policeman find a way to redeem himself? Make up for past transgressions, misunderstandings?

     Perhaps this was why the fates conspired to keep him alive.

     He contemplated his hand, eyes running along the creases and folds in his palm, traveling the length of his life-line.

     He had never really noticed how long it was. Not surprising, he supposed, as he hadn’t read the lines since he was a very young child. It was surprising, though, that he would recall such things. He had never believed in them.

     But it really did seem as though something were keeping him alive—as though fate had a hand in things. As though it were saving him for something.

     Maybe, he thought, as his eyes traced the line, maybe there was some way to …

     He let his lids droop shut with a sigh and sunk back into the pillows, crossing his arms over his stomach.

     Yes … Perhaps.

     He slept better that night.

***

Chapter Text

“He is a hard man who is only just, and a sad one who is only wise.”

-Voltaire

***

     Javert lay there listening to the songs of the birds outside the window, his eyes closed.

     It did not seem quite like morning—although the birds implied otherwise—for the rains, though lessening now to only occasional, light showers, continued to obscure the sun behind grey clouds, and so the day provided little extra light through the misted windowpanes.

     He heard the bedroom door open—carefully, slowly, as though the enterer did not wish to wake him should he still be asleep—and close with a barely perceptible click.

     There was no mystery in Javert’s mind as to who it was; Valjean had been the only one to check on him for all the days he’d spent in the house, and seemed to be the sole occupant.

     Presumably, that old woman at the flat had been his only servant, and he had judged it best to leave her to care for that girl. Javert could not say he blamed the man for giving his daughter priority over some pathetic, washed up excuse for a police agent with failing health and an ill humor—not to mention someone who had been his greatest antagonist through the years. Besides, the fewer people here to witness him in such a miserable, humiliating state, the better.

     He opened his eyes if only to show he was awake, but did not turn to look at him.

     “How are you feeling?” Valjean asked quietly, respectfully keeping his distance.

     “Better, I suppose,” he answered begrudgingly. There was little reason for him to spurn such a harmless question, even though he wanted to.

     “Your fever has gone down?”

     “Some.”

     “Ah, really. That is good.”

     Valjean cleared his throat, approaching the bed. “Er, Javert,” he began, a hint of trepidation in his voice, “A courier brought a letter for you, a few days ago. You were not well enough to read it, then, and I did not want to trouble you about it. But I thought you would want it now.” He glanced away. “I do not know how they knew where to send it—that you would be here—but …”

     Javert took the paper from him with some perplexion, breaking the red wax and unfolding it curiously.

     “I’ll …” Valjean stepped quietly back towards the door. “I’ll let you read it in private.”

     The letter was stamped with the official seal and forwarded by “Du bureau du Préfet de la Police”.

     Javert cringed at the sight of it, a chill passing through him, but forced himself to continue.

     “First Class Inspector Javert,” it read in the Prefect’s flawless penmanship, “It seems to me that I may have underestimated the amount of mental duress you are under at present.

     When you came into my office earlier and asked to be dismissed, I was, needless to say, quite shocked to hear such a thing from you, and perhaps did not take the matter as seriously as I should have. I really did think you were being unnecessarily harsh with yourself concerning the issue which you brought to me—it seemed a petty thing (if I judge your character correctly), certainly not something one should be discharged for, especially in these trying times—and I thought setting you straight on it and asking you to retain your position was the right course of action. It appears, however, I may have been mistaken in that.

     If you truly are so conflicted on the matter—or, perhaps, have something else troubling you that you do not wish to disclose and which prevents you from carrying out your duties—I shall not stand in the way of your resignation. Be that as it may, I will not dismiss you. Given your past service and your record of accomplishments, you assuredly do not deserve such a dishonor, and I shall not bring myself to do it; I do not care what you say to try and damn yourself in my eyes. You are one of the top agents in the prefecture, your diligence and dedication to the post far outclasses that of many others, and you have keen senses when it comes to all sorts of criminal goings on. Indeed, this is a perilous time—the aftermath of an insurrection, made only worse by the chaos of this cholera epidemic—and the city needs all the capable men it can afford.

     That said, I do urge you to reconsider your stance on this. Your fellows may not act like it, but it would be a blow to the prefecture and to the city to lose you from the police. I may be able to replace your post, but it is not the same as being able to replace you yourself.

     For the time being, I am granting you unpaid leave until such a time as you may deign to return, and I have given your assignments to Mullins. Please contact me directly with any further correspondences; I don’t want you relaying letters to me indirectly through the stations again.

     It is my hope that you will be well again shortly.

     De bonne foi,

     –Henri Gisquet”

     He stared at the letter long after he had finished reading it, his brow furrowed. Finally he let out a sigh and folded it up, setting it beside him on the sheets.

     He did not know what to do.

     To be dismissed—as he should be—was one thing … but to willingly resign from the Police of his own accord? Could he do such a thing?

     No, he supposed, he could not. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his superiors had expressed a desire for him to stay, and though it had not been an order, it felt like one—or, at least, an obligation.

     He could still hear Madeleine’s voice, telling him he would not be dismissed, telling him to go about his usual tasks, because he was needed. Javert had reluctantly accepted these duties, but insisted upon his dismissal all the same. Madeleine had brushed him off.

     No, he reminded himself, shaking his head, not Madeleine—Valjean.

     Madeleine had never been real.

     Or—no, he had, but—Madeleine … he did not exist any longer; there was only Jean Valjean. There had only ever been Jean Valjean.

     The man really did not take matters of dismissal and resignation very well, Javert thought to himself with a mournful smirk. Himself, Fauchelevent, the poor, the ignorant … even that wretched woman from the street—he simply refused to give up on people.

     Javert couldn’t entirely dismiss this predisposition as foolish, he supposed—given the outcome of the Fauchelevent affair, especially—but perhaps, in his own case, it had been … unnecessary.

     Still, he could not return to those thoughts, that yearning for the void—not now. They would see where Valjean’s choice had led them; he did not have it in him to undo it, at this point.

     But this brought him back around to his current conundrum—what was he to do?

     How was he supposed to resume his duties now, like this?

     Why did Gisquet even think it wise to keep him on after having seen the way he’d behaved the other night?

     It had not been hard to ignore Madeleine's wishes of his further employment, considering their relationship, and how Javert had viewed him. But to ignore the earnest entreaties of Gisquet, a man he looked up to, respected not just as a superior but as a person … No, he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He couldn’t disregard the Prefect of Police when the Police was his lifeblood, all he had ever known.

     Yet how could he go back to his post, now? How could he don those clothes again, and go out into the public as a representative of something he was no longer even sure of?

     He ruminated despondently on this.

     Some time later, Valjean appeared in the doorway. He carried a tea-tray, so his entrance was functional—yet he paused at the threshold.

     “What … What was it about? That letter.”

     Javert turned to regard him.

     The expression on the man’s face belied the fact that he was trying to suppress a great deal of unease. Surely he had noticed the official seal on the letter, and worried for his security.

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him, knitting his brow. “It had nothing to do with you. Why do you doubt me still?”

     Valjean opened his mouth to say something, closed it, looked away.

     Was that guilt in his eyes, Javert wondered?

     “I don’t,” he said quietly, not meeting his gaze. “At least, I don’t want to. I don’t think I need to.” His voice lowered, hard to hear now. “It wouldn’t … It wouldn’t even matter, anyway; I would not resist you if you were to arrest me. I told you before: I am your willing prisoner, if you should decree it so. Though I do not think you shall,” he added, “—not now. I trust you; I do. But I just …” He shivered. “That is just the way of me now,” he breathed—sadly, as though to himself. “I am afraid. I have always been so, so afraid.”

     Javert studied his face with intrigue.

     What was this feeling, rising in his breast? Was this empathy? What this was that felt like?

     “You needn’t be,” he said, trying to soften to roughness of his usual tone, and failing miserably. “Not of me.”

     Valjean stared down at the tray he was carrying, his eyes distant, brow furrowed. He let out a deep breath in what might have been a sigh of relief. Or, perhaps, Javert thought, something more melancholy. He looked back up at him, his face solemn, serious.

     “Thank you,” he said.

     Javert could only hold his gaze for a moment before turning away.

     He stared at the window, silent, but it was not the outside he was seeing.

     “Why do you give in so easily?” he breathed. “Why do you not resist arrest, when you have so much to lose?”

     The other man was quiet for a moment. “Because you are not wrong. The law does call for my arrest; I cannot fault it that.”

     “But why, why not resist? You have the strength to outmatch even a group of officers.”

     “It …” He sounded remorseful. “It is not in my nature, Javert.”

     Those words pierced something inside of him, drew blood.

     “No,” he murmured to himself, “I suppose it isn’t.”

     Wordlessly, Valjean set down the tea-tray on the bedside table and pulled up a chair, pouring tea out into the delicate porcelain cups, wreathed with painted flowers in pinks and purples and greens. Javert recognized them after a moment as thistles.

     It seemed strange to see such large and weathered hands grasp such fragile things as teacups. They should be clumsy, Javert thought; those hands were powerful and built for laboring, not refinement. They were a stark contrast against the intricate floral designs and elegant styling.

     Valjean finished pouring the second cup and handed it to Javert, not meeting his eyes, and Javert took it from him without looking.

     The inspector remained quiet for a long time. He stared down at his own reflection in the cup of tea in his hands. “Your face, before … Don’t look at me like that,” he said, turning to gaze at the sheets. “I’m no Judas. I told you—you have nothing to fear from me. And I meant it. When have I ever lied to you?”

     Valjean stared at him blankly before his eyes drifted up and to the side, quirking an eyebrow. He began to count upon his fingers.

     Javert flushed, both with indignity that Valjean should treat his word so lightly, and in horrified self-consciousness as he realized that he had, in fact, lied to him on many occasions—although perhaps not intentionally at the time.

     He recalled his various mistruths as Valjean tapped the tips of his fingers: ‘I will wait for you here’, ‘No, I’m not still thinking of killing myself’, ‘I am going to the station house’ …

     “Oh, stop that, will you!” he finally exclaimed. “I’m being serious!”

     Valjean broke count and looked back at him with a mischievous grin.

     It was the first of such expressions he had ever worn in front of him, and the sight of it warmed his face. There was a playfulness, an honest happiness and amusement within that look, and Javert was not quite sure he had ever seen such a thing directed specifically at him before.

     He wanted to hate the way the man’s expression made him feel—like he’d suddenly walked into a ray of sunshine—but try as he might he could not. He growled his displeasure.

     “If I had it in me to arrest you, I would have done it that night,” he started again, thrusting his face in another direction. “But you know what I chose. You know I can’t bring you in.”

     Valjean studied him for a moment, considering his words, before bowing his head. “I suppose that is true.”

     “Do not doubt me again.”

     Valjean only stared down at his lap. He was quiet for a long time.

     “Javert,” he said finally, his voice hushed. “You once said you believed it was easy to be kind, and that it was hard to do what is just. But you were wrong; it is the other way around.” He let out a sigh. “I do not resist my own arrest, because it is just. I belong in the bagne, in the eyes of the law. This is not wrong. But it is not kind.”

     “You could have arrested me then, if you’d liked. You had every reason to. But you didn’t. You say it is easy to be kind; I say that it is not. I think you understand what I meant, now. And in not arresting me, you chose not the easy path, which was just—but the hard one, which was kind. That is what you have done, Javert: you have done me a kindness. And I know at what price it came. So I must thank you, Javert; truly. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

     Javert’s cheeks flushed. His lips drew down; he looked away. “I told you;” he muttered, not sure if what he was feeling was indignation or embarrassment, “I told you not to mention it. I told you gratitude would kill me. I told you—I never intended to let you go! It just … happened.”

     Valjean let out another sigh, this one longer than the first. “Javert, things like that don’t just happen.”

     “Stop it; stop this,” he breathed, grimacing.

     “Whether or not it was conscious, you made a decision to—”

     “I didn’t choose to do anything!” he snapped, whipping his head around to glare at him with blazing eyes. “I didn’t! I would never let a convict go free; I would never!”

     Valjean had given a start, backing into his chair with a jolt as though he’d been slapped.

     Javert stared at him, panting, trembling as the rage within him died down and sputtered out. He sat frozen, a feeling of guilt already growing in his gut at his words.

     Valjean had looked shocked, but there was no fear in his eyes, and—though shaking a little at first—he composed himself and leaned forwards in his chair, clasping his hands together in front of his chin and gazing at him intently.

     “Javert,” he said, “I hate to tell you this, but you are indeed the proud new owner of a conscience.” His expression was serious for a moment longer before dissolving into a few suppressed chuckles. “Well—I say proud, but …”

     Javert’s brow twitched, he clenched his fists in the sheets. “Don’t mock me!” he snarled.

     “I’m not mocking you, honestly!” Valjean laughed, “I’m trying to thank you! But you’re being far too humble to admit what you’ve done.”

     “I’m not being humble; I’m—” He faltered, gritting his teeth, his protestation petering off into a spout of grunts and growls.

     Valjean eventually managed to restrain his amusement, taking in a deep breath. “Listen,” he said, growing serious again, “I know it is not easy to admit what you have done—even to yourself—considering the way in which you’ve lived. I know the conflict it has caused you. And I am sorry for that. But it remains that you have done something good, Javert—something kind. And that took far more courage than what was merely just.”

     “I don’t think you’ve ever understood that until now. But I know that somewhere, somewhere inside of you, you know what you’ve done, and you know why. And I want to give that part of you my sincerest thanks. Scorn it all you like right now, but maybe one day you will understand the enormity of your gesture, and what it means to me.”

     He let out a breath and closed his eyes. “Now come, drink your tea; it’s going to go cold.”

     Javert was at a loss for words. He did not know what it was he felt, and he did not know how to express it.

     Had he really made a decision—as he rode in that fiacre, as he stood by that lamppost—to let Valjean go? Was this true?

     Yes, it was. He had admitted as much to himself on the bank of the Seine. He had not fully comprehended how it was he had come to decide it, but it had been done all the same.

     He had let a convict go free when they ought to have been arrested. Valjean wanted him to be proud of this?

     No, he thought to himself, it was not just any convict, however—it was Jean Valjean. And Jean Valjean was markedly different from the criminals he knew. Jean Valjean had saved his life. Valjean had saved his life, and, in turn, Javert had spared him arrest. This was a transaction of sorts—a debtor repaying a debt. It was good to repay debts.

     But the thing was—and he admitted this to himself—he didn’t have to repay that debt. Yet he had done so anyway. Had that taken courage? He didn’t know. He hadn’t felt anything like courage, or even certainty, then.

     He understood why Valjean should be grateful, but he hated the idea that he had done a criminal a favor—a favor which involved him spitting in the face of the law. And yet, the law was …

     He was not certain any longer whether or not it was wrong that he should have allowed Valjean to go free. He was uncertain of the justice of the law, and so he was uncertain of the justice in an act that opposed the law.

     Ugh, this damnable uncertainty! It vexed him to his core.

     Having nothing else to do, Javert gulped down the cup of tea that he’d been holding in his lap and set it back down on the saucer with a clatter.

     He gave a frustrated sigh and ran his hands over his face, grunting under his breath.

     How on earth was he supposed to go on like this, when he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore?

     He sat with his head in his hands, hunched over on the mattress.

     “You are troubled,” Valjean said quietly.

     Javert huffed. “They will not dismiss me from my duties,” he mumbled into his hands. “Not over a matter of indecision, anyway. They do not know the extent of it. But I cannot tell them.”

     “If they are willing to let this … situation go unquestioned, why do you still feel the need to resign?”

     “This isn’t about you,” he growled, glaring back at him. At the look on Valjean’s face, he begrudgingly softened his tone, glancing away. “At least, not entirely. It is true you are the cause for the state I find myself in, but …” He narrowed his eyes. “—it is not you who is entirely to blame.”

     “And the state you find yourself in is what, precisely?”

     “Uselessness!” he barked indignantly. “Wretchedness! Weakness! Indecision! I do not know how to do my job any longer!”

     “How to—?” Valjean looked bewildered, perplexed. “You are a police officer; your job is to protect the people!”

     “And was I not protecting the people when I called for your arrest in Montreuil-sur-Mer?” he sneered.

     Valjean faltered at that, flinching. He opened his mouth, but slowly closed it again, letting out a breath as he looked away. “That is true,” he said quietly.

     “Then you see wherein the problem resides,” Javert told him. “I no longer have a way of gauging the justice of my actions. Barring this, how, then, can I act at all? It’s not as though I can go around assessing the moral character of every thief and brigand I find. I don’t have the time for such nonsense.”

     “Besides, a lawman that can be bargained with—that metes out mercy and is lenient in his application of the law—is not a man who is feared. And a lawman who is not feared is not respected. What good is a police officer who is not respected? What authority can he possess? He is useless—worse than useless—he is worthless.”

     Valjean surveyed him sadly. “You are not worthless.”

     “I am to the police,” he scoffed.

     “No, you aren’t. Did your superior not say that he preferred to have men that doubted themselves over men who followed orders blindly?”

     Javert narrowed his eyes at that and turned away.

     “Furthermore, justice is better upheld when one takes the context of things into consideration. For example,” he sighed, “that poor woman.” He grew downcast, his eyes losing focus. “Fantine.”

     Javert looked back up at him. “Who?”

     Indignation filled Valjean’s face. His voice became terrible, and there was something of a thunderstorm in his features. “The woman that you killed, Javert!”

     He bore the brunt of this blow as he had when the mayor had ordered him to leave the room so many years prior: like a Russian soldier, unflinching, merely stiffening. Only this time, there was a trembling in his eyes as he was thrust back to that time which had gone so long without recall, forced to reassess his own actions from this new perspective he had gained.

     ‘You have killed that woman!’ he could hear him say, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief in the darkness.

     “You remember her; I know you do,” Valjean seethed. “I know you remember that night. When you dragged me from the hospital. When a good woman died for nothing—nothing but your pride. Look upon it with fresh eyes, Javert. You did not care then. You did not care about context. You did not care that she had been forced into that life to support her child. That it was that aristocrat who dealt the first blow, and she had only fought to preserve her dignity. That there were witnesses who could attest to this.”

     “No,” he fumed, “you did not see the possibility of a struggling mother, of an honest, sickly woman in need of help; you saw only a whore, a sinful creature of the night. And what charges were brought against the man who’d tormented her? None. The wretch walked free. You did not see his cruelty beneath his finery. You saw only what you wanted to see—because it was simple, because it was easy. You saw only a harlot that had marred the face of a bourgeois, and you did not care that her child would die because you sentenced her to prison.”

     Javert thought he saw in the man’s features not Jean Valjean, but Madeleine—the mayor, his superior—returned from the grave to rebuke him once more for his actions.

     He had come to understand, at the river, that Madeleine had always been Jean Valjean all along, and not just some disguise—but it was with a sudden start that he realized that Madeleine still lived inside this man—nay, that he was this man, and this man was he.

     Madeleine had never died. Here he stood before him at this very instant.

     A sudden nausea gripped him at this revelation.

     “It was only my intercession in the matter that spared her that indecency;” Valjean continued, “but that too was soon negated.” He threw up his hands. “And the way you treated her, in her final moments! There was no reason for that kind of callousness! She died because of you! A child endured another year of abuse—of starvation and brutality—because of you! She grew up without a mother, because of you. Lost her only family. Because you did not care for context! Well,” he said venomously, “you seem to care for it now.”

     Javert shuddered beneath him, the corners of his mouth drawn down, his face in shadow. He grimaced. Bit his lip.

     Valjean stared down at him for a minute or so before he let out a sigh, his features softening, anger melting away into melancholy.

     He studied Javert, how he had tensed and curled within himself.

     “Forgive me,” Valjean said, his voice hushed now. “I should not have been so harsh with you. I had meant only to …” He let out another sigh and shook his head. “That did not go where I intended it to go. What I meant to do was to show how important it is to put more than just the law into consideration. Because true justice is sometimes different than it appears to be at first. Now that you are able to put things into more than one perspective, I should think you’ve actually become more valuable to the police, not less.”

     Still, Javert was silent, lost in thought.

     Madeleine was alive. Madeleine stood here before him.

     And yet this man was more than Madeleine, he was so much more, so many other men: a tree pruner from Faverolles, a thief, a convict, a galley-slave. A hardened criminal, beastly and powerful—an upstanding citizen, protector of the weak and the forgotten. It seemed impossible to reconcile these things as making up a single being. Surely they contradicted one another. It was hard for him to understand, but perhaps this man was indeed all of these things at once—an angelic demon, a saint capable of devilry, a man who had done bad things and was yet good in spite of it.

     Valjean was staring at him, he finally noticed, with a guilty look on his face. “I … Javert, please; I am sorry. Truly. You did not mean for her to die. I know that.”

     They remained motionless, heads hung.

     “It is true that I was callous,” Javert finally said under his breath. “I was angry with you. For having duped me, for having lied and pretended for so long. For making me look like a fool. And then, that you should have pardoned me, for something which you had every reason to condemn me for, and yet something on which I was not wrong to begin with … It felt like I was being mocked, somehow. I let that resentment skew my handling of things; I let something which ought to have been professional become personal. I acted with undue aggression.”

     He was quiet for a moment, lost in memory. “I did not intend for her to die. But at the time, I did not care. She meant nothing to me; I had my sights set on you. That you were asking to retrieve her child … It was mere stalling, a plan to escape—that is what I believed. And even if I’d thought you were pleading in earnest, that you would make good on your word, it did not matter to me. I felt no compassion for that woman or her plight. I did not even consider the child. No, I had no proof that there even was a child to begin with.”

     “And that you would act as though you had a right to make requests of me, as though you were yet that mask you wore—I had thought it to be a mask, anyway,” he grumbled to himself, “—it repelled me; it made me laugh. That a convict had been appointed mayor, that a prostitute was treated like royalty by him … I was sickened by the entire affair. That I had allowed these things to come about beneath my watch.”

     His face was stony. “I should not have been the one to arrest you,” he said. “The matter was too personal; someone else ought to have been charged with the task. But they did not know that; they did not know the extent of my contempt—and I had been the one to implicate you in the first place, so they gave the order to me. And I leapt on it.”

     The inspector let out a sigh, the tension leaving his muscles. “That girl, at your flat. Cosette,” he murmured. “She is the daughter, isn’t she. She is that woman’s child.”

     “Her name was Fantine,” Valjean breathed.

     Javert paused. “She is Fantine’s child.”

     “Yes.”

     Javert considered this solemnly. “I thought so.” He closed his eyes. “I had heard there was a young girl traveling with you, after you escaped from Toulon. I knew it must have been her. That you had taken her from that inn in Montfermeil. But I had not quite expected that you …” He reopened his eyes and sat staring out the window at the treetops, dusky grey beneath the clouded sky. “I was surprised, that you had kept her. That you had raised her. I had thought she was a sort of prop, at first—another part of your disguise. I had expected you to give her away, eventually. I did not expect that you would … love her.”

     Valjean’s voice was reflective, distant. “Neither did I. At first, I had intended to take her to a nunnery, where she would be safe. But then I saw her, and I rescued her from that horrible place, and she called me ‘papa’. And I … felt something I had never felt before. An entirely new sensation awoke within me, when I looked at her. I knew I needed to protect her. I knew I could never let her go.”

     “The papers,” Javert recalled, “they said Fantine was your lover. I did not know why you would bother to fetch the child of a dead woman who had no family. So I assumed …”

     Valjean’s face went blank. “What?” His cheeks filled with color. “Mon Dieu, non; we were never—”

     “I see that now,” Javert said. “When I asked the girl why she called you ‘father’, I had half expected … But ah, no. You are not at all related to her, are you?”

     “No.”

     Javert was gazing off, wistful. “You continue to find ways to surprise me, Jean Valjean.”

     Valjean contemplated this. “I will take that as a compliment,” he said.

     “You know, Javert,” he began again after a moment, “You say you don’t know, anymore, what is just. That you are incapable of telling right from wrong, of cruelty from kindness. But I think on some level you do; you do know. If you didn’t, you would not have done what you did. And you would not be concerned over the issues. In fact, I would say your worry over whether or not you will do the right thing is precisely what indicates that you already know what it is.”

     Javert gave a start; he sat in bed, wondering, his elbows resting on his crossed legs, his head bowed. He furrowed his brow.

     “We shall see.”

***

Chapter Text

“Few things can help an individual more than to place responsibility on him, and to let him know that you trust him.”

-Booker T. Washington

***

     It was around nine or ten at night, he figured—judging by the time elapsed since sunset—when Javert found himself sleepless.

     He had, in the past few days, found himself perfectly capable of getting up and walking around by himself again, although he only attempted these exercises during the times he thought Valjean to be away. His head still buzzed a little, his thoughts muddled, but his fever had almost completely disappeared, and now the breeze wafting through the open windows and rustling the linen curtains actually imparted a certain amount of lasting coolness to his flesh.

     He rose and ventured out into the hall to relieve himself, perhaps more out of restlessness than actual necessity. Afterwards, to his own surprise, he found himself continuing down the hall towards the stairs instead of returning to his room, the wooden floorboards cool beneath his bare feet.

     Moonlight illuminated the interior of the house, and everything was hushed and quiet, save for the tentative chirping of crickets outside the windows every now and again.

     The third stair he placed his weight on gave a little creak, and he eased up off of it, cautiously readjusting his footfall so as not to make a noise as he descended further into the house.

     He didn’t know quite what it was that he was doing; he had not planned to go out. But then again, he hadn’t seen the rest of the house the entire time he’d been here, and he didn’t even know where it was Valjean slept, so perhaps after all of this he had grown a little curious—if, for nothing else, on account of boredom.

     A few steps from the bottom of the stairs he halted, caught off guard.

     There, sitting on the floor and leaned back against the wall by the stairs was Valjean, his arms folded, his head bent, a book lying face down over his lap. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell steadily, his breaths as silent as the first winter’s snow.

     Javert gave a start at the sight of him.

     What was Valjean doing down here?

     Was he …?

     Had he been keeping watch, all this time? Been sleeping on the floor beside the stairs, so as to catch him if he tried to leave without his knowledge?

     Was this why Valjean had inexplicably been able to follow him to the Prefecture building, despite the late hour of the night and complete lack of warning?

     Javert stared down at him with wide eyes, gripping the banister tightly. There was something about the scene which inspired a sort of fearfulness in his heart, and he nearly trembled.

     Slowly, carefully, he backed away, up the stairs, down the hallway, into his bedroom.

***

     In the morning, Valjean awoke under a blanket he could not remember putting on, and he sat blinking and groggy, staring at it in confusion.

     Honestly unsure as to how it had gotten there, he did not make any mention of this to his guest.

***

     Towards evening, there came a knocking at the door.

     Valjean gave a start. He had not expected anyone, and for a moment his old instincts rose in him: the sudden terror and conviction that he was being hunted, the urge to flee.

     But against these things he steeled himself, and, resolved that it was surely nothing, he approached the door, undoing the latch and opening the locks.

     Before he had time to process the identity of the two people at his doorstep, his daughter flung herself at him.

     “Papa!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him.

     He stumbled back in surprise, managing to retain his balance, finding himself suddenly enveloped by ruffles and lace and perfume.

     Blinking, he put his arms around her in turn.

     He had not embraced Cosette since before he had left for the barricades, and with a rush the emotions he had felt over her during that time, and the night after, came flooding back. He clutched her tightly, squeezing his eyes closed and committing to memory once more the sensation of being embraced by his daughter, the thing he treasured most in the world. Earlier, in that hell of blood and gunshots, death and muck, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever have the fortune to feel this again, to be able to hold her in his arms. And then, when Javert had come upon him—when he’d told the fiacre driver to go to Rue de l’Homme Armé—Valjean had believed it would be the last time he would ever see Cosette.

     In one quick motion he placed a kiss on the side of her brow as he drew back.

     “Papa,” she repeated, clasping her hands behind her back and bouncing lightly where she stood, as though anxious. “You left so suddenly, and without saying goodbye! Ah, I know you did it out of the goodness of your heart, but you could have at least come to visit. It is not as though the flat is that far away. And you have still not told me where you went those few nights past! What were you doing? Why did you leave, when the streets were so unsafe?”

     “Oh, my dear,” he sighed, “I cannot tell you; I am sorry. Perhaps one day. But not now.”

     She folded her arms across her chest with a harrumph, stamping her foot. “I was deathly worried about you, you know! And so was Toussaint! You did not even bother to tell the porter where you were going. It was all very naughty of you! Pray you will not do it again.”

     “I shan’t, trust me,” he said, scrunching up his face. “If I had my way I should never have to do any of that ever again.”

     “What on earth were you up to, monsieur?” Toussaint asked, closing the door behind her and readjusting the way she held the covered basket in her arms. “You make it sound rather perilous.”

     “Not now, Toussaint,” Valjean pleaded.

     “If you insist.”

     “Ma chère,” he said, turning back to Cosette in perplexion, “what are you doing here?”

     “Why, I came to visit you, of course! It has been more than a week, and you haven’t sent any word since that letter! You must be so tired of it, cooped up in here by yourself!”

     “I am not entirely alone, Cosette,” he said, glancing back warily at the stairs.

     “I know that, but he is sick, and you have no one to cook or clean for you! So I spoke with Toussaint and we decided to bring you some things and make you a proper supper!”

     “Ah, I see,” he said, recalling the old woman’s heavy-laden basket.

     “How is he, papa? The inspector. Has he gotten any better?”

     “Yes, I think—I think he is recovering, albeit slowly.”

     She lowered her voice, speaking close to his ear. “You said he was … not in his right mind, no?”

     Valjean grimaced, knitting his brow and glancing away. “Er—well, that is true. But he has come around a little since then. Though it has not been easy for either of us.”

     “That is sad. May I see him?”

     He looked up at her with trepidation. “See him?” He swallowed. “I suppose so. But one must be careful around him. Do not ask him too many questions about what has happened. He has only just recovered, and I think it may be unwise, to stress him with any further inquiries about it.”

     “That’s all right. I’ll be gentle with him, papa. I promise.”

     He sighed. “As long as you are careful. Here,” he said, nodding towards the stairs, “He is in Toussaint’s room. But let me speak with him first, will you?”

     Valjean climbed the stairs alone and carefully turned the knob, standing in the doorway humbly.

     “Er, Javert,” he began, “My, uh …” He wet his lips nervously. “Cosette decided to pay a visit. She asked to see you. To know that you were well. And she insists on us having a proper supper.”

     “What?” Javert exclaimed, sitting up rigidly in bed. “Oh—” He muttered something beneath his breath, glancing away. “Christ.” He groaned, touching his forehead. “Very well, then,” he sighed in defeat, “I suppose I haven’t a choice in the matter, have I?”

     “Well, one could attempt to dissuade her, but it probably wouldn’t … Ah, no; I do not think so.”

     “Mm. Wonderful. At the very least, will you—could you stall her for awhile? If I must be seen like this, I’d prefer to have a moment to collect myself, if you will.”

     “Of course; of course. Do you want me to bring you a wash basin?”

     Javert gave another sigh, rubbing his face. “That would be helpful.”

     Valjean complied, and Javert set to making himself a fraction more presentable.

     A number of minutes later Valjean knocked on the door and entered at his invitation.

     Javert eyed the shaving kit he held in his hands questioningly.

     “I thought you might … It has been some time, and I thought perhaps you might want to make use of this again,” Valjean said. “That is not to insinuate anything, mind you; I do not mean to say you look unkempt, per se, but I— Ah, you know what I mean.”

     He held the kit out to him.

     Javert hesitated, looking up at him. He searched his face for a moment before taking it, bowing his head without breaking his gaze.

     Valjean waited for him to finish out in the hall.

     When the man finally exited the bedroom, Valjean drew in a breath, his eyes lighting up.

     Javert had tied his now neatly-combed hair with a blue ribbon—Valjean knew not where he’d gotten it; likely he’d found it laying around in Toussaint’s room—and shaved the stubble from his face, neatly trimming his side whiskers.

     Though his head was bent, he stood straight, and despite the circles around his eyes and slight gauntness to his face, his skin was no longer discolored by fever, and he looked almost healthy again. Once more he’d had to borrow from Valjean’s wardrobe, wearing black trousers and the white linen shirt of before, this time with a white damask waistcoat and a black tailcoat, a dark grey cravat at his neck.

     Valjean was struck by the sight of him so formally composed.

     He was not sure he had ever seen the man dressed so sharply before, and it lent him an air of refinement that he had otherwise never given off. This was unexpected, and Valjean was caught off guard.

     It was a stark contrast to his appearance the past week, or even the past years.

     For most of the times Valjean had encountered him, Javert had been cocooned in the stuffy and faded wool folds of his greatcoat, chin withdrawn into his collar, face hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He had always appeared guarded and withdrawn, shielded from the rest of the world by the sheer amount of layers he wore and the distance he seemed to cultivate.

     To look at Javert as he normally presented himself in public, the first word that would come to one’s mind would be “gruff”, but all of a sudden the man seemed rather elegant, and, gazing upon him, Valjean felt something flutter beneath his breast.

     When Javert turned to look at him, all he could think of was how the blue of the ribbon brought out the blue of the man’s eyes, and he had never quite noticed how striking they were.

     Fierce and predatory, cunning, yes—they had always been these things, but there was something else about them which he now noticed, and he couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was something in the way they caught one’s attention, the way their gaze had the power to imprison.

     The man had never looked upon him with fondness, and Valjean wondered suddenly what it would be like, how it would feel, to receive warmth from those cold and piercing blue eyes.

     “What?” Javert said finally.

     With a start Valjean realized he’d been staring at him for what had been perhaps quite some time.

     “N-nothing,” he said, turning a shade of pink. “It is just—you look …” He swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. “—good. You look good, Javert. I mean—” he hastily corrected himself, flustered, “that is to say, you look well.”

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him. “Right,” he said after a moment, heading down the stairs. “Let us hope it is enough to quell your daughter’s worries. I don’t think either of us could survive another round of her questioning. The less concern I incite in her the better.”

     “That is certainly true,” Valjean heard himself say, following him downstairs as he tried to whisk away whatever it was that had come over him.

     “Monsieur Inspector!” Cosette exclaimed as Javert entered the dining room, where Toussaint was already busy arranging place settings on the table. She looked nearly as surprised at the man’s appearance as her father had been. “Oh, you have come to join us after all! I was unsure you would have recovered enough to do so. But you look much better than I had expected!”

     Javert merely grunted in response to this.

     “Father only said that you were ill, so I did not know to what extent, but I thought—what with how long you were bedridden—that it must have been serious. But you are feeling better now, monsieur?”

     “I suppose.”

     “That is good. Toussaint and I made stew with all sorts of vegetables and things to improve one’s health, and baked some fresh loaves of bread. I hope you find it to your liking. Was papa the one cooking for you while you were here? What was it like? At the convent, it was the sisters that prepared our meals, and then, after we left, we had Toussaint for that, so I have never actually tried his cooking. How was it?”

     “It was …” He scrunched up his face. “—not bad.”

     “Did he burn anything? Add too many spices or some such?”

     “Not that I could tell. Although, I cannot say I was paying attention to those things.”

     “Hm. You know, now that I think on it, he never watches us in the kitchen. I wonder where papa learned to cook.”

     “It was probably in Montreuil,” he mused to himself absentmindedly.

     The color drained all at once from Valjean’s face.

     Cosette’s expression went blank. “Eh?”

     “In—” The man gave a start, obviously remembering himself and their situation. He cleared his throat. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

     She cocked her head at him, raising an eyebrow. “Monsieur Javert, how long have you known papa?”

     “Cosette!” Valjean interrupted, “What did I tell you earlier? Let the inspector alone. He is not well enough to put up with your prying.”

     The girl huffed, let out a defeated sigh. “Very well. But I do not see why the two of you must be so secretive about yourselves!”

     “Listen to your father, child,” Toussaint advised sagely, without looking up from her work. “He has always made decisions in your best interest, so I trust he has a good reason to hold his tongue. Even saints have a right to their secrets.”

     Valjean blinked. “I— Yes; thank you, Toussaint.”

     Cosette let out another frustrated puff of air, crossing her arms and dipping her head. “All right, all right. I am sorry, papa. Monsieur Javert. I will not ask of your history again. But pray, you will tell it to me one day, won’t you?”

     The two men exchanged wary glances, narrowing their eyes at one another for a brief moment before looking in the opposite direction.

     Cosette frowned at them. “Very well, then. Keep your secrets. I am used to having things kept from me, I suppose.”

     The corner of Valjean’s lips drew down at this.

     “Why do you not all sit down while I begin serving the food?” Toussaint suggested.

     They complied, Valjean sitting at the head of the table, Cosette next to him on the side, and Javert in the middle chair on the opposite side, distancing himself from them out of what was probably a mixture of respect and nerves. Facing away a little, his arm was slung over the back of the chair and his gaze was on the wall. Valjean noted his estrangement, but said nothing.

     “So monsieur Javert, what exactly is it that inspectors do?” Cosette asked as Toussaint began pouring out drinks. “I must confess I do not really know the particulars of the occupation.”

     The man glanced at her before averting his gaze again. “We inspect,” he said, taking the cup of milk from the old woman’s hands without looking.

     Cosette’s lips curled up in a cat’s grin that was poorly hidden as she bit back a giggle. “Oh, really? I could not have guessed. And what is it you inspect?”

     “Reports of theft and vandalism, assault, disturbances … You know the sort of thing,” he said as Toussaint placed down platters and bowls of food in the center of the table. “That is the base of it—the problems that plague the streets as a whole. Then the more tedious work: the checking of shipment lists and imported goods, the routine inspections of certain unseemly establishments that might pass along disease or some such. Patrols of frequently problematic neighborhoods.”

     “Sometimes there is other work, similar to what gendarmes do. Protecting the peace, settling disputes, escorting certain high profile individuals. And then, as a police agent, one often finds themselves playing the spy, or becoming embroiled in a lengthy game of cat-and-mouse.” He closed his eyes. “Catching criminals—forgers, murderers, pickpockets, the like. Foiling insurgents. Lastly there is the desk-work, the filling out of reports and filing away of information related to cases and the goings on of the prefecture. It is typically a thankless job,” he sighed, “But I’ve never minded that.”

     Valjean sat staring at him, eyebrows raised.

     The man had not sounded so composed for nearly a week. Perhaps exposure to outside influences was a better idea than he’d supposed.

     “What do they do, when people get sick?” Cosette continued. “Lawmen, I mean. You have been gone a little while, now.”

     “They shift the duties around to other officers, who likely are not pleased with the extra labor,” he said, rolling a soup spoon between his fingers absentmindedly. “Though Mullins seems the sort to want to prove himself, if that comes as any comfort.”

     “When do you think you will be well enough to resume your work?” she asked.

     He paused. “Soon,” he said.

     Valjean searched his face. Javert didn’t seem to be lying, though he might not be the best judge of the man’s internal workings.

     “Oh, that’s wonderful!” Cosette exclaimed. “It pleases me to hear you’ve recovered that much. I was worried for you.”

     “Mm. It seems I have caused a great deal of people to worry over me as of late,” he muttered, his eyes flashing towards Valjean for a second. His voice was flat, with a grain of salt. “I shall endeavor not to do so again in the future.”

     Toussaint ladled out soup into heavy ceramic bowls and put one down on Valjean’s plate. “You have been awfully quiet so far, monsieur,” she said, pausing to look at him before drawing her hand away.

     Valjean gave a small start. “I had not noticed.”

     “Are you feeling well?” she asked.

     “Me? I suppose I—” His gaze strayed from her back to Javert, and rested on him for a moment meaningfully before landing finally on the tabletop. “I am quite well, now, I should think. Quite.”

     When he looked back up he found Javert narrowing his eyes at him, his brow furrowed. The moment their gazes locked Javert turned away again, fiddling with the edge of his napkin.

     As they took to eating, Valjean and he were relatively quiet, only speaking when spoken to, and never to each other. Cosette talked of the things that had passed while Valjean was away, and Valjean listened to her, hearing not her words so much as the simple sound of her voice, young and sweet, sounding to him as music sounded to others. He gazed at her fondly, a vague smile on his lips, not quite focused.

     While recounting the past week, she inevitably came to his letter, and, remembering its contents, grew energetic, her words tumbling over themselves in their rush to escape her lips. She questioned and scolded and praised her father—sometimes all in one breath—over the matters of Marius and of his discovery of their love, and of their no longer needing to move to England.

     As she spoke of her beloved, Valjean could see, from the corner of his eye, Javert growing ever more perplexed.

     The man mouthed the boy’s name—once, twice, narrowing his eyes. He seemed to be trying to recall something. Finally his face lit up with realization, and his lips parted a little, tilting his head up as if to say, “Ah.” He then fell back to troubled contemplation, his eyes flicking about.

     Valjean, for his own part, said as little as possible on the subject of Marius, afraid to encourage Cosette’s anticipation. She still did not know what had become of the boy—that he had gone to the barricades and nearly died with his insurgent friends, that Valjean had dragged him through the sewers, that he lay now at his grandfather’s house suffering from a plethora of wounds from which he might not recover.

     Valjean was unsure if he was even still alive, though he could hope.

     But then, how sweet it might be if the boy did not survive! He would no longer be around to steal Cosette away from him, and they might continue on in this happy existence as loving daughter and doting father forever. No one could blame Valjean for the boy’s death, not even he himself, for he had done everything in his power to prevent it.

     To share the rest of his life with Cosette, to hear her singing in the mornings and be blessed with the touch of her smooth little white hand on his rough large one, and the peck of her lips on his cheeks … To walk again in the deserted fields and pick wildflowers, Cosette twisting them into crowns for herself and even for him, listening to the call of birds and soaking up the sunshine on their skin … No more of the Luxembourg garden, where he'd had to endure the sight of others gazing at her, perhaps inappropriately. They would only visit the forgotten places, where nature in its beauty had not been ravaged and cultivated by man’s savage hand.

     Ah, that such a thing might be so!

     But all at once he grew again horrified at himself for the thought of it, for the idea that he could take joy in the death of an innocent youth who had never done him wrong.

     No, the boy ought to live. The boy ought to be able to see her again. They deserved their happiness. And Valjean—well, he would find something to do with himself. That his daughter’s life might be full of joy and light and love … That was all he really cared about.

     He sighed a little, having completely forgotten to listen to what she’d been saying, and only gazing at her morosely, unaware of himself.

     “Would you not say so, papa?” he heard her say.

     His head shot up. “Hm?”

     “That we might move back here within the next week.”

     “Oh! Oh, yes, I suppose that could be done.”

     “Maybe he will come to visit me again in the garden,” she mused to herself.

     “Who will, dear?”

     “Marius, papa!”

     Valjean gave a start at this.

     “Marius … in the garden,” he repeated dumbly.

     “Yes! That is where we met! Er—” A blush colored her powdered cheeks. “That is to say, we spoke to one another, through the fence.”

     He blinked, trying to picture what had been going on outside his knowledge. “Ah. Through the fence. Yes.”

     Javert snorted.

     “I have not seen him in quite some time,” Cosette continued, oblivious to this. “I fear he may have forgotten me.”

     “No one could ever forget you, Cosette. I am sure he is missing you dearly,” Valjean said. “Now come, will you not eat your food? You have barely touched it.”

     She gave a little sigh and swirled her spoon in the bowl of stew, her chin resting on the palm of her hand.

     “I hope he is well,” she murmured.

     Neither man spoke a word.

***

     After dinner was over, and Toussaint and Cosette had set to clearing away the dishes and washing them in the kitchen, Javert beckoned him into the front hallway with the wag of his finger.

     Bemused, Valjean approached him.

     “That is why you were at the barricades that night,” Javert accused.

     “Hm?”

     “Marius. That boy. The Pontmercy boy. You knew he’d gone there, didn’t you? You went to preserve him for your daughter, because she is in love with him. The reason for your presence there had nothing to do with politics, did it?”

     Valjean frowned at him. “What, did you think I’d gone there to overthrow the government?”

     “I suppose I didn’t know why you were there, honestly,” he said, looking away. “There were insurgents there; insurgents are criminals. You yourself are a criminal. It made some amount of sense. And it’s not as though the government has ever done you any good.”

     Valjean narrowed his eyes, cocking his head. “That may have some grain of truth in it, but do you truly believe I would throw away my life for a fool’s promise of a revolution? There was little to no chance at its success.”

     “True! But at the time, I did not know you had anything to live for other than yourself.”

     Valjean eyed him, taking in a deep breath. “Well,” he said, letting it out, “you know better now, don’t you.”

     Javert only stared at him. He folded his arms with a huff, shutting his eyes and giving a begrudging nod.

     “Besides,” Valjean added, “I should think by now you would understand that I am not a man of violence.”

     “You carried a musket,” Javert said, raising an eyebrow at him.

     “That I used it to harm anyone does not necessarily follow.”

     “Yes, sure!” he sneered, “‘Savior of the barricade’.”

     “I did not earn the trust of that young man by bloodshed.”

     “Oh? Then how came you by that uniform?”

     Valjean blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

     “The clothes you wore that night. They belonged to a member of the National Guard.”

     He furrowed his brow, not entirely following his drift. “They did.”

     “Yes, and what became of that man, hm? Do you expect me to believe he willingly stripped himself down to his undergarments at your behest? That there was no violence involved in your procural of that uniform?”

     “You misunderstand; I never—”

     “What became of him, Valjean? Where is the Guardsman to whom that uniform belonged?”

     Valjean frowned, his eyes hard. He straightened himself, tilting up his chin. “That Guardsman stands before you now, Javert.”

     The firm expression of conviction fled the man’s face. “What? What say you?”

     “The uniform and the arms belonged to me; I did not steal them off of anyone.”

     “You are …” He seemed taken aback. “You are telling me you are member of the National Guard?”

     “Yes.”

     “But how? Why?”

     “There was a census, last year, if you recall,” Valjean explained, throwing up a palm in gesticulation. “My being obliged to respond, and being noted as a resident of Paris in good standing … it would have been suspicious of me to refuse service. And I did not mind it so much. I only had to perform duties perhaps three or four times a year.”

     “But you … How old are you?” Javert asked. “The cut-off age for compulsory service is sixty. You are older than that. You are sixty three years of age, are you not?”

     “I am. But they did not know my true age. I could have gotten out of it if I’d wished, but when one is attempting to hide one’s identity, it is advisable not to disclose the real year of one's birth.”

     Javert only stared dumbly at him. He opened his mouth as if to make some rebuttal, but promptly shut it again, thrusting his face in another direction. “I see how things are, then,” he finally huffed.

     “Good.”

     “Still,” Javert said after a moment, “your efforts to save the boy were in vain, it seems.”

     Valjean started. “Why do you say that? Do you know something I do not?”

     “What? He was dead when you brought him to the house.”

     “He was still breathing, Javert. Even you must have seen that.”

     “That means nothing. Did you not look at him? He was a corpse. That the corpse yet breathed, that does not mean a thing.”

     “There is a chance,” Valjean said, resolute.

     “I doubt that very much. When I said there would be a funeral there, I was not exaggerating.”

     “We will see.”

     Javert leaned against the opposite wall. “It has been more than a week. The boy is probably already dead.”

     “You are an awful pessimist.”

     “I am realist.”

     “You are a pessimist who is so pessimistic that he thinks himself a realist.”

     Javert knit his brow. He glanced at the wall. “Hm,” was all he said.

     After a moment his lip twisted up in a smirk. “I see you hired a provincial as your servant,” he said. “‘Birds of a feather’ and all that.” His voice lowered thoughtfully. “You’ve lost your accent, though.”

     Valjean felt a slight, unexpected pang of sadness at that. “Yes,” he murmured to himself, “I’m sure I have.”

     “In Montreuil, no one could place where you—”

     Javert stopped short when Cosette poked her head out into the hall.

     “Papa, Toussaint and I are going to go now,” she said. “Are you sure you would not like for her to stay with you? I know how to take care of myself.”

     “No, no, she should remain with you,” Valjean insisted. “I know how to take care of myself also. And I have far fewer needs than you.”

     “What is that supposed to mean?”

     He shrugged. “I am a simple man; I can get by with very little help. Now run along home, my sweet, before the streets get too dark. Nights are not always friendly towards beautiful women wandering alone.”

     “Worry not, monsieur,” Toussaint assured him, appearing behind Cosette and carrying the basket she had brought, filled with the now empty dishes from supper, “I will take good care of her.”

     “It is not the will which I worry is lacking,” Valjean said.

     “If some no-good night-prowler approaches us I will club him over the head with this,” the old woman said, gesturing to her basket, heavy with tableware, “and he shall not know what hit him.”

     “Toussaint!” Cosette giggled.

     “Laugh if you will, mademoiselle. Old Toussaint knows a thing or two about what it means to be a woman in Paris.”

     “Oh? You shall have to tell me.”

     “Perhaps later,” she said, noticing the way Valjean was staring at her.

     “Alas, papa, we are leaving now,” Cosette told him, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Do come back to us soon. I miss you when you are away. And Inspector, I hope your health continues to improve. I shall feel safer on the streets knowing you are out there.”

     Javert seemed unsure how to respond.

     “Bonne nuit,” Toussaint said, nodding to the both of them and opening the door.

     When they had gone, the two men stood in silence.

     Javert had not moved from where he leaned against the wall, his arms still crossed over his chest, face downcast.

     “I think,” he said finally, “it would best for the both of us if I should leave tomorrow.”

     Valjean looked up at him, opening his mouth. Slowly he closed it, searching his face before glancing at the floor. “If that is what you wish.” He bit his lip, turning away and clutching his arm. “But, are you certain you will be …?”

     “I will be all right.”

     Valjean turned back to study him. “Javert, I—”

     “I cannot stay here forever,” Javert said, holding his gaze unflinchingly although bowing his head.

     “I know that,” Valjean conceded, “I just …”

     “I know I have not given you many reasons to trust me,” the man interrupted. “But sooner or later you are going to have to let me go.”

     Valjean was silent.

     Javert gave a frustrated sigh, tilting his head to the side. “If anything else, it would be … embarrassing, to go back on my word now. Cowardly. And you must concede that I do still have a certain level of self-respect.”

     “I must confess,” Valjean said, “you have always used the words ‘self-respect’ rather strangely, Javert.”

     “I am sure that you know what I mean in this particular instance.”

     “I do,” he admitted.

     “Begrudge me a little understanding, then.”

     “I just … worry for you. That is all.”

     “Yes, well, I am beginning to suspect nothing I can say or do will change that.”

     “Say that you will not harm yourself—ever, ever again. Say that if you should return to this dark place in your mind, you will come to me first, before anything else. Say that you will try, Javert. And mean it.”

     The man grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face from him. “I will try.”

     Valjean slowly bowed his head. “Dieu, I pray so.”

     The air was quiet for a moment.

     “What are you going to do, when you leave?” Valjean asked. “Will you return to your job as an inspector?”

     The man slowly dipped his head in a grave nod.

     “And that will not perturb you?”

     “It may. But those issues that might perturb me are issues which need to be addressed, if I am to find any kind of resolution. And anyway,” he said, glancing away, “that is not the point.”

     “What is the point?”

     Javert looked up at him for a moment, blinking. “The point is that the prefecture has expressed need of me, and … I do not know any other life.”

     Valjean pondered this. “I see.”

     “Would you prefer I resign?”

     Valjean could not be sure of the man’s tone, but he doubted he was seriously considering his opinion on the matter.

     “No, no—quite the opposite, in fact. I think it is good for you, to go back to what you know. It is just that returning to that particular occupation may be a double-edged sword. It may cause you just as much turmoil as comfort.”

     “That is a risk I am willing to gamble on, if only for a little normalcy.”

     “Mm. Perhaps it is for the best.”

     Javert roused himself from where he had been slouched against the wall. “In any case, I shan’t trouble you any further.”

     “Trouble?” Valjean echoed in surprise, letting his arms fall limply to his side. “You have not been troubling me.”

     A snort issued from Javert’s nostrils, his lips curling back into a scowling smirk as he headed towards the stairs. “Please.”

     “Truly!” Valjean insisted, following him with concern. “You have not! Is that what you believe? That I have just been doing this out of a sense of obligation? That I have been waiting to be rid of you all this time? Do you really think after all of this that I would not—”

     “I don’t want to hear it,” Javert grunted.

     Valjean stopped halfway up the stairs. “But you must know it isn’t true,” he said sadly.

     Javert paused with his hand on the doorknob of the bedroom, glancing off for a moment, head drooping. “Goodnight, Valjean,” he said.

     And then he was gone.

***

Chapter Text

“If you do not understand my silence, you will not understand my words.”

-Unknown

***

     “Where exactly is it you are supposed to be sleeping?”

     Valjean gave a start, flailing for a split-second as the gruff voice jolted him back to consciousness. He looked up in a panic to find Javert standing over him.

     The man was dressed in his usual attire once more: a white blouse under a plain grey waistcoat, and a black stock collar. Over all this hung his long blue tailcoat trimmed with shining silver embroidery, the double rows of silver buttons spanning the width of his chest. Matching blue trousers disappeared into black Wellington style boots. He held his greatcoat draped over his arm, along with his thick leather belt, fixed with his sword and other accouterments.

     “Certainly not here on the floor,” Javert said.

     Valjean blinked, feeling cornered and vulnerable. “I—er … You will have to forgive me; I fell asleep last night reading a book.”

     “Mm. A book.”

     “Yes.”

     “On the floor.”

     “Well—sometimes, when you’re reading something good, you get wrapped up in the story so much that you no longer notice the time, or what you’re doing. You know how it is.”

     “I would not know how it is, no. But that is well. You may have your books. Only, tell me, where is it you actually live in this house? I count the bedroom you had me in—which, by its sparsity and hair-ribbands and half-finished needlework I found in the dresser must belong to your servant—and then, the second room, which is obviously your daughter’s, if the lace and ruffles and vanity are any indication. So tell me—as I only count two bedrooms, neither of them being yours—where exactly is it that you sleep?”

     Valjean stared up at him open-mouthed. “In a separate building. In the back.”

     “Ah. I do recall your daughter remarking upon that, yes.”

     “It is quieter there,” Valjean added, trying to rationalize his choices.

     “Strange habits you keep. Though perhaps not so strange for someone who’s used to avoiding the law.”

     “That may factor into it, yes,” Valjean admitted, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. He looked up at Javert considerately. “Would you … join me for breakfast? A proper breakfast, this time—at a table.”

     The man stared at him for a moment in silence. “I suppose,” he finally sighed, turning his face away condescendingly.

***

     “Do you cook very often?” Valjean asked, kneading out dough on the counter with flour dusted hands.

     Javert found himself surprised at how easily they seemed to fall into casual conversation. He supposed it was to be expected; they couldn’t talk about the uncomfortable particulars of their situation all the time. It would drive them both insane. And then, they still had some measure of civility, the two of them, and yet abided by such social constructs as meaningless, formal chatter. Still, the ease with which they spoke was perhaps a sign that he had been spending too much time with the man.

     “Not particularly,” he answered, staring through the kitchen window into the messy garden out front. He wondered why on earth no one had bothered to trim it properly.

     “Neither do I,” Valjean said. “Though I find it to be a pleasant sort of labor.”

     Javert picked at the cracks in the windowsill, his finger tracing the grain of the wood. “How so?”

     “The act of creation, I think, provides by default a measure of gratification. And then,” he scoffed to himself, “you get to eat the results. Come,” he said, pulling a couple glass jars from the cabinets, “Do you want peaches or raspberry preserves on yours?”

     Javert glanced back at him, his brow twitching.

     Why was the man acting like they were friends? They were not friends. This was not permanent.

     Still, he could not help his mouth from watering at the thought of peaches. How the oven’s heat would only further bring out their tangy sweetness. He did not, as a matter of fact, happen to have much fruit in his diet (though this was more due to financial restrictions than taste), and what he did permit himself was only what was necessary to ward off maladies of malnutrition.

     He could hear Cosette’s voice asking him how her father’s cooking was. The truth was, it was much heartier and savory than what he was accustomed to having, and though he didn’t like the idea of taking anything from the man’s hands, he couldn’t rightly scorn it.

     “The former,” he said begrudgingly, clawing at the cuff of his coat.

     “Do you prefer them?”

     “Eh?”

     “Peaches.”

     “I … suppose so. I am more partial to sweet things than bitter.”

     “Ah. And what is your favorite fruit, would you say?”

     “Favorite? I don’t know;” he exclaimed, frustrated, “I haven’t had many.”

     “Haven’t had many?” Valjean repeated, raising his eyebrows. He let out a chuckle. “And how old are you?”

     Javert merely stared at him. “I’m not giving you that information.”

     Valjean frowned. “I wasn’t really asking in earnest, though now you’ve made me curious. But fine. Don’t tell me. I assume you’re in your fifties, though.”

     “You would be correct in that assumption,” he remarked carelessly.

     “Early fifties, or later?”

     Javert clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes and letting out an agitated sigh. “Eleven,” he said.

     “Pardon?”

     “You are eleven years older than me. If that matters to you, for some reason.”

     “Ah. So that would make you …”

     “Fifty-two,” Javert said. “Are you that bad at sums? You were born in sixty-nine, the same as Bonaparte. I was born in seventeen-eighty. You are eleven years my senior. I do not know why you care.”

     “I don’t know,” remarked Valjean wistfully, glancing back at him as he was dividing the dough into sections and patting them into balls. “I find it interesting.”

     “Why?”

     “Because we have lived very different lives, and … I wonder, I suppose, what it would have been like had we met as younger men.”

     “We did meet as younger men.”

     Valjean gave a twitch at that, his countenance darkening. His eyes flicked to and fro as a shadow fell over his face. He turned around so that his back was facing him. “Javert,” he said carefully, hanging his head, “I do not remember you from that time. The first memory I have of you is from Montreuil.”

     Javert cocked his head ever so slightly, his brow furrowing. “Is that so,” he murmured, searching the man’s demeanor.

     “You must understand,” Valjean said, his voice lowering as he gripped the edges of the countertop, “The guards … you didn’t see them as people. They were the cudgel strikes in the dark, the all-seeing eyes, the voices shouting in your ear. They were the lick of the lash on your back, biting into your flesh, and the dogs nipping at your heels. Blue phantoms at the edge of your vision. They had no faces. They were ghosts.” He was silent for a moment. “I don’t remember you,” he said again. “I don’t remember any of them. The only thing that I remember is the wounds.”

     Javert studied him. The way the man had stopped what he was doing, the way his muscles had tensed, his shoulders drooped. The way his flour-dusted hands were gripping the counter far tighter than was necessary.

     “I see,” was all he could think to say.

     Valjean gave a small sigh. “I didn’t mean bring that up. I would rather those things be left where they belong, in the past.”

     “Mm.”

     Eventually Valjean resumed his work, rolling out the rest of the balls of dough and cutting them into squares. But there was little ease in his actions, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere. At one point, he stopped what he was doing and clutched at his shoulder as if it were bothering him, his fingers scrunching up the fabric of his shirt. He turned away, pressing the limb close to his body as though he meant to hide the action from him.

     “Would you put some water on to boil?” he asked quietly.

     Javert roused himself from the wall and complied wordlessly, casting glances back at him every so often.

     Valjean did not notice him stealing these glances; he seemed to be trying to refocus himself on his work, his expression bunched and strained as he knifed out dollops of fruit preserves onto the squares of dough and folded their corners inwards over them.

     Javert only watched him silently, unsure what other emotion exactly the intrigue he felt was tinged with.

     “What do you want?” he asked.

     As he was putting the baking sheet into the oven, Valjean turned to look back at him over his shoulder with a blank expression. “Hm?”

     “You asked me to boil water. I assume it’s either for coffee or tea. What do you want?”

     “O-oh,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “Yes, well, which would you like?”

     “You’ve been plying me with tea for a week and half,” Javert sighed, folding his arms across his chest, “So if it’s all the same to you …”

     “Coffee, then,” Valjean said. “Though I am afraid I don’t have any milk to go with it at present.”

     Javert let out a singular and foul sort of laugh, which turned to noiseless chuckles. “You clearly do not drink it very often, if that is cause for concern.”

     Valjean looked at him for a second in surprise before the corner of his lips began to twist up in a hesitant smirk. “Ah, no; not really. Cosette likes it, though. But she always puts milk in it. And sugar.”

     “Hmph. Young girls do often seem to be fond of overly sweet things, yes.”

     “I thought you preferred sweet things to bitter?”

     “I also prefer convenience and the prudence of frugality,” he said, searching the cupboards.

     “I see,” said Valjean. “It’s in the rightmost one, I think,” he added.

     “Mm.”

     “Javert—” Valjean began, pausing in the middle of toweling off the flour from his hands with a kitchen cloth. He seemed to have lost his train of thought and come upon an entirely new one, for his mouth stayed open for a moment before saying, “You know, it occurs to me that we have only ever been on the basis of last names for nearly thirty years now. What is your Christian name?”

     Javert stopped, his arm halfway into the cupboard, and turned to look at him. He narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing. 

     “You do have one, don’t you?”

     “If you’re asking if I have a name other than ‘Javert’, then yes; I do.”

     Valjean stared at him promptingly, leaning over and propping his chin up on the counter. “And it would be …?”

     “None of your business.”

     He blinked. “Ah.”

     “If you must know,” Javert informed him with a grain of salt in his tone, “I dislike it. So forgive me if I fail to see what good it does me to give others the opportunity to address me as something I do not wish to be called.”

     Valjean readjusted the way his chin rested in his palm. “Hm. It is not quite fair, though, as you already know mine.”

     “I don’t see how it matters, considering it is also your surname. ‘Jean Valjean’,” he huffed with a hint of a smirk, “brother to Jeanne Valjean, son of Jean Valjean, married to Jeanne Valjean. Your parents were not exactly creative. Furthermore, it is a silly name, to begin with.”

     Valjean had a far off, melancholy sort of look to his eyes. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “if you love something, you give it a part of yourself. I don’t think that’s silly; no, not in the least.”

     Javert had no retort for that.

***

     Valjean sat staring at the place settings—the coffee service and the china plates of tarts—feeling the familiar strangeness and strange familiarity of the other man’s presence.

     “What?” Javert demanded from the opposite side of the table.

     Valjean let out a soft chuckle, knitting his brow. “It is just … I never in my life would have expected I’d be sharing a table with you. And I must admit, it feels rather queer.”

     Javert’s mouth screwed up. “I think if either of us has reason to be surprised by this turn of events, it should be me. Though, I did not exactly ask to be dragged here.”

     “No,” Valjean conceded quietly. “But …” He gave a sigh, knitting his hands, his thumbs beneath his chin. “Javert,” he said carefully, “do you think that, if things had gone differently in Montreuil—if you had not suspected me, if we had not quarreled thusly—do you think that perhaps we … might have become …” His words trailed off into silence, and he sat gazing with a melancholy wistfulness at the thistle patterning wreathing his plate.

     “Become what?” Javert asked gruffly.

     “Become …” He let out another sigh, deeper, defeated. “Never mind. It would have been improbable, anyway. Forget I said anything.”

     “All right.” There was a bite to the man’s tone, and suspicion in the way his eyebrow rose at the utterance.

     Valjean fell to taking mouthfuls of raspberry tarts and coffee, if only to make the silence less questionable.

     Javert stared at him for a moment, his arms folded, before following suit.

     “Your daughter asked me how your cooking was,” he said after a few minutes.

     Valjean blinked, looked up at him.

     “It is not terrible,” Javert admitted, “I will give you that. Far better than what I would have expected from a convict. Tell me,” he mused, “was I right, before?”

     “About what?”

     “That you learned to cook in Montreuil.”

     “Er, well, relearned, really,” Valjean responded, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away. “It was not as though the practice was entirely foreign to me. But it had been nineteen years, and I did end up having to teach myself some things after I got out, yes.”

     His eyes drifted over the shining silver carafe and its accompanying set, considering them for awhile.

     “I had never really had much more than the bare necessities in the way of foodstuffs in my life, hitherto that. And when I finally came into a bit of money, I have to admit, I did spoil myself in that regard for awhile. I hadn’t ever had any choice in the matter before. Suddenly I was actually able to eat whatever and whenever I pleased, and as much of it as I should desire. And … well. A significant amount of coin went into the pursuit of culinary experimentation. Barigoule, bacheofe, tartiflette … You name it, I probably tried to make it. ‘Tried’ being the, uh, operative word,” he chuckled. “I became more sensible in time. More frugal. Guilty, even. But in those first few months, you know.”

     He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes unfocused. “It was so remarkable, in the beginning—just to be able to eat until you were full. To be allowed such rich and hearty things. I had to force myself to wait, to allow things to cook thoroughly, to eat more slowly, so that I could actually savor them. You get so accustomed to leaping upon whatever scraps you’re presented with, you know, in the galleys—devouring them as quickly as possible. And you would never quite be able to sate your hunger. Not fully, not with the amount of labor you had to endure, not with what little food they actually …”

     He trailed off, realizing with a start that he had begun to regress into a mindset and a time he had not meant to revisit, especially considering his company. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said, his face growing hot as he turned it away.

     “Because I inquired on the subject,” Javert remarked with an apathetic shrug. He traced the rim of his metal coffee mug absentmindedly. “Don’t pretend I don’t know what it’s like,” he said after a moment. “—in the prisons, I mean. I was there. I am well aware of the state of things. It is regrettable, perhaps,” he muttered, “but there is little to be done about it. I could make a case to you as to why things are the way they are—allocation of funds, shipping requirements—but I do not feel like debating this with you, and I am sure you do not want to hear it. I will restrain myself to saying only that you ought not presume the men employed to manage such institutions are indifferent to their faults, or that they take joy out of the miserable conditions therein. It may not be abundantly evident, but the state does not, in fact, profit from the misery of its wards.”

     Valjean furrowed his brow, searching his face.

     “We were only men,” Javert added. “We ran the place as best we could, given the circumstances.” He frowned, shutting his eyes. “I shan’t speak any further on the matter.”

     Valjean was quiet for a long time. “Why did you become a guard?” he asked.

     “Why did you become a criminal?” Javert shot back.

     Valjean flinched. He narrowed his eyes. “Do you not know why I was impriso—”

     “Oh, spare me,” Javert cut him off. “I am not an idiot; yes, of course I read your file. I know the charges brought against you. I know why you were sentenced thusly. That you had a family, that you were poor laborers, peasants. There are only so many reasons a man has to steal a loaf of bread.”

     Valjean’s expression did not soften at this. “It was winter,” he said.

     Javert’s brow bunched. “What?”

     “It was winter, then. There was not any work to be had for a tree pruner, and—”

     “Don’t think I don’t understand why one would—”

     “No, I do not think you do understand, Javert. I do not think you understand at all. It was the dead of winter, and there had not been a fire in our hearth for days, and if it was just myself it would not have mattered, but there were—”

     “Yes, yes, you had a sister; I know. And her husband had died earlier that year, and she had—”

     “Do not speak to me of my sister,” Valjean said. His voice had dropped into a cold and even tone that threatened rage, and his brown eyes were bright and hard. “I will not hear it from your lips. I will not have you taint my family’s memory thusly. You know nothing of them. You know nothing of their suffering. Do not presume to tell me what it was that we endured.”

     “You are an unfeeling man, Javert. And you do not have a family. You would not understand. You haven’t felt what it is to be beseeched by the eyes of starving children. Children whose sole hope at life rests on your shoulders, when you yourself are well nigh powerless. You do not know the guilt and shame it is to be called upon for aid that you cannot provide. To be begged and pleaded with by your own flesh and blood to render that which you are incapable of rendering, despite your own desperation to do so. You think you know everything there is to know about me, Javert. But you know nothing. You have never known a single thing.”

     All the while he’d been speaking, Valjean’s countenance had harbored a terrible calm—an icy composure that masked a fiery resolve.

     And all the while, the veneer of authority and self-assurance had been draining from Javert’s face.

     Upon taking in the man’s expression, Valjean’s piercing gaze began to soften.

     Javert’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He had long since stopped blinking.

     Valjean opened his mouth a fraction of an inch. Shut it. He put his head in his hands. “I—” He let out an exasperated puff of breath. “I did not mean to—”

     “No,” Javert interrupted, his voice hushed—a husk of its former pitch. “You are right to say that of me. It is true. I do not know the things of which you speak. I would not understand. It is not my place to comment on them.” A shadow had fallen over his face.

     “Javert, I …”

     “This is why it is right that I should leave.”

     “What? That’s not—”

     “You have the audacity to claim I am not troubling you,” Javert said, scoffing humorlessly, “when you cannot go a single day without me reminding you of the darkness of your past.”

     Valjean’s mouth twitched, twisted. He had no counterargument to that. He bit the inside of his lip, furrowing his brow.

     There was a crestfallen triumph on Javert’s face. “You see?” he said. “Now do not make another argument that I should stay. Because we two, we are as different as night and day. As le soleil et la lune. Left caged together long enough and we will tear each other apart like dogs. And neither of us wants that, do we? Come, let’s be peaceable; let’s part ways in silence. Like good fellows.”

     Valjean gazed out at the swirling patterns in the wood of the table, unable to bring himself to look at the man’s face, filled with a torturous amount of emotion.

     “You know,” he finally said, looking up at him with a sad grin, “you really are beginning to sound like yourself again, Javert.”

     The man narrowed his eyes at him. “Is that meant to insult me?”

     Valjean paused for a moment. “No,” he said softly, dropping his gaze back to the table.

     “Hm.” Javert rubbed his chin pensively, staring at him. “Then,” he said with a sigh, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, “You will not argue with me when I leave.”

***

Chapter Text

“No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We must ourselves walk the path.”

-Buddha

***

     “Javert, wait!” Valjean sprang up from his chair in pursuit of him, all pretense of pride fleeing him in wake of his worry.

     Halfway into the hall, the man looked back at him. There was a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth, and agitation in his ice-blue eyes as he fixed his belt around his waist and thrust his arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat.

     “You can't just leave like this,” Valjean said.

     “Can’t I?”

     Valjean stared at him, mouth half open, unsure what to say to that. He hung his head, diverting his gaze. “I know that you must leave,” he said, his voice hushed, “I know that you cannot stay here, that it would be wrong to try to keep you here against your will. I know that. But you can’t just … Not like this.”

     “What is it that you want from me?” Javert demanded.

     “I want—” Valjean looked up at him, stopped himself.

     He really didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was that he felt a terrible ache in his chest, and that it would only deepen at the man’s passing.

     “I don’t know,” he admitted guiltily. “Please, Javert, I was harsh with you this morning and I did not mean to be. I do not want for us to part with animosity in our hearts. I only wanted to help you. And I … I am afraid for you, Javert. I am afraid for you.”

     The man stood gazing down at him with piercing, confounded eyes that searched and searched his face.

     Valjean swallowed, his throat going dry. “I—I know that this is the only way for you to regain control of things, but I just …” He grit his teeth, glancing away for a moment in conflict before grasping his courage and wrapping his arms around the man. He did not look up at him—could not look up at him—instead burying his face in the faded iron-grey wool at his chest. “Your life is invaluable,” he breathed, his words strained. “Please don’t make light of it; don’t take it for granted. You are a good man, capable of doing much good in this world. You are important. Do not forget that. Do not forget that you are loved.”

     The man had tensed in his grasp, leaning away from him, but not speaking.

     Valjean’s fingers twisted in the back of his coat. He was very nearly ashamed of the amount of overbearing worry he harbored for the man, but more than that he was terrified for him. He still felt as though there were a million things between them that needed to be said, but every conversation stung—and not because of hate, but because of pain. Perhaps the only way for them to heal was to let the wounds close, to keep away from one another.

     But Javert—how could Valjean ever be sure of him? The man had nothing and no one, and if he turned his back on him, and tried to go alone …

     “Please, Javert.” He squeezed him tightly. “Please promise you won’t ever harm yourself again. That you will come to me first. That you won’t go quietly into the night without so much as reaching for another’s hand. Please,” he begged, his voice breaking, “for the love of God; I couldn’t bear it.”

     He held him for a moment more before he felt two large hands grab hold of his shoulders. He allowed himself to be pushed away, to be held in a crushing grasp and scrutinized.

     It was not loathing on Javert’s face, but an angry sort of resolve, the corners of his mouth drawn tight, his brow creased. “Listen here,” he seethed, “I won’t.” His fingers dug into his flesh like talons. “I won’t, do you hear? But not because of you. Not because of you, or anyone. Because it is my choice.”

     Javert let him go with a shove, taking a step back as if to further drive him his point. “Now stop this,” he said, clenching his fists. “I want you to stop this. I am sick to death of your pity and your sentiments and your care. They are unnecessary. They rob me of my dignity. I tell you that I will carry on, I will muddle through somehow, and I want you to heed those words as law. Because they are law to me now. I made a choice, and I cannot go back on it. I cannot go back. Do you understand?”

     Valjean stood studying him. He slowly dipped his head, not breaking his gaze. “You told me not to doubt you again,” he said quietly, their eyes locked. “Give me reason not to.”

     “If you will but trust me to, I will give you every reason in the world.”

     They stared at one another, their eyes hard, and questioning, demanding.

     Valjean’s expression softened some. He extended his hand to him.

     Javert took one look at it and choked back a scoff, turning his face away. “Do you wish to test me; is that it?” he breathed. “Is that what you’re doing? To see how far you can bend me until I break?”

     Valjean’s frown deepened. Slowly, remorsefully, he lowered his hand, staring at him in silent entreaty.

     Javert glared at him. He clenched his teeth, scowling to himself, his eyes downcast, his nose creased like the muzzle of an angry dog.

     “Oh, very well then,” he spat out, begrudgingly extending his own leather-clad hand.

     Valjean took it, giving it a squeeze as he gently shook it, gazing into his eyes. He forced himself to allow the man’s fingers to slip through his, to let his arm fall back to his side, to stand motionless.

     Javert reached up to tip a hat that was not there, and growled inaudibly at the realization. He turned away, headed towards the door.

     Valjean could not prevent himself from clasping the man’s wrist as he crossed the threshold, his fingers just barely brushing against it. He gazed down sadly, ashamed of himself.

     He could not tell whether or not it was anger that caused the man to tremble so.

     He closed his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Javert.”

     Another tremor ran through the man’s shoulders, his spine, his wrist. He hung his head. “I will,” he breathed, and there was a hitch in his voice, and again Valjean could not tell if it was anger or something else.

     “À la prochaine,” Valjean said softly.

     “Adieu,” said Javert, taking back his hand.[1]

     Valjean watched him leave, standing in the doorway and having to draw on every last ounce of willpower not to go after him.

     When Javert got to the end of the pathway, he paused at the gate, his head still down. He turned it back a fraction of an inch.

     “Profitez de votre liberté,” he called back to him. Enjoy your freedom.[2]

     And then he was gone.

***

     It was strange to walk by himself once more in the light of day. Strange to hear the birds call in the trees above, and not to be watched by worrying eyes.

     The world seemed surreal to Javert. Almost dreamlike, he made his way back to his flat.

     The porter was overly inquisitive with him. She chided him as usual, for having left for so long without giving proper notice, for having caused her grief. He made excuses, half-witted lies about an investigation that got out of hand, and how he’d had to stay longer than he’d intended. He promised he’d pay the rent within the following day or two. This seemed to satisfy her.

     When he shut the door to his flat behind him, he paused motionless in the entryway, staring at the room the way in which one would study an intricate painting, finding unexpected meaning in the mundane.

     The clothes he had worn as a disguise at the barricades sat on the floor in the corner where he’d tossed them seemingly ages ago to await washing. A blanket sat folded on his bergère,[3] and his official briefing for the operation still lay, along with a newspaper and an empty mug, on the table beside it. The covers of his bed were undone from when he’d risen last, and a stack of books sat gathering dust on their shelf.

     The sight was familiar, and yet completely foreign to him. He had been gone for less than a fortnight, but it may as well have been decades. The room seemed haunted. He felt, as he entered, shucking his greatcoat off and hanging it on the hook by the door, that he was intruding upon someone else’s space. The space of a dead man.

     What would that man think of him?

     He didn’t want to contemplate it.

***

     Gisquet was eager to hear from him. Relieved, even.

     Javert had half-expected he would have to plead and supplicate to have his post back, but it was returned to him without question, without even debate. He didn’t understand how the man could so easily allow him back into the fold after his earlier display. Had he not seemed like a lunatic? If not, at least unfit for service in some capacity?

     “You have everything sorted, then?” the man had asked.

     “Yes.”

     “And you are certain? That you wish to continue your duties with the police?”

     “If you will have me.”

     “Very well.”

     “You do not harbor reservations about it?”

     “I told you,” Gisquet had said, busying himself with folding up a letter and stamping his official seal in wax on it, “I need you. You are good at what you do. I would like for you to return to your situation, so long as you are satisfied with it.”

     “I see.”

     Rather bewildered, but not ungrateful, Javert left it at that.

     He had been put on desk duty for the next few weeks, but that was entirely understandable, and he didn’t mind it in the least. He wasn’t sure he was ready to do field work again, anyway. Better to have some time to ease back into things. No doubt this had been Gisquet’s intent, and Javert was not surprised to find the man occasionally inquiring about him.

     His fellow officers welcomed him back quickly. They had, of course, no idea what had happened to him in the time he’d been absent.

     One of his subordinates, Leroux—an over-eager lad of barely twenty, with a fiery mop of hair and a dusting of freckles—seemed particularly concerned over him, and put forth a number of questions at his return.

     “Inspector! I heard you had fallen ill,” he said.

     “Did you, now?”

     “Yes, and I was beginning to grow worried. You have never been gone for quite so long before, sieur. Was it very serious?”

     “I suppose.”

     “Ah; I hope it was nothing catching. But you are better now?”

     Javert had only shrugged and given a vaguely affirmative grunt.

     “You do still seem a little—oh, je ne sais—different, somehow. Tired, perhaps. You ought to get more sleep, you know; you may not be entirely recovered just yet.”

     “Mm.”

     He fell back into his work naturally, the familiar routines and practices quieting a significant portion of the turbulence in his mind. It allowed him to forget things, for a time.

     When he tried to sleep, however, his thoughts drifted back, and he lay awake, restless, clawing at his bed sheets and tossing about. His solution was to work himself into exhaustion, so that by the time he finally made it into bed he was too tired to think, and fell asleep almost instantly.

***

     In two weeks’ time, Javert was back out on regular police business. Inspections. Investigations. Patrols. He was not sure how to feel about this. There was a subtle mire of uncertainty, of insecurity, that permeated his soul at all times, especially in regard to his duties.

     He looked at the wretches and malefactors of the streets, and his heart was lacking in conviction. Not so long ago he would have condemned them all equally. Now he wavered. The claws which were his hands no longer gripped their prey as tightly as they used to. At earnest pleading and tears, he could be seen to falter.

     Everywhere he went, he saw possibilities which he had not considered before—possibilities of which he had been aware, but not entertained. The pessimist became the realist.

     This did not go unnoticed by his colleagues. Mostly, it was the younger officers who remarked upon it behind his back.

     ‘He seems to be in a melancholy, wouldn’t you say?’

     ‘He hangs his head a little, now.’

     Javert pretended not to hear them.

     Only Leroux was bold enough to ask directly if something was troubling him.

     Javert did not know how to answer that. Being honest, as he was wont to be, he said only that it was none of his concern, and he could manage himself just fine, merci beaucoup.

     This did not appear to satisfy him, but Javert waved him away anyway.

     At the moment, he was conducting a patrol on the Quay du Tournelle.

     He paced along the water’s edge, hands folded behind his back.

     Glancing up, he noted the position of the sun.

     It was almost time for him to meet with another officer to conduct a routine inspection of the port, and after that, if things went smoothly, they would head back to the nearest station house to fill out their report and break for lunch.

     He withdrew his pocket watch and pressed the fob to open its face, only to find it no longer in working order, the hands stopped, droplets of condensation on the inside of the glass, obscuring its markings. His face grew hot at this sudden and unwelcome reminder of his plunge into the Seine, and he scowled as a growl rose in his throat, his grip on the watch tightening.

     In a fit of frustration he drew his arm back and made to throw the broken timepiece into the river, but his hand hovered in the air, trembled, lowering after a moment as the anger on his face melted into defeat.

     He leaned over the railing, letting out a sigh. The watch dangled from his fingers upon its silver chain, caught now and then by the light of the sun over the glittering water. He stared at its dewy face in melancholy reflection, swinging it in slow circles, his chin in his hand.

     Again he heard the voices of his past rise up from the depths; they echoed like ghosts in his mind, phantasms that blended into one another:

     ‘One would have to be a terrible man to do such a thing as lift a cart like that on his back.’

     ‘Monsieur Javert, I beseech your mercy. Don't put me in prison! You see, there is a little girl who will be turned out into the street!’

     ‘Monsieur le Maire, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities to dismiss me. I must be turned out. You were severe with me the other day, and unjustly. Be so today, with justice.’

     ‘Come, now! Why? I do not understand.’

     ‘Monsieur, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman, I was furious, and I informed against you.’

     ‘Informed against me! As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police?’

     ‘As an ex-convict.’

     ‘Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate your fault. You deserve promotion instead of degradation.’

     ‘Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of Sieur Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M., who, in this day's session of the court, was recognized as the liberated convict, Jean Valjean.’

     ‘Monsieur le Maire!’

     ‘There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!’

     ‘Do you think that I deserve a recompense?’

     ‘Certainly.’

     ‘Well, I request one.’

     ‘What is it?’

     ‘That I may blow that man's brains out.’

     ‘Take your revenge.’

     ‘You are free.’

     ‘It is well. Go upstairs. I will wait for you here.’

     Javert gave a low groan under his breath, rubbing his face, leaving it in his hands.

     ‘I will wait for you here.’

     He could still feel the gravity that had seemed to suck him downwards into the abyss as he stood upon the parapet that night. How still the air had been. The cold and midnight waters closing in all around him, stealing the air from his lungs.

     Javert found himself picturing what it must have looked like. Valjean diving in after him. Hauling him back up onto dry land. Exhausted, panicked. Desperate. Valjean’s mouth on his, trying to breathe the life back into him. Javert was no fool; he knew the significance of the ugly bruises that had formed on his chest in the days following. They were gone now, but he could still remember how sore he had been.

     He tried to rid himself of the images, but found that he could not.

     He felt again Valjean’s arms, his hands—around his wrist, his waist, the back of his head. The sobs wracking his frame.

     ‘Why couldn’t you let me die with my dignity?’

     He shuddered at the remembrance of the man’s lips on his brow.

     ‘I am sorry. But you must live, Javert. You must.’

     Opening his eyes, he finally let his hands slip from his face, gazing out over the river that had so nearly claimed his life. Sunlight reflected off of its waters, dancing and sparkling.

     He looked back at his watch. Back to the river. Back to the watch.

     ‘You must live.’

     Shutting its case, he shoved it back in his pocket and headed towards the port.

***

Footnotes

[1] While Valjean says the equivalent of “Until next time,” showing he would like (and expects) to see Javert in the future, Javert merely says “Go with god”: a phrase that is not taken lightly and indicates that the speaker doesn’t intend to see the other person ever again.

[2] While this is an approximate translation that better conveys the tone, what Javert is really saying is “Profit from your liberty.” This shows that he doesn’t care whether or not Valjean is happy because of his freedom, but rather, whether or not Valjean uses it to be of benefit somehow. It’s implied that he expects Valjean to continue being an upright person in return for his liberty.

[3] An enclosed armchair with upholstered seat, back, and armrests, but an exposed wooden frame.

***

Chapter Text

“Him that I love, I wish to be free—even from me.”

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

***

     Three weeks after Javert had returned to service, something strange occurred.

     “Javert, someone left a package for you at the station while you were away,” the desk Sergeant told him.

     Javert turned to look at him, furrowing his brow. “Hm?”

     A package? This was not a common occurrence. Letters and legal correspondences he received on a frequent basis, yes, but Javert could not think of a time when he had been sent anything beyond that.

     “A pretty girl dropped it off,” crooned one of the younger officers in the distance.

     “Ooh, Javert’s got an admirer,” cooed another.

     “Quit that,” the Sergeant shot back at them.

     “Oh, no, she was much too young for him,” the first lad continued. He wiggled an eyebrow. “Unless …”

     “Lefèvre! Must I ask again?” the Sergeant sighed, putting his head in his hand. “Ignore them. It’s on the desk there.”

     Javert turned to find a small grouping of things sitting on the writing desk which most definitely did not belong there.

     He inspected the package with equal parts suspicion and hesitation.

     It was a little thing, wrapped up in brown butcher’s paper and tied with a simple piece of string. Beside it sat a folded note and a single white carnation.[1]

     The front of the note said “Pour l'Inspecteur Javert de la police de Paris.”

     Glancing over his shoulder to reassure himself that the nosey young officers had been shooed from the room, he opened it.

     “To replace the one you lost,” it read. Signed only “-V”.

     He pulled the string loose and unwrapped the small bundle to reveal a tiny silver snuffbox in the shape of a compass, finely etched with details. There were already tobacco leaves inside it.

     He wrinkled his nose.

     Was this considered bribery? Possibly. But to what end? His continued silence? The man ought to know by now that he wasn’t going to implicate him.

     He closed the lid and brushed his thumb across it, considering the design for a moment before shoving the box into the breast-pocket of his greatcoat.

***

     A week and a half later, a letter appeared in the station house, again addressed to him.

     Javert stuffed it into his coat and opened it later, in the privacy of a small courtyard.

     Enclosed were two Louis d’or and a note.

     “I noticed you have had to go without a hat, of late,” it read. “You ought to buy another; it suits you. And Parisian summers are wont to make one wish for something to shade their eyes. Seeing as I am the reason you ended up losing your old one, it only seems right that I reimburse you for it.”

     Javert frowned. Part of him wanted to throw the coins back at the man’s feet and scorn his charity, but another part reasoned that it was rational for Valjean to owe him for the things he had lost.

     He grunted unhappily to himself, begrudgingly putting the coins in his purse.

***

     It was really more money than was strictly necessary for a top hat. Did Valjean expect him to waste that much coin on something that only needed to be functional?

     He bought one that was similar to his previous hat, thick and well-made and not the collapsible kind. Even though it was nothing extravagant, it did outshine, literally, the one he had lost, as he’d had it for so many years that it had become dull from sunlight and age quite some time ago. It had, in that respect, rather matched the rest of his ensemble. This new hat was far blacker than the faded iron-grey wool of his greatcoat, and it almost looked a bit silly, to wear them simultaneously.

     He certainly wasn’t about to buy a new coat, though. Firstly, they were an expense he would prefer to avoid if possible, and secondly, he was rather attached to his current one. It had been his primary defense against the elements for so long that he disliked the thought of wearing any other. In fact, he’d had that coat so long that he could not remember when exactly he’d even acquired it. Before Montreuil-sur-Mer, that was certain. He stitched the satin-lining when it needed mending, and despite numerous encounters with stoves and stray embers from fireplaces, its outside was still in remarkably good shape.

     Javert quit the hatter’s with a great deal of leftover change in his coin purse and a vague sense of satisfaction. He felt better with a top hat on his head. The weight was familiar, sheltering. It shaded his eyes from scrutiny and hid the ever-encroaching grey of his roots.

     He wondered if he shouldn’t use some of the excess coin to buy himself a decent supper for once. Surely the portress would not mind cooking up a bit of beef.

***

     It was late July, and Javert was troubled.

     He had not seen Valjean in more than a month.

     But it did not feel like a month. It felt like only yesterday.

     Everyone he spoke to, everywhere he went, everything he did, he felt watched. The hunter felt hunted. Whenever he was faced with some moral dilemma pertaining to his duties as an agent of the police, he heard the voice of Jean Valjean spouting some word of wisdom or warning.

     Were these things the man had actually said? Sometimes. Other times, they seemed to issue forth unbidden from the recesses of his mind, entirely on their own.

     Was this what having a conscience felt like? What this his conscience speaking to him, guising itself in the voice of he who had awakened it? Javert could not tell if the things he heard in his head were what he expected Valjean to say to him, or if they were things he was trying to tell himself. Who the counselor; who the counseled?

     They invaded his mind with maddening frequency. Always, he felt as though Valjean was just behind him, looking over his shoulder. He fancied that if he turned around fast enough he might be able to catch a glimpse of him.

     But there was never anyone there. Only himself, and his troubles.

***

     Another week, another letter. This was becoming distressing. The first parcel was perhaps acceptable in an annoyingly sentimental sort of way; the second agreeable only to the appeal of logic. This third one had a bothering effect upon Javert.

     He already had a suspicion as to the tone of the letter’s content before he opened it, and this was confirmed within the very first sentence.

     “This is going to sound odd,” it read, “but how much do manacles cost? Do they reimburse you for such things? What was that little piece of glass that you threw into the fire? I hope it was not anything important.”

     Javert growled under his breath, crumpling the note as his hand balled into a fist.

***

     “Stop. Sending me things. Through the station houses.”

     There was an unquestionable look of shock on Valjean’s face at finding the inspector on his doorstep. “Ah—Javert, you—”

     “You are trying to win me over with money.”

     The man blinked. “What?”

     “You keep sending letters with coins in them. It is bothering me. I dislike philanthropy.”

     Valjean looked partially offended and partially guilty. “That is not—”

     “It reeks of charity. That, or bribery. And I do not accept either.”

     “I wasn’t …” Valjean let out a frustrated sigh. “I was trying to repay you.”

     “You don’t owe me anything.” He himself was not sure if he had meant this to be a callous rebuke or an honest assurance. Perhaps both.

     Valjean averted his gaze, staring at the paving stones with a vaguely shamed expression.

     “What?” Javert demanded.

     “It was only …” His voice was low, his words mumbled. “I wanted to write to you.”

     Javert furrowed his brow, searching the man’s face. “Why?”

     Valjean squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head before looking back at him with a sad, lopsided smile. “You don’t really understand any of this, do you?”

     “I do not know what you mean.”

     Valjean’s face fell. “No, I suppose you would not.”

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him, trying to ascertain what the man was going on about.

     “Stop clogging up the prefecture’s postal system with personal correspondences,” he said. “It is making a fool of me, and people are asking questions.”

     Valjean shrugged. “Then give me your address,” he said simply.

     “That is not what I meant.”

     Valjean looked wounded. He opened his mouth to speak but slowly shut it again.

     “No,” Javert grumbled, glancing away, “I suppose that is what I meant.” He jabbed a finger at him. “But I don’t want you knowing where I sleep!”

     “Why? You ought to know by now I would never do you harm. Do you think I would show up there uninvited?”

     “Yes,” he said between his teeth. “Well,” he added, faltering, “—no.” He clutched his head. “I don’t know. But I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of it; do you understand?”

     The man looked a little disheartened. “Yes,” he sighed, “Begrudgingly so.”

     “Then you will not send anything further through the stations?”

     “No. Not if you wish it.”

     Javert wanted to say “good”, and yet the word would not pass his lips. The defeated expression on the man’s face caused him a pang of grief. He sought to find a way to express this strange turmoil, to resolve and expel it from his soul.

     “I don’t understand why you care,” he said after a moment, averting his gaze.

     Valjean looked up at him with curiosity and concern in his eyes.

     “I already told you,” Javert continued, “you do not have to fear for my life any longer. I am beyond that. Why does—” His expression twitched. “Why do you care what happens to me besides that?”

     Valjean’s brow furrowed greatly, his brown eyes staring into his in absolute perplexion, tinged with disbelief and something akin to horror. “Why would I …?” he repeated dumbly, trailing off. “Mon Dieu, man,” he exclaimed, throwing a hand up, “do you think I would just— Do you think I would not care for you? Do you think I would not worry? How is it you believe one can save another man’s life and then toss him away as though he meant nothing?”

     Javert scrunched up his face. “You are not ‘tossing me away’. I— What do you even mean by that? I never belonged to you to begin with!”

     Valjean drew back a little, his head receding towards his shoulders like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

     “All I am asking is for a little privacy, a little respect,” Javert muttered. “I do not see how that constitutes as you abandoning me, not that I would care if you did or not. I never asked you to worry over me, you know.”

     Valjean was beginning to look like a dog that had been struck. Had he a tail, it would have been between his legs. “I know that,” he managed to say, “but I just—”

     “But you cannot help yourself,” Javert concluded for him.

     “Truly, I cannot.”

     “Well try, would you?” he snarled. “I don’t find your constant reminders of our situation very pleasant.”

     “Javert, will you not—”

     “And furthermore, Monsieur Fauchelevent,” he said, “it may not have actually occurred to you, but perhaps I just want to be left alone, eh? Perhaps more than anything that is what I need.”

     Valjean cringed. “I had thought I’d been—”

     “No, you have not!” Javert’s words tumbled over one another in their haste so that they seemed to blend into one long, hissing utterance. “Sending me letters and packages and continuously invading my space with your sentiments does not in my mind constitute as ‘leaving me alone’! Now will you cease and desist from doing so? Do I have your word on it? Oui ou non?”

     “O-oui,” Valjean stammered, shrinking back from him with a look of remorse. “I told you, I will stop if you dislike it so.”

     “Well, then. I dislike it,” Javert said, readjusting his hat and turning to leave. “So.”

     Valjean’s voice sounded from behind him, hesitant. “Only … How am I to know you’re well?”

     Javert paused to look back at him over his shoulder. The expression on his face was something between severe agitation and vague consideration.

     “Trust,” he growled, tugging the brim of his hat over his eyes and stalking off.

     “Attends,” Valjean called out to him pleadingly. Wait.

     Again Javert paused, but this time he only turned his head back a fraction of an inch, not deigning to look at him directly. The muscles in his abdomen clenched. “I think you mean ‘attendez,’ monsieur.” This last word was spoken with particular venom.[2]

     “A-attendez,” Valjean said sheepishly, defeated.

     “What is it then? Speak.”

     “Will …” The man seemed to find some difficulty in forcing the words past his lips. “Will I see you again?”

     Javert was at a loss for what to say; for many moments he stood still, his mouth clamped shut, his face falling into shadow. “Do not count on it,” he finally said.

     And then he left.

***

     When he tried to sleep that night, Javert found himself plagued by something that strangely resembled guilt. He did not think he ought to feel remorse for what he’d said earlier, but then, what men are truly masters of their conscience? Agitated, he tossed and turned in the sheets, running over their conversations again and again in his mind.

     Valjean’s defeated expression haunted his thoughts, and he could not whisk away the memory of it no matter how hard he tried. And he tried very, very hard.

     ‘There was no need for that kind of callousness!’ the man’s voice echoed.

     Javert growled, his voice rising to a frenzied shout as he clawed at his scalp. “Get out of my head!”

***

     Valjean tried to wrap his head around what the man’s departure had made him feel.

     Worry, firstly. A terrible, anxious dread that permeated his heart and sat in his stomach like a stone. There was no way for him to be sure of Javert’s state of mind, no telling what he might do in his absence.

     Valjean had wanted the man to stay with him; it was the only way he could be certain of his safety—but he knew it was impossible. He knew Javert was right, that he needed to figure things out by himself, to reimmerse himself in the familiar routine of everyday life. It was the only way he would be able to feel normal. To regain his independence, and learn to live again: this was the final step of his recovery.

     It was necessary that Valjean should not be there. He would only remind the man of his follies and their uncomfortable past.

     Valjean understood this. And yet still he worried, could not help but worry. He wished Javert would remain at his side.

     Despite its awkwardness, Valjean missed his company. The house seemed a little emptier without him. Never before had he been able to speak so freely with another person of his feelings and his past. It had been oddly cathartic. Like a confession.

     Perhaps—though the man would probably never admit it—it had been cathartic for Javert as well?

     As far as Valjean knew, the inspector had little reason to hide his past or feel the need to confess anything, exactly, but then again Javert never seemed to speak to anyone about himself, and could probably benefit from some regular human interaction.

     It was clear to Valjean that both of them were sorely lacking in companionship. And if it wasn’t for their history and their current situation, the obvious solution would have been for them to fill the gaps in each other’s lives.

     But they were no strangers, and this was not to be. On account of the world around them, the two men were at odds with one another. Opposite hearts, on opposite sides of the law.

     In the eyes of the public, it would be wrong for Javert to associate with him. For a police officer and a wanted criminal to become friends. Even if they did not share a rocky past, the relationship would be tenuous and fragile at best, painful and self-destructive at worst.

     Valjean admitted these things to himself, and there seemed reason enough for any level-headed person to cut ties, and yet those reasons meant next to nothing to him.

     If he could only see the man safe, see him at peace with himself—happy, even—it would be worth anything and everything to him.

     And so he could not help but unconsciously seek him out, visiting the busy centers of activity in the city far more frequently than he ever had before. He left the house often enough to cause even his daughter and servant to remark upon it. They believed it was a sign that he was finally overcoming the shyness that was so typical of him.

     Hearing this caused him some amount of surprise. He had not noticed any change in himself or his behavior.

     Indeed, it was strange, but somehow he had gained a certain amount of self-confidence with the coming and going of the inspector. Suddenly it was Valjean who was buying ingredients from the market, or delivering payments on the house and the flats, and to her astonishment, Toussaint found herself quite unnecessary at times.

     And it was not as though he had been looking for Javert, but if Valjean happened to glimpse him across the crowd, he did not feel surprised, and he would stand and watch him from a distance for however long he could, silent and still.

     On very rare occasions, Javert would happen to glance in his direction as well, and their eyes would meet, and there would be a fluttering in Valjean’s chest, a sort of fearful yearning.

     Neither man dared approach one another. They merely stared at each other from across a sea of faces.

     It was always Javert who turned away first. He would tug down the brim of his top hat to shade his eyes, and stalk decidedly off in another direction with an agitated frown on his face.

     Valjean would watch him go, always, until Javert disappeared into the crowd. And he would gaze awhile at where he’d been, feeling hollow, before finally letting his eyes fall and turning to go.

***

     The events of early June seemed a dream to Javert now, surreal. He could barely concede that they had occurred.

     Should such things not have shattered him?

     Yet here he stood whole once more, going about his duties as usual.

     Had any of it truly happened, then? It did not feel like it.

     He could almost forget it all—but then there was Valjean, and sometimes he would see him in the street, and their eyes would meet, and he’d be forced to concede the reality of things, and he would grow red and hot and stalk off into the crowd, pretending he had not seen or recognized the face of a wanted convict, and—as an officer of the law—done nothing.

     To see Valjean was to admit to himself he had been broken, that he was but a man made of piecemeal fragments of his former self, cobbled together and affixed with a resolution that had never quite permeated his bones. It was to remember the crushing pain in his breast that was his half-formed conscience, and what calamity of the soul had brought it forth. To be forced back into that doubting and questioning state, unsure of himself, unsure of the world around him.

     Each time he saw Valjean, he found himself once more on the bank of the river, shivering in the darkness of the unknown, drawing back in horror at the strange and tender parts of himself he had hitherto not believed existed, and the terrifying expanse of grey that was his once-thought world of black and white. It was to revisit the abyss.

     In short, to glimpse the man was torture.

     And so perhaps he was not entirely to blame for avoiding him, for throwing himself into his work and pretending that nothing significant had come to pass.

     Presently, he was investigating the rumors of a smuggling operation.

     His inquiries had led him to an abandoned domicile near Place de la République. It had been a tenement at one point, but had long since closed its doors due to structural and health concerns. Of late, men had been seen to come and go in and out of it at night. There were always vagabonds and squatters to be found in the city, and this would not be anything remarkable, save for the fact that they came at regular intervals, always in similar numbers. They did not speak, and they carried small crates.

     Now, Javert did have a flair for the dramatic. He preferred to wait until his quarries had put themselves in the most incriminating situation possible before he arrested them. And he could have waited until nightfall to observe these operations himself. To call up some other officers and spring a trap on them. But Javert also liked to make as certain of his suspicions as possible before taking any action or inconveniencing other lawmen for what might not turn out to be anything at all. He harbored an intense dislike for the embarrassment of being proven wrong in front of his peers.

     And so, for all these reasons, and because he had a hunch that the building would be abandoned in the daylight, Javert chose instead to conduct a private investigation of the premises beforehand. His intentions were, if he found evidence of a smuggling operation, to leave it all as he had found it, sweep away any trace of his presence, and summon a few officers to lay in wait with him as the sun set.

     The entryway to this decrepit building was in what was essentially an alleyway, narrow and small and not well looked after. He looked about himself to assure that there were not any prying eyes around, and tried the door. It was, as he expected, solidly locked. However, this did not prove to be any hindrance to him, as he had brought a lock-pick’s kit along with him expressly for this purpose.

     Teasing the tumblers into place with his ear to the door and his eyes on the street, he managed to have it open in under a minute. Noting that its hinges had been recently greased so as to silence the entrance and exit of its traffic, Javert shut the door slowly, carefully, casting his gaze about in the darkness. There were no windows in the place save for the two on the upper stories, and those had obviously been boarded up to protect the glass. Therefore, no light permeated the building once the front door was closed.

     He gripped his cudgel tightly, pulling a lucifer match[3] from his pocket and striking it against the rough plaster wall. It burst into flame after the third try with a hiss and angry sparking. He slunk further down the hallway, took a half-burnt candle from its sconce and lit it, waving the match out and sticking it back in his pocket. He proceeded down the hall, back to the wall, shielding the candle’s brightness with his gloved hand.

     The first room he came to he entered, after pausing to listen by the doorway. There were no actual doors in this place save for the one that had been at the front—only empty frames.

     There was nothing in the room except a small table against the back wall that held a cast-iron candelabra.

     Beside it on the floor along this wall lay an ugly, matted rug, filthy with dirt and debris.

     Javert found it odd that there should be a table and a rug in a place so lacking of furniture and basic furnishings that it didn’t even have doors. He narrowed his eyes, glanced behind him for good measure, and nudged the rug aside to reveal a trap door.

     The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. He knelt, setting the candle down and undoing the metal latch on the door. It creaked softly as it was opened.

     It was impossible to discern what lay beneath due to the lack of light. However, he could smell the scent of freshly turned earth wafting up from below, and that was an anomaly in the cellar of a building that had been so long abandoned. No doubt there was a recently dug tunnel within, leading further into the ground.

     Javert shoved one arm into this hole as far as it would reach, holding out the burning candle to illuminate the cellar’s depths. In its flickering light he could perceive a great many large crates stacked up against the wall, alongside numerous, fat barrels. These barrels had taps on them, and one of the crates had been opened to reveal empty bottles.

     All the markers of a very profitable and very illegal wine smuggling operation.

     One doesn’t get taxed on business the government does not know one transacts. Nor, for that matter, are they inspected for health hazards or proper working regulations.

     His lips drew back to expose his teeth and gums in a savage grin, the like of which a wolf bears when it corners its prey. He sat back.

     All of a sudden he felt the shifting of air on the back of his neck, a keening of his senses, and he whirled around just in time to see the flash of a knife come within inches of his face.

     He had put an arm up to swipe the offending wielder’s wrist out of range, but, to his bewilderment, this proved unnecessary, as something else had gotten to his attacker first.

     The man gave a strangled cry as another, burlier man dragged him back into the shadows. They grappled with one another, the first received a blow to his stomach, the second a slash across the face. The burlier man grabbed the other’s arm and twisted it, causing him to drop the knife, which clattered on the wooden floorboards. He thrust the attacker face first against a support beam, using his weight to keep him pinned there.

     This man, Javert’s savior, turned to look back at him.

     “Here; restrain him, will you?” he panted.

     It was Jean Valjean.

     Javert gave a frightful start at the sight of him.

     “You! What are you doing here?” he exclaimed.

     “Not important. Get out your manacles, quickly!”

     Growling, Javert leapt up and drew the restraints in question from the pocket of his greatcoat, latching them around the offender's wrist with a click and effectively binding him to the post.

     “Into the hall,” Javert demanded, glaring at Valjean with a baneful grimace.

     Baffled, the man complied.

     Javert promptly thrust him up against the wall by the front of his shirt. “How long have you been following me?” he hissed.

     He noticed a thin red line across the man’s right cheek, a drop of blood trickling towards his chin.

     Valjean seemed taken off guard by the amount of hostility he had encountered. “I just happened to see you pass by, and I thought— You seemed to be on an investigation of sorts, and I was merely curious, that’s all.”

     “Curious? Since when does what I do interest you?”

     “Since always! Javert, I do not understand why you take such offense to this; I wasn’t spying on you. If I hadn’t come along, you might have been—”

     “I would have been fine!” he countered, bristling. “How do you expect I’ve been doing my job for the past thirty years if I didn’t know how to handle myself? I didn’t need your help! And I don’t need you looking after me like I’m some sort of pathetic infant!”

     Valjean’s brow knit. “I was only trying to—”

    “One of these days someone in the prefecture is going to recognize you, and you will regret ever having pulled me from the river.”

     The man’s eyes shone with a stony resolution. “I will never regret that.”

     Javert growled at him. “I am getting sick of you playing the hero for me. And quit following me around! I do not know if you do it intentionally or if we both have extraordinarily bad timing, but I’ve seen you staring at me across the street and I am telling you it is getting very, very bothersome. Do you intend to torment me for the rest of my life? Is that why you’re doing this?”

     “Javert, I don’t—I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m not trying to torment you.” He bent his head a little. “I just … worry for you, sometimes.”

     The man’s thin lips drew back in a toothy scowl. “Don’t. I do not need to be worried over.”

     “You say that, but—”

     “But nothing! I do not need you. I do not need your concern. I don’t want to see your face everywhere I go! You think you are being kind, being compassionate somehow by reminding me you exist, but you are wrong! Every moment spent in your presence, in thought of you, is agony for me, do you not understand that? I am trying to forget you.”

     Valjean gave a start, going limp in his grasp. At that moment it seemed a spark had been snuffed in him; he stared out at the floor with eyes that seemed suddenly dull. “Oh.” His voice was low and meek. “You … you really feel that way?”

     “Yes.”

     Valjean was quiet. He gazed off in silent contemplation, unfocused. “I see,” he finally breathed. “Then I won’t … bother you, any further.”

     Again, Javert wanted to say “good” and yet the word would not pass his lips.

     “Be off with you, then,” he said. As Valjean was heading for the door, he added “—and stay away from the police stations, you idiot.”

     The man lifted his head a little at that, pausing for a moment before letting it fall again and taking his leave.

     “Adieu, Javert,” he murmured sorrowfully.

     For some reason, those words hung like a stone in his gut long after the man had left.

***

Footnotes

[1] White carnations represent pure love and good luck.

[2] Valjean is addressing Javert informally again here. Javert does not wish for them to be familiar, so he corrects his grammar by changing the conjugation of the verb to the formal version, then calls him “monsieur” (“my sir”, an address more suited to strangers)—to distance himself and further drive the point home.

[3] An early type of friction-activated match.

Chapter Text

“I don't really know why I care so much. I just have something inside me that tells me that there is a problem, and I have got to do something about it. I think that is what I would call the God in me. All of us have a God in us, and that God is the spirit that unites all life, everything that is on this planet.”

-Wangari Maathai

***

     The summer fled.

     Soon it was autumn, and the leaves danced among the streets. People took to buttoning up and donning layer upon layer to keep the increasingly chill breeze at bay. The birds began to migrate south, flocking together and filling up the skies, making good on half-remembered promises of gentler climes.

     Javert did not seek out Valjean.

     A girl spent her days making bandages and lint, worry in her eyes. In the evening, she took her servant and visited the church, praying in the empty pews. Her father regarded these things stoically, saying nothing.

     Mid October, the girl was allowed to see her paramour for the first time in months. He was so happy to see her, he did not even seem to care how pale he still was.

     Come late November, the snow began to fall, blanketing the city in white. All was still and silent. Fires roared in their hearths. Vendors roasted meats and nuts over crackling flames, beheld by ruddy, grinning faces and hungry eyes. Church bells sounded the day joyously on Christmas morning, and people from all walks of life celebrated in their own way, drawing close together for comfort and for warmth, visiting family and old friends.

     Still, Javert did not seek out Valjean. He walked the snowy streets with his head down, facing into the wind, bundled up in his stuffy wool greatcoat as he made his rounds and hunted malefactors down dark and icicle-hung alleyways. He pretended the bitter cold did not cut him to the bone.

     Sometimes, when the sun was out, a young couple would go riding in an open carriage, holding hands beneath the blanket. They visited shops, and talked with endless excitement. In the quiet moments, when no one was looking, they stole kisses.

     At night, the girl returned home to recount her adventures, eyes bright, and her father would nod and smile at her. But there was a sadness behind his eyes that she did not perceive.

     As always, there was Le Carnaval. The jours charnels came and went, and for a brief space of time the streets were filled with dancers and jugglers and musicians. Everyone wore masks. The scent of crêpes and waffles and beignets filled the air.

     A man attended a wedding with his right arm in a sling. He brought his daughter down the aisle with his left, and he cried as he stood at the altar. Afterwards, they all retired in carriages to a mansion for the wedding feast. Only some of his smiles were genuine. He left early.

     Shrove Tuesday became Ash Wednesday, and people flocked about with little grey crosses on their brows, all their gaiety and hubris turned to humility. So it was with every year, and its flamboyant hypocrisy made Javert want to growl and laugh at the same time. So many drunken escapades, so many reports to fill out.

     As much as he grumbled, he preferred those crimes of innocent passion over every other. There was a lightheartedness to them that always managed to coax a smirk out of him despite himself.

     Behind the closed doors of an elegant drawing room, a man told his new son-in-law of his past. The boy was upset. The man was upset. They parted in despair.

     Winter melted into spring, and plants poked their stalks tentatively through the soil, reaching, reaching, reaching for the sun. Snowdrops stuck their noses up through the dwindling snow. Crocuses dotted the recovering grass with clusters of purples and whites and yellows. Again the ground became green, and the air began to warm, and Javert did not have to worry so much about burning his coattails on the too-hot stoves of the station houses.

     In the cellar of a great mansion, two chairs and a rug had been set beside an old wood stove. There, surrounded by cracking plaster, a man was received by his daughter, and permitted an hour with her every day before dinner. She disliked this arrangement, but he said that he preferred it. For a short, blessed space of time, she spoke to him of all sorts of stories and charming trivialities, and the sight of her face filled his heart with fondness. He told himself it was enough.

     The birds returned, and hopped about the dirt in search of sustenance, chirping and singing gaily in the recently renewed sunshine. Buds burst into blossoms. Tiny pink and white petals littered the more well-to-do streets. The simple green leaves of the other streets, so new and tender, were also beautiful in their own sort of way.

     Young paramours walked the gardens and stole glances and kisses beneath parasols and fans and branches. Laughter and song carried on the mild breeze. All of Paris was in love.

     And still, Javert did not seek out Valjean.

     One day, a man arrived in the cellar of a mansion to find the stove had not been lit. His daughter complained at the idea of him being cold. He told her that it was near summer now, and there was no need for a fire.

     Soon, the chairs too disappeared.

     The man understood.

     Some time later, his daughter sent the maidservant to the man’s apartment to ask why he had skipped a day’s visit. The man only smiled gently at her. It had been two.

     Javert kept himself busy, but he no longer needed to work himself into exhaustion to be able to fall asleep. He brushed the dust off his bookshelf and resumed reading in what little spare time his job permitted. When the darkness and the silence overtook him as he lay beneath the sheets, he felt a vague, vague pull of something, but he did not want to know what it was, and he ignored it.

     In the early morning, an old man could be seen walking, each day towards the same destination, which he never reached. He would gaze longingly at a mansion across the road, as though there were something there he desired. Shaking his head, he would go back the way he came.

     Without fail, he made this walk daily, head down. He did not do anything, or talk to anybody. The street children would laugh at him, because they thought he’d lost his senses.

     With every passing day, his steps grew a little heavier, and his pace slower, as if he was shouldering some growing burden. And with every passing day, he turned back sooner, and the walk grew a little shorter.

***

     It was early May now, 1833, and the city was in full bloom. The heat had returned, and the sun—once and still occasionally pleasant—began to threaten oppression.

     Eleven months had passed since the failed uprising that had nearly claimed Javert's life.

     He thought no more of the river.

     The black expanse of death did not seem any more enticing to him than it did before 1832, and he went out of his way to avoid it (or at least, as much as he usually had).

     Everyone at the prefecture appeared to have forgotten whatever it was they’d believed had happened to him last June. They spoke no more on his “gloom” or his “softening”. It was only noted that he was slightly more open to reasoning from malefactors than he had been in years prior, and more considerate when it came to the context in which a crime had been committed.

     But besides this, he remained the same man he had always been. A melancholy dreamer, devoid of pleasures or companions, stalking the streets with silent, watchful eyes. A cunning wraith.

     Today, it was raining.

     Javert always felt ridiculous under a parapluie.[1] He was never quite sure why. Perhaps it was because they reminded him of parasols. Perhaps it was because he had to carry his top hat under his arm lest it make the entire arrangement awkward—and this left him feeling, paradoxically, even more exposed to the elements. But if he did not carry one, his coat would become soaked after a time, and it is a particular kind of hell to bear the heavy weight of sodden wool upon one’s shoulders for the length of an entire day; this he knew.

     He was passing through Le Marais[2], down Rue Vieille du Temple, and had just crossed the intersection with Rue des Quatre Fils when he noticed a dark form on the ground by a low stone wall, just off to the side of the street on a well-worn footpath.

     It was a person, he realized, a man—probably a drunkard, passed out after one too many glasses of wine.

     Javert was not unused to a sight like this; alcohol was wont to make men feel tired at unusual times of day and forget their surroundings. Many times he’d had to escort the hapless civilian back to their homes on account of such foolish things.

     The man was lying on his side, with his face towards the ground. He wore all black. The rain had soaked his wool jacket and the workman’s cap that obscured his face.

     Javert approached him. He nudged the man’s back with the toe of his boot. “You. The streets aren’t for sleeping. Get up, then.”

     The man did not stir.

     “Get up, I say; you’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

     Still there was no response.

     Javert furrowed his brow, frowning.

     This man was very drunk. That, or dead. At least, he would have considered the possibility of him being dead, had he not noticed the man’s chest rising and falling.

     No, he looked like a laborer who was down on his luck and who had gotten himself intoxicated at a local tavern to dull the pain and succeeded only in dulling his senses.

     “Are you listening to me?” he said, crouching down and brushing the man’s cap back, “You need to—”

     He froze.

     Beneath him was not some poor, inebriated workman, but Jean Valjean.

     He was very pale, yet his cheeks and eye sockets were flushed with an unhealthy reddish hue. He had let his beard grow out, and his face was strangely gaunt, haggard looking—so much so that Javert almost didn’t recognize him—but the snowy white curls plastered to his forehead were not to be mistaken. His breath was ragged. Eyes closed and wreathed by tired shadows, his expression seemed vaguely pained.

     Javert was taken aback.

     What had happened? How had he come to be there? What had affected this change?

     It was hard to reconcile the man who had slogged through miles of sewage with a corpse upon his back after days of fighting—and who’d pulled him from the raging rapids of the Seine—with the frail, sickly looking creature beneath him.

     How many months had it been since Javert had last seen him, exactly? How many months since he’d callously brushed him off, finally succeeding in driving him away?

     He didn’t know. Eight? Nine? It had been summer, then.

     Could it be true? Had almost a year passed? It certainly didn’t feel that way, but …

     A strange sensation overcame him—a pang of guilt, of dread.

     What had happened to Valjean during that time? What suffering had the man undergone while he, Javert, remained willfully ignorant?

     Images flashed in his mind: letters sent to the station house, a confrontation on a doorstep. A familiar face across the crowd, gazing at him solemnly. A fight in an abandoned tenement. His fist on Valjean’s collar, shoving him up against the wall. A drop of blood trailing down the man’s cheek as he looked up at him in confusion, and fear, and sadness. His own rough words came back to him, soundless growls and silent snarls in the space of his mind. Those brown eyes, fixed on his, so filled with hurt.

     Javert sat staring down at him, paralyzed.

     Finally he slid his arms under him and picked him up, hefting him onto his back and carrying him away.

***

     “How long has he been like this?”

     Javert stood a little ways away, clasping his hat in his hands and watching the doctor examine Valjean.

     He was a beady-eyed little man, with a strong frame but lithe fingers. His hair clung to his head in light grey wisps, sticking out at the sides and thinning substantially at the top. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles clung to the bridge of his large nose. His name was Pascal. For some reason, he seemed vaguely familiar.

     He was frowning a little, and that did not give Javert any consolation.

     “I do not know,” Javert said. “I found him thusly on the streets earlier to-day, and his condition has not changed. I suspect this did not strike him suddenly, though.”

     “No, I would agree with that assumption,” the doctor said, turning back to the bed on which he’d laid Valjean. “Well,” he sighed, “let us see here, then.”

     He began to undo the top button of Valjean’s shirt.

     Javert gave a start. “Don’t!” he cried sharply.

     The doctor jumped, whipping his head around to look at him in perplexion. “Whyever not?”

     “I just—” Javert faltered. “You cannot—” He balled his fists around the brim of his hat. “I forbid you from doing so.”

     The man narrowed his eyes, throwing up a questioning palm. “What harm will it do? I am only trying to gauge the extent of his—”

     “He is malnourished, yes; that is plain to see. You do not need to go and count his ribs. I think the extent of his illness should be quite clear in his face alone. Will that not suffice?”

     The doctor furrowed his brow. “I suppose it could.”

     “Then let it.”

     There was a hint of annoyance and suspicion in his voice. “As you wish, monsieur.” With a huff, he turned back to Valjean, pressing his wrist to the man’s pale forehead and pausing there for a moment. “He hath a serious fever. That is certain. He needs liquids and a cool compress. I would remove his shirt if I were you—since you don’t seem to want to let me do it myself. Open the windows. Let in a breeze. Get him to eat, if he wakes. Ask him what ails him, how long this has been going on, and what if anything he believes may have caused it.”

     “It is hard for me to judge the thing when he’s unconscious like this—but the fact that he’s unconscious at all is not very promising. His breathing worries me. It is too ragged. I would guess it was pneumonia, if it were not for the state of his ribs. Even without removing his shirt, they are pronounced enough to count. I cannot tell if it is due to a lack of food, or a drawn out malady that saps his substance. Perhaps both.”

     “In any case, he needs to eat, and soon. Not something insubstantial, either. His body needs energy to fight whatever it is that’s trying to kill him, and by the looks of things, it doesn’t appear to have any at present. In fact, this rather resembles consumption, only he does not have a cough, and there is no blood in his lungs. It is strange. But, at least—at the very least—it is not cholera, and that is something to be thankful for. Keep a close eye on him; there is nothing more I can do for him at present, I am afraid. Call for me if he should wake, or if his condition worsens somehow. Though, that is hard to imagine at the moment.”

     Javert gave a grave nod. “What do I owe you?”

     “Owe? Nothing. I have given you but words, mere breath, and that is free. No charge, this time around.”

     “But—the cab fee,” Javert protested.

     The doctor shrugged. “I will not begrudge a little money, if it bothers you so.”

     “I do not like debts,” the inspector said, digging a few coins out of his purse and thrusting them into the man’s hands.

     “Again, I say you do not owe me, but that is all at your discretion, monsieur.” He dipped his head and made for the door. “Take care.”

     “A moment, then.”

     The man turned to look back at him over his shoulder. “Oh? What is it?”

     Javert knit his brow. “It seems to me we may have met.”

     The doctor only stared at him, his face blank. He blinked. “You tried to throw me out a window.”

     Javert opened his mouth preemptively, narrowing his eyes and glancing in another direction. “Ah.” Then, quieter, he said to himself, “I’d thought he was embellishing that account.”

***

     The sun was setting, and still Valjean had not woken. Had not even stirred in his sleep. He lay like a dead man, the only sign of life the rise and fall of his chest.

     Javert had forced himself to follow through with the doctor’s orders and remove Valjean’s shirt, even though it made him uncomfortable. He covered him with the bed sheet first and undid the buttons blindly beneath it, so as to spare the both of them their dignity. Part of his hesitation lay in the fact that he had a vague apprehension of what lay under it: years and years worth of ugly scars. But the dread of seeing them did not make itself so plainly clear to Javert; he was merely instilled with a substantial amount of discomfort at the thought of glimpsing the man shirtless.

     The wool coat Valjean had been wearing now hung from the hook by the door. What had happened to the cap, Javert could not say; it had likely fallen off without notice as he'd picked him up.

     He drew up some water fresh from the well and soaked a cloth in it, folding it and laying it on Valjean’s brow. He wrung it out and repeated the process every so often to keep it cool. Erring on the side of caution, he decided not to try and force any liquids down the man’s throat, in the event that it should end up in his lungs instead of his stomach.

     He had little else to do, so he sat by the hearth in his chair, casting anxious glances back at Valjean in between pages of the newspaper. When he had read it in its entirety, and eaten a meager supper of porridge, he found himself with neither tasks to complete nor bed to sleep in. He would be sleeping on the bergère tonight. Not that it caused him any grief or real discomfort—he was used to such arrangements when conducting lengthy fieldwork—but it did keep him awake longer than he might have hoped, although this might also have been attributed to his worry over the state of Valjean’s health.

     He sat slouched in the chair with his head against the middle of the backrest and his feet propped up on a stool, listening to the pops and snaps of the wooden wick of the candle on the nearby side table and pondering what on earth could have led Valjean to the situation he’d found him in.

     It was raining. Valjean had gone walking on Rue Vieille du Temple. He had been carrying a parapluie, but had not opened it, for the inside of it had been dry.

     Either the rain had started only after he’d fallen, or …

     No, that was silly; why would one carry a parapluie and not use it? Surely the rain must have started later.

     But then, it had been raining nearly all of the day. Was he supposed to believe that Valjean had gone out in the early morning and had lain there all day without anyone so much as noticing him? Surely someone would have found him during that time—would have come to his aid.

     So, then, had he gone out in the rain and never opened his parapluie? Why would he have done such a stupid thing? Had he been so ill he had not noticed the weather? But then, if he had not taken note of it, why would he have thought to bring a parapluie at all?

     It perplexed him.

     Surely the man had been out of his mind at the time.

     How long had he been ill? Had he known himself to be? Had he told anyone?

     Where were his daughter, and his servant? Should they not have confined him to his bed in such a state? Were they no longer around to do so?

     Why? Where had they gone?

     Javert could not know.

     Perhaps tomorrow he would stop by Rue Plumet to find out.

     He contented himself with this thought as he fell asleep.

***

     It was late, late at night. The moonlight streaming through the open windows was indicator enough of that. And then, the gentle breeze that brushed his skin did not even carry the sound of crickets.

     Groggy and barely conscious, Valjean found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His eyes drifted slowly to the rest of the room—a small, ramshackle flat, almost Spartan in its sparsity. There was the small bed he lay on, an armoire, a dresser, a low bookshelf, a desk, a side table, and a bergère, simply made but with an elegant pattern of fleurs de lis on the fading blue fabric.

     Sitting in this bergère was a man, slouched and lying with his feet propped up on a tufted footstool, legs crossed, his face lost beneath long dark hair that dripped past his shoulders.

     It took him a moment to realize the man was Javert.

     He gazed at him for a long time, uncomprehending of anything but his presence. He could not remember how it was he had come to be here. The significance of his health combined with the unfamiliar surroundings and Javert’s presence alone did not occur to him.

     His feelings and memories from the past year blended together seamlessly in his mind. He could not recall what had happened when, or what was happening now. It seemed to him that Cosette’s marriage had been years ago, and Javert’s plunge into the Seine but weeks, or even days.

     He thought, as he gazed upon the man, that the room began to fill with water from whence he knew not. The blue of the moonlight became the blue of the Seine. It surrounded Javert, engulfing him as he sat sleeping in his chair, strands of his hair sent adrift, undulating, bubbles of air escaping his nostrils.

     Unable to rise or even conceive of himself as capable of doing so, Valjean reached longingly, desperately for him, his arm a terrible weight to lift, trembling with the effort and reaching, reaching, even as the man, though motionless, seemed to recede from him.

     Then his vision dimmed, and the water became black, and he saw and felt no more.

***

Footnotes

[1] An old French term for an umbrella; literally, “for rain”.

[2] The popular name for the ancient Jewish quarter of Paris; it is northeast of the Ile de la Cité (“the isle of the city”, an actual island in the Seine, near the center of Paris, which houses the Palais de Justice and the Notre Dame Cathedral).

Chapter Text

“We accept the love we think we deserve.”

-Unknown

***

     In the morning, he found that Valjean had shifted in his sleep, and lay off towards the side of the bed with his arm draped off the mattress haphazardly. While the man showed no further signs of recovery, this gave Javert some measure of hope.

     He had to leave the flat for a few hours to explain away his situation to his superiors in the most vague and unassuming way possible, and to buy some food staples. He had thought about going to Rue Plumet, but had decided against it. What good would it do to cause the man’s daughter to worry herself sick over him? It would be better to let her believe he had simply gone on some journey.

     Besides that, Javert realized that if he informed Valjean’s family of this (if a foster-daughter and an old servant counted as such), they would only expect Valjean to be returned to them, and this Javert could not do until the man was at least lucid. For if someone were to see his scars—a doctor, for example—it would be bad business. Javert suspected both the women of being entirely ignorant of Valjean’s past, and though he doubted they would be moved to any legal action by the sight of some prison-brands, he knew that Valjean would not want either of them to know about the life those entailed.

     When he returned to his flat, Valjean was yet unchanged.

     With a great sigh and furrowed brow, Javert dragged his armchair over to the bedside and pondered over some of the files he’d been given to work on at the station house. Reports of robberies, murders, vandalism—things that may or may not be related, and that his commissaire felt worth him looking into. Things that he would normally read over at the station house while filling someone else’s desk position, but was perfectly able to do at home. Scribbling notes to himself across the paperwork strewn about his lap, he paused occasionally to refresh the compress on Valjean’s head.

     He could only half focus on the files. Anxiety disrupted his concentration. The longer he sat there, with no evident change in Valjean’s condition, the more disquieted he became.

     He had been under the impression that the man would simply wake up. But now he began to reflect on the doctor’s words, and worry that Valjean’s condition was much more serious than he’d initially believed.

     He did not know how long the man had gone without food or drink. What he did know was, it only took about two weeks for the average person to starve to death, and mere days for thirst to turn deadly.

     Against his better judgment, and because of his nagging dread, he tried to get some water down the man’s throat, pressing a cup to his lips and tilting his head up. At first, it only made Valjean sputter and choke, dissolving into a fit of coughing that still did not manage to rouse him from his coma. But then, Javert wised up and pinched the man’s nose shut in his further attempts, and this seemed to ease things a bit. Valjean still sputtered, but in between gagging—which was made ineffective due to the closing of his airway—he swallowed reflexively. In this manner Javert managed to get at least two small cups of water into him, and he was satisfied with himself.

     But the bells tolled the hours outside, and the sun drifted towards the horizon, and Valjean still did not awaken.

     Another night passed. Morning became day, and day faded again into evening.

     The man yet slept.

     Javert contemplated him, leaning on the side of the bed with his arms folded on the mattress and a disheartened frown on his face. There was a twisting in his gut and a tightness in his chest as he stared at the man’s pale, gaunt face and motionless form.

     He no longer feared for Valjean’s health, but rather, for his very life. The longer he went without waking, the more likely it became that he never would.

     A shadow fell over Javert’s face. He clenched his fists in the sheets. He grit his teeth. “I won’t forgive you if you die, you know,” he said under his breath. “After all of this. You can’t. I forbid it, do you hear? I forbid you to die.”

     This produced little effect upon the man.

     Javert sat there, staring at him unhappily. His frustration turned to melancholy, to anguish, and despair.

     “You vex me,” he murmured. “Do you know that?” But there was no anger in his voice, only gloom.

     He hung his head, his hair dripping past his shoulders. He put his face in his hands. When next he spoke, his tone had softened, and was little more than a whisper.

     “Come back to me, you fool.”

     There was only darkness, and the gravity of the silence that followed in his wake.

     “—vert …” a voice breathed.

     He looked up with a start, jolting halfway up from his chair.

     Still Valjean slept, but his once mute expression had contorted, vaguely pained, or perhaps confused, and his breathing seemed a little more deliberate.

     Javert’s ice-blue eyes flicked about him wonderingly, just barely daring to hope.

     “Valjean.”

     The man’s face twitched. He grimaced for a second, let out a low, stunted groan. Then his expression melted back into that of restless sleep.

     Javert studied him, his shoulders sagging in both disappointment and relief. He let out a sigh from the very bottom of his chest, and slowly sat back down. Slouching, he buried his chin in his crossed arms on the side of the bed, staring off for a moment before closing his eyes with a huff.

***

     At some point he had fallen asleep, and when he awoke, it was much later in the evening. The light streaming in through his dusty windowpanes was colored with hues of pinks and oranges.

     He looked first at Valjean, and, finding his situation not much changed, left to visit the water-closet and then put some water on to boil. He brewed himself a cup of tea, and sat back down in his chair with a slice of buttered bread, glancing briefly at his case files before deciding to give up on them entirely for the night.

     He cast his eyes back to the occupant of his bed, sighing and putting his empty plate on the floor before rising to his feet to check on him once more.

     He tried to remember exactly how Valjean had taken care of him when he had been in a similar state. They had both suffered from fevers. But then, Javert had not become malnourished like this, and certainly he had been a little livelier and more coherent.

     As Valjean once had, Javert pressed the flat of his wrist to the man’s forehead, gauging his temperature. He was still overly-warm, and his brow was beaded with sweat.

     To his surprise, Valjean’s eyes fluttered open, just a fraction of an inch. They fell upon him, glassy and numbed. The man reached up his hand, trembling, and touched Javert’s cheek.

     Javert gave a start, but remained still.

     “Javert …” Valjean said slowly, his speech slurred. “You are … a good man. Do you know that?”

     He felt his face grow hot, blood rising to the surface of his skin as a shiver passed through him. “W—what?”

     Even though Valjean was looking at him, his gaze was far-off, somehow.

     “I don’t … want you to die,” he mumbled, his hand falling away. It made a half-hearted attempt at clutching his shirt, but failed miserably and, devoid of strength, drifted back to the mattress like a fallen leaf.

     Javert drew back, swallowing. “Are you in your right mind?”

     “Don’t … jump,” he breathed, his eyelids drooping shut again.

     “Valjean.”

     He didn’t want the man to lose consciousness again.

     “Don’t.” There was a hitch in Valjean’s voice that made it sound less like a word and more like a whimper, and Javert wanted to shake him and tell him he was beyond that, that it would never happen again. How dare he doubt him!

     But the man had already fallen back into the void of sleep, and Javert suspected he wouldn’t have understood anything he said anyway. Besides that, he could not bring himself to be angry over such a thing. It caused him more guilt than irritation.

     “Damnit,” he breathed.

     Was Valjean reliving his suicide attempts because of the fever, twisting his sense of time? Or because he had never stopped worrying about it to begin with? Was the illness only bringing to the surface his inner fears, unburying them where they had lain not yet dead in graves of courtesy and forbearance, stifled under the pretense of composure?

     With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Javert was relatively sure—knowing Valjean—which it was.

     He slumped back down into his armchair and rubbed his face in his hands.

***

     The next morning, he was able to get Valjean to drink some more, though the man would still not fully wake. He mumbled incoherently in his sleep, tossing and turning weakly beneath the sheets. Annoyingly, this continually dislodged the compress on his head, which kept having to be replaced, but Javert was not at all perturbed by this. In fact, he was rather pleased that Valjean was showing any sort of signs of life at all.

     He resumed his place of watch, contenting himself with a cup of coffee with a freshly rented newspaper.

     After some time, he heard a voice.

     “Javert …”

     His eyebrows rose. He turned to look at his bed, where Valjean lay, his head turned towards him on the pillow, a quizzical expression on his face.

     Javert put down the paper he was reading, carefully folding it up in his lap and trying to conceal the emotion he felt. “Oh? Have you finally regained your senses, then?”

     “You …” He swallowed, his voice hoarse from disuse. “You’re really here?”

     Javert narrowed his eyes. “As opposed to …?”

     Valjean opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. He turned his head to look up at the ceiling. “Where am I?” he asked. “What is this place?”

     “This is where I live,” Javert replied, raising an eyebrow. “Though I thought that should be rather obvious by now.”

     “This is your bed?”

     “Seeing as I haven’t a reason to own more than one, yes.”

     “Oh.” His face fell. “I am sorry,” he said, rolling over on his side to face the wall.

     “What?”

     “I have imposed on you. I have caused you trouble.”

     “What on earth are you talking about? You have done nothing. It was not as though you fainted in the street on purpose; it was not as though you knew it would be I that found you.”

     “No, but I—” He swallowed, appearing embarrassed. “—but monsieur, why did you not take me to a hospital instead?”

     Javert knit his brow. ‘Monsieur’? The man had not addressed him so formally since the barricades, or perhaps even earlier.

     ‘You will address me as ‘Monsieur Inspector’,’ he suddenly heard his own voice demand, rising up from the memory of nearly a decade ago. He could still remember the feeling of his hand around Valjean’s throat. He seemed to himself so much younger then, suddenly.

     Confused, he brushed the thought away.

     Another followed swiftly on its heels. ‘I think you mean ‘attendez,’ monsieur,’ came his voice again, from the prior summer.

     Javert frowned. For so long he’d wanted the man to address him with the respect afforded to a stranger and an officer of the law, to distance himself from him—but now that Valjean actually did it, the words sounded wrong to his ears.

     “A hospital?” he repeated incredulously. “Of course not. What if someone were to see your scars and recognize you as a convict?”

     The man faltered. “Ah—I see, yes. But,” he continued, crestfallen, “it wouldn’t really matter, anymore.”

     “Of course it matters. What’s wrong with you? Do you want to go back to prison?”

     “No, but …”

     “But what?”

     “It is only … you did not have to do this.”

     “What should I have done? Just left you lying there, face-down in the street?”

     Valjean was silent.

     “You are being ridiculous; you know I could not have done that.”

     “I …” Valjean began slowly, “I know that it … bothers you. That I bother you. I know it cannot please you to harbor a convict in your home.”

     “That’s not—”

     “You did not have to do this. You did not have to bring me here. I know that I am only an unhappy reminder of the past, for you. It would have been better if you had passed me by and pretended not to know me. I suppose you may feel obligated to lend me your hand, after what happened last year, but you do not owe me anything, Javert. If I am bothering you, it is better that you should send me away.”

     “What?” Javert said, cocking his head. “How can you say such a thing? Why do you believe I could just …?” He let out an exasperated breath. “What the devil is wrong with you?”

     “What is wrong with me?” Valjean echoed dumbly. “I don’t know. I am dying, I suppose. That’s all.”

     Javert bolted up from his chair, its legs scraping against the floorboards with a screech. He stared at him in shock for a moment before approaching the bed, cornering him with the fierceness of his gaze.

     “Of what?” he demanded, half in anger and half in fearful panic.

     “Of … I know not what. Grief, perhaps.”

     “What? People don’t die of grief!”

     “You will have to take that up with the doctor,” Valjean said, propping himself to a sitting position against the pillows. Still he would not look at him, only staring into the distance, his eyes glassy.

     “Valjean!” he exclaimed, a semi-scowl on his face. “How long have you been this way? Did you not tell anyone? Why were you out in the street like that, in the rain? Where is your daughter, and your servant?”

     “Gone,” he said.

     “Gone where?”

     “Away.”

     “When shall they return?”

     Valjean seemed lost in thoughts of something else. His tone was bleak, his expression as numb as it was grave. “They will never return.”

     The inspector stiffened. He recalled the outfit the man had been wearing when he’d found him. It had been entirely black. Mourning clothes? “You don’t mean … They are not— Surely you do not mean to say that they are dead.”

     “No, they are very much alive. It is just that I will never see them again.”

     Javert faltered. “Why?”

     “Cosette is married, now. She has gone out of my life. Her husband … He does not approve of me, as well he shouldn’t. I used to visit her, every day, but no; no more.” He paused. “It is better, this way. For her. For them both. They deserve their happiness. I would just be in the way.”

     “Do you mean to tell me you have been alone all this time?”

     “Since February.”

     “February! And how long have you been ill?”

     “I know not. Weeks? Months, perhaps. I can’t make much sense of time, anymore. There is nothing to mark the days, now.”

     “You have been ill that long and you didn’t—? You haven’t bothered to—? But you did send for a doctor, you said?”

     “No; the portress was the one who sent for him,” Valjean sighed. “I told her not to bother, that it was an unnecessary expense, but the issue seemed to be of some importance to her.”

     Javert was taken aback. “Wh—what were you going to do, let yourself waste away to nothing without telling anyone? You look half-starved! When was the last time you ate anything?”

     Valjean pondered for a moment, his dulled eyes flicking about once, twice. He shrugged.

     “You don’t know?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “What are you—? Why are you doing this to yourself? Why not tell anyone you were ill? Why let yourself starve? Why suffer in silence? Why do you not care? Why did you not reach out to someone?”

     Valjean’s face reminded him of the stone and marble statues of the cemetery, forlorn and vaguely mournful, forever gazing into the distance in quiet lamentation.

     “I did not wish to bother anyone,” he said simply. “And … I have no one left.”

     Those words struck Javert sharply in the breast, like a blow from a heavy club or cudgel, driving the air from his lungs and bruising his ribs.

     “Besides,” Valjean continued, “it will be better, this way. I won’t trouble anyone any further.”

     “Trouble?” Javert repeated, his eyes wide.

     “It is probably just my time,” the man said, half to himself. “And it is not so terrible. That I should retire from the world … It is but a little thing. No one needs me, anymore.”

     If his previous words had been bruising to Javert, it was this that shattered him. A stunted breath escaped his throat.

     What did a man who lived only for others do when he found there was no one left to live for? Did he, lacking purpose, fail to see reason to further exist?

     Javert shuddered.

     He found himself suddenly peering into a looking glass, his reflection staring him in the face.

     ‘You have taken away my raison d'être,’ he heard himself say, those many months ago. ‘I am worthless.’ ‘Just let me go; this is better for the both of us!’

     Again this man had caused his very soul to tremble.

     The way Valjean had been before, so resolute, so sure of himself, fixated on the preservation of life and plying him with sage-like wisdom as though it were his duty—Javert had never expected there would be within him such stuff as what he himself had suffered through: resignation, despondency, the utter lack of concern or esteem for his own life, the torments and tribulations of a spirit on the brink of despair, held together only by obligation to others.

     He had not ever considered what the man was like when there was no one around to see him. In what regard he might hold himself.

     Cosette’s words came rushing back to him from the depths of his memory, unbidden and never truly contemplated:

     ‘Papa would only eat black bread. I implored him to treat himself, but he refused. It was only because I threatened that I would eat only what he ate did he start eating white bread.’

     ‘He buys me all these lovely things and never any for himself. At the other house, he even sleeps in a separate building—this little shack in the back. He won’t even light a fire for himself. I keep having to spend time with him in there, just so that, for my sake at least, he keeps the place warm.’

     He cursed himself for not seeing it earlier—that the man was like this. It should have been so obvious.

     ‘I have suffered too much and too long in my life to let another person endure the same kind of torment!’ Valjean had cried that second night at the river.

     The significance of those words had not occurred to him, them.

     Had Valjean felt so deeply disturbed by Javert’s solitary lifestyle because he too had, though unwillingly, been a victim of that all-encompassing loneliness? Was that why Javert’s plight had bothered him so? Because Valjean had seen something in him of himself?

     Unlike Javert, the man knew what it was to love, and to yearn for companionship—but, because of the kind of life he’d been forced to lead, he’d never been allowed the opportunity to fulfill those desires. For Javert, who had never known or cared for such things, it was not hard to live without them. But for Valjean …

     ‘I have not seen papa with anyone else,’ Cosette had told him. ‘He hath not any friends—or at least, that I knew of. But then there was you!’

     His throat tied itself into a knot as he clenched his teeth, his expression quivering.

     Was he really the only other person in Valjean’s life besides his daughter?

     ‘Javert, I think—after all these years, you are the only person who has ever truly known me.’

     ‘Isn’t that ironic.’

     ‘It is. Because, well, you have never really known me at all.’

     It was only now that Javert was realizing the full extent of that fact.

     At the time it had seemed true in the sense that he’d just then come to realize that Valjean was a good person—a more moral man than he.

     But it was only now that he realized that Valjean was a good person who hated himself. That self-sacrifice came so easily to him not just because he had dedicated his life to helping others, but because he had never cared about himself to begin with.

     No wonder he’d never resisted arrest.

     ‘It is not in my nature, Javert.’

     ‘I told you before: I am your willing prisoner, if you should decree it so.’

     No wonder he had saved him at the barricades and dragged him out of the river, knowing full well that it would likely mean his own imprisonment. Valjean held the life of a stranger—or even his worst antagonist—in higher regard than his own.

     When there was no one around, he deprived himself. Derided himself. Valjean’s strength and courage, Javert realized—his concern and his kindness—all existed solely for others. He only entertained self-respect for the benefit of those around him, to spare them worry—and without their presence it vanished. He fell into a sea of apathy and negligence. Of total disregard for his own well-being.

     Without his daughter, who had remained to him?

     Only Javert.

     And Javert had shoved him away. He had insisted he did not want to see him, that he did not want to hear from him. That he did not need him.

     ‘No one needs me, anymore.’

     Had Valjean, in reaching out to him, in trying to stay in contact, not only been seeking comfort for Javert, but also for himself?

     ‘It was only … I wanted to write to you.’

     Had the man been clutching desperately to the seams of what held him together, searching for meaning in a life otherwise devoid of purpose? Had he, in Javert, found a reason to live?

     Javert was overwhelmed with guilt.

     Could it be that yet again his callousness had driven someone to death’s doorstep?

     To think, if he had not chanced upon him that day in the street, if the evidence of the man’s struggle had not been thrust in his face …

     He knew that, of his own accord, he would not have sought the man out. He would not have inquired as to his current whereabouts, or the state of his health. He would not have questioned why he no longer saw that familiar face gazing at him from across the crowd.

     He thought of Valjean often, yes—he would never be able to fully drive him from his mind—but he could not bring himself to contact him, not when the man reminded him of all his failures in life.

     Valjean would have let himself die—because of him, because of his indifference—and he never would have even known.

     Javert tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

     “You—you—” He shook, turning an anguished and wrathful eye upon Valjean, his voice rising to a sharp cry. “You hypocrite!” he accused.

     “You speak of the sanctity of life,” he began, gesticulating wildly, “of how it must be preserved at all costs, even when one has nothing left to live for—and yet you allow yourself to waste away; you care nothing for yourself! You say that no one needs you, as though that were as good a reason as any to forfeit your life, and you willingly surrender to death and despair! You say that you will die, that it is nothing! That no one will care, that it doesn’t matter! You treat your life as though it were meaningless, as though all you’ve done and yet may do is inconsequential, when you know that’s not the truth!”

     He grabbed Valjean by the collar, forcing him to face him, his fists clenching around the fabric of his shirt.

     “Look at me, damn you!”

     Valjean gave a start, leaning back from him.

     “How can you say all these things about holding out hope, about forgiveness and second chances and revering the gift of life and yet think nothing of your own? How can you pull a man back from the brink and tell him he must live no matter what, and then resign yourself to death because you think it suits you? How dare you. How dare you!”

     “You are a monster of a man! How dare you ask anyone to follow your advice when you can’t even follow it yourself! Why should I have listened to you, all those months ago, if you don’t even believe your own words, eh? Were all of your speeches and sermons meaningless, then? Empty, sentimental nonsense? Do you wish to make a liar of yourself, Valjean? To make me a fool for having believed you?”

     “You told me you would be my guide, and this is the example you are setting? I might as well just die along with you! And I’d do it too; I’d do it just to spite you! You bastard! How dare you treat yourself like this! If your life is worthless, if you are worthless, then I am less than worthless!”

    “You have the arrogance to save a man’s life and then throw away your own? You would abandon him after all of that, after everything you’ve said and done, after constant reassurances that you would be there for him? That you would be his crutch, that you would be the light that delivered him from darkness? How dare you do this to me; how dare you!”

     During this passionate outburst, Valjean had remained trapped in his grasp. Slowly, the man’s eyes, which had hitherto been dull and glassy, had opened wide and filled with the light of terror and guilt. He trembled, not daring to breathe.

     “I am sorry,” Valjean managed to say, a shadow falling over his face, “I am sorry; I—”

     Javert’s stomach churned.

     “No!” he barked, giving him a throttle. “No! I don’t ever want to hear that word from your lips again! Do you hear me? Not ever again! You will learn to respect yourself before you have the audacity to love anyone else! Because what kind of love is that? Do you know what that does to a person? How can you expect people to accept your affections—to allow you into their hearts—and then not give a damn if you die?”

     Valjean seemed so small and fragile in his grasp, shuddering like some tiny, helpless thing. “I thought you hated me,” he said meekly, his voice small and broken.

     “Of course I don’t hate you, you idiot!” he cried. “Do you think so little of me that you honestly believe I would rue my own savior? What kind of a man do you take me for?” He released him, stepping back and shaking his head in disbelief. “I might come off as ungrateful, but—sacre dieu, Valjean!”

     The man sat there shivering on the bed, at a loss for words. “You—you really …” His Adam’s apple bobbed, voice breaking. “You don’t hate me?”

     “You ridiculous fool!” Javert raged. “I’ve never hated you in my life!”

     Valjean’s expression contorted into anguish and pain. He hung his head low, low, slouching over as the tears spilled down his cheeks. A sob escaped his throat. He curled up tightly on the mattress, burying his face in arms and knees. The only thing to be seen was the gentle tremors of his white curls.

     Javert stared at the shivering form on his bed, his expression twitching in consternation.

     He felt distinctly that he had caused this in some way, or at least had a hand in it, but he had no idea what the situation called on him to do.

     Valjean seemed so small, there, despite his frame. He somewhat resembled a rabbit kit that had found itself face to face with a predator, had tried to retreat to its burrow only to find itself lost, and now sat frozen in fear, desperately hoping its stillness would allow it to blend back into the brush.

     The corners of Javert’s mouth drew back in a lopsided frown. He went over to his dresser and pulled a faded blue wool blanket from the bottom drawer, draping it with a flinging motion over Valjean.

     The man gave a start, lifting his head a fraction of an inch before letting it fall again, clutching the blanket around himself tightly.

     Javert studied him for a moment more before reaching out a hand.

     As soon as it neared Valjean’s shoulder, the man jolted back, flinching at the touch before it could even occur. As though he expected it to be violent. As though he expected to be cuffed.

     Javert’s brow knit. His hand withdrew, falling back to his side. “Why do you act as though I would—” He stopped himself, clicking his tongue and thrusting his face away.

     To be true, the man had received nothing but bruises from his touch.

     Javert’s thoughts drifted back to his hand around the man’s throat. To his claws digging into his shoulders at the mouth of the sewers. Gripped around his wrist so tight as to almost twist it as he all but dragged him to the fiacre.

     The crack of a whip in the air, in his hand, lashing at the flesh on the bare backs of men without faces, men with numbers instead of names. One of which had been, at some point, almost assuredly Valjean.

     The man still bore those scars, no doubt. Scars that he himself may have put there.

     It should come as no surprise to him that Valjean would flinch at his touch. He had not considered this before, and though he told himself it should not be cause for remark, something about it disquieted him. Made him flinch in turn.

     Unable to attempt any further contact, he turned away and headed into the small adjoining kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers, pulling out tins and spoons. He filled the dented copper kettle with water from the covered pails kept by the cupboard, and struck a match, lighting a fire in the blackened belly of the stove.

     There was a frenzied frustration to his actions, and he moved with less grace than he was accustomed to, bumping into the counter, setting things down too quickly, too loudly. The kettle came down with a clatter on the stovetop. The chipped porcelain teacups rattled in their saucers.

     Javert bit his lip. He pried the lid off the tin and pinched out the mixture of leaves and herbs into the wire basket of the diffuser, hanging it inside the kettle, its chain held in place by the lid.

     Smoothing his hair back and tucking the stray wisps behind his ears, he knelt before the stove, staring through the unlatched door at the flames within. Their familiar, flickering dance and crackle calmed him some, but could not alleviate the whole of his distress.

     From around the dividing wall came the sound of a sob, there for but a brief second before being choked back into silence.

     Javert squeezed his eyes shut, running his hands through his whiskers as was his nervous habit, and chewing on the inside of his cheek.

     A myriad of half-formed curses sputtered and died within his mind. At that particular moment, he would have rather liked to upset something. But he merely sat there, rubbing his face and gazing at the cook-fire.

     Eventually the preliminary hissing of the kettle drew him back to his senses, and he stood and lifted the lid from it, pouring it out. He stirred a spoonful of honey into the one, because he did not have any milk, and because he figured it would be a boon to a parched and fevered throat.

     He carried the cups out, one in each hand, setting the first down on the table beside his bergère and shoving the other at Valjean.

     The man started, flashed his glimmering brown eyes up at him for a second with a questioning look before letting his head droop again.

     “Drink,” said Javert, thrusting it further towards him. “You have not drunk anything substantial in days, and you—you’re not helping yourself, with your tears. So drink.”

     Valjean had no choice but to take the steaming cup from him, as it was very nearly being pressed against his knees. He held it begrudgingly, cup in one hand, saucer dangling from the other, his arms still wrapped around himself under the blanket like a shield.

     Javert sat down in his chair, searching the man’s face.

     He did not entirely comprehend what it was that had caused Valjean to cry. It seemed to stem from the realization that he, Javert, did not hate him. But then, it was obvious even to an unfeeling man that these were not tears of joy, or even relief.

     Javert did not understand. The only thing that was clear to him was that the man had been broken in some way or another—partially on account of his callousness—and the responsibility of fixing him had somehow fallen squarely on his shoulders. However, he had no idea how to accomplish this. He did not know what it was that he ought to be doing, or saying, and so he sat in silence for what may as well have been hours, waiting for he knew not what and listening to the man’s stunted sobs slowly fade.

     Finally he turned his head to look at him once more.

     Valjean sat still, in much the same position he had before, but he no longer trembled beneath the bed sheets, and his breathing had evened. At some point he must have drunk the tea, because the cup sat empty in its saucer on the mattress beside him. This indicated progress. But still, the man sat curled up and cloaked in the covers like a turtle withdrawn into its shell.

     Was this what he had been like himself, before? After the river?

     No; even then, he had not been this far gone. There had still been a little fight in him. He had resigned because he felt it the right—the only—course of action left for him to take, not because he had stopped caring about himself, or life.

     How things had changed since then! It was a complete reversal of roles. Only there was no satisfaction to be had in this, and Valjean was much better at coaxing the will to live back into a man than he.

     And last time, Javert had not even been in so bad a state as this. He had made himself unapproachable on purpose, with his stubbornness and his anger, his pride and his resentment.

     But Valjean was different. He was not filled with any such violent sentiments. And it was not as though he was the kind of man to refuse help or turn a blind eye to kindness and gentle words. That was not the problem here. The problem was, the man was so far gone that such gestures could no longer reach him.

     And Javert did not know what to do with that.

     Valjean was like the smoking wick of a candle, blown out too soon. The spark in his soul had fled.

     To where?

     Javert knew not.

     But he knew that he must rekindle it.

     It was unclear to him how one went about this sort of thing. How do you return to someone their vivacity, their will to live, when they do not even care that they’ve lost it?

     Valjean would know.

     But he could not ask him. The man before him now was not the Valjean he’d known. Yet it was he all the same. Somewhere, deep inside, Valjean was yet there. Not dead; only buried.

     And it was his job to unbury him.

     I will not let you go quietly into the grave, Javert thought. Not after all of this.

***

Chapter Text

“Friendship is, strictly speaking, reciprocal benevolence, which inclines each party to be solicitous for the welfare of the other as for his own.”

-Plato

***

     “You need to eat something,” Javert said.

     Valjean gave no indication of hearing him, still curled into a ball beneath the blanket.

     Javert’s ice-blue eyes flicked towards him, narrowing. “Are you listening to me?”

     No response.

     Agitated, Javert got up out of his chair and stood over him. “You don’t even know when the last time you ate anything was,” he accused, throwing up a palm.

     Still, Valjean would not look up at him.

     A shadow fell over Javert’s face. His arms dropped back to his side. “You are dying,” he entreated, his voice hushed. “Does that not even matter to you?”

     “Damnit, man, you will eat something. You are in my house. You are in my bed. You have no right to refuse me. The doctor said you must eat, or you are going to die. And I will not have your death on my hands, do you hear me?”

     Valjean’s head lifted a little, just enough for one brown eye to peek out at him from beneath his white curls. “You called a doctor for me?” he murmured.

     “Of course I called a doctor, you ninny. You were half dead when I found you.”

     The eye retreated. “You did not have to do that. Doctors are expensive.”

     Javert let out a low growl between his clenched teeth. “Stop this,” he hissed, balling his hand into a fist. “Stop fighting me on everything. This is hard enough as it is. And if you are so worried about my personal expenses, then you will not make the doctor’s visit in vain. Tu comprends?” He paused. Glared at him. “I said, do you understand?”

     Valjean gave no reply.

     “Oh, for the love of god!” He grabbed the unresponsive man by his shoulders. “If I put food in front of you, will you eat it?”

     Valjean looked back at him with a weary expression on his haggard face. He sagged in his arms, casting his eyes down and away. “I suppose so.”

     Javert released him, stalking backwards towards the stairs. “Good. You will wait here, then, while I make arrangements with the portress.”

     As he was shutting the door, he poked his head back into the room and added, “If it makes you feel any better, the man did not charge me a sou.”

***

     It took Valjean a long time to finish even the meager meal Javert had brought him. He seemed to have no appetite, taking only small mouthfuls at a time, and not looking at his food. It was as though eating was merely a chore to him, and he only acquiesced to it because he was being made to by way of unspoken threat.

     He sat in bed, leaning against the wall, holding the half-empty mug of coffee in his lap. His demeanor was a little less pathetic, now, but no less despondent, and Javert could see no real change affected in his features. There existed within him no more will to live than there had been when he had first awoken.

     He was turned towards the window, staring out at nothing with unfocused eyes. And so he had been for at least an hour.

     Javert studied him from his chair. He put his head in his hand. “I do not know how to help you,” he admitted. “Tell me what you require from me. I am not you. I do not have your infinite patience and your understanding. I do not know what it is that you need.”

     But there was only the creaking of the building, old wood and plaster settling under their own weight.

     He glanced back up at him. “Will you not speak to me?”

     Valjean only gazed off sadly.

     Javert swallowed the lump in his throat, furrowing his brow. “I want—I want you to recover. I do not want to see you like this. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to make things better. You need to tell me how to help you. Tell me what it is I can do to fix things.”

     “I do not know,” Valjean said quietly.

     Javert squeezed his eyes shut, his head drooping back down. He ran his hands over his face and then left them there, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a disparaging sigh.

     “Valjean,” he began, hesitant and unsure of exactly what it was he wanted to say, “I … The only things I know about saving people are from you. So—so …” Lifting his face so that only his mouth remained covered by his hands, he gazed off without focus, squinting as though if he tried hard enough he would be able to see the words he so desperately needed. “You told me once that life is invaluable,” he said, rising to his feet and approaching the bed. “So why do you not value yours?”

     Valjean only looked up at him wearily.

     “Why?” Javert asked, taking hold of his shoulders and gazing into his eyes. “Why?”

     The man turned his face from him, hanging his head with a look of muted anguish.

     “Do you not think you’re good enough? Is that it? You don’t think you’re good enough to deserve to live? You, who have saved the lives of so many others?”

     A shadow obscured Valjean’s expression. “A year ago, you would have been happy to see me dead.”

     The corner of Javert’s mouth drew back. “A year ago, I was under a very different impression of you. Of things in general. So forgive me if I have the sense to change my opinion in light of new facts.”

     Valjean gave but a sigh in reply to this.

     Javert’s brow furrowed with grief. “Do you really think so lowly of yourself?”

     “You know what I am,” he breathed.

     “What are you, then? I want to hear you say it, Valjean; I want to hear it from your lips.”

     The man opened his mouth. Faltered. Grimaced.

     “You are going to say ‘I am a law breaker, a convict, a criminal, and no one has need of me’, yes? Is that what you’re going to say?”

     Valjean’s silence belayed his guilt.

     “Well, so what? That does not mean you deserve to die. That your life is meaningless. Who told you they would prefer you dead, eh? Who told you that?”

     Valjean made no reply.

     “That’s right!” Javert scowled. “No one ever said that, you coward! You’re the only one on God’s green earth that thinks it would be better off without you. And why?” he said, throwing up his hand, “Why, Valjean? What would your daughter say? What of Cosette? And her mother! And your Bishop! What would they say to you if they knew you had allowed yourself to fall this far? Do you think it would cause them joy to see you suffering like this? No! You say it is for the sake of others that you let yourself die, but nobody ever asked that of you!” He clenched his teeth, his words hissing out between them. “This doesn’t do anyone any good, Valjean.”

     Valjean only stared off at the bed sheets.

     “Will you not look at me when I speak?” Javert growled. He tilted the man back so that he had little choice but to comply. “No one benefits from this.”

     “I am sorry,” Valjean breathed. But he did not sound like his heart was in it.

     “You are not! I can see it in your eyes! You are apologizing because you think you’re inconveniencing people with your troubles, but that’s not the point! That’s not the damn point! You can’t—you can’t do this to yourself! Who gave you the right to decide such a thing? To let yourself die? I won’t allow it. I shan’t!”

     Valjean hung, numb and limp in his grasp. “Why?” he said. “I know you feel obligated to repay me for saving you, but I—”

     Javert trembled. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, he had struck the man across his face.

     Valjean’s head turned from the force of the impact, and he did not right it again. He sat frozen, his eyes wide, his lips parted. He seemed to be in shock. Slowly he reached up and touched his cheek, wonderingly, as though amazed to find the spreading pink blemish that no doubt stung there. Faltering, he turned to look up at Javert.

     Javert was sure he appeared cold with fury. And he was. “Obligation?” he echoed incredulously, his voice made of icy fire. “You think I do this out of obligation? Letting you deliver that boy to his house, letting you go after the barricades—that was obligation. This? This is not obligation.”

     There was something akin to fear in Valjean’s eyes.

     “Tell me,” Javert said, “was it obligation that drove you to drag me out of the Seine? To jump in and risk your life for someone who had never done you a drop of good in their life? Someone who didn’t want to be rescued? Were you obliged to do that, Valjean? Tell me!”

     The man shivered beneath him.

     “No! You weren’t, were you? It was something entirely different that compelled you to do what you did! And it is that same thing that compels me now. God help me,” he muttered, shaking his head, “I do not even know what it is, but it won’t let me be! I cannot just sit idly by and watch you—you—”

     He gave Valjean a jolt, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Don’t ask me to do that. Don’t you dare. You have no right to. After everything that you did, everything that you said, you have no right to give up. You have no right to ask me to let you go. Not when you understand just how impossible a request that truly is. And I know you do,” he said, letting go of him and stepping back.

     “I know you understand how that feels. So take a good look at yourself, Valjean, and what you’re doing. Because I’ll be damned if you don’t find the same scenario in your memories of last year. Put yourself in my place;” he growled, “you’ve been there before. What would you do if it were me in that bed? If it were me you found lying half-dead in the street, starved and glassy-eyed and suicidal? Eh? Eh? You know precisely what you’d do.”

     Valjean shuddered beneath his veil of shadow. Two tears traced their way down his cheeks. Slowly, slowly, he looked up at him. “Javert … I am sorry; I—”

     “Damnit!” Javert cried, hoisting him up by his collar. “I told you, I don’t want to hear those words from your li—”

     “N-no, you don’t understand,” Valjean said meekly, meeting his gaze. “I—” he reached up and placed his shaking hand on Javert’s breast, just over his heart, a quiet emphasis to his words. “I am sorry.”

     Javert faltered, gazing into his eyes, the anger and frustration melting into desperate wonder. He searched Valjean’s face. Gradually, his grip on him relaxed. He lowered him gently back down.

     Valjean turned his face away. “I had not considered it that way,” he breathed. “I only thought that I was doing what was best for everyone. To take myself out of their way.” He bit his lip. “I did not think it was the same as—as that. As what you … went through. But you are right. I cannot ask that of you; I cannot ask that of anyone. I should not have let this happen to myself.”

     “It is true, what you say. I do not afford myself the same regard I do others. I do not feel I deserve it. I am a hypocrite, yes. I can see that. I have kind words for others and none for myself. To me, that was just; that was fair. But to think on how you almost—” He shuddered. “I would not wish that on anyone. Even myself.”

     “You must understand,” he said quietly, “I feel I’ve given all that I could give. I did not think my life had any further value, any further point.” He paused in thought, tilting his head and shutting his eyes. “But then, neither did you. And you were so, so wrong.” His brow creased. “And maybe I am wrong. Maybe you do well to prove me so. But it is hard, for me. To see it. I just … I don’t know.” His voice teetered. “I’m just so tired.”

     Javert looked him up and down.

     The man was still crestfallen, ashen and thin, but he seemed more himself, somehow.

     Yet still, he did not have that something that he used to. Javert was not sure what it was, but he knew that it was missing. Some sort of … vivacity. Some spark of something.

     The corner of his mouth drew back. He fell back into his armchair, slouched limbs draped over the sides of it haphazardly as he pondered the situation.

     His eyes flicked back to Valjean, who was staring off at the floor. Still, the man’s gaze, the man’s face, seemed dulled, numb.

     What more could he do?

     Javert let out a frustrated breath and sat up a little, slouching forwards and hanging his head. He shut his eyes. Touched his forehead.

     “I have been … unkind to you,” he began. “You have many times done right by me without cause to do so, and I have not been grateful for any of it. It is wrong of me, and I know that. You were only trying to help me, and I pushed you away.”

     “You have never deserved the way I’ve treated you. I have always been conscious of that. It is only …” He wrung his hands where they dangled between his legs. “It is hard for me to admit these things to myself. To admit that I am in the wrong. I’m not accustomed to it; I’m not accustomed to thinking about things. About myself, about how I should feel, and why. And more than once I’ve found myself regretting something I’ve said to you, even as I said it.”

     “I don’t …” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to express the things I feel towards you, when half the time I don’t even fully comprehend what they are myself. It is confusing for me,” he said, gesturing outward with an open palm. “The whole world is confusing, these days, but especially you. Always you.”

     His voice grew quieter, softer. “It was easier not to think about it, to drive it all out of my mind. To pretend none of this had ever happened. For so long, it was the only way I could bear to go on—the only way my life could regain any semblance of normality. And then, I thought that it would be better for you, as well, were we never to see each other again. That you were too benevolent to admit that you’d benefit from my absence. You had a life of your own—a good, honest life—and I did not want to taint it any further with the past. I thought that by pushing you away I was doing us both a favor.” He hung his head, a shadow falling over his face. “Perhaps I was wrong in that.”

     He gave a great sigh.

     “Back then, when I was out of my mind with fever and helpless at your hands, I kept asking you why you were doing what you were. Why you cared. And you said that I already knew.” His expression twitched. “Well, I did. I did know. But I could not admit it to myself. Because it hurt too much.”

     Valjean looked up at him questioningly.

     Javert locked eyes with him, getting to his feet. “You ask me now, why I do this? As if you don’t already know.” He licked his lips, shook his head. “You feign ignorance, but the reality is, you know exactly why I do what I’m doing, just as well as you know why you couldn’t let me go.”

     Valjean held his gaze a moment more before casting his face to the floor.

     Was that guilt on his face, Javert wondered?

     “Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know what you’re doing is wrong,” he told him. “You know that you are being ridiculous. You know why I care for you.”

     Valjean slowly lifted his head to look at him, his brow furrowing, his eyes searching, searching his face for something. “Why you … care for me?”

     Javert stared at him. He narrowed his eyes. “What, did you think—?” He studied Valjean’s expression. His eyebrow twitched. Clicking his tongue, he thrust his face away, cheeks hot. “Of course I care for you, you idiot.”

     He scrunched and unscrunched the fabric of his trousers, shoulders tensed.

     Valjean was quiet for so long that it made him curious. Swiveling his head back a fraction of an inch, he spied fresh tears falling down the man's face.

     “Oh,” Valjean breathed. And then his expression contorted, and he buried his face in his hands. And with that, it seemed the spell on him had been broken.

     Javert watched him suppress his sobs in silence. His shoulders sagged, as all his pretense of anger and frustration melted into solemn regard.

     So that was what you needed to hear.

     He squeezed his eyes shut, turning away and clenching his fists. He could not bear to look at him any longer. Damnit, he cursed himself. Damnit.

     “Valjean,” he heard himself say.

     The man looked up at him with one watery brown eye.

     He felt the heat spread though his skin, and thrust his gaze to the floorboards. “Do you … want me to bring you up a washtub?”

     Valjean gave a begrudgingly submissive nod.

     “Right. I’ll go get some fresh sheets while I’m at it.”

     As he was ducking into the stairwell, he heard Valjean call his name.

     He turned around.

     Valjean’s voice was soft. Apologetic, even. The tear streaks glistened on his cheeks, a shadow veiling his eyes. “I didn’t … think it would hurt anyone.”

     Javert gazed at him for a moment in silence. “Neither did I.”

     And then he disappeared.

***

Chapter Text

“It takes courage to love, but pain through love is the purifying fire which those who love generously know. We all know people who are so much afraid of pain that they shut themselves up like clams in a shell and, giving out nothing, receive nothing and therefore shrink until life is a mere living death.”

-Eleanor Roosevelt

***

     When Javert had dug the shaving kit out of his dresser and thrust it towards Valjean, the man had stared at it dumbly for a moment, and then looked up at him strangely, before the faintest trace of a smirk—and a sad one, at that—ghosted on his lips.

     “Shave that hideous thing off your face,” Javert had said, pointing to his own upper lip, “before I do it myself. You look like a vagrant.”

     He was not really serious, but all the years he had known Valjean, the man had never once allowed the whole of his facial hair to grow out like that. At least, not fully. Madeleine had been clean shaven, mostly, and though Fauchelevent had a beard, it was only along his chin, and had been neatly kempt.

     For some reason, it caused Javert unease to see the man’s personal grooming in such a state of disarray. And so he had brought up the washtub and a set of newly laundered clothes, and thrust a shaving kit at him.

     Now he waited at the top of the staircase with his back against the door and his arms folded over his chest.

     When Valjean finally admitted him back into the flat, Javert found him looking a little less worse for wear.

     The man had toweled his hair dry, and where it had previously hung limp and disheveled, it now clung to his scalp in light, bouncing white curls. It was good, too, to see him in a clean blouse and a fresh pair of trousers. The change of attire made him seem a bit less like a corpse and a bit more like a man. And, perhaps best of all, that damnable mustache was gone, and it took a number of years off his appearance.

     Javert surveyed him head to toe with a stoic face, and said only the word “Better,” before changing the bed linens.

     He could feel Valjean’s eyes on his back as he moved, tucking the sheets beneath the mattress in military-style precision. He looked back at him. Resumed his work. Looked back at him again. “Do you have something you wish to say to me?” he asked gruffly.

     The man glanced down at the floorboards from where he stood against the wall. “N-no. Only, I am sorry for causing you such trouble.”

     Javert gave an exasperated sigh. “You are not causing me trouble,” he said, turning back the sheets.

     “It was not my intention to, no. But I am.”

     “I say again that you are not, and I would ask that you refrain from revisiting the issue.”

     Valjean was quiet for a moment. “You did not have to put me up at your flat,” he mumbled.

     Javert turned to look back at him over his shoulder. “You have no one else.”

     Valjean hung his head.

     “Besides,” he added, spreading the blanket out over the bed, “You dragged me back to your house, when you had no reason to do so. Me, you could have actually entrusted to a hospital. But you did not. You, on the other hand—you, I could not entrust to anyone.”

     “No,” Valjean finally said, “That is not true. I … could not entrust you to anyone else, either.”

     Javert paused in the middle of stuffing the pillow into a new case. “Well,” he said, continuing, “Then we understand one another.”

     When he had finished smoothing the covers out, he turned around and frowned at him, putting a hand on his hip. “Listen, now; I am going back to work tomorrow. You will not give me any grief by trying to do something foolish. You will remain here until you are well, do you hear? Pas d'arguments.”

     Valjean gazed off with a sullen little sigh. Slowly, he gave a nod.

     “Bien,” said Javert.

     After a moment, Valjean spoke up again, his voice meek. “You should reclaim your bed, though. I would prefer to relinquish it to you.”

     “Nonsense; I am not the one who is ill. I doubt it is even easy for you to stand, just now. Besides, I am used to sleeping in chairs; it does not bother me. You, however …”

     “Javert, I slept on a plank for twenty years of my life.”

     Javert gave a pause, his face going blank. He blinked. Narrowed his eyes. “Yes, well, all the more reason to give you the bed.”

     Valjean turned his face from him. “I do not like it,” he said quietly. “I do not like the idea of putting you out of your own bed.”

     “That,” Javert sighed, “is your problem, not mine.”

***

     Later, they ate a supper of gibelotte, and, Valjean having retired back to the bed, Javert settled down in his bergère under a blanket. He was reaching over the side table, about to roll down the wick of the oil lamp and extinguish its flame for the night, when he heard Valjean murmur his name from across the room.

     He looked up. “Mm?”

     “Thank you.”

     Javert gazed at where Valjean lay on his mattress, back turned to him, facing the wall. Closing his eyes, he put out the lamp and plunged the room into forgiving darkness.

***

     Some time into the night, Javert was awakened by a sort of animalistic sound, a strange grunting.

     For a moment he sat in confusion in his chair, half asleep, agitated and bewildered. He soon remembered why it was he had been sleeping in his chair instead of his bed, and realized that what he was hearing was not grunting but whimpering, and not an animal, but Valjean.

     Blinking and rubbing a hand over his face, he turned to look in the direction of the sound.

     He could not see much; all was shadowy silhouettes in the moonlight, but he was able to make out the outline of a quivering lump on his mattress.

     All of a sudden, and with a startling cry, Valjean bolted upright in bed, his mouth hanging open as he panted, his voice hoarse and ragged and the only thing to be heard in the room. By the way it cracked, Javert was entirely sure the man was crying. He also seemed to be seized by a sort of fit, trembling involuntarily, and he clutched at the covers around him, drawing them about himself as though they would protect him.

     He didn’t seem to be aware of the possibility of there being anyone else in the room to see this, and Javert wondered if the man even knew where he was. Somehow, he doubted it.

     Was it the galleys he dreamt of? The strikes of the guards, the lash at his back, the shackle biting into his ankle as he toiled under the hot sun?

     Was it the cracks of gunshots in a fog of smoke, the blood of schoolboys watering the streets?

     Was it the river?

     Javert could not know.

     Perhaps it was Javert himself Valjean dreamt of, a ruthless shadow in the night, pursuing him without end, always there at every turn, waiting to drag him back to hell.

     Valjean sat shuddering beneath the blanket, withdrawn into himself like a frightened child.

     Javert had no way to tell how long he listened to the man’s stunted, gasping sobs before Valjean finally laid back down, curling up on the mattress and still trembling uncontrollably. For the duration of the episode, which may have been anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, Javert remained motionless in his chair, silent. He was trapped quite thoroughly in the freeze of a helpless bystander, so fixated by the scene before them that it does not occur to them that they are part of it.

     How long had he suffered these fits? Only Valjean knew the answer to that. Perhaps since the beginning. It seemed to Javert that this was not a singular event.

     Had the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer woken up in a cold sweat, crying out in the night with no one around to hear?

     This was not the sort of thing that a person would wish to be witnessed; it was a private moment of torture that wasn’t meant to be seen by outside eyes, and Javert felt almost guilty for watching it, though he had little choice in the matter. And then, too, he would not have known what to do if it had occurred to him to intervene. He would have no idea what to say, and besides that, this was not, he suspected, something that could be fixed by words.

     So he sat in the darkness, a statue, a stony observer. But he did not feel like stone. No, his heart did not feel like it was made of stone at all.

     And long after Valjean had fallen back asleep, Javert remained awake, staring at where he lay across the room and feeling distinctly as though something had pierced his breast.

***

     The days following passed with a strange sort of charm.

     Javert would return from his shift to find Valjean asleep in his bed, breathing softly, and he would stand and watch him for a moment before pulling off his boots and putting on the kettle.

     It was totally unheard of for him to entertain guests, yet it felt not as strange as Javert would have expected to come home to another person.

     Valjean slept most of the day away, and when he was not sleeping, Javert plied him with coffee and as much food he could get the man to eat.

     With each passing day, Valjean’s health seemed to improve, albeit slowly. Still, Javert was thankful for any progress at all.

     When he was out stalking the streets, he would randomly recall that Valjean would be waiting for him at home, and the thought filled him with a strange sensation of he knew not what. But somehow, he found himself, without notice, a little more eager to get back.

***

     On the third day after Javert had resumed his work, Valjean awoke to someone opening and closing the door of the flat, which happened to be old, and whose hinges were rather rusty. They let out a telling creak whenever anyone entered the room, and at the sound of them Valjean opened his eyes, awakened from a dream he could not remember.

     His gaze went immediately to the front of the room, expecting to see Javert, but instead, the sight that met him was of a short and somewhat portly woman. She wore a cream colored apron over a green dress. A few strands of dull, graying brown hair had slipped out from under her matching cream colored bonnet. She turned to look at him with seemingly the same amount of surprise with which he looked at her.

     “Oh! Monsieur, I—” She faltered, swayed on her feet uncertainly. “I didn’t know anyone was up here. I am sorry; I have disturbed you. It is most unseemly. I did not mean to intrude.”

     “No, it is all right,” Valjean breathed, propping himself up against the pillows and suddenly finding himself very grateful for the fresh clothes and bed sheets Javert had provided him. “You do not wrong me, madame.”

     She bowed her head to him. “Still, I apologize. I knew he had some visitor, but I believed them long gone. There was a doctor, who came, and he looked rather grim, and I had thought that … Ah, never mind.”

     “What is it?”

     “I had expected you to have been taken to the hospital, monsieur; that is all. I am surprised to find you here.”

     “I, too, find myself surprised by the turn of events,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

     “He did not wish to send you to the hospital, then? Seemed I your case was rather severe.”

     “Er, no; he wanted me to stay here.”

     “I see. Perhaps that is for the better. Sometimes taking the very ill to the hospital only makes them worsen. All those other patients, around them, coughing and souring the air and whatnot. Passing along catching things to each other. Yes, remaining here was probably a good course of action for you. I see that your health seems to have improved some already.”

     He folded his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs absentmindedly. “Some, I suppose.”

     “Well, you are still rather pale, monsieur. But you are lucid, and speaking, and that is good. Are you in pain?”

     “No,” he sighed. “It was not that kind of illness.”

     “Ah, I see.” She paused, studying him. “It is odd that Javert did not make clear to me your stay. If I had known he would leave you like this during the day, I would have offered to check in on you.”

     Valjean got the feeling he knew exactly why Javert had failed to mention him. ‘If someone were to see your scars …’

     “Do not trouble yourself over me,” he said, waving his hand dismissively at her. “I am all right on my own, now. I do not need to be looked after night and day.”

     “If you say so.” She looked about herself as if she had forgotten something. “Ah, yes, I had come in here to— Well, if you do not mind, that is.”

     “Mind what?”

     “I only came to collect the dishes,” she explained, glancing away and putting a hand on her hip. “That Javert,” she complained, clucking her tongue like a mother hen, “he is so bad at remembering to take them downstairs to be washed. I keep having to fetch them for him, elsewise I run the risk of cooking a long meal only to open up the cupboards and find them bare of anything to serve it on.”

     Valjean let out a weak chuckle at that.

     “The funny thing is, he hardly ever eats anything,” she said, ducking into the kitchen. Valjean could hear the rattle of crockery and porcelain. “Big man like that … You’d assume he’d have an appetite to match. But no; a little bowl of porridge, a slice of bread with jam, and he is satisfied. I shall never understand how he grew to the size he has, eating like that.”

     She exited the kitchen with an armful of dishes, stacked upon one another, and Valjean nearly laughed at the height of it.

     “You see?” she said, nodding to her burden. “All the cups in the kitchen, gone. He hoards them up here, like some sort of dragon. Honestly! Sometimes I think if he could subsist on nothing but coffee all day, he would.”

     A smirk tugged at the corner of Valjean’s lips.

     The woman slowed to a halt near the door, her eyebrows rising as though something had only just occurred to her. “You know,” she said, turning to look back at him, “I think you are the first and only guest the inspector has ever had in all the time that he’s been here.”

     “Is that so?”

     Somehow, he was not surprised. And yet this simple statement of fact touched him on some level, moved his heart to soften a little and fall to pondering.

     “Yes,” said the portress, looking off at the wall, now. “You are. In fact, I cannot even say that I’ve really seen him with anyone, before.” She glanced back at him again. “He must be very fond of you, monsieur. To let you in like that.”

     Valjean lifted his face to her with a small start. “I—” His brow furrowed as he closed his mouth. “Hm.”

     After she had gone, he sat in bed, staring off in thought.

     Even though Javert had said that he cared for him, earlier, Valjean suspected it had more to do with a sense of debt than any real affection. After all, he had never known the man to be affectionate, not to anyone. Not even to himself.

     The fact that he had not taken him to a hospital, or left him in another’s care, could easily be explained by the fact that Javert could not in good conscience put him in a position where his past might be discovered and reported to the police.

     And all his declarations, and speeches … They had been a means to an end, which was to keep Valjean from dying. Because, he presumed, Javert felt partially responsible for his situation, and also because there was no one else to care for him, and if he died, it would put a stain on Javert’s hands.

     Javert was stoic, averse to feeling, a slave to the law, and the prejudices it brought with it. He did not have a tender bone in his body, not for others, no. And certainly, he would never allow himself to care—to truly care—about the welfare of a convict, beyond what was strictly necessary in the name of duty.

     Valjean was apprehensive to believe anything else of him.

     Oh, how he wanted to.

     But he could not.

     After that summer, after those things the man had said to him … Valjean could not allow himself to hope, any longer, for fear of the crushing defeat of being mistaken. Of humiliation. Of rejection.

     He could not bear to open that wound in his chest back up—to liberate the foolish wishes of his past, or hear the beating of his heart. He had lost everything, and he could not stand to lose a single thing more. And so he kept himself guarded, and warned against any misconceptions borne of flights of fancy. To dream was to die again.

     No, surely all that had occurred since Javert had found him on the street could be explained away by rational, sensible means, and not those of tenderness.

     But, from an outside perspective …

     He mulled the man’s actions over in his mind wonderingly, contemplating the words of the portress.

     ‘He must be very fond of you, monsieur. To let you in like that.’

     Sighing, his eyes drifted down, landed on the blouse he was wearing, with the too-long sleeves. Javert’s blouse.

     He tilted his arm, examining the cuff.

     He frowned despairingly.

     Fond?

***

     On the fourth day, Javert threw the door open upon his return with undue force. There was a tension to his posture and a grimace on his face. Without so much as saying a word to him, he stalked off into the kitchen, head down, muttering to himself.

     Valjean sat up in bed and followed him with his gaze, still half-asleep, but curious.

     He could hear the man throwing open cabinets and rummaging inside of drawers with a hasty sort of fervor. He knit his brow, unsure what caused the man such unrest.

     Javert stormed back into the room carrying a little tin box with a handle on it, which he set down with a clatter on the side table.

     “I need you to do me a favor,” the man muttered coarsely.

     Valjean’s eyebrow shot up.

     “Hold something for me,” Javert said.

     “Hold what?”

     The man pried, with some difficulty, the black leather glove off his left hand to reveal a deep gash in his palm. The flesh was split diagonally from index finger to opposite wrist, oozing with fresh blood. Already the whole of his hand was stained and sticky with it. “This,” he said.

     Valjean’s mouth fell open, horror entering his eyes. What little color he had regained in the past few days now drained from his face. “My God,” he breathed, “what happened to you?”

     “Occupational hazard,” Javert grunted. He fumbled at the latch of the little metal box, and swung back the lid.

     Inside, Valjean could see a roll of clean white cloth, a spool of catgut with a needle stuck through it, a pair of tiny silver scissors, a small brown glass bottle filled with dark liquid, a bunch of rags, and various other medical supplies.

     Javert withdrew the spool and tossed it at him.

     Startled, Valjean nevertheless managed to catch it.

     “Thread that for me, will you?” It was obvious by the way Javert clutched at his wound, and by the strain of his voice, that he was in a significant amount of pain. And yet he seemed unfazed, as though he were used to such things.

     Valjean obeyed as Javert took a seat in his chair, holding his hand out over the table. He sat down opposite him on the floor, handing him back the needle and spool.

     “Right, then,” said Javert, taking it from him and offering up his shaking, bloody palm.

     “Ah—” Almost reflexively, Valjean grabbed the rags from the box and took hold of Javert’s hand, dabbing at the blood. He tried to suppress the tremor that ran through his spine at the flash of white he glimpsed amid the red. The cut had exposed bone, and the thought of it—of what it must feel like—turned his stomach.

     Javert reached into the kit and took out the little brown bottle as Valjean was doing this. His attempts at uncorking the lid one-handedly were unsuccessful.

     Valjean took it from him and yanked the stopper out with a popping noise. He looked down the narrow neck of the bottle at the yellow-brown substance inside. “Iodine?”

     “Mm. Pour it.”

     Valjean glanced up at him, grimacing. “Are you su—”

     “Pour it. Just do it.” He took a wooden dowel from the medical kit with his one free hand and placed it in his mouth, clamping down on it with his teeth to mute the forthcoming pain.

     Letting out a shaky breath, Valjean gripped Javert’s hand in his own and carefully doused the wound with the bottle’s contents.

     Javert gave a noise that was something of a grunt and a hiss, his expression contorting as he trembled in his seat. “Good, then,” he forced out, his words muffled by the bit. “Right. Now hold it closed for me.”

     Frowning, Valjean tried his best to pinch the gash closed. “Are you certain you don’t want me to d—”

     “No,” Javert growled, “You’ll take too long, you sissy.” He took up the threaded needle and, without a moment’s hesitation, pierced it through his flesh. Hissing in pain, he bit down hard on the dowel as he worked, stabbing the needle through skin and muscle, pulling the catgut through, stitching the wound closed. Each time he made a new stitch, Valjean cringed along with him.

     “How did this happen?” he asked him, trying not to stare too hard at the dark crimson that now covered both of their hands, or at the exposed muscle of the man’s palm.

     “Thief. Alleyway. Knife,” Javert grunted through the bit. “Not important.”

     “This ought to have been examined by a doctor.”

     “Doctors cost money.”

     “You summoned a doctor for me,” Valjean reminded him.

     “That was different.”

     “How?”

     The man did not respond.

     “This is really very serious,” Valjean breathed. “You should have gone to see someone for it.”

     “Why pay for something I can fix myself?”

     “This is not the sort of thing to be stingy about, Javert,” he implored. “Truly. This is not a light matter. If this were to fester—”

     “Then there is nothing more a doctor could do for it than I could,” Javert interrupted, letting the dowel fall from his mouth in frustration. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? I’m an old hand at this. Police officers get their fair share of scars, just like convicts. If you think this looks bad, you should have seen some of the other ones.”

     When he had finished the last stitch, Javert cut the end of the catgut from the spool and thrust it towards Valjean. “There, see? It wasn't the end of the world.”

     Valjean withdrew, tensing up. “Ah, Lord. I cannot— How can you do that to yourself?”

     “Practice,” Javert said. “Though it is easier by far to do this when one has both their hands available to them.” He reached for the roll of cloth but accidentally pushed it off the side of the table.

     Valjean retrieved it for him with haste. “Let me do it,” he implored, hushed. “You’ve done enough already.”

     He took Javert’s hand in his, careful not to jostle it too hard. It was dark, and large—larger, in fact, than his, if only by a little, but somehow more imposing. More powerful and fearsome looking. Valjean imagined that this was how Androcles had felt as he’d pulled the thorn from the lion’s paw.

     As gently as he could, he wrapped the roll of cloth around it, over and over. The first layer became quickly spotted with red; the second only very slowly, and the third remained a pristine white.

     Javert watched him intently as he did this.

     To Valjean’s surprise, he heard the man give a quiet scoff.

     “Is that the secret to you, then?” Javert said, seemingly to himself.

     Valjean knit his brow. “Hm?”

     “You’ve barely spoken a word for four days,” said Javert. “I come home with an injury, and suddenly you’re prattling on as if there was nothing the matter with you.”

     “I don’t catch your drift.”

     “That’s the key, isn’t it? You only care about your own wellbeing when someone else’s is tied up in it.” Before Valjean could make a reply to this, he added “Maybe the quickest way to bring you back to your senses would have been to take another dip in the Seine.”

     A sort of panic lit Valjean’s soul. “Good God,” he breathed, looking up at him in horror, “Don’t even joke about that. Not ever!”

     Javert smirked. “And just like that, you have your wits about you again.”

     Valjean stared at him, his mouth open in a protest that never made it past his throat. He felt the blood rise hot to his cheeks, and turned his face away.

     “See; there. You do not even have a rebuttal.”

     Valjean gave a defeated sigh. “That is not fair of you,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

     “Oh? And how is that?”

     “You mock me for something that ought not be considered a fault.”

     “Firstly, I am not mocking you; I am criticizing you. Secondly, even an admirable quality such as humility can become a fault by excess. You take the best traits of man and exaggerate them abominably. It is exceedingly aggravating.” He snorted. “I can see why your daughter gets upset with you. Your servant, too. I’m sure you must drive the old woman up the wall.”

     “She is not my servant, anymore,” said Valjean. “She is not anybody’s servant, anymore, as far as I know. She went away when Cosette married, to work at her husband’s house; only, she did not get along with the other servants, so they dismissed her. I disliked that, but I had no say in the matter. She belonged to Cosette.”

     Another smirk. “And you do not?”

     Gloom washed over Valjean’s features. His eyes dulled. “No.”

     Javert studied him. A moment passed in silence, broken only by footsteps creaking on the floorboards below.

     Scowling, then, Javert took hold of his collar, drawing him up to his face. “Look here, you. This business with your daughter—it has got to stop. She cares for you, and deeply so. She has expressed as much to me before.”

     He let him slip from his grasp as he sat back in his chair. “Her husband has no right to keep her from you,” he told him. “He does not own her. The girl may do as she pleases, and I am entirely certain she would wish to remain in contact with you. She worries for you more than you know. And that you have resigned yourself to this pointless isolation … Bah! She would throw a fit if she knew the state you were in. And I’ve half a mind to tell her just this instant.”

     “You wouldn’t!” he breathed in horror, his expression an entreaty.

     “I would.”

     “No, you cannot; you do not understand! It would break her heart to see me thusly; I know that. I cannot do that to her. Please,” he begged. “Please, you cannot tell her of this.”

     “Well,” the man said, tossing him a look, “if you get better then I suppose I shan’t need to, shall I?”

     “Are—are you threatening me?”

     “An astute observation,” Javert said. “Yes. If you do not make a marked improvement in your health then I am going to tell your daughter and I’m going to deposit her on your doorstep—and then you will have hell to pay from the both of us.”

     “But you do not even know where she lives!”

     “I am a police inspector, I would remind you,” he exclaimed, “—first class! And I can damn well find out!”

     Valjean shivered. “N-no, please, you can’t! You can’t tell her; oh, Dieu, no.”

     Javert jabbed a finger in his direction. “Stop treating yourself like shit and I just might consider my discretion on the matter. Otherwise …”

     “No, please, I— I’ll—” He groped about helplessly, eyes darting to and fro as though searching for something to aid him. “I will take better care of myself. I will, I swear it! Only, she must never know I’ve allowed this to occur!”

     “Hmph.” Javert smirked triumphantly. “You may not care anything for yourself, but you do care for the happiness of others, and I will use that against you if I must.”

     “You can be a cruel man, sometimes. Do you know that?”

     “Yes,” he sneered, “and you can be a stupid one. Now what do you want for supper?”

***

Chapter Text

“As long as you're alive, there's always a chance things will get better.”

-Laini Taylor

***

     “You cannot be serious,” Valjean said.

     Javert looked up at him from his armchair, where he sat with the remains of breakfast sitting on a plate in his lap. “Whyever not?”

     “Why not? Look at yourself, man!”

     The man considered his injured hand as if he hadn’t noticed it before, and gave a dispassionate shrug. “What, this? This is nothing.”

     “You cannot go back to work like that.”

     “Of course I can. Not on patrol, obviously;” he clarified, “they’ll just chain me to a desk for awhile. Have me fill in for other officers. What’s the matter with that?”

     Valjean gave a huff, turning his face away. “Nothing, I suppose.”

     “You want me to stay here and suffer with you,” Javert chuckled. “Is that it?”

     With a start, Valjean shot him a confounded and abused sort of look. “No, I just—”

     “What?”

     A frown tugged at Valjean’s lips. “You are surely in great deal of pain from that, and yet you take nothing for it.”

     Javert furrowed his brow. “So?”

     “So, why? Why torture yourself? You could easily call on a doctor, or go to an apothecary for a bottle of laudanum.”

     The man looked confused by his agitation. “I could.”

     “And why don’t you?”

     Again, Javert shrugged, the corners of his mouth drawn down. “I don’t need it, that’s why. It is an unnecessary expense.”

     “Unnecessary! Mon Dieu, have you no nerves? I saw the thing; that gash was deep! It must be agony for you, even holding it still. And besides, the medicine is not that expensive. I mean, it’s even cheaper than gin.”

     Javert ignored his chiding, taking a swig of coffee from his mug as though there was nothing bothering him at all. “You’ve had worse before, without anything to cope.”

     Valjean stared at him, dumbstruck, his mouth falling open. “That … was prison! They didn’t give you the option! And the pain was meant as a punishment; it was supposed to be suffered through! You are not a prisoner; you do not deserve to endure something like that—especially when it is so easily remedied. What is it you’re trying to prove? You carry pain like it’s a badge of honor! Well, I tell you, it is not.”

     “You nag like an old fish wife,” Javert snapped at him. “I do what I please! I don’t need it; I won’t have it. I tell you, I do not care. Why should it bother you so?”

     “Because I—!” Valjean faltered, closed his mouth for a moment, eyeing him severely. When next he spoke his voice had lowered drastically, and he turned his face a little to hide the reddening of his cheeks. “—cannot stand to see you in pain, obviously.”

     A scowl twitched on the man’s lips as he looked back at him. He growled under his breath, scraping his fingernails against the wood of the tabletop and thrusting his gaze towards the other side of the room.

     “Ugh, fine,” he muttered. “If it matters that much to you. I’ll pick something up on the way home.”

     “On the way to the station, and you shall take some before the start of your shift.”

     Javert cast his cold blue eyes on him with annoyance, his mouth scrunching up all on one side of his face. “Comme tu veux,” he sneered pejoratively, giving him a venomous, lopsided smile. As you wish.

***

     When Javert got back to his flat after work, he found Valjean sitting up in his bed with his nose stuck in a book, and a pile of them surrounding him on the mattress.

     “Your choice in literature is … interesting,” Valjean said, lowering the book without even glancing up at him.

     “I don’t much care for reading,” said Javert, shrugging off his greatcoat and hanging it up by the door.

     “But did you not just rent a newspaper the other day?”

     Javert looked over at the offending item where it sat on the table. “What, that? I only picked it up because it had an article I wanted to read.”

     Valjean knit his brow. “That … is generally why people read newspapers, yes.”

     “No, you ninny;” he retorted, rolling his eyes, “it’s not like that. Truly. I abhor the trite and petty state of contemporary journalism. It’s little more than gossip in printed form. Sensationalism marketed to the busybodies and the gullible. Only, on the rare occasion, there is actually something useful published in there.”

     “I see.”

     “Really, I don’t partake in much literature. I don’t find the pastime terribly pleasurable.”

     “Hm. But if that is true, why do you own any books at all?”

     “One must endeavor to keep oneself somewhat educated,” he explained. “Even if I don’t particularly enjoy it, it is proper that as an officer of the law I should have at least a couple intellectual pursuits. Even if they are purely out of necessity.”

     “I got the sense of that, yes. Philosophy, history, law … It is all rather dry.”

     “And what would you prefer I read?” he said, raising an eyebrow to accent his perpetual frown.

     “I don’t prefer you to do anything; it is just that you have very different tastes.”

     “Oh? What do you read, then?”

     “Me? Er …” A little blush colored his cheeks as he turned to face the window, brushing the tip of his nose. “Tales of adventure, or mystery, or drama … That sort of thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Volumes of poetry, even, sometimes.”

     Javert snorted. “Entertaining drivel for the masses,” he said. “What do you get out of reading such trivial things? I don’t see the point.”

     “The point?” Valjean looked back up at him curiously. “To enjoy oneself, I think. To see things from another person’s perspective, to experience things you never would have otherwise experienced. To discover things you would not have even known to wonder about. There is a reason this kind of ‘drivel’ is popular, you know. Not just because people are content to consume anything that’s put in front of them. It’s quite the opposite, in fact. And just because a book doesn’t outright concern a particular study doesn’t mean you can’t learn anything from it. I think that’s the kind of book you learn the most from, to be honest.”

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him ponderously. “Hm.”

     “You should read something other than law books, some time, Javert. Like … L'Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane, or Robinson Crusoe, or L'Ingénu …”

     “Why should I?”

     Valjean paused in thought. He shrugged. “I do not know if you would enjoy them,” he admitted finally. “You are a very different sort of man than me. But one can derive a great deal of happiness from books, and they give you something to do in your quiet hours. They are very useful things. They help one grow as a person, I think. You ought to at least try a few before you scorn the entire pursuit.”

     Javert scoffed. “I remember,” he said after a moment, “in Montreuil, when I asked around about you, there was this group of women—gossips, the lot of them, happy to tell me everything they knew. They said they’d asked to see the inside of your house, because they’d heard great rumors about its lavishness or some-such, but then when you invited them in they found it mostly bare, with only a couple pieces of simple furniture. The only wealth you seemed to have was a pair of antique silver candlesticks and a great deal of books. They were very disappointed.”

     A nostalgic smile warmed the man’s face as he gazed off, suppressing a laugh. “I remember that,” he chuckled. “They told me my wallpaper was ugly. Too dark, they said. As if I cared about such things.”

     Javert smirked. “Mm.”

     A moment passed in silence.

     He looked Valjean up and down. “You seem … better,” he remarked.

     The man gave a start. “Ah, do I?” He blinked. “I suppose I must be, compared to when you found me.” His gaze was far off, and Javert did not understand why, but a shadow fell over the man’s face for a brief moment. “Yes, it would seem my health is returning.”

***

     The next day was Sunday, and when Valjean awoke, it was mid-morning, and Javert was gone. He picked up one of the books that was still lying beside the bed and flipped it to the last page he’d been on, expecting to have nothing better to do for quite some time, when he heard the door creak open again.

     He looked up from the book in surprise. “I thought you’d gone to church,” he said.

     Javert stared back at him blankly for a second before giving an amused snort. “Church?” he scoffed, grabbing his tailcoat from the armoire and shoving his arms through the sleeves. “No.”

     Valjean knit his brow at him. “Why do you act as though that were humorous?”

     The man shrugged, shaking his head a few times with a lopsided grin as he fastened his belt.

     “What?”

     “Nothing.”

     “What were you doing, then?”

     “Using the water closet, if you harbor a particular need to know,” he snarked.

     Valjean felt his face grow hot. “Ah.” He looked away. “And whither are you going?”

     “Out.”

     “To work?”

     “No; I don’t work today.”

     “Oh. Then why are you—”

     “Come for a walk with me,” Javert interrupted.

     “Eh? Why?”

     “Because I want to see if you can.”

     He averted his gaze. “O-oh.”

     “Also I need to return this,” Javert told him, picking up the latest issue of Le Moniteur from the side table and waving it in the air. “And I have a report to drop off at the station house. I won’t bring you anywhere near it, of course. But a walk along the river and some fresh air will no doubt do you good.”

     Valjean gave a solemn nod. “Yes, I suppose it might,” he said, clutching at the sleeve of the white linen nightshirt. “Give me a moment to change into something a little more presentable.”

     “Take your time,” said Javert, closing the door.

     “Javert?”

     The man poked his head back in with a quizzical expression.

     “I don’t, er …” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t have any clothes of my own.”

     Javert’s pale blue eyes flicked to the side, where the only outfit Valjean actually owned still sat dirty in the corner. “Ah. Right.”

***

     Valjean felt strangely vulnerable as he exited the building, and he was not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was because he had not gone outside in quite some time. Or because it was broad daylight. Or perhaps it was because he was stepping out into public wearing another man’s clothes—not that anyone would have known that, since fixing the issue of length was simply a matter of rolling up the shirt sleeves and cuffs of his pants.

     Maybe it was because he’d grown unused to walking with anyone that wasn’t his servant or his daughter. He was especially unused to walking with a police officer, and especially one that just so happened to be Javert.

     Whatever the reason, Valjean felt out of place. Wary. Watched.

     He cast his eyes about himself as they started down the street, taking in their surroundings. When he finally recognized them, he began to laugh under his breath. “This … This is Rue des Rosiers,” he said to himself.

     “And why do you find that comical?” asked Javert, turned to look back at him with an eyebrow raised.

     “Because—to think, all this time, we were only a few streets away from each other!”

     “Mm,” hummed Javert, looking a little put off by this thought, “Yes. Hilarious.”

     “Well, I think it’s rather funny, anyway. All the times we must have almost crossed paths. All the times you might have ended up catching me by pure chance.”

     “Perhaps if you ever left your house at a reasonable hour, I might have,” he grumbled.

     He cracked a wry grin. “Perhaps.”

     The air was indeed, as Javert had suggested, refreshing—even more so than Valjean had expected it to be. He hadn’t realized just how long he had been spending indoors of late. Even before Javert had found him. For months, now, all he had really done outside of the flat was go on the occasional walk, but those had grown shorter and shorter, until he’d finally collapsed that day.

     Today, the sun was shining brightly, and there was a pleasant breeze on his skin. It was too warm to have worn the wool coat he’d been brought to Javert’s flat in, so he’d left it where it had been all week, hanging on the hook by the door.

     He felt as though he had been asleep for ages, and had only just awoken.

     Javert strolled along at his side, a silent companion, occasionally stealing glances at him. Assessing his recovery, Valjean supposed. Yes, his health had certainly improved. He felt better than he had in many weeks. His earlier decline had been so gradual that he had not fully realized its extent. He found himself surprised at how different he felt now. No longer did each step seem so far, or his legs so heavy. No longer did his strides fill him with guilt.

     Though perhaps that had more to do with the change in destination than anything else.

     His gaze drifted out across the river from the quay, tracing the flashes of sunlight reflected off its surface.

     It was strange to think that it had almost claimed Javert’s life.

     To struggle for so long against fist and knife and gun, only to submit to a body of water at the end of it all. Strange, and wrong, that he could have plunged into obscurity like that, gone in the blink of an eye. His life snuffed out in silence, without any witness but God.

     A man who had lived the whole of his existence alone, dying, too, alone.

     Would people have mourned him? Or would they have forgotten?

     It was wrong, Valjean thought, so wrong that a soul could endure so much suffering, and pass out of the world without so much as a taste of reward or a word of remark. That one could allow oneself to do that, to die unfulfilled! To disappear one night without a trace, to slip into shadow with nothing and no one left to his name …

     No, the man deserved so much better than that. Everyone deserved better than that.

     ‘Even you.’

     Valjean gave a start. He turned to look at Javert, but the man had not opened his mouth, and was not looking at him.

     The voice had come from within himself. It shocked him to realize this—both that he had suddenly seen his and Javert’s actions as parallels, warranting the same consideration, and that he had drawn this conclusion of his own accord.

     It was true that Javert had tried to spell it all out for him earlier, but it was only just hitting him now. As with revolutions, revelations need to come from within in order to be successful. The only law one can heed is one’s own.

     And this concept struck Valjean quite thoroughly, that he ought to afford himself the same regard he afforded Javert. Not because he himself believed it deserved, but because he had, for the first time in a long time, glimpsed himself as part of a collective, as part of mankind. As a matter of course, Valjean felt that all human life was precious, and that everyone should be treated with kindness. That everyone deserved forgiveness of past transgressions, should they recognize them as such and seek absolution. That everyone deserved a second chance.

     Was he not also a man, then? Ought he not afford himself these things also?

     He had always considered the idea selfish, but perhaps Javert was right, and it had only ever been hypocritical to assume that. He didn’t care about his own hypocrisy when it came to his humility, but he could not deny that if he had found someone else in his position, he would have done exactly what Javert had been trying to do. And in truth, he had done such things for a number of people in the past, who were all in various states of desperation and despair.

     Fantine. Cosette. Javert. Countless people from his factory, and the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer and Paris.

     For the very first time he was considering himself as he had considered those poor unfortunate souls—as he had considered Javert: deserving of pity, of life.

     His eyes scanned the river, the glints of light, the softly undulating currents, like grain in a field, like faces in a crowd.

     Javert had sentenced himself to death, and had tried to let the Seine swallow him up. And he had come so close to succeeding. Too close. To flickering out like a candle in the wind. Wasted.

     Valjean shuddered to think on it. If he hadn’t followed him that night …

     His brow furrowed as he pictured Javert convulsing in those shadows, so filled with pain, and so, so alone.

     What if there had been no one to pull him out, and breathe the breath back into him? He would be gone. Just like that. Nothing more; no chances at happiness, or consolation, or love. He would just be gone. Sunk into a cold, dark void, never to return.

     He would have taken the despair he’d felt in that moment and cemented it so that it lasted for eternity. How could there be any peace in that?

     Valjean had never felt it just that the bible said God condemned those who took their own lives. It had always seemed wrong to him. God must know the extent of their suffering. How could He be so cruel as to cast them down for it, when they deserved only pity?

     But perhaps, Valjean mused, perhaps those passages were never meant to be taken literally. Perhaps the only hell suicides faced was that to which they had resigned themselves.

     And they did not deserve it. No one deserved that loneliness, that pain. No one.

     He gazed out at the river they walked beside, and contemplated the terrible fate that might have been. That had almost, almost been.

     And he became acutely aware of the man at his side, and he glanced over at him, and thought of all that had transpired since then.

     He remembered with perfect clarity the anguish which had consumed the man’s soul when he’d pulled him back from the parapet. Surely that had been the lowest point of Javert’s life. And surely it had seemed to him, in that moment, that there could be nothing left in life but that agony. That there was no future for him, anymore.

     But look at him now! He was back at his station, in his element again, a man in his own right, independent and well on his way down the road of recovery. Perhaps his spirit was not fully healed yet—these things took time, Valjean knew—but he was still here, he was still here, and that was all that mattered. Because with life came opportunities for change, and mending, and happiness. Death closed those doors. It provided nothing but an exit which led to an empty cell, from which there was no escape.

     But Javert was still here, and he still had time.

     And, looking at him, Valjean was overwhelmed with love, and simple, immense gratitude for the man’s continued existence. He gazed up at him in a sort of adoration. And again he turned back to the river, and watched the light spike off the shimmering surface, and he saw himself from outside of himself, and he saw himself in Javert, and Javert in himself, and he could no more deny himself commiseration than he could him.

     He remembered the man’s humility in the mairie, and how he’d pleaded earnestly for his own condemnation.

     And, parallel to this, he saw himself revealing his criminal past to his son-in-law, allowing him—and even encouraging him—to push him away, to harbor resentment towards him in his heart.

     He recalled how much he had wanted to take Javert’s hands, in his office, and tell him that his actions were not wrong, that he should not berate himself for them. That he was a good man, who had only ever tried to do right by the world, and did not deserve the disgrace for which he asked.

     What would Javert have said to him if he’d known how he’d defaced himself in front of Marius? If he’d known that he’d deliberately caused a divide between himself and his son-in-law, and, vicariously, his daughter? Would he be angry with him? Would he have grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled in his face that he was a fool, too humble for his own good? Valjean suspected he might have.

     And that speculation, too, surprised him—for hadn’t he thought mere days ago that the man didn’t care about him?

     But he did, Valjean realized, as fleeting images from the past week flashed before his eyes. He did care. Valjean had been afraid to believe it. But he could not deny the evidence he had before him. No, it was true—perhaps it was on a very small, hidden level, but Javert did care about him. He had prevented him from letting himself waste away and fall into the abyss. That meant something, whether he’d been obligated to do it or not.

     Javert and he, Valjean suddenly thought, were rather like two faces of the same coin. In many ways they resembled each other, if viewed from an outsider’s perspective. And what one had done, so had the other done in turn: set at liberty; pulled back from death; hammered the sense into; given shelter in a time of need. Yes, he mused, it was all rather circular, wasn’t it? And just as Javert deserved to live, and to be given all the chances that life afforded, perhaps he, too, ought not be so quick to give up on this world.

     He knew not what it could possibly have left in store for him, but then, neither had Javert, and soldiering on had been, undeniably, the right decision.

     Giving up was the end of everything, not just the bad, but all the good, too. And even if the world had nothing for him, choosing to live in it, and hold out hope despite everything, was still the right thing to do.

     He gazed out at the river which had almost claimed both their lives, and the way the sunlight played off of it, twinkling. And he saw that even at its most disparaging, at its worst and most painful, life was precious, and beautiful, and a blessing in and of itself. That even in the darkest moments, there were these little beacons, reasons to keep on believing in a better future. That even if he were to die having accomplished nothing, downtrodden and outcast, it would still be beautiful, miraculous, that he had lived at all.

     Even in the face of endless tribulation and insurmountable odds, it was better to stay alive than to submit to despair and desolate oneself. The will to survive was a testament to the human spirit, and the highest mark of courage there was.

     And he felt, for the first time in his life, a resolution begin to form in his gut: to live, and live for life’s sake alone.

     He imagined Javert sinking beneath the tide, and the incomprehensible, tragic waste that would have been his death.

     Life would always be the right choice. Even if it were nothing but misery.

     He thought this as he stood, and he realized then that he had been standing for quite some time now, his pace having slowed to a standstill.

     And he found Javert had stopped also, and was considering him studiously.

     The man noted his gaze and cast his own out over the river as well, leaning over the divide with his arms resting on the parapet. “It looks different in the light of day, doesn’t it,” he said, giving a pause. “I often find myself thinking that.”

     Valjean considered his words pensively.

     Did the man somehow know what was occurring in his mind? Did he see the signs of it, on his face? In his eyes? He wondered.

     It seemed that, in this instant, the both of them existed on the same page.

     “Javert,” he said softly, his eyes on the rays and reflections of the sun. He turned to look at him. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

     Javert was quiet for a moment. “Do you know something?” he murmured as he glanced back out at the river. “So am I.”

     Valjean drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Javert?”

     “Mm.”

     “Thank you.”

***

Chapter Text

“It’s become impossible to deny he means something to me.”

-Stephanie Perkins

***

     It occurred to Valjean, as he waited behind a nearby building for Javert to return from the station, that this was precisely where he had been, and what he had been doing, almost exactly a year ago. It was this very building he had hidden behind while he’d watched for Javert to reemerge from the station-house at Place du Châtelet that fateful night.

     Back then, he had been consumed with fear, not knowing what was to become of him, not knowing what Javert was planning to do. He had been almost entirely sure that the man had entered the station house to inform on him and instigate the authorities to arrest him in his stead.

     It dawned on him that Javert could in fact be doing that this very moment—only, now, Valjean did not have a single shred of doubt that the man would not. This took him by surprise, and he wondered at what point he had placed such complete trust in him. He found he could not say. He contemplated this turn of events as he leaned back against the cracking plaster, his arms folded over his chest, waiting patiently.

     A few minutes later, Javert rounded the corner. He glanced only briefly at him, giving him a vague nod for him to follow.

     Quiet, Valjean trailed beside him. Yet calm all the while, he marveled at how the two of them could simply be walking together in public like this. And even more so, that there was this—this unspoken something between them that he could not put a name to, which allowed them to speak without words, and erased their disquiet.

     Since when were either of them so comfortable around one another? It was a mystery to him. Even as he questioned it, he told himself that he should not; that such developments in relationships ought not be examined too closely, but be allowed to happen as they went along. Like the natural world, the expanse of one’s heart was best left uncharted, wild and new, for to analyze its depths was to make them shallow, and to catalog its contents was to kill the wonder they inspired.

     He let his eyes drift over their surroundings—the busy streets, the bright colors of the flowers and the clothing of passersby. The sun was shining, and the air was warm. Every so often a fiacre or a tilbury would pass them on the street, the horse’s hooves clopping on the cobblestone, growing louder and then dying away.

     In the distance, he could hear laughter, and someone singing some Spanish ditty—badly, but passionately—and the chirping of birds where they flitted about the rooftops and windowsills. His gaze lingered on a young couple, sitting on a bench beneath the trees in a little garden, looking at each other with smiles on their lips and in their eyes.

     He turned to glance up at Javert.

     Javert, in turn, looked over at him. “You’ve got your color back, you know,” he remarked.

     “Ah—do I?”

     “Yes,” said the man, averting his gaze towards the neatly trimmed hedges on the side of the street. “You’re doing better than I expected you to. I wasn’t even sure you could make this walk.”

     Valjean rubbed the back of his neck, turning his face away. “Well, I have been feeling significantly stronger these past few days. Better than I’ve felt in quite some time, to be honest. Months, perhaps. It was a slow illness.”

     “Mm.” Javert pursed his lips, sliding his ice-blue eyes back towards him for a second. “Eating actual food probably helped.”

     Valjean glanced back up at him, his face turning red before he directed his gaze back down towards the cobblestones. He cleared his throat. “Yes … well.”

     “Don’t go doing that again,” the man warned him. “When I told you to profit from your liberty, starving yourself to death wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

     “I am sorry about that.”

     “See that you take care to be a little more grateful the next time someone sticks their neck out for you, eh? It wasn’t an easy decision for me.” He frowned deeply, staring off at nothing with narrowed eyes. “What if you hadn’t been there to save me that night, hm? Do you know how angry I would have been if I’d killed myself only for you to end up letting yourself waste away? And for such a damned stupid reason, too. Really. It was extraordinarily ungrateful of you.”

     Valjean bent his head to him, cringing. “I … hadn’t thought of it like that.”

     “Evidently not.” Javert shot another glare his way. “Don’t do it again.”

     Valjean gave a sigh, his shoulders sagging. “I won’t.”

     “Do I have your word on that?” Javert asked, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

     “Of course! I don’t take such matters lightly, you know. I mean the things I say, always.”

     Javert’s eyes flicked up and down, studying him. “You had better.”

     Valjean gave him an agitated look and let out a puff of breath, casting his gaze elsewhere.

     They continued on a little while in silence before Javert spoke again.

     “You will go to her, will you not?”

     “What?” Valjean turned to him, furrowing his brow.

     “Your daughter.”

     He gave a start. “I—er …”

     “Don’t make me have this conversation twice,” Javert chided. “Your daughter loves you, and you obviously cannot stand to be without her. Her husband is an ass if he does not like you. That is his problem. You are the father; fathers have priority. If the man doesn’t wish to see you, then make arrangements so he doesn’t have to. But don’t let him sever your ties with her, honestly! What kind of father are you, going off without a word like that? You would bow to his every whim, even if it hurt her? I would bet you anything she is either very sad or very angry with you. Perhaps both.”

     The creases in Valjean’s forehead deepened. He gave another sigh. “It is true she did not want me to go,” he admitted quietly. “I knew that. And it made things all the worse.” He shook his head. “It was hard for me to do. To leave her. But I thought, at the time, that it was for the best.”

     “Ah, yes; clearly child abandonment was the best possible choice for you to make in this situation.”

     “Javert!”

     The man smirked, exposing his teeth and gums. He refused to meet his gaze.

     Valjean folded his arms behind his back, letting his head droop a little. “I thought I was doing her a service. Doing both of them a service. It was never my intention to cause her pain. Quite the opposite, in fact. I was trying to spare them indignity of having a—” He glanced at the passing pedestrians self-consciously, clearing his throat and lowering his voice. “—of having ties with a man like me.”

     Javert clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “I know why you did it; what I am saying is that your reasoning was idiotic. You get so caught up in your idea of how everyone must perceive you that you forget to actually consider the reality of their opinions.”

     “That—” Valjean paused, his mouth open. He shut it and looked away “Hm.”

     “Anyway,” Javert sighed, “either you reinitiate contact with the girl, or I will have to do it for you. And I’ll tell her just what a fool you’ve been, while I’m at it. So take your pick. I’m sure I know which one you’d prefer.”

     Valjean’s face was burning. “The former, obviously,” he grumbled. “I just … need some time, that’s all.”

     “For what?”

     “To come to terms with myself, I suppose.”

     Javert stared at him with a strange sort of look. “And how long will that take?”

     Valjean cocked his head at him, exasperated, throwing up a questioning palm. “I don’t know; how long did it take for you?”

     The man gave a start, his eyes widening a little as his steps faltered for a split-second. He huffed, a shadow falling over his face as he muttered something under his breath. He licked his lips, bit them. “That is far too long,” he said at length. “Besides, I threw myself back into the daily routine, didn’t I? Even if I hadn’t yet made peace with things. That’s just how you go on, you know. There is no defining moment, when everything becomes clear again, when the world starts making sense. You just press forwards, one day at a time. Until one day you find that it doesn’t hurt so much, anymore. And maybe living isn’t as hard as you thought.”

     Valjean gazed up at him wistfully. He contemplated his words, as his eyes drifted out over their surroundings. The people chattering amongst themselves, enjoying the summer air. The leaves rustling in the trees. A group of children playing in the street.

     Strangely, he felt a measure of contentment at this scene. Being here, in this place, in this moment, with this company.

     A few blocks down, a child screamed in play, their cry petering off into laughter.

     The sky was blue, and the clouds drifted lazily overhead like wisps of cotton. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin, and a gentle breeze tousle his hair.

     A bee buzzed lazily past him, on its way to a cluster of violets at the bottom of a wrought-iron fence.

     All around him, life—and the world—went on. And despite its heartache, there were always some pleasures—these little moments of bliss, easy and free. Sure, there was suffering—but there was this, too. The good inside the bad. Flowers grew up through the rubble. And though these small blooms of happiness were but fleeting, somehow, they outweighed all the rest of it.

     Two weeks ago, death had come knocking on his door, and he had welcomed it in unquestioningly, like an old friend who was long overdue. Just to live had become a sort of agony for him. To exist in a world without anything to care about became a chore, monotonous and dull. He did not think he could ever feel anything but grief, ever again. Just to wake, to rise, to eat, had become so arduous a task that he could not help but ask the point of it.

     The world had been nothing but gloom to him, then. And he had been just an old, forgotten man, waiting to die. He had not thought that happiness, or even contentment, could ever again touch his soul.

     And yet here he stood, and all around him, the world seemed at peace with itself. He could not, at present, find anything to complain about it. It was summer, and he was in Paris. The plants were in bloom, the children were in love. And beside him stood someone he cared about very much—and who, by some miraculous turn of events, cared for him in turn.

     Valjean drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He turned back to look at Javert, a sad, lopsided smile tugging back one corner of his mouth.

     Javert regarded him for a moment before dipping his head and resuming his walk.

     Wordlessly, Valjean fell into step behind him.

***

     Javert paused at the door of the apartment building as Valjean spoke his name, the key in the lock. He looked back over his shoulder at him.

     Valjean could not hold his gaze, and glanced away from him, staring at the dirt between the paving stones at his feet with a guilty expression. “I … should probably leave tomorrow.”

     Javert narrowed his eyes at him quizzically.

     “The truth is, I probably could have left days ago,” he said. “I’ve had my strength back for awhile, now. I just …” He drew in a deep breath and let out a lasting sigh. “—didn’t want to leave, I suppose. It was never my intention to take advantage of your hospitality. And you—you have been very hospitable, truly. More so than I would have ever expected, or deserved. And I thank you for that.” He frowned. “I should not have overstayed my welcome. It was wrong of me. Only … it is hard to leave a place when you feel you have nothing to go back to. I could not muster the will.”

     The man chewed pensively on his lip. “I have been in a sort of haze, of late. Like a trance, like I was not fully awake. My thoughts were clouded. But you have helped clear them, some. I know I was not very receptive to your words at first. But I am grateful to you for them. Not only because they made me cognizant of things I had not hitherto considered, but also because …” He faltered, trying to hide the redness that was creeping into his cheeks. When his voice came out it was hushed and sounded as though it had been hard to force past his lips. “It—it means a lot to me, that anyone would—that—that you would—bother yourself with me, like this.”

     Valjean’s expression grew somewhat wistful. “I feel a bit as though I have only just awoken from some dream,” he murmured. “The world feels … different than before. I don’t know. Newer, somehow.” He shook his head. “If that makes any sense. Perhaps it is just that I’m noticing things in it for the first time in a long while.” He furrowed his brow. “No, I—the world is probably the same. It is probably just me. Lord; forgive me, I am rambling. I, ah—” He touched his forehead. “My point was that— I think I will be all right, henceforth. On my own, I mean. So you—you do not need to trouble yourself over me any longer. And … I should probably go home.”

     Javert looked him up and down. “If you feel so inclined,” he finally said.

     “Well,” he said, hanging his head, “I have put you out of your bed for long enough. And really, I did not mean to cause everyone such concern. I am embarrassed, to be honest. I slept in your bed; I ate your food. I would not listen to you; I gave no thanks for what you did.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I acted more a child than a man. My behavior was disgraceful. Deeply, truly, I am—” he grimaced, his eyes darting this way and that. He seemed to be looking for the right words. With a little sigh, he appeared to give up. “Very sorry,” he said, closing his eyes. “I would like to pretend that this had never happened. Though I’m sure it’s a foolishness you won’t soon forget.” He chuckled wearily to himself. “Not with your memory, anyway. No, I don’t think I’ll soon live this down.”

     He grew morose again, staring off into space. “I want to express my gratitude for all you have done for me. For everything, I mean—not just this. Although, this, especially, at the moment. So, thank you. I know I have said those words a lot, but I feel as though I could not say them enough. And I apologize for being like this. For allowing myself to get like this. To become a burden. I have abused your good will, and I—”

     “You are not a burden,” Javert said flatly.

     Valjean gave a start, looking up at him.

     “A fool, yes,” he continued, crossing his arms, “A blind, mawkish old dunderhead, certainly. But not a burden. Never that. So don’t call yourself thusly.”

     Valjean knit his brow, staring at him thoughtfully. Frowning, he turned his face away. “I wish I could believe that,” he murmured. “Truly. But that is not how I feel.”

     “I don’t give a damn what you feel,” said Javert. “You are wrong. You have been wrong about a lot of things, yourself included. That’s the problem with you, you know. You take your own opinions about yourself and you project them onto other people’s. You don’t stop to consider yourself from an outside perspective. You think you do, but you don’t. Now,” he said, opening the door, “you will come inside and stop spewing your sentiments all over the street where anyone could overhear them, or so help me I will drag you up the stairs myself.”

     Valjean followed him into the building obediently, bowing his head. “S-sorry; I did not mean to—”

     “Just stop talking,” Javert sighed, rubbing his temples in exasperation as he headed for the stairs. “I am sick of having to listen to you rub your own face in the dirt. It’s becoming an annoyance.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t deserve the things you keep saying about yourself, so will you please just stop talking. And don’t apologize, lord’s sake.”

     He ran a hand over his face and turned to find Valjean pausing on the landing halfway up the stairs. “Are you coming or not?”

     Valjean flushed. “Er, I have to—” He nodded towards the door of the water-closet.

     “Oh. Well, come along when you’ve finished, then. But take a moment to think on what I’ve said, will you? You’re too harsh with yourself; I mean that.” He hesitated at the door of the flat, his hand resting on the old brass knob. He glanced over his shoulder. “And Valjean,—”

     The man looked up at him curiously.

     Javert softened his gaze some. “It gets easier.”

     The man furrowed his brow at him. “What gets easier?”

     “Living,” he said, giving him one last glance before ducking into the room and shutting the door.

***

     While Valjean was preoccupied, Javert grabbed the man’s clothes out of the corner of his flat and took them downstairs. He thrust the bundle at his portress with the commanding air of a superior. “Wash this,” he said.

     “I’m not your laundress,” she complained, putting her hand on her hip.

     His expression remained rigid. “These aren’t my clothes.”

     She cocked her head at him, staring for a moment in confusion before memory served, and her eyes slid away. “Oh.”

     “I’ll pay you,” he said.

     “How much?”

     “How much do you want?”

     She thought for a moment. “Get me next month’s rent on time and I’ll consider it even.”

     Javert’s eyes flicked away. “That is not exactly fair to you, mada—”

     “By the fifth and not any later.” She snatched the clothes out of his hands before he could protest any further, sauntering off with her head held high.

     His lip twitched as he watched her go. “I dislike debts, madam!” he called after her.

     “Then pay your rent on time and stop hoarding all the dishes!”

***

     Valjean did not speak much during dinner. In regaining his health, both physical and mental, he seemed to have also regained his self-consciousness, and sat looking embarrassed, not daring to meet his eyes.

     That night, the man refused to sleep in his bed any longer, insisting on his chair despite Javert’s insistence that he did not give a sou where he laid his head so long as it was quiet. They had something of a standoff over this for a number of minutes before Javert was finally forced to give in and take back his mattress.

***

     In the morning, Javert awoke with the rising of the sun—as was his habit—to find Valjean still asleep in his bergère, slouched back with his arms crossed over his chest and his chin resting on his collarbone.

     Javert stared at him for a long time, searching his sleeping face.

     It was true, the color had returned to it some time ago. Not only this, but it was no longer so gaunt and sickly thin. The hollows beneath his cheekbones had filled back in. There were still faint circles under his eyes, but Javert supposed this was to be expected.

     Grief … Could people really die of that? He hadn’t thought so. But then, he had never really had anything which would have grieved him to lose. Not like Valjean.

     That girl … He never would have believed the man could love her so much. To take her in like that, to raise her like his own child—he really had been sincere. A year ago he would have laughed at the idea that a convict could become anything even resembling a decent parent. Now he was not so sure.

     He wondered if the man was really fit to be left to his own devices again. With such a humble nature, he would certainly not put it past Valjean to leave before he was in any shape to, if only to lessen the burden he thought he was weighing him with. It was entirely possible that the man was lying about the progress of his recovery.

     But then, Javert thought, he couldn’t keep the man here forever. It wasn't like he wanted him to stay, either. Truly, the idea that he should have harbored a wanted criminal in his house and played nursemaid to him for nearly two weeks was utterly preposterous. And yet he had done it, and did not find himself all that surprised. He was, oddly, surprised only by his lack of surprise over having done this thing—not for just anyone, of course, but for Valjean. He could not fathom why, but there it was. Valjean was … somehow different than other people to him. Why, exactly, he could not say, other than there was simply too much between them.

     It was high time the man left, and he told himself this, and it sounded rational—and yet when he looked at him he was only filled with a vague and unsettling concern, and he found himself not quite comfortable at the idea of casting him off again just yet.

     What if it was all pretense? He used to think Valjean a sly and cunning dog, always somehow outwitting him at the last possible moment. Now he had come to feel that Valjean was just an impossibly lucky fool, who had retained only a meager amount of cleverness from his days in the galleys. But what if the man was just cunning enough to trick him into trusting him and letting him go, before falling back into his despair? It was something he could see Valjean doing, and, in fact, something he had tried to do himself only a year ago.

     ‘How will I know you’re well?’ he heard Valjean’s voice echo in his mind.

     ‘Trust,’ said his own.

     And he supposed that was the answer, really. Hadn’t he himself not been fully recovered when he’d insisted on leaving? Hadn’t he held himself together, if only for his own dignity’s sake, if only to keep his word to the man? And here he still was, all this time later. Maybe he wasn’t quite fully recovered, even now, but he was surviving, and things were slowly falling back into place.

     If he could do it, then Valjean could do it. The man had promised him not to let this happen again—and didn’t Valjean always keep his word?

     Yes, if he held him to that … Valjean would do it, wouldn’t he? If not for himself, then for him. That was the way his nature was, it seemed. He could only care about himself in the interests of others.

     With a sigh, Javert supposed that this required him to express interest in the man. A voice in the back of his mind reminded him that his failure to do so the prior summer was one of the reasons Valjean had allowed himself to spiral into such a dismal state in the first place. If he had let the man stay in contact with him, maybe this wouldn’t have happened at all.

     Glancing away, he rose to his feet and crossed the room, staring out the window pensively. Frowning, he watched a tilbury pass on the street below.

     Did he dare do it? Did he dare let the man become a part of his life?

     His eyes flicked back over his shoulder, to where Valjean lay sleeping in his chair, wearing his night clothes.

     With a start, Javert realized that perhaps, without intending to, he already had.

***

     “Are you really well enough to leave?”

     Valjean looked up at him with a start, the mug of coffee still pressed to his lips. He swallowed and slowly set it back down, clearing his throat. “Yes.”

     Javert stared back at him, his chin resting in his palm, his arm propped up on the countertop. His expression was stony, his eyes probing. “You are certain of this?”

     “Do you think I would lie to you?”

     “If you thought that doing so would be a favor to me, then yes.”

     Valjean opened his mouth to protest. Paused. “Well,” he said, his eyes darting away, “I am not. I meant what I said; I told you that. I will not allow myself to deteriorate into such a state again. It would be … I would feel guilt over it.”

     “Hm.” Javert continued to stare at him, unmoving. That was not really what he wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing. He took a sip of coffee and turned his gaze to the wooden countertop, scarred with knife marks and stained with various faded colors. He drummed his fingers over it, glancing at nothing in the direction of the wall. Finally, he resigned himself. “You may … write to me, if you wish.”

     Valjean looked up at him in shock. “Do you mean it? Do you—” His brow creased. “—really want me to?”

     “I—I don’t know,” he admitted between his teeth. “But if you desire to send me letters, now and then, I won’t object to it. I doubt that I’ll reply, but I will read them.”

     Valjean was gazing at him intently, emotion flickering in his eyes.

     Javert hated to be looked at thusly, but all he could think was that it was better—that light in his eyes—it was so much better than that dullness they’d had before, that hollow, empty stare.

     “Look here,” he grumbled, refusing to meet his gaze, “I comprehend that you … care for me, for whatever reason. I don’t really understand why. But given past events, I suppose I have no right to scorn your attempts at further communication. And I’m—” He growled under his breath, fighting to speak. “My callousness, before, was undeserved. It is partly my fault that you ended up in the state that you did. I didn’t think that it would matter, to you. I didn’t think you should be concerning yourself over my well-being. I am not used to that kind of attention, so frankly it had been making me uncomfortable. But that is on account of my own insecurity, not any fault of yours.”

     “I don’t—” He touched his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think about things. I don’t like thinking about things. I’m not in the custom of it and it hurts, damnit; it hurts to have to consider myself and my actions, to throw myself into doubt and uncertainty, to review all the things that I’ve done and become my own jury and judge! How am I supposed to view myself objectively when I am already biased? How should I know what I ought to believe? It is agony to stand before myself and reevaluate the world!”

     He grit his teeth, shaking his head. “Everything is complicated; everything is so damn complicated now, and you will forgive me for saying this, but it is you who has made it so, by taking the scales from my eyes and leaving me stumbling blindly in a foreign land! So you must understand that just to look at you—just to think on you—is to remember my own shortcomings, and I can’t bear it, Valjean; I just—I just can’t!”

     He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing his face. “I didn’t drive you away because I hated you, or because I was angry with you. I did it because you make me … very uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with myself. And I used a number of excuses to rationalize away my need to estrange myself from you, but that was the real reason. And so,” he said, turning red and forcing the words from his mouth, “—and so … maybe I cannot deal with seeing you, just yet—but if you write to me I will read your letters, and I—I don’t dislike you, Valjean. That is all.”

     He glanced back towards Valjean after a moment to find the man staring up at him in awe, his eyes alight, his expression bearing the effect of being dazzled.

     The man’s voice was little more than a fearful whisper. “You … truly mean that?”

     “I …” Javert bowed his head in a begrudging nod, letting out a puff of air. “Yes.”

     Valjean opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Hand trembling, he slowly reached out to touch Javert’s forearm, his fingers just barely lighting on his shirtsleeve, as though afraid he might be rebuked.

     “Thank you,” he said quietly, a sea of depth behind his tone. “Thank you. Truly.”

***

     It seemed odd to send Valjean packing, partially because he did not have anything to pack. He prepared to leave with only what had been brought with him: the clothes on his back, a parapluie, and an old woolen coat which had become too hot to wear. The ritual of departure was, in effect, sorely lacking. Perhaps this was why both of them seemed to have trouble finding what to say.

     For the millionth time, Valjean apologized to him, both for his own actions and “for causing such trouble.”

     And again, Javert had to argue that neither of them had really had a choice in the matter, and therefore were not to blame.

     Turning halfway to the door, Valjean bit his lip. He looked like he had a great deal he wanted to say, but he also looked like he had no idea what any of it was.

     Javert was, for all intents and purposes, in a similar dilemma. He felt there were things he ought to be telling the man, but possessed no inkling as to what they might be.

     Reluctantly, Valjean headed for the door, and, reluctantly, Javert let him.

     As he watched him go, he felt something biting at the back of his mind, urging him to speak. “Attends,” he said.

     Valjean turned back around.

     Javert stared at him from where he leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. He shut his eyes for a second, giving a resigned sort of sigh, frowning. Then he stood straight and extended his hand to him.

     Valjean looked at it in amazement, his eyes darting up to Javert’s face, then back to his gloved hand, and back to his face again. He fumbled for some sort of response. “You—you really …?”

     Javert gave another sigh, shorter this time, and frustrated. He rolled his eyes and stared back at him, raising an eyebrow and accentuating the gesture impatiently.

     With an embarrassed start, Valjean reached out and, tentatively, took his hand.

     As they shook, Javert drew close, looming over him with an authoritative glint in his eyes. “You will not forget the oath you swore to me,” he said.

     Valjean looked up at him, turning red and shrinking back a little. “N-no; of course not.”

     He narrowed his eyes. “Good.” He stood over him, searching for something more to say, but not finding anything. Staring down at the white curls below him, he grew aware of just how much taller he was than Valjean. Nearly a full head. Why was he only just now noticing this? It was probable that he had never before stood so close to the man, and he realized this with some confusion, as he did not know quite why he had chosen to do so at present.

     Valjean was looking up at him warily, his eyes darting away, and then back to his face again, as though he expected to be pounced upon at the drop of a hat.

     Javert felt as though he should actually be backing away, but held his ground out of sheer stubbornness. “Well, then,” he said softly, “be off with you.”

     Valjean bowed his head to him. He turned back to the door, pausing in the open doorway with his hand on the knob. “Au revoir,” he mumbled.

     “À la prochaine,” said Javert.

     Valjean gazed back at him for a moment before quietly shutting the door.

***

Chapter Text

“The bravest thing I ever did was continuing my life when I wanted to die.”

-Juliette Lewis

***

     When Jean Valjean returned to the little flat on Rue de l’Homme Armé, he was met with two equally incredulous pairs of eyes. These eyes belonged to the porter and his wife, who stared at him from the doorway in utter bewilderment, struck mute.

     It was the lady of the house who broke the silence first. “Monsieur!” she exclaimed, clasping Valjean’s hands between her own in a fit of joy. “Mon Dieu, it’s truly you! Ah, you disappeared one day; you were gone for so long … We thought—!” She released him, drawing a hand over her mouth. Her eyes grew wet. “Oh, but you are safe! Here you are. And you look so much healthier! I understand now; we thought you had met some terrible fate in the streets, but you were merely recovering elsewhere. That is great news. Ah, I am so glad to see you well.”

     “We really did fear the worst for you,” he husband chimed in, much more composed than her, though still visibly surprised. “We thought we were going to have to find another tenant to rent out the—”

     His wife elbowed him in the stomach with a dirty look.

     He choked on his words, cringing briefly before looking back up at him with a lopsided grin. “Ah, that is to say, we were afraid we should never see you again, Monsieur Fauchelevent. But you have returned to us. That is good, very good.”

     “But where were you, all this time?” inquired the portress. “Why did you not give us word of your departure? We were worried sick about you.”

     “I am very sorry, madame,” Valjean told her, dipping his head guiltily. “I should have sent some sort of note before this. It did not occur to me to do so, in truth. I have troubled you, and I apologize. But you see, it was never my intention to leave like that. I had only gone out for a walk. Somewhere along the way, though, I collapsed. As it happened, an old acquaintance of mine was passing by, and he recognized me and brought me to his home to recuperate. I did not think to contact you; I am sorry. My mind was preoccupied with other things.”

     His brow furrowed in deep contemplation, and he let out a sad little sigh. “To be honest, I … did not think I would be missed. I see now that I was wrong. Furthermore, I would like to apologize for my behavior, earlier. I was indeed gravely ill. I denied that, despite the fact that it was obvious. You tried to help me; you tried to get me to eat. You called a doctor on my behalf. That was very kind of you. I told you it was unnecessary, but it was not. At the time, however, I did not really care that my health was in such a decline.”

     He hung his head. “I was so grieved over the loss of Cosette. I just … fell into despair. Life seemed bleak to me, then, and devoid of further meaning. I stopped caring what happened to me. I did not even notice that my apathy was hurting anyone else. It was a selfish sort of thing, in a way. All the things you did for me these past few months … I do not even remember if I thanked you. It was very rude of me—very ungrateful. And for that I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

     The woman gazed at him, her grey-green eyes sparkling. Her lip trembled. “Oh, monsieur,” she murmured, putting her arms around him, “there is no need for that. I am just happy to see you well.”

     Valjean stiffened at the embrace, taken quite thoroughly off guard by this display of affection. He turned red, rubbing the back of his neck as she drew away, wiping her eyes on her apron.

     “Er, thank you,” he said, giving them a quick, embarrassed bow. “I was not expecting such a welcome.”

     “Ah, I am going to make you something special for dinner,” the portress proclaimed, putting her hands on her wide hips. “How does roast beef sound? With gravy, and honeyed carrots. And I’ll bake some more of those lady-finger potatoes. You will eat them, won’t you?—now that you’ve gotten your appetite back.”

     He gave her a sheepish smirk. “Of course.”

***

     Valjean settled back into home life in a resigned sort of way. He was not without sighs and despondencies. But for all that, he tried to carry on as best he could, forcing his muscles into action, forcing himself to eat.

     Whenever he felt the gloom beginning to engulf him again, he would get up and go to the window to watch the street below, and he would hear Javert’s words in the back of his mind.

     ‘There is no defining moment. You just press forwards, one day at a time.’

     ‘It gets easier. Living.’

     They repeated themselves to him, and he could not tell if it was just happening of its own accord, or if he were telling himself these things intentionally. They became a sort of mantra.

     ‘You are not a burden.’

     When the portress brought him up his food, or came to refill the hanging basin in the water-closet, he smiled at her, and though the smile did not reach his eyes, it was not entirely disingenuous. When she smiled back at him, sympathy in her expression, something felt a little better about the world. Just a little.

     He thought of Cosette, and sometimes Marius, but did not attempt to contact them. Nor did he walk any longer towards Rue des Filles du Calvaire. He told himself he would go there in time. But not yet. He wasn’t ready. He did not know when he ever would be, but he dared to believe that one day the thought of knocking on those grand doors with the ram’s head knockers would not cause him such unrest.

     He did not write to Javert. Part of him wanted to. Part of him was too embarrassed. It seemed the proper thing to wait awhile before making any further correspondences with the man, though he was not entirely sure why. Perhaps the real reason was that he did not know what to say.

     In the early morning, just before dawn, he would walk down to the river and watch the sun rise over the Seine. The sky would glow orange and pink over the black silhouettes of the city, and sparks would flash off the surface of the water. He wasn’t sure what it was the sight inspired in him, but it was certainly something, and he felt it swell in his breast and make him feel not so hollowed out inside. When the shadows started to shorten, he went back the way he came, and returned to the flat before too many people were out on the streets. Then he would partake in a bit of breakfast.

     Eventually, the portress’ food was no longer so hard for him to finish, and it started to regain its flavor. He forgot that eating was a chore, and did it instinctually. He felt actual hunger for the first time in months. His senses grew sharper, and his thoughts grew clearer. Things seemed somehow realer than before.

     He would put water on to boil and make himself tea just for the sake of it, and borrow the latest issue of Le Moniteur from the porters to read as he drank.

     And one day, without notice, he found himself rolling out of bed in the morning purely out of habit, without having to argue with himself.

***

     Javert worried his lip, staring down at the little sheet of numbers he’d drawn up.

     He performed this ritual often. He had a calculating mind and a head for numbers, as well as a phenomenal memory, and therefore needed only himself to manage his finances.

     And he always managed, some way or another.  

     But the last few weeks had not been kind to his pocketbook. Firstly, there was what he had paid the doctor for his cab, and what he had paid for the bottle of laudanum Valjean had insisted on his having, and then, his expenses for food had been doubled the past two weeks in light of his unexpected guest. Not only that, but he needed to buy another set of leather gloves, and, at some point, replacement supplies for his medical kit. On top of this, his working hours had been diminished that first week of May due to his worry over Valjean’s health, and, thereby, his wages.

     He sat staring at the expenses and earnings on the slip of parchment, twining his fingers in his whiskers and letting out a sigh.

     There was a knock at his door.

     “Entrez.”

     It was the portress, bringing up his dinner. She set it down on the desk beside him, glancing over his shoulder at his busywork in the flickering candlelight.

     “Running the numbers again, are we?” she remarked.

     “Mm.”

     She leaned in closer, inspecting the sheet, to his discomfort. “Oh,” she said, her eyebrows rising, “but you need not worry about that.” Her finger hovered over the word “Loyer”.

     Javert’s brow knit. “What do you mean?”

     “Well it’s already been paid, hasn’t it?”

     He cocked his head at her, narrowing his eyes. “It hasn’t.”

     “Yes it has,” she insisted. “Or did you forget? You’re not the type to forget a thing like that.”

     “Madam, what are you speaking of?”

     “That man that came by. You know. He gave me your payment for it.”

     Blood ran to Javert’s face. “That—man?”

     “Your friend, monsieur!—with the white hair. He dropped by ereyesterday; said he owed you some money.”

     Javert grit his teeth, gripping the edge of the desk with hands that had suddenly become talons. “He did what? Are you telling me he paid this month’s rent for me?”

     “Not just this month, monsieur—the next two as well.”

     A scowl drew back Javert’s thin lips. “That little—”

     “Are you saying you had no part in this arrangement?” the portress asked, her face going blank.

     “No part at all! No part, and no knowledge!” He let out an aggravated grunt, putting his head in his hands and clawing his fingers through his hair. “That little devil; he knows I don’t want his damn—”

     “For someone who dislikes debts, you’re very quick to scorn charity,” she tutted. “I wouldn’t mind it if someone happened to pay off some of my expenses every now and again.”

     “Charity is a debt, madam,” Javert exclaimed, whipping his head up to look at her in frustration. “I told him he didn’t owe me anything! I told him I didn’t want any money from him! He thinks I’m some poor wretch to give alms to anonymously, like some beggar, blast him—”

     “What are you going to do,” she asked with a smirk, “withdraw the payment? That money belongs to me now, I’ll have you know.”

     Javert stared up at her, his nose wrinkling up on one side, his eyelid twitching. “I—yes, well—that is true, but—rather,—”

     The woman began to chuckle. “You don’t take kindly to having friends, do you.”

     He was flustered. “I—he is not— I don’t have ‘friends’. And if I did, that man would certainly not be one of them!”

     This outburst only prompted her to laugh. She clutched her abdomen, barely able to hold herself in check, her shoulders bouncing up and down as she turned towards the door. “Yes, sure; sure. Turn your flat into a sickroom and forfeit your bed for a fortnight; he pays you back in spades without your knowledge—but you are certainly not friends, no!” She cast a cracking smile at him as she started down the stairs. “Of course not. My mistake, monsieur. Enjoy your supper.”

     Javert trembled with anger in his chair, his hand balling into a fist on his desk, crumpling up the piece of parchment as he heard her footsteps descend. He let out a conflicted series of grunts, choked with anger. “He’s not my damn friend, do you hear?” he shouted after her.

     A badly concealed laugh could be heard from the lower story. “Whatever you say, monsieur!”

***

     It was late May, and it had been about two weeks since Valjean had left his flat.

     Many times, Javert had gotten the urge to check in on him. But something told him not to. Told him to place confidence in him. Told him that Valjean would keep his word.

     It was Sunday, and Javert was passing through the crowd of parishioners who were just exiting from Mass at Saint-Sulpice, when all of a sudden a familiar face caught his eye. He stopped in his tracks, glancing back over his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes.

     That black mop of hair, those freckles …

     He gave a start. The Pontmercy boy! Could it be?

     The young man was heading down the stone steps when he turned to look in Javert’s direction. And then he, too, froze, as the last of the congregation passed him by and dissipated into the street.

     The stared at one another in mutual astonishment.

     “You’re alive?” they both exclaimed.

     Marius recoiled in shock. “I— You— But how? The barricade! They had you executed; I heard the shot! H—how can you still be …?”

     Growling, Javert grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back towards the chapel.

     “Inside. Now. We’ll not be having this conversation overheard.”

     Bewildered, the youth allowed himself to be dragged back into the building without protest.

     “Monsieur!” he exclaimed when they found themselves alone, backing into one of the alcoves. “I cannot— How is it you are still alive? I don’t—”

     “Hush, now,” Javert chastised, glancing around at the empty pews. “Not so loud. We’re in a chapel, not a confessional.” Javert studied his face for a moment, frowning. He clicked his tongue, glancing away and narrowing his eyes. Looked back to Marius. “I ought to arrest you, you know,” he grumbled finally, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

     Marius paled.

     “You are an insurgent, after all,” he continued. “But that would prove to be rather … inconvenient.”

     “Ah,” said Marius.

     “Besides, there has been an amnesty since then, and, well …” He cast a probing eye at him. “What exactly have you been up to of late? Not making more trouble, it seems. I have not seen or heard from you for more than a year, and no one has mentioned your name in the Prefecture.”

     “I am not surprised at that,” Marius said carefully, “as I was confined to bed for nearly five months after the barricades.”

     “Five months!”

     “Well, four and a half. My collarbone was shattered. The doctor would not permit me leave the house. And then, they all insisted having guests would be bad for my health, that I would get too excited and worsen my injuries, setting back the healing process. So I had to wait all that time to see my poor Cosette again!”

     “Cosette!” Javert exclaimed. “Cosette? So you are the one she married! Of course,” he muttered to himself, smacking his brow, “Of course you would be; I should have expected as much, if I had not believed you dead.”

     “Wait, you know her?” Marius asked. “But how would you two have—” He stopped himself short and shook his head, violently, as though trying to dislodge the line of thought that had been forming in his brain. “No, no. This isn’t right, speaking to you like this. As though nothing has happened. For all I know, you are a ghost!” His previous, panicked fervor returned. “I thought you dead!” he exclaimed, thrusting out his hands. “Yet here you stand. How can this be? How can you yet live? I saw—at the barricades—” He ran a hand through his hair in consternation. “Monsieur Fauchelevent, he was charged with executing you; he—”

     “He did not, if that weren’t obvious enough.”

     “But, then …” The boy clutched his brow, his gaze distant. “He didn’t kill you,” he murmured to himself, as though coming upon a host of interior revelations. “He didn’t kill you …” All of a sudden his face lit up with a strange mixture of shock, terror and joy. “So then, he—he saved you! He asked to be the one to kill you on purpose, so that he could take you out of their sight, and …! Oh!” Tears welled in his eyes. “I had thought— But you are safe. He is not a murderer after all.”

     He looked back up at Javert as though remembering himself. “Oh, monsieur!” he exclaimed. “I recognized you. I had thought you seemed familiar to me. And then, when I realized who you were, when I asked your name, I was filled with dread at your fate. Spy or not, you were a good man, and I—I could not in good conscience let them sentence you to die. I was about to plead for them to stay your execution, but then I heard that dreadful pistol shot, and he appeared around the lane with a somber air and said ‘It is done’, and I thought—! But you are alive! He did not kill you after all! Ah, I am happy!”

     Javert was caught completely off guard by the boy’s concern. He was at a loss for words.

     “Just a moment, then—” Marius said, rambling to himself now, “You made it out of the barricades alive. And someone pulled me from the barricades. Someone delivered me to my grandfather’s house. Basque said that there had been two men there, at the door that night, and the coach driver said that one of them was a police agent. Mon Dieu, Inspector, could it have been? Was it you who saved me from the barricades?”

     Javert was taken aback. “What? Of course not! What do you mean, ‘was it you’? You do not know how you ended up there?”

     Marius shook his head fervently. “No! I have sought desperately, for quite some time, to find who saved me, but I have had no leads! All I knew was that there were two men who brought me to the house, and one of them was a police agent! But, do you mean to tell me it was not you?”

     “The police agent was I, yes.”

     “Then you have saved me! I owe you my life!”

     “Not in the least! I may have been there, but I was not the one who dragged you from the barricades. How is it you do not know this? He did not tell you?”

     “He …? No, monsieur! The man left before anyone could thank him, and he never returned. The porter saw him, but he was covered in muck, and blood, and gunpowder, and it would be impossible to recognize him. But you, you know who he is! You were with him; you know his identity, do you not?”

     “Of course! But—do you mean he never— You didn’t …?” His eyes shot open. “Wait,” he exclaimed to himself, “Wait, wait, wait—but if you are married to Cosette, that would make you—” A sort of incredulous fury wrote itself upon his features. “Why, you are his son-in-law!”

     Marius knit his brow. “I— What do you mean?”

     “You are Val—” He bit back the name before it could fully escape his lips. “I mean, you are married to Monsieur Fauchelevent’s daughter! That makes you his son!”

     “Yes, but I do not see why you—”

     “You absolute booby, do you really mean to say that you—”

     “Monsieur! May we return to the topic at hand? I don’t—”

     “You are his son, by god! And still he did not tell you!”

     “Tell me what, monsieur?”

     “He saved your life, you fool! He was the man who rescued you from the barricades; he was the one that dragged you through the sewers! All because you were in love with his daughter! And that ninny, he kept it from you all this time!”

     The boy’s eyes bulged. “Quoi?” He backed away against the wall and slid down it as his legs failed him. “You mean to tell me Monsieur Fauchelevent was that man? That man who grabbed hold of me as I fell? Who stole me away from the battle?”

     “Yes, for the love of god; yes! Did the possibility never even occur to you?”

     “Well, I— It is complicated. I thought it was he that I saw at the barricades at first, but when I questioned him, when I asked him if he knew Rue de la Chanvrerie, in which we’d fought, he denied it! And so I assumed it had been a man who only resembled him! Not just that, but I had spoken of the matter in front of him, expressed my disquiet at being unable to find my savior and repay them, and he did not act as though it were at all relevant to him!”

     “Are you saying he lied to your face?” Javert scowled, clenching his fists and wishing very much to break something in half. “Sacre dieu, when I get my hands on him—”

     “I realized some time later that it really had been him I saw,” Marius continued, “but I thought to myself ‘He did not fight there. What did he come there for?’ and then I thought, ‘Javert! He must have come there for the purpose of revenging himself!’ That was what I thought, monsieur—that he knew you were there, that he must have heard some word of your capture, and he had gone to the barricade to kill you! But this!” All the color had drained from the boy’s face, and he sat trembling on the floor, his eyes flicking about in a frenzied terror. “This means that …! Ah! It was me he came for! It was he that was responsible for preserving my life that night!”

     “If you knew he was there, and that everyone else at that barricade that day died, why in the blue blazes would you not have assumed it was he that had carried you away?” raged Javert.

     “But monsieur,” Marius protested meekly, “that would have been impossible to me at the time. Because the man who emerged from the sewers … the coach driver said the policeman arrested him! So I thought he would be in jail, or even prison, perhaps—but I made inquiries, and none of the arrests made that night matched that description. And yes, I knew Monsieur Fauchelevent was at the barricades, and that he had denied it to me, but I assumed the reason he’d denied it was because he’d been there to kill you! If he’d been there on my account, well—what reason had he to lie about it? None! None at all. So you see, in my mind, he could not possibly have been the same man who saved me!”

     “Oh, but he was,” Javert said, tilting his head back menacingly.

     “I see that now, yes. It all fits together so well; it is a wonder I did not see it before. Dieu, I have been blind! He was my savior. Oh, Christ, and all this time I’ve been …!” His face contorted in grief, and he put his head in his hands. “I am a monster,” he sobbed, his voice muffled. “I have been so cold to him; I have pushed him away …”

     “It was you who was keeping his daughter from him!” Javert realized aloud. “It was you who nearly drove him into the grave!”

     “I did not know! I did not know it was he to whom I owed my life! He told me of his past, that he was a wretched man, a wanted convict who’d broken parole, and I—”

     He froze mid-sentence, turning to look up at the police inspector with horror at the words he’d just uttered.

     Javert stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

     But the boy only gaped.

     “Oh, right,” Javert said, rolling his eyes and thrusting up the palm of his hand, “I suppose I should mention I’m duly aware of that fact.”

     “You—you what?”

     “I am aware, boy.”

     “That he is a convict? That his name is Jean Valjean? You know?”

     “Yes.”

     Marius stared at him, bewildered. “Oh,” was all he could say in his stupor.

     “But,” he finally said, “Why, then, have you done nothing? Do you know the whole of it? That he escaped the galleys, that he denounced another man and committed forgery to steal away his fortune?”

     Javert’s brow bunched. “What say you?”

     “Yes!” he said. “I have looked into the matter. In a certain arrondissement of the Pas-de-Calais, there was a manufacturer, a reformed convict by the name of M. Madeleine, who made a vast sum of money in the manufacturing of jet beads. He used this money to fund schools and hospitals. He visited the sick, supported widows. He was like the foster father of the poor. He refused the cross; he was appointed mayor. None knew of his former crimes. And then, a man came along, Jean Valjean, and he revealed him, and he forged his signature in order to withdraw from Lafitte the whole of Madeleine’s savings! He destroyed that kind and generous soul, and I heard that later the unhappy man drowned in the sea at the galleys! In effect, monsieur, Jean Valjean killed this man!”

     Javert gazed down at him dumbly for a second before his lips split into a savage grin. A rumbling, noiseless chuckle reverberated in his chest, turning to a bellow, and the man threw his head back, his hands on his hips, bursting into peals of terrible laughter.

     Marius beheld this with fright.

     “Killed him!” Javert echoed, still laughing, “Killed him, you say! Oh, that’s good! That’s really capital!”

     “Why?” the boy squeaked, curling into himself. “Why do you laugh?”

     “Jean Valjean did not kill Monsieur Madeleine;” Javert exclaimed, “he was Monsieur Madeleine!”

     Marius started. “What?”

     “Those two men, Valjean and Madeleine, they were not two men, but one! Jean Valjean came to Montreuil-sur-Mer and made his fortune there, and he did not steal it from Lafitte, but merely reclaim it! I would know; for I was working in that town while he was mayor. I had known him from his previous sentence years prior in Toulon, and I grew distrustful of him after a series of events which recalled those memories. It was I who sent him back to the galleys! And he did not die there, but faked his own death to escape, and I had heard rumors that made me suspect as much. I have hunted that man across all of France!”

     “Ah!”

     “In fact,” Javert continued, regaining his composure, “I was making fit to arrest him when he climbed out of the sewers with you on his back.” He lowered his voice. “But seeing as I owed him my life, I was … less ruthless in the endeavor than I should have been. He convinced me of your case; he would plead nothing on his own behalf, but mon dieu,” he said, touching his brow, “he would not shut up about you—how you needed to be seen by a doctor, how you ought to be returned to your family.”

     “I permitted that you might be taken to your grandfather’s address—only because, at the time, you appeared to me as a man surely destined for death in short order. Which, naturally, ended my obligation to arrest you as an insurgent. After we quit the place, I should have taken him to the nearest station house, alerted the gendarmes to him right then and there, but I—” He let out a frustrated grunt, turning his face away. “Things … happened. I did not end up informing against him. Much the same as you have not, and probably for similar reasons.”

     “I see,” breathed the youth, still lost in his shock. “You … you spared him, because he saved you. One mercy in turn for another.”

     Javert’s eyes slid away, a grimace on his face. “Perhaps not in so few words, but … something like that, yes.” He thought for a moment more, then abruptly changed pace. His gaze became a glare. His voice lowered to a growl. “He almost died because of you, you know.”

     Marius looked back up. “What?”

     “The way you kept him from his daughter. He felt he had nothing more to live for. When I found him—and this happened purely by chance—he was already on Death’s doorstep. He’d been starving himself out of grief for months. He wouldn’t even call a doctor for himself. You are lucky I came along when I did. Otherwise, you would not have a father at present.”

     A fresh bout of horror flashed across Marius’ face. “Truly? And to think— Oh, pardieu, we must go to him immediately!” He got to his feet in a passionate fervor. “I owe him everything, and I have been horrible to him! All this time I’d thought him a wicked man, a criminal, a murderer, whose only grace was his conscience and his devotion to Cosette, but now I see it clearly! Good God, he is a saint! I have to go to him. I must apologize; I must beg his forgiveness! Excusez-moi, Inspector,” he said, straightening himself and smoothing out his tailcoat, “but I have to leave this very instant. Oh, where is Cosette? I have left her in the street; ah, I must find her. We will go to his house; we will—”

     “I am coming with you,” Javert said.

     The boy did not appear to hear him.

     Javert trailed after him out of the chapel, folding his arms over his breast in the manner of Napoleon as Marius fretted and flitted about in the crowd.

***

Chapter Text

“Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall

At last—far off—at last, to all,

And every winter change to spring.”

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

***

     “Marius, there you are!” exclaimed Cosette. “Nicolette and I were waiting. You disappeared without a word. What kept thee?”

     “Cosette!” he said, taking her hand in his, “Cosette, oh, I have been a fool. You will not believe what’s occurred. Bon Dieu, we have to leave immediately!”

     “What has happened? Marius, you look affright! Are you all right? Is someone chasing you?”

     “Ah! There is no time. I’ll explain on the way. Nicolette,” he said, pressing a coin into the bewildered old servant’s hand, “hire yourself a cab and go back to the house. Cosette and I have to go somewhere at once. There is no need for worry, we are not in any trouble, it is only that something terrible and wonderful has occurred and I need to set things straight with someone.”

     “I— But monsieur, your grandfather—he expects you for dinner; what am I to say to him?”

     “Say to him that I’ve some business I need to sort before coming home, and that I don’t know how long I’ll be away,” he told her as he signaled to the driver of the coach they’d taken there. “Stay!” he added quickly, “And set another place at the table while you’re at it. God willing, we shall have another guest.”

     The old woman cocked her head at him, furrowing her brow. “As you wish,” she said. “But do try to get back at a reasonable hour, would you? It would be a shame to miss supper. And I hate reheating food.”

     “I will take however long I take,” he said, stepping up into the carriage and helping Cosette. “And I shall not apologize for it. You will be made to understand why shortly.” He shut the door in the woman’s face.

     He barely observed Javert having entered the coach, and it did not occur to him as being anything out of place.

     Javert tapped on the partition glass. Marius stuck his head out the window.

     “Driver,” they both called out, one voice light and fervent, and the other deep and flat, “Rue de l’Homme Armé, number seven.”

***

     Marius was horrified.

     He sat hunched over on the velvet seat cushion of the coach, biting his lip and staring off at nothing. His mind was beset with revelations and a host of sharp and poignant emotions, and he hardly noticed Javert and Cosette conversing in the background.

     He had been overwhelmed with guilt over his words, his actions, and his very thoughts towards M. Fauchelevent. They hung over him like looming shadows, condemning, accusing.

     So much wrong he had done, believing himself in the right! He had kept the man from his child, pushed him away without informing her, thinking it better, thinking him a bad influence, thinking him—

     Marius gave a start in his seat, his eyes flashing open. “Oh,” he breathed, clamping a hand over his mouth, “Oh, no.” He was seized with a great terror, and a feeling of repulsion rose in him towards himself.

     He saw suddenly in M. Fauchelevent something of his father. The man’s words rang in his ears like an echo from the tomb.

     ‘Do you think, sir, you, who are the master, that I ought not to see Cosette anymore?’

     ‘I think that would be better,’ he’d replied coldly.

     ‘To go away now, never to see her again, never to speak to her again, to no longer have anything, would be hard,’ the man had said. ‘Truly, sir, I should like to see a little more of Cosette. As rarely as you please. Put yourself in my place; I have nothing left but that.’

     Marius quivered. In his mind’s eye he saw two men, relinquishing their child to another family so that they might have a better life, and all the things with which they could not themselves provide them. He saw those two fathers cast away, forced out, because the family saw them as a disgrace, tainted. He saw them grieve at the loss of that which was most precious to them, each in their own secret agonies. He saw them try, time and time again, to be granted audience with that child—and, time and time again, be denied, and recede back into the shadows in heartbroken submission. Sacrificing themselves for the well-being of their child.

     He saw a father hide behind the pillars of a chapel and watch for years a boy whom he was not allowed to visit, and who was not aware of just how desperately their father yearned for them, loved them, needed them. He saw letters torn up and thrown into the fire, and a child none the wiser. A child who had no other knowledge than that, wordlessly, their father had faded out of their life. A child who gradually grew first to resent them for their absence, and then, in time, to forget them.

     He saw a man dying alone and unloved, forgotten by the world. A tear on the cheek of a corpse. A uniform and a sword, sold off at market like mere scraps of cloth and metal. A garden of flowers trampled underfoot.

     A child learning only too late of their father’s goodness, and of their noble heart. Learning too late of their unfulfilled desire to be a part of their life, snuffed out by prejudice and intolerance.

     ‘He almost died because of you, you know. The way you kept him from his daughter. He felt he had nothing more to live for.’

     Marius shuddered, suppressing a sob. His eyes filled with burning tears. “Oh, God. Oh! God help me. What have I done?”

     Those old wounds which had only just begun to close were opened up again, and deeply so, and what anguished veneration he had felt for the father he had never had the chance to know now directed itself towards the father of Cosette. Towards the man who was, by way of marriage, his father also.

     Two fathers.

     Dread and shame filled his soul at the idea that the fate of the first, which he lamented with all his heart and would have given anything to change, had almost befallen the second, and this time of his own accord, by his very hand. What he regretted about the one he had nearly caused the other. What kind of son was he, that he could banish the yet living father at the same time as he mourned the loss of the dead one?

     In the manner that his grandfather had torn Colonel Pontmercy from him, so too had Marius torn Fauchelevent from his daughter. Only worse, even worse than that! For he had given the man his word that he should see Cosette every evening. And he had, without discussion on this point, and without explanation, slowly recanted that word, because he had discovered certain things about the man since then which drove him from dissociation to disdain. However, all of these unsavory things which he had thought to be true had just been proven false to him.

     He was left with a portrait of himself disowning this man whom he should have called father under the pretenses of assumptions which he had never even bothered to ask the veracity of from the man himself. Even when he knew that the man—the slave of his conscience—would never lie about it. Because, he, Marius, had surmised the answers, and did not wish to hear them.

     But the man was not a forger! The man was not a murderer! The man had ruined no one, killed no one. No one! He had even shot the helmets off those guardsmen instead of killing them. He had saved the revolutionaries by procuring for them a mattress to stop the artillery, and at the same time saved the guardsmen by way of warning shots. He had saved the spy Javert from execution, at the cost of his security. He had saved him, Marius, from certain death at the hands of the National Guard.

     “Good God!” he exclaimed, “Do you know? I was even angry with him, because I thought he had been at the barricades and done nothing to help me! You were there, Cosette! I said I’d give the whole of our fortune to find the man that saved me once more. And he said nothing! Nothing, Cosette! Why would he do that? What possessed him to do that?”

     “I have an idea of it,” Javert muttered, leaning back against the carriage seat with his arms crossed.

     Marius looked up at him. “And what would that be?”

     But Javert only replied “Later,” and flicked his eyes to Cosette.

     Marius understood instantly. There were many things about her father which ought not be spoken in front of Cosette, and whatever this was, it was one of them. Somehow, it must pertain to the man’s criminal background.

     “Suffice to say,” Javert continued, flicking some dust off the sleeve of his coat with a measure of disdain, “the man is too humble for his own good.”

     “I am aware of that now, yes,” Marius said.

     “I have always been aware of that,” said Cosette.

     “You do not know the half of it,” Javert sighed.

     Marius shook his head, turning to his wife with renewed panic. “Oh! Cosette. I have been so cruel to him. All that he ever asked of me was to visit you. I said that he should see you every day. I promised him that. And then I made him feel unwelcome there! I told them not to light the fire in the cellar stove any longer. One day I even made them take the chairs.”

     The girl gave a start. “What! It was you who ordered those things? But papa—I mean, Monsieur Jean said—”

     “No, do not call him that any longer,” Marius interjected. “It was wrong of him to make you do that. It was wrong of me to make him feel that he must. No, call him ‘father’, call him ‘papa’, call him all of those adorable names which you used to.”

     “Truly? I may?”

     “Bon Dieu, yes. It is not right that you need ask anyone permission to. Never call him ‘Monsieur’ again. If he insists upon it, rebuke him. He is no stranger; he is family!”

     “Ah!” She beamed. “Thanks!”

     “You should not thank me, Cosette,” he said, shaking his head. “In fact you should be very angry with me. I have consulted you on none of this. I had good reason to, or so I thought. But I made decisions about you and your father that I had no authority to make. I gave him permission to see you and then took it away.”

     “The fire and the chairs—that was truly you, then?”

     “Yes.”

     “But papa said he was the one who ordered that!”

     Marius paled. Those words had just pierced his heart.

     Across the carriage, Javert clicked his tongue, turning his face away.

     “No,” Marius breathed. “Did he? Oh, Lord. He would, wouldn’t he? But it was I who ordered that.”

     “You!” The girl looked heartbroken. “But why?”

     “I had thought him someone else; I had wanted to make him to feel unwelcome. I had hoped he would not come around anymore.”

     “‘Someone else’?” she echoed. “‘Make him feel unwelcome’? I don’t understand you. Why would you want him to leave? How could you think ill of him? What has he done to you?”

     “He has done nothing to me, Cosette. He saved my life! He gave us the whole of his fortune. I have misjudged his character.”

     “Misjudged! On what grounds? He has never been anything but kind to you. Has he not?”

     “He has. He has been more than kind to me. Oh, you do not even know how kind he has been.”

     “Then why did you drive him away? Why did you think so poorly of him?”

     Marius grit his teeth, glancing away. “I cannot tell you that.”

     The girl had been close to tears; now she was close to fuming. “Why? Am I not good enough for your trust? Am I not intelligent enough to understand? You say that you love me, but you keep these secrets from me. You and papa both! Am I naught but a child to you? You are my husband; I am your wife. You are not supposed to keep secrets from me.”

     “I am sorry, Cosette. Truly, I am. I would be honest with you if I could. But it is his secret, too, and I do not have the right to share it. Javert, he knows of what I speak.”

     “Javert!” She looked to the inspector, aghast, and then back to Marius. “You mean to tell me even he knows this great secret about papa, when I do not? How is that fair? I am his daughter!”

     “It is unfortunate,” Javert said, his voice deep and even as he cast his pale blue eyes on Cosette, “but trust me when I say, you are better off not knowing certain things about your father's past.”

     She stared at Javert, at a loss for words. Her brow furrowed, her lips parted. “But—but he is not a bad man. I know that. I know that! He is not a bad man at all.”

     “He is not,” agreed Javert.

     Marius studied the inspector’s face for a moment before turning back to his wife. “Cosette, all you need to know is that your father is a saint, and there was a misunderstanding between us, and I have been terrible to him, and I realize that now and regret it deeply. He did not deserve the thoughts I had of him. I must make reparations. He has sacrificed everything for us. We must be good to him, we must treat him like a king.”

     “That is what I have been trying to tell you for months!” Cosette exclaimed.

     Marius shrunk in his seat, grimacing remorsefully. “I know. I thought you only admired him the way you did out of ignorance, and devotion, and love for he who raised you. But I was wrong; he has more than earned every word of praise you’ve given him. It was I who was the ignorant one. It was I who was the fool.”

     “I am very cross with you,” Cosette said, folding her arms over her breast and sitting back with a huff.

     Marius hung his head. “As you well should be.”

     The three of them sat in silence for awhile.

     “To be fair,” Javert remarked, “none of this would have occurred if your father had enough sense to tell him the whole story.”

     “That is right!” Cosette remembered, thrusting her face up. “I should be cross with him, too. He let you push him away and he said not one word to me about it! He let you do as you liked, even though it hurt both of us! Neither of you defended me when I asked, and you kept secrets from me. The two of you are wicked, wicked men. I shall not let you hear the end of it.”

     Javert raised his eyebrows at him.

     “Oh, don’t look at me thusly,” Marius chided him. “You thought ill of him too, until he saved you.”

     The man shrugged apathetically. “This is true. I deny nothing. And I too pushed him away, wishing to sever our ties. That does not, however, make you any less of booby.”

     Marius stared at him for a second, his eyebrow twitching. He drew in a breath and gave a deep sigh, letting his shoulders sag in defeat. “That is fair.”

***

     Javert threw the door open, and it sounded with a loud bang against the adjacent wall.

     “You insufferable idiot!” he cried.

     Valjean started in his chair across the room and appeared to choke on his tea, the cup nearly slipping from his grasp, spilling a little liquid into its saucer. He eyed Javert with a look of mute horror, bewildered at this sudden and violent intrusion.

     “What do you think you are; some kind of martyr? You go around saving people and haven’t even the decency to tell them! Who do you think benefits from your humility, eh? Not you! Not them!” he accused angrily, gesturing to the two children rushing through the doorway past him.

     If Valjean had been startled by the appearance of the inspector, he was terrified at that of his daughter and son-in-law. He bolted up from his chair, taking a step back towards the wall, his eyes alight with panic. To Javert he seemed like a schoolboy that had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t. However, instead of the fear of being reprimanded, he had within him the fear of being praised.

     Cosette flew to him like a moth to a flame. “Papa!” she cried, and she flung her arms around him.

     The man’s face flooded with a sort of restrained joy at this utterance. “Cosette,” he murmured, dumbstruck. “You are here, you come to me, you call me ‘papa’.” His eyes began to well with tears. “But—” He looked up and found Marius standing a little ways off. “Ah! You too?”

     “Father!” Marius managed to say, his voice cracking.

     This word affected a great shock upon Jean Valjean. “‘Father’!” he repeated in disbelief, his gaze darting from Marius to Cosette and back to Marius in a state of bewilderment.

     This seemed to break the spell that Marius had been under, and the boy rushed to him, clasping his hands in his. “Yes, father!”

     “Do you mean—” The man seemed at a loss for breath. “You pardon me, then?”

     “Pardon?” Marius exclaimed. “Why, there is nothing to forgive! I am in your debt, monsieur. I owe you my life!”

     “You!” Valjean exclaimed in a fright, locking eyes with Javert. “You told! But why; why tell all that? You said—” His brow knit. “Why have you done this?”

     “Why have I—?” Javert was overcome—incredulous, revolted. His disbelief hardened into outrage. “Because he asked, you great dolt! I didn’t expect you to have hidden it from him!” His tone grew harsh, his tongue a lash. “Damn you, Valjean! Damn everything you stand for if it means you won’t even allow yourself a little bit of happiness! What are you so afraid of, you old fool? That people will appreciate you? That you’ll be respected? Mon dieu,” he mocked, throwing up his hands, “what an atrocity! Poor monsieur Fauchelevent, being given the credit he deserves!” His sharpened words turned to a roar. “You infuriate me, do you know that?”

     Valjean only stared at him, his face pale and drawn.

     “Papa!” Cosette said again, clutching him by the lapels of his tailcoat. “Oh, you will let me call you that, won’t you? Marius says I may. No more of that ‘Monsieur Jean’ nonsense. You are my father, even if it’s not by blood. I don’t care what you say about it. Papa, you’ve been so mean. I was made to believe you were on some journey, far away. But you have been here the whole time! I sent Nicolette, and each time she returned saying ‘he is absent,’ but you weren’t! And you have grown sick, and you did not tell us! How could you? If I had known— Oh, you have been so very naughty! Monsieur Javert has told us everything.”

     Valjean’s eyes bulged. “Every—?” His gaze darted to Marius. “She knows?” he breathed fearfully.

     “That you saved my life, yes!” the boy exclaimed. There was a look in his eyes that said he understood the real question Valjean was asking: if she knew of his past, all of it—and that he’d spared her those details which might paint him in an unfavorable light.

     Relief washed over the old man’s face—and gratitude. “Ah,” he said.

     “You went to the barricades and rescued him from that dreadful place,” said Cosette. “If not for you, he would be dead! My poor, sweet Marius. You saved him for me.”

     “Not only that,” Marius interjected, “but you saved Monsieur l’Inspecteur as well! If not for you, we would both have lost our lives at the barricades that day.”

     Cosette’s eyes sparkled with tears. “Oh, papa. Why did you not tell us?” That angelic voice began to crack. “You let them push you away. All this time, you were missing me, and I was missing you! And there were so many times that I wanted to see you. But you let yourself slip away from us, as though we would not notice! You thought you would make us happier by leaving. How could you think that?”

     Two tears glided down her cheeks. “I love you, papa. I don’t want you to go away. Why would you believe I would? You are so mean to think that. And here I was, so grieved that I had not seen you in months. Do you know how happy I was when I heard whither we were going? I said to him ‘Ah! Rue de l’Homme Armé! I have wanted for so long to go there, but I was afraid to ask!’ And my heart nearly burst for the joy of it, I had been missing you so. Oh, papa,” she sobbed, “You almost died! ‘Out of grief’, Monsieur Javert told us. ‘He was on Death’s doorstep’ he said, just like that. And you were going to let yourself die without sending one word to us. How could you?”

     “I am never letting you out of my sight again. You are coming to live with us at Rue des Filles du Calvaire, and you will eat breakfast, lunch and dinner with us, and I won’t let you have any more of that black bread. No; Marius and I are going to spoil you rotten. You will have good, hearty food, plates and plates of it. And you’ll always have a fire in your hearth in the winter, and warm, thick blankets, and those pretty rugs from Persia. Your armchair is still waiting for you, in your room, with the Utrecht velvet, and the nightingale in its nest outside the window—I had so wanted you to have those things. I said to myself ‘I shall enlist Marius and grandpapa and I shall spoil him silly!’ But then you never came. Marius says that it was his doing, that he made you feel unwelcome, but it was your fault too, you know—for not pressing the matter.”

     “You shall come now, though; I will make you! You do not have a choice. Marius and grandpapa and I, we all want you there. And so you shall be! And you and I will go for walks in the garden, and look at all the flowers. Oh! Wait until you see how beautiful it is. All the roses are in bloom, and the paths are lined with river sand and violet shells. I grow strawberries there, did you know that? I tend them all by myself. They gave me a little plot of earth to do as I wished with. It is in a charming corner, and the sun shines brightly there. It makes the berries sweet. And I’ll pick you baskets and baskets of them and you shall see how good they taste. Next year we will plant some together, and see whose grows the fattest. It will be yours, I will wager, and I will not even be cross over it.”

     Valjean stood staring at her in wonder, too struck to speak.

     “Oh, I’ve missed you so!” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “To think, all this time, you were so alone. You did not even have Toussaint. It must have been so sad, to live by yourself like that. No wonder you grew ill. Well, not anymore. I won’t have it!” she said, stamping her foot. “You shan’t stay in this dreadful place a minute longer; we’re going to take you away to come live with us forever and ever, and I will make it so you are never let to feel sad again! We shall all live happily, and it will be like the end of the story books you used to read to me.”

     Valjean’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He turned to look at Marius, who still stood just beside them. “And you,” he breathed in fearful disbelief, “you permit this?”

     “Of course!” the boy exclaimed, wringing his hands. “You are my father. You have been my father all this time, and I have refused you, and been callous towards you, and chased you away, when I should have welcomed you like his Excellency himself. No, it is I who should be asking you for permission.” He grimaced, hanging his head.

     Once more he clasped Valjean’s hands in his own, and sank to his knees on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut with an air of reverence. “Monsieur,” he began earnestly, “I beg your forgiveness. You have been a better father than I deserve, and I, an ingrate. I have been horrible to you, and cold. You have been nothing but generous towards me. I have misjudged you; I am a fool. You have my sincerest apologies for the way in which I’ve treated you. I regret everything. You are a saint. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to call myself your son?”

     Valjean gazed down at him with wide eyes. He seemed to be at a loss, too overwhelmed to know what to make of anything any longer, to know what he ought to say, to do. “Of … allowing …?” he repeated dumbly.

     “Say you will pardon me,” pleaded the boy.

     The old man opened his mouth. Trembled. There was a certain amount of terror written on his face as he backed against the wall. He seemed to be afraid of the adoration which had just been expressed towards him. “I— Y-you—”

     Marius looked up at him with heartbreak.

     “Papa …” Cosette murmured.

     Valjean looked to her. Back to Marius. His gaze darted between them fretfully. For a second it met Javert.

     Javert only stared at him, stoic.

     Curious, he thought. The man really was afraid of being praised. More than afraid. The idea of it terrified him.

     Valjean gave a sort of start, clutching his arm and glancing away anxiously. He cringed, as though pained by something. “This …” He lifted his eyes to them once more, questioning, nervous. “This is—truly what you wish?”

     “Yes!” Marius cried. “God, yes.”

     “Please, papa, say you’ll let us be good to you.”

     Valjean faltered.

     “Pray, say you’ll forgive me, monsieur.”

     “I would forgive you, sir,” Valjean finally said, unable to meet his gaze, “but really, there is nothing to forgive. Knowing what you knew of me …”

     “I knew nothing of you!” Marius exclaimed. “You told me only the worst of yourself, and left out the good. You allowed me to push you away because you thought it was what you deserved. But you deserve nothing of the sort! Permit us to take you home. Please. You shall spend all your days with us. You shall see your Cosette whenever it pleases you. I shall give you all that I can give, and more. I assure you, I desire this with the whole of my heart.”

     Valjean looked at him. Gazed at Cosette. Shut his eyes. Javert could see his resolve breaking at the promise of his daughter. “Oh—oh, very well, then,” he said, loosing a shaky breath.

     A relieved smile broke out across the boy’s face.

     Cosette beamed. She threw her arms around her father. “Ah! We’re going to be so happy together,” she told him, fresh tears springing to her eyes as she brushed a white curl behind his ear. “You’ll see. I promise.” And she placed a kiss upon his brow, laying her head on his shoulder.

     This seemed to crack the final barriers Valjean had erected inside himself. His face contorted, and the tears finally spilled down his cheeks as he buried his face against her. Clutching her fiercely, he suppressed a sob. He smoothed her bonnet tenderly.

     “The proof that God is good is that she is here,” he murmured.

     Marius rose to his feet slowly and approached them. Tentatively, he touched the man’s shoulder.

     Valjean did not stir.

     As though this signaled that he had permission to, Marius put his arms around them, drawing them both into a gentle embrace.

     From where he leaned against the wall, Javert watched all of this solemnly, his arms crossed over his breast.

     Then, dipping his head, he quietly slipped out the door.

***

Chapter Text

“I think the most important thing in life is self-love, because if you don't have self-love, and respect for everything about your own body, your own soul, your own capsule, then how can you have an authentic relationship with anyone else?”

 -Shailene Woodley

***

     The three of them all sat inside the Gillenormands’ carriage, Cosette beside Marius, and Valjean on the seat opposite them.

     The whole ride to the house, Cosette had been rambling happily on about all the things they would do together—the Jardin du Luxembourg, the opera, the theaters, the billiards hall, the charming little cafés they had found in the past months, and all the other sorts of things for people with money to do in the city of Paris. She insisted her father must absolutely see their garden, and spoke of the little robin redbreast that lived in the stone wall and poked its head out at her every day as she passed, and the orange cat with the white stockings on its feet which came by sometimes, and which she was afraid might one day kill the poor bird.

     And now and then she would fall back into chiding him, and her husband also, the former for believing himself to be unnecessary or unwanted in their lives and the latter for persuading him of such ridiculous things.

     The two men allowed her to say all that she wished and did not attempt to argue with or correct her. Marius had an air of sheepishness and guilt; Valjean had one of embarrassed wonder.

     When the carriage stopped, the driver had to announce to them that they had arrived, for they had taken no notice of it.

     “Cosette, mon coeur,” Marius entreated, “will you wait outside for a moment?”

     “Whatever for?”

     “I wish to speak with your father in private.”

     She pouted for a second before shrugging and smiling mischievously at them. “Very well,” she said, “But do come quickly. I am too excited to wait. And if you take too long I shall drag you both out by your ears.”

     When she had gone out of earshot, Marius dropped his nervous grin and replaced it with a look of fervor, running his hand over his face, through his hair, whilst staring wide and glassy-eyed at the floor of the carriage and taking deep breaths. Shaking his head to himself, he lifted his face to look at Valjean. “You!” he exclaimed. “I have too much to say to you, and not the privacy or the time. We shall need to talk elsewhere of things. But while it is fresh in my mind—” He covered his eyes for a moment, then threw out his hands.

     It was then that Valjean saw the boy was close to tears.

     “I ordered the servants not to light the fire in the cellar stove anymore; I had them take the chairs,” Marius said. “And you—! You told Cosette that it was your doing. Why?”

     “I did not want her to think ill of you,” he said, hushed.

     Marius’ expression tightened in anguish. “How can you say that?” he breathed. “You, whom I have so wronged, for so long.”

     Valjean only smiled sadly at him, pain in his eyes. “One understands, monsieur, when one is being shown the door. There need not be a disturbance in the happiness of the household on account of that.”

     “But—the indignity of it all!” he protested, clutching his head. “How could you stand it? How could you allow yourself to be driven out thusly, when I promised you—I promised you—that you should see your Cosette every day?”

     Valjean’s gaze fell to the carriage floor. “It was your right to make that offer,” he said. “As it was your right to take it back. Even without discussion, be it may. When departing on account of strife, it is better to do so in silence, don’t you think? I did not need words to understand your sentiments, anyway. They were perfectly clear to me. And I could not argue with them. I had no right to.”

     “But, to be forced into the shadows, without protest …”

     “I was not angry with you, monsieur. I held no grudge on it. You need not feel guilt.”

     “My guilt is not what concerns me in this matter, but—truly, you have every right to hate me.”

     “Valjean only smiled sadly again, shaking his head. “Hate? No. Not you, not now. I must admit, I did not always love you. When I first learned of you, of your love for Cosette, my first instinct was—and I will not deny it—one of hatred. You were going to steal her away from me. She was the only person I had, the most precious thing in my life. To lose her … I could not bear it. Even if the cause was a happy one. To be honest, in the beginning, I resented you with every fiber of my being.”

     “When I learned you had gone to the barricades expecting to die, I was filled with relief. Is that not a monstrous thing?” he said, glancing up at him for a second. “I was glad that you were going to die. Because Cosette would remain at my side.” Giving a sigh, his gaze returned to his feet. “But then I realized what a terrible thing that was, to take joy in the death of some poor boy I’d never even met, and who had never done me wrong. I realized that, were you to die, Cosette would be grieved by it. That she loved you dearly. And that you gave her happiness, with your affections.”

     He narrowed his eyes. “Her happiness … that was the only object of my life. To destroy it by letting you die, when I had the knowledge and the power to prevent your death—how could any man be so selfish? I fancied myself her father, but I had no right to lay claim to her life. To dictate her path, or choose who she loved. Simply knowing of her love for you, and of your plight—I was obligated to protect you from that fate. And so. Even knowing it would one day tear her from me, I donned my uniform and went to the barricade. I watched you, and at the very last moment I took you by the collar and dragged you away. I carried you through the sewers, and bandaged your wounds, and even as I did those things, I hated you.”

     “For months, I hated you. And I thought, on the occasion, that you might yet die, and that I could absolve myself of blame for it, because I had done all I could to keep you safe. Do not mistake me, monsieur; I knew how black and terrible such thoughts really were. And immediately after thinking them, I reviled at myself. But still, I thought them! With what avarice my heart did cling to her, sometimes; I loved her so.”

     “Yet you recovered, and you met with her again, and when I saw how truly you loved her, and how happy she was at your side, I could not hate you any longer. Indeed, I grew to care a little for you in turn, because you loved each other so. Therefore, when you deigned fit that I should leave, I accepted it.”

     Marius shook his head vehemently. “You should not have gone without a fight.”

     “Sir, I fought as much as my conscience would permit me.”

     “Which was next to nothing at all! All this time, you knew what you’d done, you knew I owed you my life, and you allowed me to think ill of you, condemning yourself by omission! Can you truly hate yourself so?”

     Valjean grimaced, glancing away. “Humility is not the same as hate.”

     “But you allow yourself to be punished as though it was!” he protested.

     Ignoring this comment, Valjean turned to look out the window. “We should get going, he said quietly. “Cosette will be waiting on us.”

     Marius gave him a tight-lipped frown, even as he opened the carriage door. “I am not through talking to you, monsieur. We shall speak more on this later.”

     Wordlessly, Valjean exited the carriage.

***

     “So!” M. Gillenormand exclaimed, “The original returns.”

     Jean Valjean stood on the steps of the estate, Marius and Cosette at his sides. His posture was diminutive; he held his hat in his hands.

     “And where have you been all this time, eh?” the old man asked. “Why, I wit it’s been a month or two since you’ve last come. What have you been doing, that you haven’t the time for your children?”

     “Grandfather!” Marius exclaimed, upstarting. “You misunderstand.” He shook his head. “Oh, you would not believe what I have to tell you. All this time I had been thinking ill of him, when in reality, Monsieur Fauchelevent had—”

     “I have been on a journey,” said Valjean. He stepped forward, past Marius who had leapt in front of him to his defense, and he touched the boy’s arm gently, dismissively, as he passed.

     Marius looked at him in surprise, stopping short.

     “That is why I have not been around as of late. You see,” Valjean said softly, “for some time now, my health had been on the decline. I could only take short visits with Cosette. You understand. It was very hard for me. I was embarrassed. I did not want anyone to see me. My strength was failing. There came a time I could not bring myself to come at all. A little while after this, a friend of mine took me to his house to recover. And so I have, albeit slowly. That is where I have been, monsieur. I regret that I have not been able to pay a proper visit prior to this. It was a long and ponderous illness. You have my apologies.”

     All of this was spoken with perfect calm and a trust-inspiring humility.

     Marius was staring at him, dumbstruck.

     M. Gillenormand blinked. This information seemed to have taken him by surprise, and he took a moment to consider his words. “Hm,” he hummed quizzically, “An illness, you say?”

     “Yes, but I am over it now.”

     “Well.” The man tapped the butt of his cane on the porch. “You could have sent a letter.”

     “I did not wish to trouble you,” said Valjean. “It would have caused me guilt to burden anyone with worry over my health. And then, I suppose, I have a certain amount of pride, which prevented me from clarifying the situation.”

     The two gentlemen stared at one another, motionless. They searched each other’s faces.

     “I see,” said Gillenormand. “Come in, then,” he sighed, gesturing to the hall. “Nicolette has set a place for you.” As he turned away, he glanced over his shoulder at his grandson. “Honestly, Marius,” he chided, “you could have just said it was your father that was coming to dinner.” He let out a scoff. “Being all dramatic like that—you would have thought it was the Duchesse de Berry, for God’s sake.”

***

     There was still quite some time before dinner, so Cosette made good on her promises and took Valjean on a tour of the garden. They walked slowly, arm in arm, stopping to look at everything. Marius trailed them at a respectful distance.

     Brimming with pride, Cosette pointed out her little strawberry patch, which was indeed well-tended, and Valjean praised her for it. “But you shall need to place some netting over them when the fruit begins to grow,” he said, almost absentmindedly. “—suspended up on sticks, so that it’s taut and does not touch the plants. Elsewise, the birds and the squirrels are going to make off with the berries before they have a chance to fully ripen.” He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully, staring at the lines of rounded triplet leaves and little white blossoms with their yellow centers. “And you shall need to hoe a little between the rows, now and then, to discourage competition, and enrich the …” He trailed off, noticing that both children were now staring at him with some amount of surprise, their faces blank.

     Cosette stifled a giggle. “He used to be a gardener, at the convent,” she told Marius. “So he knows all sorts of useful things about plants.”

     “Ah, I see,” her husband returned. “Perhaps, then, he would like to help you out here?”

     “Oh, I intend to make him,” she said with a conniving grin, turning back to Valjean. “You’ll help me take care of everything, won’t you?”

     Without thinking, Valjean nodded hastily at her, clasping his hands behind his back.

     “See?” she said to Marius. “I think he will enjoy himself. He hasn’t gardened in a long time, did you know that? We had that lovely garden in the back of Rue Plumet, but we never did any actual gardening there. When we first moved in, he said I might do with it whatever I wished. I liked it how it was, and so we left it alone. The bindweed and the butterflies, the honeysuckle, and the brambles, and the birds … it was all so romantic. I think he liked it that way, too. The way it grew. Isn’t that right, papa?”

     Valjean gave a start at the sudden emergence of old memories these words caused in him. It was indeed true. When he had first bought the house, he’d taken one look at the garden, and the tree-pruner and the gardener in him cried out to return it to its former glory. But the convict in him said “no”, and bade him leave it be, lest it attract attention to them. And then, there was something of divinity in its wilderness. With its abundance and diversity of plants and animals, and its profound and peaceable solitude, it reminded him somewhat of Eden. It was their secret shelter, and in a way, to his thinking, he and Cosette were the only two people in the world.

     Over the next few years, he took pleasure in watching her roam about the garden, which in itself was a sort of wilderness, uncharted and begging to be explored. She poked her head into the thickets and bent down on hands and knees to examine things. She would accidentally dirty her dresses with mud and grass stains, and he would only smile at her. Often times she would drag him out of his little gardener’s shack with a loud proclamation of having found something exceedingly interesting, and he would open the door to find her holding up some strange looking rock, or some tiny captured creature.

     Once he even opened the door to find her proudly holding up a juvenile couleuvre d’Esculape that was twining itself around her fingers in a panic.

     ‘Cosette,’ he said very gently, ‘That is a snake.’

     ‘I know!’ she beamed. ‘Isn’t it marvelous? I found it climbing up a tree! I didn’t know snakes could climb trees. Look at his eyes! Look, papa, they’re like little copper bowls.’

     And she was, of course, perfectly right.

     Over the years, the garden had become her province, her secret hideaway, and he avoided it respectfully, just as one might avoid another’s bedroom, as it was their personal space. But still, he would watch her sometimes out the window, chin resting in his hand on the sill as he smiled serenely.

     These images drifted through his mind, fading into one another phantasmagorically and opening up a wellspring of emotion. Cosette, trying in vain to catch tiny frogs, which darted away from her the moment she closed in on them. Cosette reading one of his adventure books on the stone bench whose base was slowly being taken over by ivy. Cosette, smiling up at him in the dappled sunlight. Toussaint having to drag the both of them into the house for supper—Cosette from her garden, Valjean from his shack. Cosette, telling him excitedly of all the things she’d done and seen and read that day as they passed the plates around.

     A heartrending nostalgia gripped Valjean suddenly, and the fondness and need of his daughter that he had been fighting so hard to stave off came rushing back to him in full force. He felt the hotness of tears grow at the back of his eyes, and he drew in a deep breath and blinked them away.

     “Papa?” came his angel’s voice.

     He looked up at Cosette with a start.

     “You have gone very quiet, just now,” she said softly. “Are you well?”

     Valjean managed a smile at her and gave her a nod, turning his face away. “I am fine.”

     He reminded himself that she was a married woman now, and she was not his. He had been her guardian, and now she no longer needed one.

     “Were you missing gardening?” she coaxed with a knowing smile.

     He tried to stifle his cracking voice as a stunted chuckle escaped his lips. “Something like that.”

***

     The dinner was superb. This was surely not considered anything extraordinary in the Gillenormand household, but Valjean had no precedent for the sort of luxury they afforded themselves. Sure, he had for the past few decades been wealthy enough to enjoy the same, but he rarely touched his money, and then, never for himself. When he was mayor, the only lavish dinners he’d ever attended were ones he had been coerced into going to by the townsfolk, and which he accepted as a matter of duty and course rather than self-indulgence. For all else, he kept his meals simple, which affected some respect in the eyes of the nuns, as humility was seen as a grace. The only reason he had ever begun eating richer foodstuffs was on account of his daughter’s insistence. Even then, those meals were not anything particularly special—not, at least, compared to this.

     How many courses could a meal possibly need? How much money went into these people’s budget for food? He wondered at this.

     To his relief, Marius did not mention any of his prior deeds or heroism, though he’d clearly wanted to before. The boy, it seemed, was observant enough to take note of when someone would prefer something not discussed.

     Cosette, too, was silent on these matters, but she was not silent on anything else. For the length of the dinner she talked and talked, and had to be reminded once in a while to pick up her fork and actually eat something. She babbled on about her father’s naughtiness, and his illness, and then, about how she had kept his room waiting for him. “And you will love the library,” she told him. “It has shelves upon shelves of books, all the way up to the ceiling, and some of them are very old. We can take turns reading them to each other, like we used to. And the weather is so nice; we can go out in the garden and sit beneath the trees.”

     Valjean said almost nothing about any of these things. He only flashed a smile at her, and hung his head a little. There was a tightness in his chest.

     After a little warming up, M. Gillenormand seemed, in fact, rather pleased at Valjean’s presence there. “It will be nice to have another man in the house,” he remarked. “We are too evenly matched at present. We must remind them all who wears the trousers in the family.”

     Valjean grinned weakly at him. He felt the tightness in his chest grow.

     “You are picking at your food, papa,” Cosette observed.

     “I have been sick for a long time,” he reminded her quietly. “And my health has only just returned.”

     The truth was that he was not hungry. Whether this was because he was not used to eating very much, or because of the supreme awkwardness he felt at being there, was unclear. Likely it was a mixture of both.

     “But having been ill is only more reason to eat heartily,” she protested.

     “Ah, well,” he murmured, stabbing into a piece of asparagus, “I suppose that is true.”

***

     After dinner, Marius called Valjean aside to speak in private. The boy was in high spirits, as far as he could tell. There had indeed been an overabundance of excitement that day.

     Valjean thought of Javert revealing everything to him, and what a shock it all must have been.

     He really wished the man had not done that. At the same time, when he put thought to it, surely the two, having perhaps thought one another deceased, could not escape speaking of him upon their meeting—he being the common thread that tied them together, and the reason both of them were still alive.

     Vaguely, he wondered where Javert had disappeared to. One minute the man had been in his apartment, yelling at him and gesticulating wildly, and the next, he was gone. Truthfully, Valjean had not even noticed him leave. He had not even thought of him until this moment, his mind being preoccupied by other things. And it was to those things he returned now as he followed Marius through the house.

     He glanced briefly around at the furnishings and the grand architecture, now lit by sconces dripping with wax, and felt just how out of place he was in a refined house like this.

     The door clicked closed behind him. When the sound of the latch faded, it seemed to take all other noise along with it, leaving the drawing room shrouded in silence.

     Marius had gone to the window, to peer out at the sky. The moon cast the floor in shades of blue; the rest was black.

     Valjean remained by the door in the darkness, like a servant unbidden. The half-hearted smile he’d worn for the duration of the night had fled his face just as soon as they were alone with each other. In its wake there was only shadow.

     After a moment Marius seemed to notice Valjean had not moved to follow him, and he glanced over his shoulder at him curiously. Seeing the expression on his face, Marius blinked and turned to look at him.

     Valjean could not bring himself to meet the boy’s eyes. His gaze rested on the patterned hardwood of the floorboards halfway between them, his head bowed. “Is this … really all right, monsieur?” he said quietly.

     Marius’ brow furrowed. He cocked his head. “Whatever do you mean?”

     Valjean swallowed, a lump in his throat. “That I should be here. That I should be granted audience with Cosette, and your family. That I should be … tolerated.”

     Marius’ mouth fell open. “Tolerated? Monsieur, I— Father, how can you still …? I welcome you with open arms into our home. I would have you live here, if you will but accept the invitation. I want you here. Do you doubt my sincerity in that?”

     Valjean faltered. “It is not that I doubt you, monsieur, but I feel you have been forced to certain conclusions about me that I perhaps ought not warrant in your mind.”

     Marius looked befuddled. “Been … forced? What, because Javert told me what you did for us? How is that forcing me into anything? And what do you mean, that you ought not warrant my conclusions of you? It’s not as though Javert was lying. You saved my life; you saved his life! You did so much for all of us. How is my praise, my admiration of you, unwarranted?”

     Valjean clutched his arm, his eyes trailing to the wall as he grimaced. “It is true; I did do those things. But I feel that— Monsieur, that does not outweigh what I—”

     “Why are you still doing that?”

     Valjean paused. “Doing what?”

     “Addressing me so formally.”

     “Because,” he said, “you are the master of the house, sir.”

     “I am not the master of the house; my grandfather owns this property, not me. And I am certainly not the master of you—you, who are my elder, who are my savior, who are my better! I am your son, but even then, only by law. It is I who should be addressing you as the master!”

     “Please,” he breathed, “don’t.”

     “Then ‘father’ will have to suffice.”

     Valjean cringed.

     Marius studied him for a second, eyes searching his face. “Why do you act as though it pains you when I call you that?”

     “Because I don’t deserve to be.”

     The boy looked hurt. “You do! You do deserve it. That is what you are to me, both on paper and in my heart!”

     “Sir, I am afraid that you think me a better man than I am. You forget what I have told you.”

     “I forget nothing. I know who you are. Jean Valjean. I know you well. Not as well as I’d like, I must admit—but, as I am beginning to suspect, better than you know yourself. Javert was right,” he said, shaking his head, “You truly are too humble for your own good.”

     Valjean frowned at that, turning his face away.

     “Father,” Marius entreated. “Valjean. Is there no way to prove to you the veracity of my opinions? To prove that you deserve to be rewarded, and loved? That you deserve a place with us here?”

     Valjean opened his mouth to speak, but found no response available to him. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. “I would like to believe I belonged. Or at least, that I was accepted, despite my being what I am. But … monsieur—”

     “Son. Call me son. Or at least, call me Marius. I cannot bear to hear you call me ‘sir’.”

     Valjean squeezed his eyes shut. “Marius.” The name was hard to force past his lips. It felt wrong to address him in that way. “You could not even bring yourself to tell your grandfather of my past.”

     “Because he does not need to know all that! It is irrelevant!”

     “Irrelevant! I should think not. You say this is all your grandfather’s property. Do you have the right to make him shelter a convict under his roof, unknowingly? Your aunt and he—what would they think of me, if they knew? Would they be so eager to invite me into their home?”

     Marius paused at that.

     “And what if some trouble came to you because of me?” Valjean continued. “A past like mine brings its fair share of shadows, monsieur. You are aware of that, and it worries you. Otherwise, you would not have done what you did. Come, sir. If you did not feel you owed me debts, what would you think of me, knowing who I am?”

     Marius’ eyebrow raised. “But I do owe you—”

     “Pretend that you do not. Please. What would you think of me, had I not rescued you?”

     The boy crossed his arms. “For one thing, I would be dead, so I would not think anything.”

     “And if you had survived?”

     Marius thought for a moment. His expression hardening, he took a step forward, standing up straight and rigid, and raising his head. There was a sharpness in his eyes. “I would think that you were a good man, monsieur. That you were very brave, and very strong. That you had a heart of gold. You started over in a new town, under a new name, and did your best to be an honest man. As a businessman, and the mayor, you brought happiness and fortune to all that resided therein.”

     “And when those venerable positions were taken from you, you sought not revenge, but mere escape. In your travels, you rescued a little girl from an inn in Montfermeil, a very terrible place, and showed her kindness that she had never before experienced. You took that girl in as your own, and raised her with love, and were the best parent one could ask for; both mother and father to her.”

     “Monsieur, the world has treated you badly, and all you ever gave it in return was charity. You might have been a criminal once, but that was nearly two decades ago, in another life, another time. You are a changed man; that much is clear to me now. Even before, I had an inkling of it—but now I know for certain. Somehow, you took that old life, that old self, and molded it into something so gentle and so pure that it is scarcely to be believed.”

     “But the world thought so little of you for so long that you don’t know what it is to respect yourself anymore. You refuse to accept praise, even when it is due. You refuse to see the good inside yourself. Because for all your life, people told you it wasn’t there. But it was! It is! Even nineteen years in the galleys, you kept a spark of it, and you fanned its flame, and now, monsieur, you shine brightly, and you bring warmth to all around you.”

     Jean Valjean trembled at those words. He bit his lip. He turned away. When he spoke, it was in a low, hushed tone, almost as though to himself. “And if that man, whom you had accepted into your family, your home, was one day arrested by the police and revealed to be an ex-convict, bringing shame upon your household, and outrage in your relatives' hearts … what would you do?”

     Marius was silent for a long, long time. “I would be very upset,” he murmured.

     There was triumphant defeat on Valjean's lips. “Ah.”

     “With the police.”

     Valjean’s eyebrows shot up. He knit his brow, looking back at him, open-mouthed.

     “Because they would have made a mistake, monsieur,” Marius explained, staring him dead in the eye. “They would have come for dangerous man, a vicious old wretch, a wolf hiding amidst sheep. And I see no such person here.”

     A tremor ran through Valjean. He grimaced, clenching his teeth and casting his face down, expression quivering. He tried to stop the tears, but they escaped and fell hot down his cheeks. All he could do was cover his eyes with his hand and turn away.

     He wanted to protest, to say something, but his voice caught in his throat, and he couldn’t form the words.

     Instead, it was Marius’ that filled the silence. “Will you at least allow us to be kind to you, and host you here until I can find a way to satisfy your doubts?” he entreated.

     Valjean barely managed to make a reply. “If that is what you wish,” he breathed.

***

     It was sometime past midnight, and Jean Valjean could not sleep. The bed was too soft. His mind was too full.

     In the blue silence of the room, he lay awake, staring up at the patterns of inlaid wood on the ceiling. Looping knots and Tudor roses, sharp angles and spreading leaves; his eyes wandered aimlessly. He had slept in his clothes, because everything else was back at his flat, and because he was afraid to make himself any more comfortable.

     Restless, he rose from the bed and opened the window. The thin white muslin curtains billowed in the sudden breeze. They settled back into place as he crossed his arms and gazed up at the sky.

     Softly, one by one, crickets chirped to one another below. Cosette was right: his window faced the garden, and opposite, to the left, grew a clump of acacia trees. Beyond them, beneath the glittering stars, stretched the rest of the garden. Its winding paths, all lined with river rocks and sand, gleamed pale against the grass.

     Valjean studied it solemnly.

     After a moment, he turned and left the house.

     Outside, the air was still and warm against his skin. Were it not for the crickets, one could almost believe the earth had ceased moving, and stood frozen in time.

     It smelled sweet; the garden was filled with flowers. Bushes of lilac and rose drooped under the burden of their newly grown blooms. Honeysuckle and grape vines clung to the tall wrought-iron fence.

     Along the wall of the house grew hyacinths and muscari, lilies of the valleys, and bluebells, all mixed together in a neat little plot.

     Valjean’s footsteps crunched quietly on the stones of the path.

     There is something mystical and secret about a garden at night, when all the world is sleeping. Trees stand sentinel. Leaves are lit by faint, reflected starlight, dew glittering on their surface. Buds and blossoms close up tight, like dreamers drawing blankets about themselves. Life slumbers.

     One is beset by strange feelings when one wanders in the dark, surrounded by nature.

     Absentmindedly, Valjean ran his hand along the rough bark of a tree. He pondered without thinking. Something long-forgotten pulled at him, but he could not name it.

     In the very center of the garden, he knelt down on the path, and sat cross-legged, gazing up at the sky.

     The moon was fat and round, glowing like a window unto heaven. The stars put pinpricks of light in his eyes.

     If Valjean was searching for an answer somewhere up in that vast, twinkling expanse, he did not know to what.

     He sat there for a long, long time, his face upturned and stoic.

     Finally, he sighed and rose to his feet, heading back from whence he’d come.

     He paused along the path to examine the bloom of a white rose that had not quite closed all the way. He fingered the silken petals thoughtfully, drawing in close and breathing in its scent.

     It smelled like the perfume Cosette always wore. The white of its delicate petals reminded him of her dress.

     He thought of her, and himself, and the garden.

     The Gillenormands’ garden. With her little patch of strawberries, so carefully tended.

     Standing, he surveyed the whole of it.

     All the plants were elegant and beautiful, surely hand-picked at one point or another, and perfectly manicured. All the flower beds were kept separated from the grass, covered evenly with mulch and lined with pebbles. Not a single weed was in sight.

     He frowned, furrowing his brow.

     Was there really a place for him here?

***

Chapter Text

“To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow—this is a human offering that can border on miraculous.”

-Elizabeth Gilbert

***

     “Father,” Marius began during breakfast, “I have reached a decision. I am taking you on a trip.”

     Valjean looked up with a start, a deviled egg halfway to his mouth on a fork.

     “Oh, yes!” Cosette exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “That is splendid idea. You shall get to know each other better, that way.”

     “What?” said Valjean. “To where?”

     “Vernon.”

     “Vernon!” he exclaimed in surprise. “But why? That’s a full day’s journey from here. What is there?”

     “You shall understand when we arrive. It is a pilgrimage of sorts. There is someone I am due to pay a visit to.”

     Cosette let out an excited little gasp. “It’s a mystery, then! How romantic. Won’t it be fun, papa? It will be like an adventure.”

     Valjean’s brown eyes slid over to her with a look of uncertainty. “I suppose.”

     “It is settled, then,” said Marius, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Tomorrow. We shall depart at six o’clock.”

***

     The ride to Vernon took eleven hours by coach, and then some, as it stopped every now and again along the way to pick up new passengers, or let others off.

     For the duration of the ride, Marius gazed at the passing scenery out the window, his chin propped up in his hand and a pensive look in his eyes. He seemed troubled.

     At one point, the boy’s silence became so unbearable that Valjean asked him what he was thinking about.

     “I am trying to compose what I must say to you,” Marius told him.

     This was not a terribly satisfactory answer, but it satisfied Valjean in the sense that it warded him off from asking anything further.

     The journey continued quietly, with only the occasional chatter of the other passengers to fill the carriage.

     Valjean did not know what it was that he should be doing here, but he had been promised an explanation, and if nothing else, he was a patient sort of man, and so he waited.

     At some point, he fell asleep.

***

     When they finally disembarked the coach, having reached their destination, both men were suitably rested but in sore need of exercising their legs.

     With little to no explanation of where they were going, Marius headed off down the street after they’d rented a room at the inn and deposited their luggage there. Valjean followed him curiously, with the slightest bit of agitation.

     At one point they passed through a group of market stalls. Marius paused to buy a bouquet of flowers from one of the stands. He did not give any reason for this, and continued on his way.

     To Valjean’s surprise, they neared a church. He began to wonder just how literal Marius had been when he’d said they were going on a pilgrimage.

     The boy skirted the building to the right, heading for the other side. Valjean trailed a few yards behind. When the cemetery came into view, he understood.

     The flowers had not been purchased for anyone living. It was in fact a true pilgrimage.

     He followed Marius solemnly to one particular grave, marked by a wooden cross painted black, inlaid with white letters that read “COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY”.

     The boy crouched down on one knee at the base of it, carefully placing the bouquet on the mound. He paused in thought for a moment before rising again. “Monsieur,” he said quietly, his gaze towards the ground, “This is my father.”

     Valjean bowed his head to the grave in respect, as one might nod to a passing gentleman on the street.

     They stood quietly for awhile.

     “I suppose,” Marius finally said, “You are wondering why I brought you here. Well. I shall tell you.” He knelt down in the grass, running a finger through it ponderously. “I was not always a Republican, you know,” he began. His voice was hushed, as though he was not entirely speaking to Valjean. “In fact, for most of my life, I was a staunch Royalist, like my grandfather. It was one of the only things we had in common. I am aware now that they had in fact groomed me to be of that persuasion. But I am getting ahead of myself.”

     He let out a sigh. “I never met my father, monsieur. At least, not that I can remember. He was absent from my life since early childhood. I was led to believe he was a man of questionable morals, and that I should not be yearning for his company. That I was better off without him. The reasons behind this were never fully explained to me. The family spoke as little of him as possible, and on the rare occasions when his name was mentioned, it was couched in disdain. Even having never met the man, I grew to resent him. In my mind, he must have been an unfeeling man, of poor character. I mean, what sort of monster abandons their child? At a certain point I simply stopped thinking on him entirely.”

     “Then, one day, I was told that I must visit him. This was something I had never expected to hear, let alone do. As it was, the man had grown severely ill, and demanded to see me. Rather dumbstruck, I was sent off to Vernon to meet him. When I arrived, however, I found I was already too late. He had died, perhaps only moments prior. He still lay prone upon the floor, his eyes unseeing. It came as a shock to me. This was the first time I could recall seeing him, and so my only memory of him is as a corpse. I paid him my respects, as one does for the dead. I wore crape on my hat. But I had never known him, and could not grieve him, nor could I find any real reason to do so. Therefore, he quickly passed out of my mind.”

     “Some time later, on a whim, I went to mass at Saint Sulpice, as I had in my youth, and I paused behind a pillar, sitting upon the chair at its base. A man approached me, saying ‘Sir, that is my seat.’ It was the warden of the chapel. His name was Mabeuf. He was the first to die at the barricades; he was shot raising the flag. I do not know why he went there. He was not a man prone to fighting. His passion was his garden, and his books. He died honorably.”

     “Anyway, I met him for the very first time at the chapel. I asked him why he had placed his seat behind a pillar, when he could have chosen any spot in the sanctuary from which to observe the mass. He explained to me that the spot held some significance for him, as he had watched a father hide behind that pillar for years in order to gaze upon his son, whom he was prevented from seeing by the rest of the family. For a full decade the father came to mass to see his child, as it was the only way he could, and he wept silently. Mabeuf and he became friends after a fashion. He asked him of his situation.”

     “The man admitted that he was a veteran of the war—and still a Bonapartist—and had been stripped of his proper rank and titles by the current regime, and allotted only a meager salary. That his wife had died early, leaving only one child, who was his joy, but that the mother’s family demanded to raise that child themselves, claiming it as their right. This would not have necessarily been a bad thing.”

     “However, the family was comprised of very stern Royalists, and they disagreed with all that the father had done during the war. They had only begrudgingly accepted his marriage, and now that the wife was dead, they hated him openly. They thought of him as a brigand, a villain. But the family was wealthy, and well-regarded. The child’s future would be brighter in their care. So the father relinquished him to them. Only, the stipulation was that he must never attempt to contact the child, or else the family would disown the boy, and cast him penniless into the street.”

     “So, although it broke his heart, the father abided by this terrible arrangement so that his son might grow to be happy and rich, while he, the father, languished in poverty and obscurity. M. Mabeuf told me that the man was a Colonel under Bonaparte, and that he had lived in Vernon. He remarked upon the sword-cut on his cheek. ‘His name was “Pont”-something or rather,’ he said. And I grew pale. ‘Pontmercy?’ I suggested. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘That was it.’”

     “So you see, monsieur, this was how I first learned of my father. Mabeuf and I became close; we spoke often, and he told me all that he knew of the man. How my father had so desperately wished to see me, but could not, for fear he would ruin my future. Is it not despicable, monsieur? He loved me dearly all my life, and they stole me from him, and drove him away. They made him out to be horrible. They made me believe he did not love me at all. To think that he died, having never been allowed to know me, or express to me how much he cared! That he died never knowing if I even knew who he was, or what he’d done.”

     Tears welled in Marius’ eyes. He bent his head, squeezing them shut. “There is nothing I can do to avenge him,” he murmured despairingly. “I can only pray that he is able to see me now, and understand how sorry I am for what happened to him, and how deeply I’ve come to respect him. The poor man!” He choked back a sob and laid his brow upon the beam of the wooden cross. “My father …”

     If Jean Valjean had been sobered by the sight of the cemetery, and of the grave, he was sobered many times further by this display.

     After a moment Marius regained some of his composure and resumed his speech, licking the salt from his lips. “My family rid themselves of everything he’d owned. His house. His belongings. All of it. They even sold his uniform, and his sword, because they meant nothing to them. Just sent them off to market, like mere trinkets, ugly and cheap. I did not know enough to preserve them. I let it all happen, unblinkingly.”

     “Now I have nothing left of him. At one point, I had a slip of paper which he wrote to me, bequeathing me the title of Baron, which Napoleon had bestowed upon him for his achievements. It was my most valued possession. I kept it in a little locket ’round my neck. But one day my grandfather discovered it somehow and threw it away.”

     He sniffed and tried to clear his throat. “After M. Mabeuf told me about my father, I took it upon myself to find out all I could of his life, and his accomplishments in the military. I’ve no idea how many books I took on loan. Entire nights were spent that way. It was all I could do for him, you see. To learn his past, and think of him with the reverence and the credit he deserved. I was denied the knowledge of him in life, and so I could only know him in death. For weeks I did nothing but read. I found my father was a true hero. I came to venerate Napoleon, as he had. Practically overnight I became a Bonapartist.”

     “My family knew nothing of this. I had grown quite suddenly to despise them, but I held my peace for some time. In secret, I had a hundred cards made up bearing my name with the title of Baron. I had no one to give them to, so I carried them around in my coat pocket. However, one day my grandfather discovered them, and became furious with me. I came home to find him in a rage. He threw the cards in my face. He insulted my father, and me, and made remarks that I could not abide by. I had no recourse but to let my emotions burst forth.”

     “We fought bitterly. It was over in an instant. When he found out about my newfound devotion to my father, and my shifted political views, he threw me out of the house. Perfectly simply, with a smile on his face. He disowned me. Just like that.” The malice and pain in the boy’s voice was unmistakable. “Just as they all said they would.”

     “I am sorry,” Valjean managed to say.

     Marius only nodded his thanks. “That was five years ago,” he said. “It is hard to believe, even now, that any of them can truly love me, doing what they did. All my life, to be so prepared to cast me out at a moment’s notice! To toss me away like rubbish if I made any sign of turning out as something other than what they’d wanted me to be. The deuce,” he muttered. “They may have taken care of me, but it was like—like they only did it because I was some asset to them. Like they were putting aside capital for their future, making another upstanding little Royalist, a well-respected lawyer, to one day go out into the world of politics and earn them praise, and respect, and money.”

     Again, he shook his head, as if to dispel their hold over him. The setting sun caught the black of his hair and made it flash. “Without any further argument, I packed my things and left. I rented a tiny apartment in this ramshackle old building. I had next to nothing. My grandfather, in his overarching benevolence granted me a stipend of sixty pistoles every six months.[1] I returned it unopened each time. I lived in poverty, if only to spite him. My clothing grew threadbare. I was quite nearly starving.”

     “During this time I made a number of new friends. They were very into politics. We did not always see eye to eye, but I grew enchanted by them all. They were so passionate—it did not take them long to make me a Republican. I spent many happy evenings in their company. Even so, my situation what it was, I was miserable. And then, monsieur, one day, I saw your daughter walking in the gardens. Her beauty astounded me. I was smitten. My misery only increased. For you see, I could not bring myself to approach her. At times I thought I had lost sight of her forever, and we would never meet again. But then she would reappear, and fan the flames of my heart.”

     “Eventually I had to confess myself; I left her letters beneath the stone on your garden bench. We grew enamored with one another. We met often, in the garden, late at night. I offer my apologies to you, monsieur; I know it is inappropriate that we should have done so without your consent. But I assure you that just to gaze at her, just to sit by her side, was enough. Hours were lost in one another’s eyes. I felt the luckiest, happiest man in all the world.”

     “Then she tells me you are to move away, and that you are bound for England, and I know not what to do with myself. She could not stay. I had no means to follow. I was crushed. The grief of losing her overwhelmed my senses. I would rather have died than live without her. So I wrote her farewell, and headed off to the barricades to join my friends, suspecting—no, even relying on—that I would be killed there.”

     “But you intercepted my letter. You came and you spirited me away from death, and brought me back into my grandfather’s keeping. Apparently they thought me dead at first. The servants told me that the shock of it sent my grandfather into a sort of breakdown. He confessed his love for me to what he thought was my corpse. But then I opened my eyes.”

     “He was so happy I’d survived that he very nearly forgot about the feud we’d had. But even now, I dare not speak politics in front of him. And he will make digs at me, sometimes, and throw salt in my wounds. Do you know, monsieur, that he once asked me if I had not any close friends, and I said ‘Courfeyrac, but he is dead,’ and he replied ‘That is good.’” The boy shivered.

     “Still, we try to get along now, despite these things. He has a hot temper, and sometimes I can see it rage, but then he thinks better of it, and curbs his anger, and bites his tongue. It is good of him. And I know—at least now—that he truly does love me. Somewhere. Even so, I cannot forgive him for what he did. Nor my aunt. It was atrocious.”

     He ran a hand through his hair, once, twice. He let out a sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “So you know now my sad history, monsieur. Perhaps you can already guess why I have told you all of this. I shall explain myself anyway.”

     “Without my knowledge, my father was driven away from me over misguided assumptions and petty grudges. My family feared his deeds would taint their perfect lives. So they took me and barred him entry into my life. He allowed this to happen because he thought he had less of a claim to me than they, and that it would be better for me. That I would have a better future. He sacrificed himself for me. The family painted him as a marauder and bound him with a shroud of silence. He did not deserve this. I was all that he had, and they would not let him see me. This was agony for both of us.”

     “He was a great man, who should have been venerated by all around him. Who should have had statues made, and trees planted, in his honor. Who should have been allowed all the happiness in the world. But he died heartbroken, and alone, his deeds forgotten. I knew nothing of his struggles, or his sacrifice. Or even of his grandeur. It was only chance that revealed to me the honorable man that he was. But by then, he was already lost to me. I was unable to make things right, to make amends. It will haunt me for all of my life. His fate was tragic, and undeserved. And I can do nothing for him.”

     With this, the boy rose to his feet and looked Valjean square in the eyes. His voice grew hard, and sharp-edged, a solemn oath, and he spoke as though half to himself. “But I can still do something for you.”

     Jean Valjean was quite taken aback at the depth of this sentiment. He found he had no words at his disposal.

     “Do you see now, sir, what it is that I feel?” Marius asked, “I realized, on the ride to your apartment, that I had done to you what my grandfather had done to my father the Colonel. I recoil at myself!” He drew a hand to his brow. “To think of the grief he must have endured at our separation! To think I myself forced that on another, of my own accord! I had thought you were a murderer, a brigand—a dark cloud casting shadow over us—but you are none of these things. I made assumptions about you, and drove you away based on them. Just like my grandfather. I was not thinking. The parallels had not occurred to me.”

     Valjean bit his lip, staring at the ground. His soul was in turmoil. “You pardon me out of guilt for what has happened in the past,” he finally said, “not because I am deserving of a pardon. You feel that, in embracing me, you might atone for what befell your father.”

     “But you are wrong! It is not out of guilt I do this, but gratitude!”

     “Monsieur, I know better than anyone that there is a very fine line between those two things.”

     “What of it? I feel guilt insomuch as I have done you wrong, and treated you unkindly when you were not deserving of it. Is it not right that I should feel guilt over a misdeed? It is not on account of my father the Colonel that I do this thing, that I welcome you into our house and beg your forgiveness; it is on account of the fact that you, sir, are an angel! You are deserving of my everything—admiration, praise, trust, love. I am in your debt.”

     “You owe me nothing,” Valjean insisted. “I only did that which I could not help but do. Is such a thing truly deserving of praise?”

     “Deserving of—? You saved my life!”

     “Out of obligation, yes. Duty obliged me to act.”

     “Obliged?” Marius repeated dumbly. “You were obliged to do nothing! Yet you withstood hell and high water to bring me home. You gave away your daughter to me. You bestowed on us a fortune. And you revealed yourself to me, out of the prick of your conscience, when there was no need to do so; when you could have remained silent and enjoyed bliss and secrecy for all your years, with none the wiser.”

     “You are wrong,” said Valjean. “I did need to reveal myself to you. My conscience would not permit me do otherwise. I deliberated for a long time on it, to be fair. There was much I had to lose, and it pained me greatly to admit these dreadful things about myself. But in the end, there really was no other choice that I could make. All that I have done, I have done out of obligation. So you see, it is not really anything deserving of praise.”

     Marius clenched his teeth, furrowing his brow. “Humility is a heavenly virtue, monsieur, but you take it too far. You deny yourself just reward. You have a fear of admiration. It is wrong that good men should go unrecognized on this earth. Do you think God is pleased with your martyrdom, when it is so unnecessary?”

     “You are a devout Christian;” he went on, “I understand. You believe your reward will be in Heaven, and that it matters not what recompense you receive here in life. But have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps right here, right now, these things are your reward? That the reward for one’s good deeds comes not from on high, but from below, in what has been sown? It seems to me that God has said ‘Enough. This man has done his part; let his suffering now end and let him have a taste of gratitude. Let his children welcome him home. Let him live in peace and be cherished for the rest of his days.’”

     “And you, monsieur, you turn to God and say,—” Here he gesticulated, putting his palm up in front of himself and smiling at some unseen being. “—‘No thank you; I shall have my recompense when I am dead.’” Then he pivoted on the balls of his feet to face the opposite direction. “And the good Lord says ‘But I wish you to have it now. Do you not wish your struggles to cease?’ And you reply ‘That is all right. I will wait.’ Well!” he exclaimed, looking back at him sternly, “That is some ingratitude, monsieur!”

     The corners of Jean Valjean’s lips drew down; his eyes bulged.

     “I do not understand you,” Marius continued, throwing his arms out in frustration. “You go out of your way to paint yourself terribly, and to deny yourself happiness, and you expect God to venerate you for it! What happens when you cross the Pearly Gates and the Lord has to explain to you that He already tried to reward your goodness several times over on earth, but you continuously denied him? I fear that would be a very embarrassing conversation to have.”

     He drew in a breath and let it out slowly, his temper cooling. “You fear to accept my affections and my invitations because you are afraid they are undue, or that I am not sincere in them. But you know very well that they are due! And I have thought a long while on how I might prove that I am sincere in believing you a great man, worthy of all the love a heart can muster, and I have come to this.”

     “Monsieur, you think I venerate you out of obligation, because you saved my life. While I do of course owe you a debt of gratitude for that, it is not the sole reason I cherish you. Nor, in fact, do I cherish you merely because of the countless good deeds you have done throughout your past. Truly, I cherished you even before being made aware of any of those things.”

     “I cherished you simply because of the kind of man you were—kindhearted and gentle, and worthy of respect. I loved you purely for you yourself. It had nothing to do with your charity or your heroics. Even after you revealed yourself to be a convict, still, I thought of you as a good man.”

     Here Valjean protested. “But when I asked if you thought I ought not see Cosette anymore, you said that you thought it would be better. How can you tell me you thought me a good man, when you so clearly did not?”

     The color drained from the boy’s face. “I—” He stopped, mouth open, and hung his head. “I cannot deny that I said that, though I wish it were not the case. I regret those words immensely, I assure you. But understand, monsieur—the things you told me produced a great shock on me. You tell me that you have been to the galleys, that you are sought even now by the police for outstanding crimes—on the day after you became my father by law, no less! I had no proper time to think on the matter.”

     “Even so, I still thought reasonably well of you—but when Cosette entered the room, my thoughts turned to her, and, like you, I wished to shield her from your past, and whatever shadows it might bring. I had the impression that your character was honest and decent, but now doubt had been cast in my mind. I could not be sure of you. We meant to have you live with us, but I became wary of this. However, you shall at least recall that when you asked it of me, I assured that you should see your Cosette every day. On my honor, truly, I did mean that in earnest.”

     Valjean’s brow knit. “But then why—”

     “I must explain myself, monsieur; I had made an error, in more ways than one. In an effort to understand the sort of man you were, I tried to research your history. The information I managed to dredge up was piecemeal, rudimentary fragments. I attempted to stitch them into a sensible story with educated guesswork. This was a mistake. The assumptions I made were completely incorrect.”

     “How do you mean?”

     “I … had thought that you denounced a benevolent mayor in the Pas-de-Calais as a criminal and forged his signature at the bank to steal his fortune while he was being detained,” he blurted out.

     Valjean’s face went blank. “You what?”

     “Javert was the one who finally set me straight on the fact that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine were in reality one in the same. And Javert!” he exclaimed. “I thought that you’d killed him at the barricades! I knew of no other reason you were there; you did not fight. It seemed to me that you must have gotten wind of his capture and gone there to seek vengeance while the conflict still permitted it.”

     “In light of this I believed you were a forger, a robber of the worst kind, and a murderer to boot, who had just so happened by some miracle to also be a decent father. That was why I drove you away; that was why I went back on my word. Not because I had ruminated on what you had told me earlier and decided that you were unworthy of a place in our family, but rather, because I misled myself into conceiving a horror of you.”

     Valjean stared at him in perplexion, trying to wrap his head around this.

     After a moment Marius went on. “If I had not come across that misinformation, and been led to dreadful conclusions about you, I think that with time I would have softened and lost my fear of you. To be certain, you never proved yourself anything other than a gentle soul. And at the beginning, I was terribly impressed with your honesty. It seemed to me a sure mark of your reform.”

     The boy wet his lips and bit his tongue, shaking his head. He thrust his face up to look at Valjean with a pleading expression. “What I am trying to say is, despite the history that you divulged to me, still, I loved you! You do not think that I did. That is the whole of your reservations. But it is true! I did. And I can prove it.”

     Valjean had been struck mute for quite some time now, growing more and more uncomfortable. At present, he was close to tears. Truly, he wanted to be loved, to be cherished, to live out his days in happiness, with those he cared for most. He wanted to believe that he deserved these things. He wanted someone to convince him of this, as he could not in good conscience convince himself. He wanted this, but he was not sure it was possible.

     And he was afraid. Afraid of accepting something that he perhaps ought not deserve.

     Jean Valjean had been many things throughout his life, but if there was one thing he could not bring himself to be again, it was a thief.

     His voice on the verge of breaking, all he could find the courage to say was, “How?”

     “It is very simple,” Marius said, stepping forwards and clasping Valjean’s hands. “Like this. You will remember our discussion in the drawing room, on the morning after the wedding.”

     “Clearly.”

     “You will remember how you denounced yourself to me as a criminal, still wanted by the police.”

     “I tell you, it is with painful clarity that I recall that morning. I remember all that was said.”

     “Do you? I am afraid you are forgetting something, monsieur.”

     “And what is that?”

     “That I told you I would procure for you a pardon.”

     Valjean gave a start, his eyes widening. He had indeed forgotten this.

     “You said it did not matter, because the authorities all thought you long dead. There was nothing to be done at the time—or at least, nothing that needed doing—so that topic was dropped. But still it stands, monsieur—and you are forgetting this—that I was ready and willing to defend you as an honorable man, even against the judicial system itself. Even knowing who you were, I was happily going to accept you into our home. I had already accepted you into my heart.”

     “I was only overcome with vertigo at your sudden denunciation, and temporarily doubted your character. But even then, a part of me knew that doubt was unfounded. No matter who you used to be, you had obviously turned over a new leaf. That you had done misdeeds in your past was of no consequence to me, faced with who you were in the present.”

     “So you see,” he said, giving his hands a squeeze, “I really have loved you from the start. Just because … because you are you. Because you are a good man, and nothing in your past changes that. We are not slaves to our history, or the selves whom we once were. Everyone is capable of greatness, of virtue, their origins notwithstanding. There is no better proof of this than you.”

     At this, Jean Valjean trembled from head to toe. The tears which had been welling his in eyes finally slid down his cheeks. Their trickle became a stream, hot against his skin. He bent his head, expression contorting so that his eyes squeezed themselves shut and his teeth clenched in a grimace of what might appear to any other man to be grief. He put his face in his hands.

     For some time he stood like that, too struck to do anything else. The evening breeze tousled the curls of his hair as the tears slipped through his fingers and watered the grass.

     After awhile he heard Marius’ voice. “Father,” the boy said softly. “You are my father.”

     He had not the heart to dispute it.

     Carefully, his son drew him into an embrace.

     Valjean could say nothing; his throat was too choked. His arms found the waist of Marius’ tailcoat, and clutched the boy’s slender frame close. He buried his face in his shoulder and wept.

***

     They stayed two days in Vernon.

     In the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun was beginning to rise, a man with white hair could be seen exiting one of the local inns and wandering into a deserted field nearby.

     By the time the sky had lightened to a placid blue, there could be found in the cemetery, beneath a cross of black wood, two bouquets: one bought at market, the other comprised entirely of wildflowers.

***

     The ride back to Paris, though no shorter than it ought to be, was considerably more tolerable than the first one, and though silence prevailed for the most of it, it was pleasant.

     Marius and Jean Valjean both directed their gazes out the windows, content to absorb the serenity of the passing pastures and farmland.

     The driver of the diligence was not the same coachman that had taken them two days prior, but, if he had been, perhaps he may have noticed that two of his passengers seemed much more at ease with themselves than they had been earlier.

***

     “So, you return!” said Cosette as they entered the hall. “And how was your journey?”

     “Excellent,” said Marius with an air of surety.

     “Wonderful.” She turned to her father. “And you?”

     Valjean had been setting down their luggage, which he had insisted on carrying himself. He straightened himself and looked up at her with a placid gaze. There was something of adoration in his eyes. “Cosette,” he murmured.

     His daughter cocked her head at him.

     He approached her as though in a dream, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to his chest and cradling the back of her head in his hand.

     She stood stiff in his grasp for a second—he had surprised her, it seemed—then relaxed.

     He placed a kiss on her temple, brushing back a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear.

     It seemed to him that all his life he had been denied, or denied for himself, all manners of happiness, and now, for the first time, he felt something open up in his heart, like some well-rusted gate, and allow in a flood of it. Cosette was the first truly good thing he had found on this earth; and yet, even so, he had kept his distance from her, as though his mere presence, his mere affection, had the vague possibility of tainting her innocence. He had guarded her at arm’s length, and kept watch over her from afar.

     As she had grown into a young woman, especially, it had seemed to him that she had become something luminous, and angelic—something far too beautiful and precious to hold with his dirtied hands.

     But she had been right—they had both wanted each other’s company, and it was a damned foolish thing that he’d done, thinking to better her life by quietly slipping out of it.

     ‘Child abandonment,’ Javert’s voice echoed in his head.

     It had been, in a way, hadn’t it? Not quite the way he’d intended. But still. To Cosette … How could she have understood his reasons for leaving? To be true, he really hadn’t even given her any. He had just stopped coming one day. When she had sent servants to inquire after him, he had pretended to be absent, away on some journey, when the reality was he was withering slowly away like a plant denied a taste of the sun.

     But everything felt so different now. Still he entertained some trepidation in the face of these delights, but there was a distinct lightness in his chest. It seemed as though the air had been stifling, and someone had finally opened a window. His soul breathed a sigh of relief. Guilt, and fear, and self-restraint had kept him in a perpetual state of tension for so long that he could not remember feeling any other way, and yet now, a weight had been lifted from him, and he allowed himself to loosen.

     Cosette’s love had been a gift to him, which he had never believed himself rightly deserving of, and for the first time he permitted himself full reception of it. To Jean Valjean, who had never experienced much in the way of happiness or affection from the world, there was no higher form of ecstasy than this.

     “Papa?” came Cosette’s voice. “Are you well?”

     He had been holding her for quite some time now, he realized, pulling away.

     “Did something happen?”

     He let out a self-deprecating chuckle, glancing at the floorboards. “I suppose.”

     “Your father and I have had a chat,” Marius proclaimed, “and I have convinced him to my way of thinking.”

     “And what way of thinking is that?”

     “That he should move in with us, and allow us to be good to him. That he is a good man, worthy of every kindness we could hope to outpour, and that he shall not object when we do so.”

     She clapped her hands with delight, her blue eyes sparkling. “Splendid! My Marius, my well-beloved lawyer, you know how to convince people of things, don’t you?”

     The boy turned a shade of pink and flashed a sheepish grin at her.

     “So,” she said to Valjean, “you are past this divide that you created between yourselves, then? You would say that you are satisfied with one another? That you are close?”

     He glanced back at Marius, and they searched their faces questioningly.

     “Close enough to understand one another, I think,” said Marius. “Though I hope to further the understanding in the days to come.”

     Valjean studied him. His face warmed. He directed his gaze at the floor, and gave a subtle nod.

     Cosette’s eyes flicked to her husband and her father in turn. She seemed to be considering something. “Well,” she said finally, crossing her arms, “Marius. Father. Now that you are on better terms with one another, perhaps, I think, an explanation is due?”

     They blinked at her stupidly.

     “What do you mean?” asked Marius.

     “I mean, the both of you have been ridiculous fools, and you have yet to provide me a decent reason for your behavior. Marius, you pushed papa away from us. You say you thought poorly of him, and that is why you did it, but wherefore? What could have caused you to dislike him at all? I asked you this and you refused to answer me. You say yourself he is a saint.”

     She then fixed her gaze on Valjean. “And you! You let him do as he liked even though it broke your heart. Even though it broke my heart! You did not even say anything to me about it. You just allowed yourself to be cast out. Why? What caused this rift between you two?”

     Jean Valjean looked at Marius.

     Marius looked at Jean Valjean.

     They held each other’s gazes for a moment.

     “Politics,” they both said.

     The girl was aghast. “Politics!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “You did all of this because of politics?”

     “Yes,” they said, hanging their heads.

     “Why, I—!” Her face began to flush. “How could you? Over such a stupid, inconsequential thing. Politics are all well and good for table talk, but to drive one another away over them, to ruin each other’s happiness—I’ve never heard such a thing in my life! What’s wrong with the two of you? How could you be so ridiculously stubborn and fickle? And to keep all these secrets from me, and leave me in the dark, as though I were just some child to you, too young to understand. How dare you? The nerve!”

     “I’m sorry,” Marius offered. “It is just that—we had this discussion, one day—a sort of argument, if you will, and—”

     “So that was what you two were going on about in the drawing room that morning!”

     Valjean gave a start. “That morning?”

     “Yes! The morning after the wedding. I remember it very clearly. I came to greet you both, and you denied me, and refused to continue talking in my presence. I asked again and again, and neither of you would defend me. I was only there to bid you well, and keep you company ’til breakfast. It was very mean of you. But now I see. You said you were talking figures. Well! It was politics, wasn’t it?”

     Marius raised an eyebrow. “Er …” Again he and Valjean shared a glance. “Yes.”

     “There! I knew it. No wonder you were being so stubborn. Politics can make asses of even the best of men, I do declare. Good gracious, but you let it turn so ugly! You should have let me diffuse the situation; it was very rash of you. Ah, but there is nothing to do about it now. Only, pray you shall never let such idiotic things come between you again! And if I find out you’ve been keeping any more secrets from me I shall be very cross indeed. No more of these fights behind closed doors. Do you understand? I will have none of it.”

     Marius bowed his head to her. “I assure you, ma chère, it shall never happen again.”

***

     A few hours after supper, M. Gillenormand summoned both Marius and Valjean to the drawing room. Wordlessly, he beckoned them to sit at the table opposite him, which they did.

     There was the distinct feeling of an impending interrogation in the atmosphere.

     Gillenormand knit his hands with a very serious air. He stared at them knowingly, promptingly.

     The silence began to grow unbearable.

     The old man raised his eyebrow. “Politics,” he said, as though an entire inquisition could be contained in that word. He leaned back into the chair, splaying his arms over the padded armrests. His demeanor was unimpressed. “You mean to tell me you refused to see one another over politics.”

     Marius and Valjean gazed back at him stoically, their expressions identical.

     It was clear to both of them that Cosette, in her considerable ire, had made complaint of this to her grandfather.

     Marius cleared his throat. “Father,” he said, “all things considered, we thought that you of all people would understand.”

     The old man’s consternation dissolved. And then the three of them were wearing the same tightly drawn mask.

     The room fell quiet for a moment.

     “Ah,” said Gillenormand with a grain of salt, “I see.” After a second, his tone turned abruptly more cheerful. “Well!” he exclaimed, looking at Valjean, “That must mean you’re a Royalist!”

     Valjean blinked, his face going blank. “I …” His eyes darted to Marius.

     Marius shrugged.

     Valjean began again. “I suppose that I, er, could be of that persuasion, yes.”

     “Oh, don’t be so modest!” the old man told him, rising from his seat and skirting around the table to his side. “If you quarreled that bitterly about it with my lovely Marius here, that means that you and I have a number of things in common. Come, Fauchelevent,” he said, clapping him on the back with vigor and leading him away, “Let’s discuss King and country somewhere the little dissenter can’t hear us.”

     Valjean glanced back over his shoulder at Marius with a look that requested aid.

     But all Marius could do was throw up his hands and frown at him apologetically.

     “Say, Fauchelevent,” he could hear his grandfather’s dwindling voice saying, “do you like brandy?”

     “Oh, I don’t usually drink. But then again, it may prove necessary on this particular occasion.”

     “That’s the spirit! Nicolette! Go and fetch the snifters and the decanter of that Armagnac I bought!”

     “Right away, sir.”

***

FOOTNOTES:

[1] 600 francs (1 pistole = 10 francs).

Chapter Text

“Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live. The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.”

-Alexander Dumas

***

     Basque, Marius and he loaded Valjean’s belongings into the back of the wagon with care. It was some trouble, as the street was too narrow to permit such vehicles, and the items needed to be carried down the street to the intersection.

     There were only three trunks in all; he owned little more than clothes and books. What furniture had been left in the apartment was old and of a simple nature: plain wood, wicker. Chairs, tables, beds, cookware—he had no need of these things any longer. He left them for the porters, or future tenants. A few things that had been deemed worth keeping had been brought along, though, such as the canapé, some nicely patterned quilts, the small chest of drawers from his bedroom, and various other smaller things.

     The silver candlesticks had been wrapped up in a blanket to keep them from harm, and placed lovingly in one of the trunks beside his bible and the little copper crucifix that used to hang upon his wall.

     “All that money, and those are really the only things of value you own?” Marius had remarked, puzzled.

     Valjean only smiled sheepishly at him and shrugged. “Fineries have never really been an object in my life,” he said. And then, more wistful, “It is not their market-worth that makes them valuable to me, anyway.”

     The boy looked curious, but made no further inquiries. He contented himself with saying “Ah, well, then again, you are a humble man, I suppose.” It is probable that he found it more of a relief that there were so few possessions to transport than an actual concern.

     The only thing Valjean would not let them touch was his valise, which he insisted on carrying himself, and sat on the opposite seat of the carriage as though it were made of delicate porcelain instead of thick, sturdy old wood.

     Cosette laughed at him over this. “He treats it like it were a person,” she quipped. “I am rather jealous of it.”

     “What is in there, anyway?” asked Marius.

     “Oh, nothing either of you would find terribly interesting, I suspect,” said Valjean. “Just some old remnants of things. They are important to me, that’s all.”

     Valjean had discussed in Vernon with Marius the use—or lack-thereof—of the six-hundred thousand francs he had given them. Marius had refused to touch the money on principle, as he’d thought it stolen. But now that this mistaken assumption had been rectified, Valjean had insisted he put it to some use. After all, what good did such a fortune do anyone by sitting in a bank?

     And so Marius had, at long last, and at the behest of Valjean, rented for their own private use a splendid little carriage of dark cherry wood, with Utrecht velvet seat cushions in a charming shade of maroon. Its windows had glass panes with hardly a defect at all, and they shone clear and new in the sun. The outside of the carriage was highly detailed with spiraling ornamentation on each edge and inlaid carvings of flowers. It was in this they all sat together on one side, with Valjean’s valise opposite.

     As they left the now empty apartment on Rue de l’Homme Armé, Valjean was struck with a sort of thoughtfulness—something of wonder, and nostalgia. It had little time to grow into anything particular before Cosette began to chatter pleasantly.

     “My, but it’s such beautiful weather out,” she said, fanning herself gently with a silk fan Marius had purchased for her. “Plenty of sunshine, but not yet too hot. I suppose June will be hotter. It was a good day for this. Imagine if you’d had to lug all of those things in the rain!”

     And then, “Papa, we should go for a walk in the garden again when you’ve finished putting your belongings away. Maybe my robin red-breast will be there to-day.”

     Here she paused in thought. “You know, you should have a little corner in the garden to yourself as well. You could grow sweet peas and carrots. There are far too many flowers there already; we should plant something useful. That’s why I started my little strawberry patch. Maybe you could teach me how to raise vegetables. Oh! We could have squash, too. Or maybe turnips? I don’t know. I want to garden more with you. I think it would be fun.”

     “We could go looking in the market for different seed packets,” Marius suggested. “Though … it is rather late in the season, isn’t it?”

     Cosette frowned at this for a second, but then she turned to look at Valjean with bright eyes. “Papa, you would know. What things are best to plant this time of year?”

     Valjean’s eyebrows raised. “Well, let me think …” He tugged pensively at his beard. “It is almost June now, so … squash would be good, and beans. Melons, too, and cucumbers. It’s far too late for sweet peas, I’m afraid. Perhaps next year. I suppose we could try to plant turnips, though the timing’s a little off …”

     Marius raised his eyebrows, apparently impressed with his off-hand knowledge of such things. He glanced back at his wife, and Cosette smiled at him as if to say ‘I told you so’.

     “You might consider planting some more fruit trees,” Valjean continued, now totally absorbed in his wandering thoughts. “I did notice there was a hearty old apple tree near the back. But one might add a cherry tree, or a peach, or even perhaps a pear. And then, also, there are other sorts of berries you might like to grow, like raspberries or blackberries. Though I’m not sure you would find the thorns very pleasant. Hm. You might just want to start with vegetables;” he said, scratching his head, “the preservation process is much simpler. Besides, it’s not the right time of year for planting much else.”

     “Then vegetables it is,” declared Cosette. “Marius, what kinds do you think we should buy?”

     “Me? I have no idea. I shall like whatever you do.”

     “Squash would be nice,” Valjean suggested. “There are all sort of varieties, and they keep through the winter. You would have a lot of options for cooking with them.”

     “Let’s plant some of those, then,” said Cosette. “You also said it was the right time for melons, did you not?”

     “Yes, if we plant them quickly.”

     “That was what your brother grew, vrai?”

     Valjean blinked. “Eh?”

     “You know. At the convent.”

     “Oh!” A hasty grin planted itself on his face, not quite straight. “Oh, yes. It was. What a splendid memory you have.”

     Cosette glanced down at the carriage floor, her voice sobering some. “We should plant a little patch in his honor. He was a good man.”

     Valjean nodded slowly.

     He wondered suddenly what old Fauchelevent would think were he still here to see this. Surely the man would never have foreseen the little girl they’d raised becoming a Baroness, wealthy and beautiful beyond measure. She had been, it seemed then, on her way to becoming a nun. And Valjean had just been some old gardener, whom she saw during mealtimes and holidays. The both of them had been hiding in seclusion, nothing of remark. It seemed the girl would pass the whole of her life there with him, plain and chaste, married only to God.

     But now look at her! She was radiant. At one time, a sister had remarked that she would be ugly. What farce. The whole of her countenance was like the warm rays of the sun. Happiness had made her so. And now, she was married, and belonged to a wealthy family, with riches of her own, no less (though that was due to him). She was a part of high society. Her life was made of joy—of hyacinths and nightingales.

     He had meant for her to have these things, always, but had been afraid that it was not within his power to provide. Money is only good for some things. But for once in both their lives, it seemed, fortune had been in their favor. Chance and luck and a million other little things had led them somehow to this day. To look back at their circumstances from where they were now, quite frankly, Jean Valjean was amazed.

     Cosette turned her head and beamed at him. “Isn’t this exciting, papa?” she asked. “You are finally coming home.”

     Home.

     Valjean started inwardly.

     It was not a word, per se, but an idea—one of which he had never had the occasion to grasp.

     Jean Valjean had never had a home, in the truest sense of the word. He’d had houses. There was never, in any of those buildings, a sense of belonging. Even in the house of his youth. For his parents had died young, and his sister had raised him, perhaps more out of duty than love. And for duty he stayed, for who else would provide for them all? It was not that he wasn’t fond of the children—who were more like younger cousins than nieces and nephews—but he felt like a pillar of support holding them up rather than a part of the family itself.

     Maybe if he had not worked all day long, and collapsed after supper in exhaustion each night—if he’d had more time to spend with them—it would have been different. Maybe if his parents had not died early, or if they’d had any other relatives that they could have relied upon, it would have been different. Maybe if his sister had not been ten years older than him, and acted less like a stepmother and more like a sibling, things would have been different.

     But they were not different. As it was, he had experienced all of the toil and stress of supporting a household with little to no experience of being a part of one.

     And then came prison, and afterwards, houses ceased even to be houses, let alone homes, and became little more than places he might take refuge for a time. Nothing was ever permanent. He was always painfully aware of the ever-looming threat of discovery. That he might be forced to abandon everything at the drop of a hat.

     Even after he’d found Cosette, and fashioned a father of himself, he could still not feel that he belonged. Danger lurked around every corner, and he mustn’t attach himself too firmly to anything or anyone, for both their sakes.

     He kept three houses in three different parts of Paris, and moved from place to place multiple times a year in order to avoid the risk of detection. This transience only served to further estrange him. He would have liked to be part of a family, and have a real home—in fact, he wanted nothing else in life—but in reality—and he reminded himself of this often—Cosette was only someone he was looking after, and these places that he paid for only brick, and stone, and plaster, nothing more.

     And so it had been for all his life.

     Yet here they were, and these two children professed that he was their father, even though they knew he was not. They brought him to their home, and they said that he was family, that he belonged there. They did this purely because they loved him, and not because he could benefit them—for truly, what more could he give them? Already they had a fortune, and the love of many. There was nothing further he could do for them. But they insisted upon having him. Even Marius, knowing what he was!

     It was true: no one needed him anymore.

     They wanted him.

     And it was this realization that jarred Valjean into reverie. He could not remember a time when he had been wanted purely for himself, and not because of what he could do, or had done. Perhaps this was why he had kept his good deeds from Marius and Cosette, and insisted upon keeping them from their grandfather. Because he’d wanted to be loved for love's sake, and not gratitude.

     For so long he had kept his distance from people—out of fear, or respect, or shyness. And then, he felt, what right had he to form relationships with good and honest people—who were, by necessity, ignorant of who and what he truly was—when that dreadful past could spell disaster for them? Surely, he thought, they would draw back in horror to find out the man they’d been friends with was actually an ex-convict, dangerous and strong and still wanted by the police.

     And how could anyone love him, knowing what he was? What he’d done? Nineteen years in the galleys, chained up like some beast, with eyes full of cunning and a heart full of hatred. Why, he’d been barely a man at all. More like an animal, most days. He looked at himself and he did not understand how anyone would love such a cold-blooded creature. Did not understand why the Bishop had done so, though he thanked him in his prayers, and would have gladly lain down his life for him, if he’d had the chance. How he’d wronged him! How terrible he’d been! And yet the man had smiled upon him warmly all the while, despite having the evidence of what he was thrust at his feet.

     And now Marius—Marius knew him also, and did not turn away. He welcomed him with open arms; professed his faith in his goodness.

     These things were to be, then? He would live out the rest of his days in peace and happiness, with his children by his side? In the safety of acceptance?

     He could hardly believe such a thing was possible.

     Marius had tried to convince him that perhaps this was God trying to reward him for all he’d done. The idea had seemed almost sacrilegious to him at the time. He was used to giving and not receiving. He shied away from recompense. Prison, and life in general, had taught him to expect nothing but bruises from people. That nothing was offered without conditions, and rewards were either a trick or a trap. He feared himself, he feared God, he feared to take what was undue, even if it wasn't undue at all. Because what if it was? Everything seemed a test of his character, a test set by God, in which he must prove himself worthy of that undeserved mercy the Bishop had bestowed upon him.

     That the Bishop had shown him kindness was unprecedented.

     That God might look upon him fondly, and offer respite, was unfathomable.

     And yet, gazing out the carriage window, on his way to Rue des Filles du Calvaire, with his two loving children beside him, Jean Valjean almost dared to believe it.

     Truly, if nothing else, something miraculous had occurred.

     Sudden emotion surged in his breast—a feeling that he had not felt in a long time, if, perhaps, ever—and he struggled to identify it, but at long last he realized it was contentment, and it was joy, and even hope.

     He looked back at his children (it was so very strange that he had children), and it felt as though he were seeing them for the first time. He could feel their love of him in his aching chest, distinctly, and without doubt. And his eyes welled with tears as he looked upon them, and his heart, like a wild bird escaping its cage, said ‘home’ and soared.

     He had to turn his face away, so they would not see him cry.

     Gazing out at Paris as it slowly passed them by, the city, like himself, in that instant, seemed reborn.

     The chestnut horse pulling a fiacre, with the stripe of white down its face, black blinders and head bobbing. The wildflowers poking through the cracks in between the cobblestones. The women standing in lines at a market stall, baskets in hand, chattering softly to one another. The painted walls and carefully lettered signs of storefronts. The clouds drifting in the blue, and the sun shining above.

     It all seemed new, and bright, and fresh.

     The fiacre passed them by, and through its window one could see, for a fleeting moment, a couple stealing a kiss.

     To think that these were the very streets he had walked for months in gloom, with the sky caving in on him! To think he had almost withered away, ceased to see, to hear, to feel anything beyond despair! All had seemed so dark then. The colors had drained from everything and left only ugly grey. Happiness had been so far from his grasp. Confined to the echoes of the past, and slowly fading, never again to be attained.

     Were these truly the same streets? How many times had he walked them, and seen nothing but the road ahead, and a distant destination he could never reach? Had he been blind? He could hardly remember any of this vivacity.

     How was it that the world could feel so different, when nothing at all had changed?

     No, he thought, the world had stayed the same; it was he who had changed.

     Like that horse, with its blinders, he had seen only the stones beneath his feet, dragging the burden of his past, and spurred on only by the lash of his conscience.

     Then someone had come at the end of his journey, when he had grown thin and weak and could no longer move, and removed those blinders, and unhitched him from the harness and lain him down in green pastures.¹

     And who was this person who had picked him up and carried him away when he had fallen?

     He let out a breath.

     Javert.

     Memories of the past month came flooding back to him. The man’s words rang like some prophecy fulfilled.

     ‘One day you find that it doesn’t hurt so much, anymore. And maybe living isn’t as hard as you thought.’

     Valjean was overwhelmed. Everything was like a dream. He had not thought that he would ever see a day like this. And he almost hadn’t! He had almost allowed himself to drown in a lonely gulf, and let sorrow swallow him whole. To eat his soul away from the inside out until there was nothing left of him but a husk.

     How close he had been! If someone had not intervened …

     The image of a grave flashed before his eyes, unmarked but for a slab, with a young couple knelt before it, weeping.

     He shuddered.

     That such a thing had almost come to pass!

     But Javert, Javert—he had dragged him back from the edge, breathed the life back into him. He had preserved him so that he might see this day. Had promised him a future. Valjean had feared to put faith in one—such had been his defense for decades—but here it was, before him.

     For so long it had felt as though the door of life was slowly closing on him. But suddenly he perceived it opening wide.

     It was true; it was all true, everything Javert had said. Everything Valjean had not dared to believe in. And this was not the end of things, but the beginning. He had lived, and because he had lived, he now saw that which had been impossible become reality. His struggles had not been in vain, and now he reaped the benefit of what he’d sowed.

     Beside himself, he watched the buildings go by as the tears poured down his face.

     “Father!” he heard Cosette exclaim. “Are you well?”

     He leaned his head against the carriage door, his gaze not straying from the window. “Very,” said he.

     And for once it was not a lie.

***

     It was Saturday, and the station was filled with flowers.

     There must have been about forty bouquets, of all different shapes and colors, and they sat haphazardly on nearly every available surface in the room.

     Javert was mortified.

     “The note says they're from one M. Pontmercy,” the desk sergeant had told him. “Though I’m … not entirely sure why he insisted on signing it with ‘Baron’. I trust you know the fellow?”

     Javert had grimaced. “Unfortunately.”

     Now he stood in the center of the room, which should be neat and orderly in a Spartan sort of way, but which was instead now flooded with pointless, brightly colored clutter the like of which was supremely embarrassing.

     Leroux sidled up to him curiously, having just arrived on shift himself. “Good Lord,” he remarked, surveying the overabundance of flora, “What did you do?”

     “I accidentally earned the gratitude of someone that has money,” Javert muttered, pulling down the brim of his hat. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

     “What are you going to do with it all?”

     “What, me? Nothing. What use do you suppose I have for them? Bisset!” he called sharply over his shoulder, “Lefèvre!”

     The two young officers poked their heads around the corner.

     “Get rid of this mess,” said Javert, making a sweeping gesture towards the flowers. “This is a station house, not a florist’s. Take them to … oh, I don’t know; the hospital or something. They’re always in want of cheer and pleasant odors over there.”

     “Yes, sir.” Bisset looked to Lefèvre. “After lunch?”

     “After lunch.”

     Their gazes drifted over towards the bouquets ponderously. They glanced at one another.

     “And yes,” Javert sighed, running a hand over his face, “before you ask, you may hold onto some for your paramours. Or whatever it is that you call them.”

     The two officers grinned at each other deviously.

     “Leroux,” Javert added, turning to his right, “do you want any of these? There’s certainly enough to go around.”

     The man gave a start. “Me? Er …”

     “Surely you can think of someone that would appreciate them.”

     Leroux rubbed his chin pensively. “Well—hm. I suppose, now that you mention it …”

     “Good,” he said, shoving a few bouquets into his arms, “take them. And tell Mullins to bring some back for his wife. I’m off to inspect a bordel.”

     The two young officers in the doorway chuckled at him as he brushed past them.

     “What,” said Lefèvre, “and you’re not going to take any of these for the lovely ladies?”

     “Oh, shut up,” Javert shot back, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll make up for it later tonight.”

     “Ooh,” crooned Bisset, eyeing his companion mischievously.

     Lefèvre smacked him upside the head.

     Bisset only laughed.

***

     It was partially Javert’s fault for giving him so many, but when his shift was over, and he was on his way home, Leroux could not help himself from giving the flowers away.

     A girl of perhaps six, with threadbare clothes and wide eyes, was the first victim of his charity. She grinned when he held one out to her, and he could see that she was missing a tooth.

     The next recipient was a shopkeeper whom he knew, with wrinkles around her mouth which only deepened when she stopped sweeping and looked up at him.

     Then there was a beggar asleep by the mouth of an alleyway, with his tattered top hat upturned on the ground before him. Leroux had no money on him, so he put a flower in it.

     Things continued in this fashion for some time.

     A group of three handsomely dressed young women who were out reading a book together and eating their lunch under a tree.

     A couple of skinny gamin boys who looked to be brothers.

     A mother with a wailing infant in her arms, desperately trying to shush the poor thing.

     When he finally reached the tenement in which he lived, there were only five flowers left.

     In return for them, his mother placed a kiss upon his cheek.

***

     When Javert returned home after submitting his final report for the day, containing his assessment of the brothel and its workers, he discovered that his portress was out for the evening.

     Upon ascending the staircase and opening his apartment door, he found a small package on the floor at his feet, evidently left there to be found by him as soon as possible. Undoubtedly, the portress had put it there, since she was the only other person with a key to his apartment.

     That, or someone had come while she was away and picked both the locks.

     Illuminated by the sunlight pouring through his window, its oblong, conical shape betrayed its contents.

     He bent down and picked it up, solemnly unwrapping the delivery. A pleasant scent wafted up to meet him as he folded back the paper.

     It was a dozen yellow roses.

     Already suspecting who they were from, he opened the tiny vellum card that had been tucked between the flowers.

     ‘Thank you,’ was all it said. No signature.

     It would have been unnecessary anyway; he recognized Valjean’s handwriting, as he had a very good memory for such things. He traced the loops of the letters thoughtfully.

     He put the card in the breast pocket of his coat.

     Mid-afternoon saw a soft breeze tug playfully at the edges of the papers on his desk as he wrote up studies on case files. Beside them sat a bunch of roses in a cracked ceramic pitcher. The air was mind-numbingly warm, and every so often his eyes would stray from his work to the flowers, and he would gaze at them contemplatively, his chin in his hand.

***

     It took Valjean a while to settle in. There was this pervasive feeling of otherness, of not belonging, that he could not shake. He quite often felt himself questioning reality.

     Such opulence that surrounded him! Such fortune and happiness. Why was he allowed to be a part of it? He continually had to stifle his own declarations of doubt, because he knew that Cosette and Marius wanted him there.

     Many times, when he found himself questioning things and berating himself, Javert’s voice rose from the depths of his mind to politely remind him that he was an imbecile and ought not be so hard on himself, for it didn’t do anyone any good. When this happened Valjean felt like a child being scolded for continuing a bad habit behind his mother’s back. In this manner he waged war with himself, and gradually forced himself to be at ease.

     A lingering fear. A catch in his throat. A deep breath. A helpless smile. Such was the course of his internal struggles.

     But bit by bit the doubt in his heart was replaced with wonder, and the fear with gratitude. He allowed his children to escort him to plays, and to the Luxembourg, and the Opera House, though he kept the brim of his hat tugged low, for he was aware that Javert was not the only police officer in Paris.

     Still, after a number of weeks, even this fear began to quit him. That feeling of being watched, of being hunted, faded some.

     Who was there to remember him now, anyway? He was so changed. And he had even become, in a fashion, respectable. Children. A family. Money to spare. Good will and warmth all around. Who had reason to think ill of him? It was likely that his past was gone for good.

     For the first time in his life he started to feel something like relief.

     Things were so good, in fact, that he sometimes wondered if he had not really died from that illness earlier, and all this was actually his personal portion of Heaven. Certainly, wherever Cosette existed was, for him, a sort of paradise.

     And if there was one thing he did not deprive himself of, it was her affection. For it had only increased twofold since his brief absence from her life, and the girl showered him with kisses and pleasantries every day.

     He had grown great in her mind, it seemed, having risked his life to rescue her beloved, and then having languished away in solitude on her behalf (or, at least, he had thought at the time that it benefited her, though he now understood otherwise).

     Even so, she managed to keep herself from spilling all that she knew of his adventure to M. Gillenormand and his daughter, as it was clear that this was to be preferred by both father and husband. That perilous escapade was, as she coyly put it, their “little secret.”

     At night Marius and he, and sometimes M. Gillenormand, would open the parlor windows to let the air in and listen to Cosette play the piano.

     The girl made good on her promises that they would read to one another in the garden, just the two of them. Those slices of euphoria were worth everything to him. To lay on a blanket beneath a tree, with his hat over his eyes, and birdsong in his ears, and Cosette’s voice reading from a volume of poetry, was bliss. He wished for little further in life.

***

     Valjean did not forget that these things were owed to Javert. In the moments when he was alone, he thought of the man often. He had been given permission to write to him, and he did not take this for granted. Nor lightly.

     It was not on account of busyness that he put off doing it, but rather, he was still working up the courage to. He was more than a little daunted by the man.

     At times he would look out at the garden, or at the flickering flame of a candle, and grow thoughtful, and compose letters to him in his head.

     But none of them seemed quite right to Valjean. And when he actually considered putting pen to paper, his mind went blank, and he shied away from himself, turning pink and stuffing the writing supplies back into the drawer of the desk in embarrassment.

***

     Basque was the one responsible for the upkeep of the garden, as Valjean soon found out. It was he with whom he consulted on the matter of cultivating part of the garden for himself, which Cosette and Marius pressed for. The plots beside her strawberry patch were cleared, the flowers replanted elsewhere, and the land was sectioned off in four squares. Basque insisted on helping him till, though Valjean had asserted that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. It was then divided into neat rows of furrows, spaced according to which type of plant was to be put there.

     Marius and Cosette took Valjean to the market, where they perused the stands and argued, in the lightest sense of the word, for this or that, until which packets of seeds they would buy had been decided upon. There were two plots of squashes—all varying types—a plot of cucumbers, and another of melons.

     Marius, who was entirely ignorant of such proceedings, watched Cosette and him as they planted them. Valjean invited him to join them multiple times, but he just smiled awkwardly and shook his head.

     Valjean, for his part, was in bliss. It had been far too long since he had felt the sun on the back of his neck and the soil warm beneath his hands.

     The air hung low and heavy, lingering on their skin. It smelt sweetly of freshly turned earth, and sweat, and honeysuckle, which clung to the wall by the strawberry patch.

     The robin red-breast came out of its wall to observe their work, perching upon the handle of a shovel that had been stuck spade-down into the ground. It cocked its head at them and sat still for awhile before apparently deciding it was safe. Then it flitted about the furrows, its tiny brown feet running in quick bursts, its ear to the ground, its neck straining, until at last it would pluck a worm wriggling from the tilled soil and swallow it greedily. It even stopped and sang a few notes at Valjean, as though thanking him for the easy meal.

     One day he encountered the cat which Cosette was so afraid would eat her robin. The creature was aloof, and sat on top of the stone walls, spying on them apathetically. Valjean tried to coax it down, but it just stared at him.

     “Papa! Don’t encourage him,” Cosette complained.

     Valjean only chuckled softly.

     The cat reminded him of Javert.

***

     About two weeks into his new arrangements, Valjean exited the house just before sunrise. In all aspects, his appearance was that of someone who was being very careful not to get caught doing something they knew they weren’t supposed to be doing.

     Tugging down the brim of his cap to obscure his face, he headed towards the nearest hospital.

     As he had suspected it might, it had recently taken on a new attendant, and one that matched his description (which was quite particular).

     “Why, yes,” the young nurse had said in surprise. “She’s in right now; just started her shift. If monsieur will follow me …” Helpfully, she pointed him in the right direction, and he meandered down the corridor until he caught sight of his intended target.

     Quiet, he stood in the doorway until he was noticed.

     Gasping, the woman nearly dropped the wooden tray she was holding when she saw him. Her hands fumbled for a grip on it; her mouth fumbled for words. “Oh! I— Why, monsieur, you—”

     He gave her a lopsided smile as he doffed his cap. “Bonjour, Toussaint. It has been far too long.”

     “But—but what are you doing here?” the old woman asked. “And how did you know where to find me?”

     “You were working at a hospital when I met you, remember? So I thought …”

     She blinked. “Oh,” she said, staring at him for a moment before putting the tray down on a nearby table. Mechanically, she smoothed the apron of her dress and tucked a strand of grey hair back beneath her bonnet. “But … but why have you come? I mean no offense, monsieur, understand—I am happy you are here—but I did not expect that I would see you again.”

     He frowned. Let out a sigh. “I heard that they dismissed you.”

     She gave a small start. “Y-yes, well … mademoiselle had—I mean, Madame la Baronne—had more than enough servants at her disposal there, and …” She wrung her apron in her hands, her eyes avoiding his. “—there was no need to have an old nursemaid such as myself around anymore.”

     Valjean searched her face. “I heard that you had quarreled with the other servants.”

     She looked up at him in a fright, her face flushing. “That’s …”

     “And I also heard that they had been cruel towards you.”

     She met his eyes for a second, clutched her shoulder and looked away again in defeat.

     “That was very wrong of them,” he said, walking towards her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “And they had no right to expel you for any disruptions it caused, as you were not the one to blame.”

     “I did fight with them,” she admitted.

     “A struggle in self-defense is not a struggle which ought to be vilified,” he assured her. “It was they that were in the wrong, not you. You should not have had to pay for their intolerance. You should not have been made to leave.”

     She shrugged back at him sadly. “What is there to be done? It is over now. I have found a job here. The work is not too hard. The pay is enough.”

     “But are you happy?”

     Her brow knit. “I … Monsieur, what are you saying?”

     “I am saying that I am the one who hired you to begin with. And so, I am the only one who ought to have the authority to dismiss you.”

     “But you—”

     “But nothing. I gave your contract to Cosette. If she no longer expresses need of you, then it follows that you should return to me, not to the streets.”

     She stared at him, petrified. “Monsieur, are you offering me a job?”

     “I am offering you an invitation.” He extended his hand to her, knitting his brow. “Come home, Toussaint.”

     She covered her mouth. Her eyes were sparkling with moisture as she took his hand. “Oh, monsieur. I missed you so.”

***

     “What! You again?” M. Gillenormand stood at the entrance to the house, bewildered. “What are you doing back here?”

     “Monsieur wishes me to work for him,” said Toussaint.

     Gillenormand turned to Valjean, who stood beside her on the doorstep, resolutely composed. “Fauchelevent! What is the meaning of this?”

     “The meaning, sir, is that you have three servants at your disposal including the porter, and it would please me to have one of my own.”

     The old man blinked stupidly at him. “But they belong to you also,” he said. “Surely I thought that you understood that?”

     Valjean shrugged. “It is well. This changes nothing, however. I wish to employ her; she is employed.”

     “She has quarreled with the other servants,” Gillenormand protested.

     “I have had her for four years,” said Valjean.

     “But she—“ Here Gillenormand stopped himself. It was possible that he had been about to remark on her stutter, but had thought better of it. He fought for some argument. “She is a provincial.”

     “I am a provincial,” said Valjean.

     A look of horror played upon the old man’s face for the briefest of moments. “You! Ah, I did not— You have no accent.”

     “I have lost it.”

     Gillenormand stared at him. There was something of desperation in his watery eyes the like of one who is losing a battle and painfully aware of it. “She is very old,” he complained.

     Valjean fought to keep his composure. He succeeded spectacularly. “You are ninety-two,” he said.

     Gillenormand’s mouth tightened. “I do not think it wise.”

     “I am attached to her.”

     The old man bit the inside of his cheek. “Very well.”

***

     Needless to say, Nicolette and the porter were not happy with Valjean. Basque, on the other hand, could not have cared less.

     Cosette, while initially surprised and somewhat embarrassed, had eventually admitted that she too had found herself missing Toussaint (much to her own surprise), and had felt badly about her earlier dismissal.

     Mme. Gillenormand, who had hardly noticed the old nursemaid’s absence, remarked nothing on the matter of her return.

     And Marius was only impressed by Valjean’s brazenness.

     Toussaint herself, who was now protected by the ever-present threat of Valjean’s disapproval, was bothered very little by the other servants, and turned her nose up at them with a knowing look when she caught them talking behind her back.

***

     One morning, Marius received a small package. Within, he found a leather pocketbook that looked vaguely familiar. He knit his brow and opened it.

     On the very first page, stained with old blood and grime, and made nearly illegible by water damage, was written:

     ‘My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais.’

     Marius gave a terrible start. For a moment it felt as though his heart had stopped. He stood staring down at the handwriting, which was his own, in something of a horror.

     So long ago. And yet so near! He could remember writing it, remember the despair and utter hopelessness he’d felt. It seemed only yesterday. And also a thousand years past.

     For the briefest of moments, the sight of that note conjured up ghosts and shadows, flooding his senses. The scent of gunpowder. The cries of young men rallying themselves. The crack of gunshots, and the explosions of heavy artillery. A bloodied shirt made into a flag, flapping weakly in the breeze. Enjolras’ eyes, gleaming with resolve, his expression severe. A lopsided smile on Courfeyrac’s face, belaying what they were all aware of, and afraid to say. A churning in his gut. Dread.

     He swallowed nervously. A chill passed through him.

     From whom could the pocketbook have come? Where had it been? For what purpose had it reemerged in his life, bringing forth phantoms from the edge of his memory?

     His hand, trembling some, sought the slip of parchment it had been accompanied by. Bewildered, he unfolded it.

     “I believe this belongs to you,” it read. “You may surmise as to how I came into possession of it. I failed to give it back, as I believed you to be dead this long year (if I had not, I would have informed upon you. Count yourself lucky on that). I’m not sure why I kept the thing, to be honest. And I am not sure you will want it back, considering where it has been. But I return it to you now as a matter of course.”

     “Post Script: You do understand that if you keep signing your name as ‘Baron’ no one is going to take you seriously, right?”

     The note was signed only with “He whom you may remember as a spy that night.”

     It took Marius a moment to realize that it meant Javert, and another to realize that the man had probably signed it thusly so as to not incriminate himself on his failure to arrest him, and his continued silence about his unlawful acts.

     “Ah,” he breathed to himself. “So that was how they knew where to bring me.”

     After a moment, his brow furrowed in consternation. “But why did he keep it, I wonder?”

     How strange it was, that suddenly, after all this time, things from that night kept coming back to haunt him. First, the living specter of Javert. Then a scrap of the waistcoat he’d worn to the barricades. Now this.

     What was the meaning of it all? It seemed almost to him as though it must be some kind of omen. But of what, he could not say.

     Sighing, he inspected the pocketbook. Really, it was quite nearly ruined. The pages were all stuck together, and badly stained besides. Only the leather casing could be saved. And, after all of this, he was not sure that he wanted to use it again. But then again, he could not bring himself to dispose of it.

     Sighing, he could decide upon nothing more but to place it in the bottom drawer of his desk.

     Something to remember them by.

***

     Valjean was out with Cosette in the garden. They were kneeling in the dirt between the furrows of the cucumber patch, picking out newly sprouted weeds.

     “They are very persistent,” she remarked.

     “They are only trying to survive,” Valjean sighed, plucking another out of the soil and placing it in the basket at his side. “It is not their fault there is no place for them.”

     She laughed at him. “I had forgotten how cryptically you speak of plants.”

     That coaxed a smile from his lips. “Well, they have just as much a right to be here as anything else. The least we can do is try to understand them.”

     “They are little weeds, papa, and you are very silly. They are going in the compost heap. They do not need to be understood.”

     He made no reply to this. Merely, he murmured something about ‘potential’ under his breath, and eyed the next sprout his fingers closed around longer than was necessary before uprooting it.

     He was staring pensively at the contents of the basket when he heard a distant voice.

     “Monsieur,” called Nicolette from across the garden, “there is someone for you at the door.”

     Valjean looked over his shoulder curiously. “Oh? Very well, then.” He stood, panting. “I shall be there presently.” Brushing the dirt from his hands, he gulped down a few mouthfuls of water from the jug before heading out.

***

     It was about three weeks since Javert had encountered Marius on the street and set him straight. Ever since he had walked to Valjean’s flat one day only to find it no longer occupied, he had carried a vaguely smug and satisfactory sense of accomplishment in his breast.

     Never again would that foolhardy old convict be left to his own devices, to wallow in his loneliness and waste away in some ridiculous attempt at martyrdom. He was going to get what he deserved whether he liked it or not. His children would make sure of that.

     At present Javert was sitting at the desk in the station-house, writing up a report on one of his most recently completed investigations.

     It had to do with a string of arsons, which were always hard to investigate, as they left little discernible evidence in their wake, but which he nevertheless was certain were connected. The modus operandi was too similar for him to discredit it. A fire would be set in some nondescript building. The nearby citizens rushed to put it out, fearing for their own property to become a casualty of the blaze. Meanwhile, a local shop, devoid of its usual security, would be discreetly robbed.

     He had just finished surveying the smoldering remainders of one such blaze that very morning, and speaking with the local proprietors. There were a couple descriptions of people who had happened to be in the area at the time, but none of them were by any means conclusively the arsonist. Besides that, it was possible, and even highly likely, in his opinion, that this was an organized group, and not a single offender.

     When he was done with his report he was going to pen a note to his superiors about a possible trap that might be set to catch said group. It would involve a lot of public relations, and multiple officers, and setting things up so that one shop in particular at the center of the arsonist’s crime pattern would seem prime to burgle on a very specific day.

     Javert dipped his pen back into the inkwell and had just finished tapping the excess ink off the nib, about to put pen back to paper, when the sound of the station-house door opening and shutting jarred him from his work.

     It was not the commonplace creak and clatter of wood and latch that drew his attention, but rather a strange prickling on the back of his neck at the noise.

     He looked up from the desk and froze.

     There, between two officers leading him like a beast of burden, was a horrifyingly familiar figure.

     The shocks of curly, pure white hair that obscured his downcast face, and the barely perceptible, limping gait that favored the man’s right leg, were not to be mistaken.

     Javert stared open-mouthed, his eyes widening. Forgotten, the nib of his pen drooped and formed a dark, spreading stain on his report.

     Of all the times he had unwittingly come across this man, none of them compared to the terrible shock it caused Javert to find him here.

     Clapped in irons, the man was forced forwards by the two officers—one pulling him by the front of his shirt and the other tightly gripping the short chain that ran between his manacles.

     Javert could only just make out his expression in the dim light of the gas lamps: baffled, lost, eyes unfocused but just a little too large, staring off at nothing. The man’s face could almost be mistaken as blank—but Javert had seen that look worn by too many criminals and poor, pathetic wretches as they were taken into custody to be fooled.

     It was the look of someone who had just lost everything, and stood uncomprehendingly in the rubble, unable to understand how this could have come about.

     Slowly, the man’s head turned, his face rose, his pace slowed to a standstill.

     Javert’s blood froze in his veins as Valjean met his gaze. The man’s glassy eyes cleared for a moment in recognition, and a million other emotions that Javert tried and failed to put a name to: shame, fear, pain, dread, bewilderment. None of these seemed to encompass the depth of expression in the man’s eyes as they fell upon him.

     For a moment everything seemed to stop, and all that existed in the entire world were they two, fixed upon each other in mutual stupefaction.

     And then the younger of the two officers muttered something derogatory under his breath and delivered a kick to the back of his knee, sending him stumbling forward.

     Valjean caught his balance just as the elder yanked him onwards.

     Hanging his head once more and letting his face wilt back into shadow, he fell into step between them and shambled away.

     Javert sat immobile, watching them until they disappeared. He did not realize how strange he must have appeared until a hesitant voice caught him off guard, making him start involuntarily.

     “Inspector?”

     He whipped his head around to find Leroux peering at him curiously. There was something of concern in his features.

     The boy cocked his head. “Are you—?”

     “I’m fine,” he snapped, straightening in his seat.

     “Sorry. It’s just, you looked like you’d seen a ghost!”

     “It’s nothing,” he said vehemently, clearing his throat and forcing his gaze back in the direction of his paperwork. He stared unthinking at it until Leroux walked away.

     Face its usual stern mask, jaw set tight, only his eyes betrayed him.

     The inkblot on his report sucked him in like a black abyss.

     He felt a chill in the depths of his soul.

***

 Footnotes:

Chapter Text

“Are God and Nature then at strife,

That Nature lends such evil dreams?

So careful of the type she seems,

So careless of the single life.”

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

***

     Valjean had stared at the two unfamiliar men that stood on the doorstep.

     “Monsieur,” said the elder, a strangely careful tone in his voice, “we are with the police.”

     The blood froze in his veins. Time seemed to slow, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He smiled weakly at them. “Did … did Javert send you?”

     They gave no answer. Instead, the younger said, “Monsieur, you must forgive our impertinence—it shall only last a moment—but … we are going to need you to roll up your sleeve.”

     He went white, and found his throat had gone dry. “May I ask as to why?”

     “We merely need to verify something. It pertains to a case we are working on. We shall be out of your way shortly.”

     Valjean bent his head. “I … I see.” Hand trembling, he fumbled at the button of his right cuff.

     “No, monsieur.” There was a certain gravity in the officer’s voice. “The other one.”

     Valjean went still, his arms falling to his side again. A shadow had fallen over his face.

     Slowly, he undid the cuff and drew back his shirtsleeve to reveal the nasty, oblong burn on the inside of his forearm. He could not bring himself to look up at the two men.

     “Monsieur,” he heard the elder officer ask, “How long have you resided in Paris?”

     Valjean’s shoulders sank; his eyes no longer saw. A chasm opened up in his chest.

     “Take me,” breathed. “Only, do it discreetly.”

***

     “Who was that man you brought in just now?” Javert asked the younger officer when he’d returned, doing his best to feign indifference.

     “Oh, that old fellow! The scoundrel, he was an escaped convict by the name of Jean Valjean, hiding under a false identity! Sentenced to life, he was—for theft and breaking parole—when he broke out. It’s not the first time he’s done so, either. Apparently he managed to escape Toulon five times during earlier convictions.”

     “And how was he apprehended?”

     “Seems someone recognized him on the street.”

     He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know who it was?”

     “No, they sent an anonymous tip to the station house by way of post. But they had newspaper clippings to defend their account, and we did a thorough background check of the man with those who knew him. They indeed could not account for him being in the city for much longer than a decade. The first damnation was the burn on the inside of his arm; we were told that he would have one. Besides that, he bears all the brands of a convict for life, and the scars of a galley-slave. There is no question as to his identity, Inspector; it is cut and dry. Oh! That such a happy thing hath occurred by chance. It was a stroke of luck.”

     “Yes,” he forced himself to say, “certainly.”

     Newspaper clippings? he thought dumbly as the man left. But who would have held onto such things for so long? Whoever had turned him in to the police had been waiting a long time to do it. That, or they had access to a number of resources and were very, very determined.

     A former criminal that had known him from his days in Toulon, perhaps? It would explain why they didn’t come forth themselves to ask for a reward. But what would they have to gain by it, then? Revenge? But for what?

     He clutched his head, his thoughts buzzing, his blood boiling.

     A burn on his arm? But he hadn’t had one in Toulon. This was something more recent. Not something another galley slave would have known. Unless it was from his second imprisonment, which was possible. But still, why would a fellow convict turn him in? It didn’t feel right. But who else would have recognized him as a criminal, as Jean Valjean? And why did they not come forward to claim credit for his capture?

     Who could have done this? Who, who, who?

     He had to remind himself that he was still in the police station, and people could be watching him.

     No one could know that he knew the man. Why, Valjean had been the entire reason he’d been transferred to Paris! That was over a decade ago, and people had forgotten his original purpose for being there, but still. If someone caught wind that he’d known about his presence in the city, and done nothing … God forbid, if someone knew the intimacy they’d had! He would be thrown out of the police, cashiered, expelled! Not only that, but they would probably charge him with something—‘willful neglect of duty’ or ‘aiding and abetting’ or some such. He would likely be spending some time in prison himself.

     But nobody knew about that. Nobody knew of the nights they had spent together. And thank god, because Javert knew how it would look; he knew exactly how it would look, and the thought of it horrified him.

     But he was safe in that regard. For now.

     Unless …

     No. He shook his head. There was no way anyone could know. The only person in the whole wide world who had any idea of their relationship was Valjean. And Valjean would keep his silence; keep their secret. It pained Javert to realize it, but he knew it was true the instant the thought had crossed his brain. He knew it just as surely as Valjean had not called out for him as he’d passed.

     No, Javert thought. He would not get in trouble for this. Because nobody knew, and no one ever would.

     Valjean …

     “Sergeant,” he heard himself say, in a tone that was coarse and stern and not unlike his own, but somehow thin and hollow.

     The man looked up from his desk. “Inspector?”

     “I am going out. See to it that you pass along the description for that arson case to the next man on shift. If the commissaire comes asking, tell him he will have his report by tomorrow.”

     “Very well.”

     With this, Javert tugged the brim of his hat down over his eyes and promptly quit the station-house.

***

     The waters held a gravity Javert had not felt in almost a year.

     He removed his hat and placed it on the parapet. He did not know why. It was the middle of the day.

     He stared numbly out at the river’s surface: so calm, now—but, like him, raging underneath.

     Once, barely more than a year ago, at this very spot, he had almost drowned himself in indecision. He had thought—he had hoped—that the world had forgotten that.

     It had not.

     And, laughing, it had woken him from his dream and spat him back out at precisely the same place.

     He stood there in silent agony, grinding his teeth. Trembling, he ran a hand through his hair, clutching at the greying roots.

     Voices whispered in the back of his mind, sinister and jeering. They tumbled over each other like currents of a stream.

     Did you think

     you could escape?

     Did you think

     you really wouldn't

     have to choose?

     Did you really think—

You damn coward.

     You don’t have the power.

He's where he belongs.

     You know that’s a lie!

You can't do anything.

—to a second offender.   

     —worth to you?

—to go against the grain—  

     What would you do?

—the matter into court.

—why you’re even alive!  

     They’ll cast you out.

—do any good.

—into the river.  

     Nothing you do will ever—

—the way of things.

     You turned your back.

—would be admitting—

—you let him die?  

     You won’t succeed.

—throw you away.

—could go on anyway.  

     He’s just a criminal.

—forsake yourself for—

—better than that!  

—really pretend?

—his only chance.  

     You did before.

—avoid making a mistake!

—his friend?  

     —will drag you down.

—can’t just stand by while they—

     You think he deserves this?

—how the world works.

—incapable of change.  

     You told yourself—

Was it a lie?  

(You know it was.)

     I MADE MY CHOICE

—the only way to—  

You traitor.

—would be impossible!  

—a fork in the path.  

     You have to choose.

He means nothing!

—be so cold?  

     You have to try.

—would end your life!

—be dead anyway.  

     You can’t do anything!

—don’t know that!  

     Monsieur le Préfet—

—would give a damn?

     He doesn’t know.

—you kicked out.  

     You can’t be sure.

—pathetic.

—will make things worse.  

     Your debt is paid!

—boiled down to just—?  

‘Have you not already made your decision?’

     You Pilate.

You can’t even—

     You miserable little—

—live with yourself if you—

—of a gypsy?  

—the second you try to—

     You’re nothing to them!

—even care what you have to say.

—how far you’ve fallen.  

     Just walk away.

—the lowest scum of the earth.  

—know he doesn’t deserve—

—matter what you think?  

     If he hadn’t set you free …

—any other man, you wouldn’t care.

—makes him so special?  

     He’s not hurting anyone!

—convince them of that?

     Does it even matter?

—in their good graces.  

They never cared about you.

     —to play the game.

—already lost.  

—can wash your hands of—

—never sleep.  

—have come to this eventually.

     You can’t just let them—

—to death!

     If you just—

You simpering idiot.

     Do you really think—

—going to kill him!  

It’s all your fault.

     —were never capable—

—in the first place.  

—if he dies—

     —the world worth living—

—to kill yourself?

—even do that right, you coward.  

—be irreproachable?

—be counting on you.  

     —has no one else!

—your duty to—  

You’re nothing.

—think anyone will even care what you have to—

     Shut up! he silently screamed.

     And with that he went rigid, the space of his mind becoming once more a black void. His expression slackened; his arms fell to his sides, shoulders sagging.

     The familiar rattle of a door opening and closing sounded across the quay, and a chill traced up his spine. The breath stopped short in his chest.

     He did not need to look up to know what it was: a group of officers exiting the station-house and leading Valjean across the Pont au Change to a holding cell in the belly of the Conciergerie on the opposite side of the river.

     He shuddered at the prickling thought that someone should be looking at him, and could not bring himself to lift his head, remaining instead hidden beneath the sheltering strands of hair that had escaped their queue in his fretting and formed a black veil.

     He stood rooted to the spot, a heavy feeling in his stomach like a sinking stone. His face burned.

     Footsteps sounded on the bridge.

     The sense that he was being watched grew too much to abide by. Fitful, his hand shaking, he reached out for his hat on the parapet and tugged it down on his head, its forgiving shadow obscuring his eyes.

     And then, keenly aware of what he was doing with an acute, stabbing pain, he squared his shoulders, turned, and walked away.

***

     The Conciergerie had admitted its first prisoners in the year 1391, but the original building’s structure dated all the way back to the tenth century, where it once served as a Merovingian palace. Three towers still remained from this time—thick, looming, and devoid of all decoration—and from these, its feudal origins were clear.

     The rest of the building had long since been made into a beautiful feat of modern architecture befitting the governance that took place there. However, deep beneath those lavish halls—inside the ancient, cramped prison cells—its history of brutality stood plain.

     Valjean stared up at the ceiling from where he lay on the hard wooden bench seat, nothing more than a thick plank secured against the back of the cell. Besides the covered wooden bucket and the water-jug in the corner, it was the only thing within. The floor was strewn with straw. Occasionally, a rat could be seen scampering along the walls. The air, which was foul, smelt of urine.

     The interior belly of the Conciergerie was in a state of disrepair, and in increasingly prevalent need of restoration work. Sections of stone and mortar had begun to crumble, and its plaster was cracking and falling away. Yet, these unappealing details were cosmetic only, and were therefore left to compound. In this way, the interior of the cells resembled the interior of their occupants: decrepit, ugly, fallen into deterioration in their abandonment, their issues ignored by the majority until they became so grossly flawed that they could no longer operate as the world had intended.

     It was raining outside, and the water splashed onto the floor in a little puddle by the window, left uncovered in the summer and providing an entrance for the elements. The effects of this could be seen in the many years' worth of calcium and lime deposits left on the wall beneath the window, tinged reddish brown by the rust from the fat iron bars.

     It gave one the impression that the jail itself was bleeding, corruption and the filth of the soul seeping from every pore.

     The ceiling too had its fair share of water damage, and every now and again a droplet welled from its stained and fractured surface and fell to hit Jean Valjean squarely on the brow. He took no notice of this. He flinched each time, but this was merely an involuntary, instinctive reaction to the brief jolt of cold contact. It did not occur to him that he should move himself from where he was in order to prevent his further discomfort and dampening.

     He was, as it were, lost in his own mind, oblivious to all around him. Yet at the same time he remained acutely aware of his surroundings and their horrible implications.

     This sort of scenery and situation was so agonizingly familiar to him that he felt almost at home, though it was not a home which he had ever yearned to return to.

     The man had become numb.

     All of this had happened before, and all of this was happening again, and he felt as though he should not be surprised by it. Perhaps he had been a fool for ever believing he could’ve escaped the crushing of that great and indifferent wheel which we call society.

     It might even have been better, he mused despondently, if he had never been issued his yellow papers and been allowed back into the world once more. Because then he would not have been made soft, vulnerable, and he would not have been allowed to discover love and come into possession of things he cherished.

     It would be easier to bear this torment now had he remained rigid, had his heart remained a stone. But it had been made flesh long ago, by a Bishop and a little girl, and now it broke and broke and kept on breaking at the thought of all that he was losing.

     If only that woman had not told him to knock on the Bishop’s door! If only he’d been spared the ability to feel this kind of pain. If only he had stayed a hardened criminal for all his life, and never learned to feel anything but hatred and contempt for those around him. It would have been so much simpler. But he could not return to that callous impassiveness now, could no longer protect himself beneath its shield of apathy and spite. He was only filled with a great sadness, so great that it overwhelmed him and muted all his senses.

     He refused what food was given to him. He was barely aware of its existence, or why he should desire to consume it. He would have ignored the water, too, but thirst can drive an already mad man insane, and so he forced himself to take a few sips here and there.

     To the guards and other persons in the jail he spoke no word. Not a single cry did he give, not a single plea did he utter. Deep in his bones he felt that humanity and even possibly God Himself had abandoned him. To reach out to them, to beg for mercy and understanding, would be futile. No tears passed down his face. Even the act of lamentation was forgotten, for it served him no purpose or benefit. Already it had been proven to him long ago that his sobs would coax no sympathy from the world.

     And so he lay unmoving in utter despair, dumb and mute, the fires of his soul turned to ash. There was no light in his eyes, no will to live, and they stared out without focus, his face expressionless.

     He had been broken.

***

     The only reason Javert had slept was that he had, after wandering trance-like through the city for most of the evening, succumbed to exhaustion. He paid a cab to take him home only because he knew that should he fall asleep in the streets, he would robbed, or worse.

     He fell upon his bed still fully clothed, in something less like sleeping and more like fainting, and lay there for he knew not how long until the sunlight woke him. And then he lay there for longer, his head empty of thought.

     When he finally did rise, it was only to put on his coat and hat and exit the apartment once more, his head down and his hands folded behind his back as his legs carried him to where he knew not.

***

     Jean Valjean sat, as he had for hours, on the wooden bench, his head in his hands. He had not moved, he had not spoken, and he did not intend to. Even his thoughts, once tumultuous and distraught, had fallen silent. If he could have shriveled up until he was nothing, until he had blinked out of existence, he would have done it, and done it gladly. But the only escape he was capable of anymore was the blotting out of everything around him.

     In the palms of his hands, there was nothing in the world at all. Not Cosette. Not Javert. Not himself. Nothing at all that could hurt him. Only darkness.

     A faint murmur ran through the air.

     Against his will, his senses stirred. He could hear distant footsteps echoing down the corridor.

     From the other cells, detainees suddenly came alive, chattering amongst themselves.

     “Well, hullo hullo,” one called out.

     Someone let out a wolf whistle.

     “Say, mam’selle,” said another, “what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

     Valjean froze, his eyes opening wide beneath his hands.

     No. No, please; don’t let it be—

     “He’s in that one there, madame.”

     No.

     “Papa?”

     A shudder ran through him. At the sound of his daughter’s voice, he felt as though the weight of an entire ocean had crushed him. He seized up on the bench, his muscles locking in place.

     You shouldn’t be here, he wanted to say. But the words would not pass his lips.

     “Papa!” Cosette said. There was heartbreak and a fearful desperation on her lips. “Oh, papa, it’s not true what they say, is it? They’re saying terrible things about you—that you are a thief, a criminal. It’s a mistake, isn’t it? It is only someone who looks like you. Right?”

     Jean Valjean was silent. He could not bring himself to look at her. He could not bring himself to speak.

     “Papa?” Her voice wavered. “Tell me it’s not true. Papa, please! Will you not defend yourself?”

     If Valjean had been able to defend himself, he would not be here right now. But the moment those two officers had shown up on his doorstep, all defenses had crumbled to dust beneath his feet. He had dreaded this day for too long, and the hopelessness of the situation paralyzed him. There was nothing on earth he could do.

     “Papa …” There was a long pause. The atmosphere seemed to shift, somehow. “Is this … why you would never speak of your past? Why we had to change houses so often? Because you were …”

     His silence was assent enough.

     “Will you not look at me?” she pleaded.

     He could not.

     The girl’s volume dropped to a hush. “Then, all this time …”

     There was no worse shame in this world than what Valjean felt at the tone of his daughter’s voice at that moment—at the idea of what she must be feeling, must be conceiving of him. Of them.

     All of a sudden her voice pierced the silence, cracking and strong and despairing all at once. “It doesn’t matter!” she exclaimed. “I don’t care what they say about you; I don’t care what you did! I know the kind of man you are. You took me in. You were good to me when no one else was. You have loved me all of my life, and I you. I forgive you, father! I forgive you.”

     There are some things the soul is incapable of defending against, and unexpected forgiveness is one of them. The words that Cosette had just spoken split a crack through the walls of his heart.

     He looked up at her, the hands falling from his face to reveal a torrent of tears, his expression the picture of love, and of guilt, and of agony.

     The brief glimpse of her aspect was too much to bear, and like a man blinded by sudden light, he had to cover his eyes for a moment before resuming his gaze.

     “Cosette,” he breathed, his voice broken. “Cosette.” His hand clamped over his mouth as though to stifle a cry.

     Slowly, he rose to his feet from the bench and approached her, arms reaching out preemptively before he drew her to him.

     She reached through the bars also and embraced him, and they held each other tighly, sobbing openly.

     “Hey!” exclaimed the guard that had escorted her, who now stood a fair distance away, “No physical contact!”

     Cosette shot him a teary-eyed glare that would have frozen over the fires of Hell.

     The man gave a start. He cleared his throat, turning red and quickly averting his eyes. “It … it’s against regulations. Madame.”

     She only stared harshly at him until his gaze shot to the ceiling, the corners of his mouth drawn tightly down under the waxed curls of his mustache.

     Valjean stepped back a little and clasped her hands in his, his eyes trailing the floor. He squeezed them shut for a moment and collected his thoughts.

     He was not ignorant of the fact that this might be the last time he would ever see her, and he steeled himself in preparation for what he knew that he must tell her.

     Swallowing, he squeezed her hand. Covered his eyes. And then a part of him had fled, and his frame no longer shook, and he found himself capable of speech.

     “Cosette,” he said, reaching through the bars of the cell and grasping her shoulders, “listen to me. Your mother’s name was Fantine. She loved you very much. And she suffered greatly, trying to provide for you. She would be proud of the woman you’ve become. I want you to remember that, always.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And I … I am proud of you, too. So, so proud.”

     Here the words began to catch in his throat. “Cosette,” he said, bowing his head. “You have been the light of my life these many years. If there was one good thing I can say that I did upon this earth, it was helping you.” Again he raised his eyes to meet hers. “And you, in turn—you helped me. In ways you cannot even understand.” He shook his head, fresh tears springing to his eyes. They coursed hot down his cheeks. “Oh, God. I was so alone before you came to me. I did not even know what it was to love. But you taught me how, and for that I will be forever grateful. I have made many mistakes in my life, but you were never one of them.”

     “I regret only that I could not have spent more time with you,” he said remorsefully, “and that I could not have been the sort of father you deserved. Cosette.” He cupped her face in his hands. “My child. I’m so sorry. Fate has deigned that I must go away, now. That I must leave you. I wish it were not so. But I have not the power to fight it. May you be happy, despite my absence. Do not weep for me; I cannot bear to see thee cry. Only, think of me a little, sometimes, now and then. Not too long.”

     “You must remember to look for the good things in life. The world is not all bad. You are proof enough of that.” He shook his head. “Whatever happens to me, you mustn’t be afraid. Whatever they decide, remember that it is just, and it has been a long time forthcoming. One can only run from their judgment for so long. I am not resentful of it. You have made me a very happy man, and the light of your presence was a better gift than I deserved. These past years have been the best of my life. It is a nice thing to part with.”

     He swallowed back a sob. “Now you must promise me something. You and Marius, and your future children—you must remember to love one another, and be kind to those you meet. There is already too much suffering on this earth. We must all do our part to lessen it some. We are all each other has, in the end. However the world mistreats you, you must always treat it kindly in return.”

     “Secondly, you must not let circumstance and misfortune harden your heart. If you are in need of help, you must swallow your pride and ask for it, however small a thing it may be. Pride has been the ruin of many men, including myself. Do not let it build up walls around your soul. It will only bring you ill. Will you promise me this?”

     Grieved beyond words, the girl could only nod, her face contorted in pain.

     “Now—now do me one last favor, Cosette.”

     “Anything.”

     “You must leave this place.”

     “What? No; I ca—I can’t.”

     “You must.”

     “No!” She shook her head. “I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you down here all alone. This is a dreadful place; the least I can do is …”

     Heartbroken, Valjean looked past her and locked eyes with the guard, a beseeching expression on his face. “Sir.”

     The man approached them and grasped Cosette’s arm. “Madame. If you will—”

     She turned to the guard with a start, jerking her arm back. “No!” she cried. “Don’t touch me.”

     “Madame, I don’t mean any harm. I just—”

     “You don’t understand. You don’t even care! You’re all just a bunch of—of heartless brutes!”

     “It is regrettable,” he said, reaching again for her arm, “but you cannot stay down here, mada—”

     “By what order?” she demanded, jerking away again, “By what law? I shall remain.”

     “You cannot. I am sorry.”

     “No you’re not!” She fought his hold on her. “Don’t lie to me. Give me one good reason I can’t—”

     “I— Madame, if you would just—”

     “You don’t have the right to simply—”

     “I don’t want to use force on you mada—”

     “—me one good reason to—”

     “—would just—”

     “I refu—”

     “He doesn’t want you here!” he shouted, grabbing her wrist and gripping it tightly. He looked apologetic, his voice softening again. “He doesn’t want you here, madame.”

     Cosette froze at this, staring at him with wide eyes. Slowly, she turned her head to look back at Valjean.

     Valjean turned his face from her, trembling with guilt, his face once more in shadow.

     The guard pulled her to her feet.

     She was still staring at Valjean as he led her away, her steps numb and clumsy, like she was walking barefoot on ice.

     When she had passed out of the line of his sight, the muscles in Jean Valjean’s thighs trembled, and his legs gave way beneath him. He dropped to his knees, his palms spread out on the floor, his head hung. “Cosette,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Cosette.” He put his face in his hands and sobbed. “Oh, God. Cosette. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry! My child …”

     For nearly an hour, he wept.

     Eventually, he had no more tears to cry, and he fell silent once more. The light which had pierced through that veil had departed. His soul returned to gloom.

***

     Javert approached the cell with some trepidation.

     He stopped a number of yards from its door, choosing to peer through its bars at an angle so as not to be seen.

     There, sitting slouched over on the bench seat against the far wall of the cell, his face in his hands, was the lone figure of Jean Valjean.

     His bright white shocks of hair stood out in stark contrast to the drab and dark setting.

     He looked almost as though he was weeping, but he gave no sound or indication of it, his breathing even as he sat motionless, a statue.

     Javert stared at him solemnly, studying his demeanor.

     Valjean was an escaped convict who’d broken his parole and committed multiple thefts. By all accounts, a cell was where he belonged.

     And yet Javert could not deny how horribly out of place the man seemed in one.

     He did not belong in a jail cell, or a salle, or toiling in chains on the deck of a battered ship. Javert sensed this poignantly.

     Valjean did not belong here. This is what he felt. What he knew, however, was that the law said Valjean deserved all this—that his punishment was just. And he, Javert, was a slave to the law.

     Technically, it was not he who had put Valjean in here. There had been no betrayal on his part; he had not become a Judas. Was this not what had stayed his hand earlier? The refusal to allow himself to commit a betrayal? And had he not suffered because of this? Had he not nearly been destroyed because of this, the inconceivable choice between upholding two different sorts of justice?

     Should he not be relieved at this, the resolution of his original dilemma? Should not a burden be lifted from his chest?

     A criminal had been put behind bars. On any other occasion, this would be cause for celebration, for him to feel pleased with himself, for him to take a pinch of snuff and finish the day with a sense of righteousness and accomplishment. Under any other circumstances, he would be happy to see a convict put once more in their place.

     And yet.

     There was, within his breast, an overarching feeling of wrongness, of fallacy and injustice. It permeated everything around him. Again, as at the Seine, his doubts consumed him in conflict—confusion, fear and powerlessness all roiling about in his gut. And yet he remained perfectly calm on his exterior, no sign of turmoil in his countenance even as a tempest raged within him.

     He did not call out to Valjean, gave no hint of his presence there. He did not wish to. For it was not Valjean he had come to have a discussion with, but himself.

     Javert urged himself to logical thought.

     The man was a criminal. That he had committed wrongs against the people of France could not be denied. It may have been long ago, but that changed nothing; the warrants were still outstanding. He broke out of prison. He was given a sentence and he did not serve it. The state demanded justice.

     Legally, there was nothing wrong with this. There was nothing he could argue for there being wrong with this. Objectively, anyway.

     If some faceless old convict had been behind those bars, a stranger to him, he would not have given a second thought to their situation, and he told himself this, and he knew it to be true.

     But this was not just some shadow among shadows, some nameless, unfortunate wretch, but Jean Valjean. And the fact that it was Jean Valjean gave him pause. Gave him more than pause. Stopped him dead in his tracks.

     Yet, again, the legal tiger in him roared. ‘This is right,’ it insisted, ‘this is just. You are biased, you are selfish, and you are wrong. This man earned his place in society, and did it willfully. He deserves whatever punishment they deem fit.’

     Only now there was a detachment between himself and this part of him. He was no longer the tiger, but its handler. The beast wanted one thing; the man wanted another. They fought bitterly.

     ‘He is a malefactor,’ said the one. ‘He is a saint,’ said the other.

     ‘We must be rational,’ they both agreed. But they disagreed on the rationale.

     For a moment, man submitted to beast, overpowered and outmatched.

     Come, he told himself, you owe him nothing! He is a criminal. His misdeeds are his own. You commit no fault here by inaction; it is your right. Duty does not call on you for more.

     Here he reviewed the facts.

     In saving his life, Valjean had put him in a bind of debt.

     Javert had repaid this by letting him go instead of arresting him.

     In pulling him from the river, and nursing him back to health—even if was not something Javert had wanted him to do—Valjean had reinstated that debt.

     Javert had repaid it by dragging him off the street and nursing him in turn.

     Then, Valjean had paid three months of his rent for him.

     This Javert settled by calling his children’s attention to his goodliness.

     Each debt he had accrued, Javert had paid. He reminded himself of this.

     There was no debt.

     There was no debt.

     And yet.

     And yet!

     He felt that something more was owed of him. He knew not what, or why, but he felt the chains of obligation weighing on his soul.

     Again, he felt a burning need for himself to take some action, to alter what was occurring. And again he knew the absolute lack of societal obligation on his part to do so.

     He was a police officer. This man was a known convict who had to his name irrefutable charges of crime. Both of them were, according to the law, the government and the people of France herself, exactly where they ought to be in this very moment.

     But nothing about this situation brought Javert even the slightest sense of satisfaction. Indeed, the whole of his being revolted at it, reviled and recoiled. The sight of Valjean in a cell caused him infinite disquiet.

     Why, why, why?

     ‘You know why,’ echoed the man’s voice.

     And somewhere, deep down in the depths of his soul, he did.

     It was that same, unknowable, unnamable thing that had had caused him to pick Valjean up off the street and carry him home, to leave Valjean at his house instead of arresting him. The same thing which had driven Valjean to save his life—once at the barricade, twice at the river.

     What was that something? He could not say. But he felt its pull on him, stronger than that of the law, and he sensed it was some sort of duty, in and of itself. A duty that overrode all other duties. That turned its cheek to adversity. A duty whose call he could not help but heed.

     He could not in good conscience allow things to continue in this manner. This had become clear to him. He could not sit idly by, a mere spectator as the matter unfolded before his eyes. To do so would be to deny the significance of everything he had come to understand about himself and the world in the past year.

     Would that not in itself be an act of betrayal?

     No, he had to do something. He may have sworn his life to the law, but he had come to see it differently of late, and he felt that in this instance, its justice was not just.

     Gisquet’s words came rushing back to him. About reexamining oneself and the law, about the merits and even necessity of doubt. About reform, and how it came about, and how it was sometimes right to question things which were regarded as absolutes, and thereby affect change upon them. About how mankind could never progress without these little revolutions.

     It was in that moment that he knew, his occupation be damned, exactly what he had to do.

     Wordlessly, he bowed his head to no one and turned to exit the jail in the same manner in which he’d arrived.

***

     Cosette strode through the door, her face downcast, her demeanor unsettlingly cool. She closed it behind her, pausing for a moment at the threshold. “I have been to the jail-house,” she said.

     Marius, having heard her enter, and having been worried at her absence, had been in the process of rising from the armchair, but this stopped him cold. He gaped at her in horror. “You didn’t!”

     “I did.”

     He fell back into his seat as though all strength had suddenly deserted him, staring off at nothing. “Good God.”

     Valjean’s words came back to him, the day he had denounced himself.

     ‘Cosette!’ he’d exclaimed. ‘—oh yes, it is true, you are going to tell Cosette about this. That is right. Stay, I had not thought of that. One has the strength for one thing, but not for another. Sir, I conjure you, I entreat now, sir, give me your most sacred word of honor, that you will not tell her.’

     ‘She saw the chain-gang pass by one day. Oh! My God!’

     The man had wept silently at the thought of it. ‘Would that I could die,’ he’d breathed.

     Marius shuddered.

     That Cosette should have found out in such a way, that she should have gone to him in the midst of his despair—in the jail house no less!—and confronted him about his past …

     “It will have destroyed him,” he murmured.

***

     Javert approached the archive’s counter with an air of stoic urgency.

     The clerk looked up at him expectantly.

     “I need every file you have on Jean Valjean of Faverolles.”

***

Chapter Text

“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

***

     Cosette approached her husband like a specter, floating noiselessly across the floor until she loomed behind him in his chair. “It was not politics that made you push him away. Was it.”

     Marius shivered at the sound of those words. So light in pitch, yet so damning. “No,” he breathed, bowing his head, “it wasn’t.” He put his face in his hands, and the room fell silent.

     “Did he tell you who he was?”

     “Yes.”

     “Why?”

     “Because he felt I had a right to know.”

     “You,” she repeated, a tone of incredulity seeping into her voice. “He felt that you had a right to know.”

     Marius parted his fingers and looked up at her with one fearful eye.

     She stood rigid, like a beautiful statue carved from ice. “You, who are his son-in-law of but a few months—”

     “A day,” he could not help correcting her.

     “What?”

     “We were only married for a day when he told me.”

     She stared at him, unblinking.

     He felt that he had just fanned an ember, and waited for himself to be burned.

     “A day. He felt you had a right to his past after a single day, when I, who was his daughter, who had shared his life for nearly a decade, did not! Do I not have a right to know anything, then? Am I just some—some pretty bauble in a fancy dress, to be fawned over and put on display? Have I no brains? Have I no feelings? Am I not a real person to you?”

     “He was trying to protect you, Cosette!” Marius burst, tears welling in his eyes.

     “I had a right to know! More than anyone, I had a right to know.” Her voice was beginning to wobble now, like some top that had come to the end of its revolutions. “Especially more than you!”

     “I know that!” Marius shook his head, sitting up defiantly in his chair. “But he was afraid. He did not want to burden you with the darkness of his past. You were a little girl when he came to you; you were his child. You didn’t ask to have the galleys looming over your head! To bear such a terrible secret. Should he have allowed you to lay awake at night in fear that one day he would be stolen from you, and you would be all alone again? How could he have done that to you? He was scared that you would hate him, or be afraid of him.”

     “I would never hate him!” She protested, balling her fists.

     “He said you saw a chain-gang pass by one day. Did it not frighten you?”

     She drew back some at that, biting her lip and knitting her brow.

     “He thought you would be horrified to find out what he was. That you would no longer love him. Good God, Cosette, he was terrified of it. He wept, when he thought that I should tell you! It was a pitiful sight. He begged me to never reveal it to you, to give him my word. How could I refuse him that? He said—he said he would rather die than you ever find out. Please—Cosette, mon amour—please understand. You are the most precious thing in the world to him. To both of us. We only wanted you to feel safe.”

     The girl’s frown tightened. Her lip began to tremble. A stunted breath escaped her throat, the precursor to a sob. “Oh, Marius,” she said, her voice breaking, “Marius.”

     He rushed to her side as she crumpled to the floor, putting his arms around her.

     “I’m so afraid, Marius. I’m so afraid! I can’t lose him again.”

     “I know.” He squeezed her to his chest, as though he could somehow protect her from the maelstrom that threatened to devour both their lives.

     “I’ve been a terrible daughter,” she sobbed. The tears traced little rivulets down her powdered cheeks. “I let him fade out of my life; I let you push him away. I let him leave without saying anything. I think I almost forgot him, sometimes, I was so happy. I should have protested, I should have demanded to see him. I should have yelled at you. But I let you all do as you pleased, and stayed silent. Did you know? I never even wrote him any letters. Marius! He must have thought I didn’t care. He must have been so alone.”

     “Oh, God. And he almost died like that! It was only chance that brought him back to us. And when we finally had him, when he finally understood how much he was loved, when we finally saw just how good a man he really was—when we were finally happy, he—he …! They dragged him away, they put him in chains, they humiliated him. And now I don’t even know what will happen to him.” She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes. “Will they put him back in prison, Marius?”

     He gazed down at her, brimming with anxiety, with anguish and despair. “I don’t know,” was all that he could say. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Cosette.” He squeezed his eyes shut, conflicted with himself. “I would like to lie to you, and tell you that everything will be all right. But you’ve been denied too many truths for too long. So I will tell you what I know of things. Your father …” Shaking, he let out a tremulous breath. “Oh, God. It’s likely that he may be executed.”

     She gave a violent start. Shuddered in his arms. “No,” she breathed. Then, louder, “No; they can’t! They can’t; he is a good man, the best man! They can’t just …” She trailed off, a low moan escaping her throat.

     Marius grimaced. “Cosette, listen. He hasn’t committed any real crime in decades. The offenses they’ll want him for now are for breaking parole, and escape from prison. Those aren’t violent crimes. And he is older, now. Not as likely to be a threat. To be true, he’s been an exemplary citizen for a very long time. They may be lenient with him.”

     She looked up at him pleadingly. “Do you think they’ll let him go?”

     Marius’ face fell. “No. If he is lucky, it will only be prison. For life. If he’s very lucky, maybe a little less. But considering his original crimes, and considering he was deemed ‘extremely dangerous’, I doubt that he’ll ever be allowed out of chains again.” He wet his lips, eyes flicking away. “For them to let him go free, after all that he’s done—all they think him capable of doing … That would take a miracle.”

***

     The stack of papers was set down on the counter with an audible thud. It was about four inches thick, and contained a varied assortment of files, old and new.

     Javert eyed the pile with scrutiny. “This is everything?”

     “As much as I was able to find on him, sir. Police reports, official documents, newspaper clippings, testimonials from witnesses … It’s all there.”

     “Good.”

     The clerk handed him a record slip with a notice of withdrawal. “May I ask what you need them for?”

     Javert dipped the pen in the inkwell, signed his name and the date, and handed the writing materials back to him. “No.”

     Without another word, he tucked the files under his arm and left.

***

     Cosette was inconsolable. She had shut herself up in the drawing room, sobbing loudly, having thrown herself over the canapé in a fit of grief. She refused everyone but Toussaint, and could barely speak for her tears. The old woman only sat there and held her, stroking her hair and murmuring words of comfort that did not possess the power to fulfill their purpose.

     Toussaint herself was barely able to hold back tears, but blinked her eyes dry and steeled her voice for the sake of duty.

     Marius, too, grieved in his own way. He locked himself in the library, pulling volume after volume of law books off the shelves in the fruitless hope of finding he-knew-not-what that might allow him to make some argument on his father’s behalf. Furiously, he scribbled down passages on sheets of rag paper and parchment.

***

     M. Gillenormand did not understand what had happened.

     One day his children had been happy, filled with love and songs and smiles, and the next, his son-in-law had been thrown into jail for what charges he knew not, and his little Marius and precious Cosette fretted and wept and denied him answers. All he was given was mere hearsay from the servants.

     His daughter was most bewildered of all, and roamed the house in a state of confused shock, muttering to herself about “bad business” and “deceptiveness” and some such. She entreated entrance into the library, but her nephew would not admit her, and pleaded hoarsely for her to go away. As for Cosette, she did not know how to approach the child, and knew not in what regard she ought to hold her in light of her father’s jailing. In the end, she too shut herself up in her room, and only left to go out of the house.

     Having been deserted and left in the dark by everyone, finally, M. Gillenormand cracked, and banged on the doors of the library with his cane, threatening to break them down if Marius did not let him in.

     Begrudgingly, the boy unlocked the door, and Gillenormand stormed in, cornering him so that Marius had no other recourse but to lean back from his grandfather as far as he could over the curio cabinet, gripping the edge of its mahogany frame for dear life as he was assaulted by a barrage of angry, tearful questions.

     Gillenormand was a volatile man, and when something impassioned him, it sent him into a rage, and he became of force of nature to be reckoned with.

     “I may be old, but do not dare presume I’m senile,” the man fumed. “Don’t dare believe I am too stupid or too fragile to handle the truth of things! You are unhappy, you cry, you tear your hair out. Your father has been carted off by the police, and you will not tell me why. They say he is a robber, a thief, a brigand—is this true? You do not act surprised! You are grieved, you mourn, you are not so much in shock as in despair.”

     “Fauchelevent is a good man; you hold him in esteem do you not? Yet he has done ill, so they say. Which is it? You know things of him that I do not; you withhold things from me. I am not oblivious, I can see that. What is it that you fear to tell me? I am sick of being treated like some poor old fool. No more of this cloak and dagger nonsense! You will explain to me all you know of his past and this situation, or so help me, I shall storm down to the Conciergerie and hear it from the man himself!”

     “No, you cannot do that!” Marius breathed in terror. “Don’t do that to him; he doesn’t deserve the indignity of it. Cosette has done it, and I fear it has already devastated him. A second humiliation—spare him that, will you?”

     “I will not! That is, unless you deign fit to enlighten me yourself.”

     “Oh—oh, very well, then,” he squeaked, clawing at his scalp, “It cannot be helped. He is family, he has lived in your house and eaten your food; you have a right to know of him. It cannot be hidden any longer. He may be dead in a number of days, and if you are to learn of things there may be no better time than now.”

     With this utterance, he delved frantically into the story of Jean Valjean—the man’s initial crime of petty theft, his sentence and his stint in Toulon, lengthened time and time again to outrageous proportions by his successive escape attempts. His release, and broken parole, his acquisition of a jet goods manufacturer’s, his ascension from Monsieur Madeleine to Father Madeleine to Monsieur le Maire. How he had become the benefactor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and funded hospitals and schools, visited the poor and infirm, and gave charity and wisdom to all. How the good mayor had become the envy of every town in the Calais.

     His recognition and recapture by Police Inspector Javert, his year long stint in Toulon and daring escape. His retrieval of Cosette, and how he had taken her away from some horrible place and raised her as his own—been the most gentle, loving parent one could ask for. Their time in the convent, and then their move to Rue Plumet #55, and his own meeting with her in the Luxembourg.

     How Valjean had given charity to his impoverished neighbors only to find himself the victim of a trap, set by evil, brutish men—yet had held his own against them, and had managed to escape Javert at the last possible moment without being recognized.

     How he, Marius, had found Cosette again, finally, in a secret garden, and had left her a love letter. How they had grown to adore one another, and then, how she had told him they were to move to England, and that there was nothing she could do about it.

     He told him how, believing himself doomed to live a life without her, he had gone to die with his friends at the barricades, only to be dragged to safety at the last minute by her father, who had watched over him from the shadows on her behalf. How the man had saved the life of the spy Javert, whose rescue surely spelled his own doom. How, having waded through the sewers with an injured Marius on his back for hours, he emerged only to find himself face to face with Javert, who had asserted that he would arrest him. How Valjean had pleaded for Javert to allow him to return Marius to his family, and how, after which, Javert had let him go.

     Marius explained how Valjean had told him only the worst of himself, how he had been afraid of tainting their perfect happiness with his presence, and allowed himself to be pushed away without complaint. How he had grown ill from heartbreak in the absence of his Cosette, and had almost allowed himself to die, resigned to his fate, before being found and nursed back to health by Javert. How it had been Javert who’d revealed Valjean’s goodness to him, because Valjean himself was too humble to admit these things.

     All the while he’d spoken of these things, M. Gillenormand’s eyes had grown wider and wider. “My God, he is a saint!” the old man exclaimed in horror. “He has rescued my two little children, my Marius and my Cosette. He is the one responsible for all your happiness, for the beating of your hearts!” He grabbed Marius by the shoulders. “Why did you not tell me this? He is the one who saved your life, who delivered you to me. I owe him all of my thanks. I owe him everything! We owe him everything! And he has been living under my roof these past months, and I did not even know! Why did you not tell me directly, when you first were made aware of these things?”

     “Because he was a convict, because he was wanted by the police, because there was an outstanding warrant for his arrest! I thought that if you knew, you would have had him hauled off to jail!”

     “Jail? Me, put him there? Mon Dieu, what is wrong with you, child? Of course I should not have done such a thing. I owe him everything I have!”

     “How was I to know the way you would perceive him?” Marius defended tearfully. “You and I have radically different views about a great many things, father!”

     “What kind of man do you take me for, that you would believe I might forsake the savior of my children? You foolish boy! If you feared for him so, why not tell me only of his merits? You may have felt you needed to hide his imperfections, but you did not have to hide his goodness along with them! I have a right to know these sorts of things. Dear lord! Look what you’ve done, with your silence! The man may be executed, and I shall have never had a proper chance to show him my gratitude! All these months he has been with us, and I might have shown him such kindness—but I did not even know to. I did not even know to! Oh, you wicked child! He is my son-in-law, pardieu—and he deserves so much more from me than what I have given him.”

     “Ah! What shall we do?” the old man lamented. “He has given you your life, he has returned you to me. He has given us Cosette; he has made us all rich! And now he sits in a cell and awaits his own doom. They may have killed him before the week is out! Oh, Marius, Marius, what are we to do? You are a lawyer, you know the judicial system. Tell me, is there anything to be done for him? Anything at all?”

      Marius’ expression quivered. The tears that had been welling in his eyes made their way down his cheeks. “I do not know,” he said.

***

     Pit.

     Pat.

     Droplets fell softly onto the papers he held clutched in his trembling hands, the first of them clear, the second crimson.

     Tears sliding down his cheeks in silence, Javert had bitten into his lip so hard as to draw blood, and it trickled slowly down his chin in a single stream as he quivered.

     I didn’t know, was all he could think. The phrase repeated over and over in his head like a mantra. I didn’t know.

     No one had bothered to inform him exactly what had happened in the Court of Assizes that day. It was probable that even those who had issued his orders were unaware of the details.

     He had been woken in the middle of the night by a gendarme bearing an official notice: a warrant for arrest. He had known only that his convictions had not been misguided, that Madeleine was indeed the escaped convict Jean Valjean, and that this had been proven beyond a doubt some number of hours ago in a court of law.

     At the time he did not consider how they might have proved it, and the later newspaper articles about it left little doubt as to what had occurred for them to reach this conclusion: Jean Valjean had been brought to the court of Assizes in Arras, and the Public Prosecutor—with ‘ineffable zeal’—had proved him to be part of a chain gang from the galleys of the South.

     There was no reason for Javert to question any of this. No reason at all.

     Logically, the Prefecture must have decided to give the letter he’d sent them earlier a second glance, and found some kernel of plausibility there. They had then seized the mayor and brought him to Arras, where it was determined he was indeed the true criminal. This gave Javert a sense of pride—that he had seen what others had not, that he had been proven a talented inspector, cunning and shrewd. That he hadn’t—as they had so delicately put it—‘gone mad’.

     As to the question of why Valjean had not been arrested immediately following this trial, Javert did not think on this much. He did not doubt the faculties of the court or its officials, and so he had assumed that the man must have broken his bonds and escaped, or otherwise conned his way out of immediate detention.

     The technicalities of the situation were inconsequential to him at best. He had been, at the time, incensed. The only thing he’d cared for was that he had been right, that this fact was now recognized by his superiors, and that justice was finally being served. Then, also, that he should be so lucky as to be the one who carried out its sentence.

     Not once had he requested to view the official transcripts for it. He had believed the word of the law and the papers with all his heart, and entertained no skepticism towards them.

     And so it came as a horrible shock when he found the gulf of disparity between what he and the public had believed to be the case and what had actually transpired in the Court of Assizes.

     That a government official could have lied to the press about what had happened! That the Public Prosecutor had made himself out to be the clever spy, the righteous unmasker of truth to whom all credit in recapturing the convict was due—and that his fellow officials should not correct him on this! The idea repelled him.

     Javert had allowed himself to be played the fool, to be willingly duped by those whom he’d trusted, and he’d had unceasing faith in the transparency and honesty of the government and its appointed representatives.

     Everything had been cut and dry, open and closed, clear as crystal to him.

     He had found satisfaction in seeing the man brought so low. In seeing the town reject Madeleine, disown him, dispel in a matter of hours the reverence and respect they had held for him and immediately forget all he had accomplished for them whilst in office.

     He had entertained a savage joy in the man’s downfall.

     And now—

     And now …

     I didn’t know, he said to himself as the tears coursed down his face.

     The manner in which Valjean had entered the courtroom, the way he’d announced himself as the real Jean Valjean, the very words which he’d used to methodically denounce himself in the eyes of the court, had been perfectly preserved in the transcript.

     It had all been written down, without bias or conjecture: the audible shock of those present, the disbelief of the magistrates, had all been recorded. How Valjean had openly invited his own arrest. How the officials had been too stunned to pass a sentence on him. How the jury had risen and parted like the Red Sea at the passing of that unhappy man.

     Javert had read it all in abject horror.

     It was almost too much to be believed, that the man could have done this to himself, could have convicted himself thusly—but there upon the paper was the plain evidence of the fact, and Javert could not bring himself to deny it.

     ‘God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at this moment,’ Valjean had said, ‘and that suffices.’

     Javert felt within those words the whole of Valjean, and he knew without a doubt that this witness’s testimony was indeed the real record of the truth, and that all that had been published in the papers had been lies and propaganda, created to shine a favorable light upon the officials and their decision.

     It was so like Valjean to do this—to sacrifice everything for the sake of a stranger, for the sake of his conscience and the Bishop and God. So damnably like him.

     Javert had never understood that before. No one had ever understood Valjean, because no one had ever bothered to try. And the evidence of his goodness had been buried and erased and forgotten because it made things that much easier to swallow.

     The world was simpler in black and white. Javert knew that well.

     But this! This was too much. That society should turn a blind eye towards that grave act of heroism and sacrifice played out in that courtroom. That Valjean had publicly defaced himself, knowing he would be shown no mercy. That he pled nothing on his own behalf, because he was accustomed to being beaten down by the world around him. That he so readily gave himself up to save the life of a stranger, dooming himself and forsaking all that he’d worked so hard for, because it was what was just, what was kind … even when he wished with all his heart that he should not have had to do so.

     It made Javert want to hang his head in his hands and weep.

     The man’s words overwhelmed him.

     ‘Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released! Monsieur le Président, have me arrested.’

     ‘You were on the point of committing a great error; release this man! I am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the only one here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you the truth.’

     ‘You can take me, for here I am: but I have done my best.’

     ‘I have tried to re-enter the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done.’

     You’re not to blame, Javert wanted to tell him. You tried so hard.

     ‘They were right in telling you that Jean Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether his fault.’

     ‘The infamy from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please.’

     ‘I have nothing farther to add; take me.’

     ‘You do not believe me! That is distressing. Do not, at least, condemn this man! What! These men do not recognize me! I wish Javert were here; he would recognize me.’

     At this mention of himself Javert felt a churning in his gut, a piercing, as though he had been impaled with a sharp blade, and his hand drew instinctively to his abdomen, clawing at the fabric there as though he truly expected to find himself wounded and bloodied. Doing thus, he heard something like a low noise of an animal; it was in fact a moan that had escaped his lips.

     ‘I do not wish to disturb the court further. I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do. The district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going; he can have me arrested when he likes.’

     ‘All of you, all who are present—consider me worthy of pity, do you not? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should have preferred not to have had this occur.’

     How could he confine himself, his grief, his desolation, to that alone? How—how could he …?

     Javert was helpless as the decade-old scene played out before him, resurrected by the papers in his hands. Humble and simple creature that he was, he stood in fearful awe of the man those words painted behind his eyes.

     Valjean seemed to him some immense angel, stoic and ill-fated, offering up its wings to be hacked from its body, and its wrists to be bound in chains. All without a cry, without tears, and with only the vaguely pained expression of one who has borne great suffering for all their life and done so with a forced smile.

     Javert beheld this unfathomably tragic being, this selfless martyr, with terror. He found himself blinded by a sudden light, so great was the illumination imparted to him from that text.

     The man had sacrificed all that he had—his fortune, his future, even his very life—in the name of justice. That kind of selfless righteousness was all Javert aspired to and more—so much more—because Javert had never had so much to lose.

     And then Madeleine had come back, while they permitted him, for one last night to the town, in order to settle his affairs, in order to do one last act of mercy and bring that dying woman her child—

     And Javert had been monstrous. He had smiled! He had taken hold of the man by his neck, and laughed! He had been terrible.

     The way he had mocked him, derided him, been so spiteful towards him, when the man had already given himself up, had already accepted his fate—brought it upon himself, even!

     Javert shuddered at himself.

     All his life he had walked in darkness. And now that he finally saw the light, it was already on the verge of being extinguished.

     He felt powerless, defenseless, lost in his realizations, and how they always seemed to come too late.

     Could he even do anything to help him now? He was deathly afraid that he should fail in his endeavors, and his attempts at aid would be rendered useless. That the law would find his revelations worthless, and would not relent as it brought down its hand in judgment. That all had been for naught, and all because of him—because of his prideful certainty and his callous disregard for anything that went against his own convictions.

     Was this God’s punishment for him, for being so hard-hearted all these years? That only now, when he finally grasped all the facts, when he had finally attained a true understanding of things, would Valjean be ripped from the world and set ablaze, a fiery monument to all he’d done wrong in life, the culmination of his failures?

     If anyone should be punished for that, it should be he himself, not Valjean. But then again, was destroying Valjean not the best possible way to do so? Yes, it was a fitting punishment, the worst and the most appropriate torture Javert could conceive of.

     Now the man was rotting in a cell awaiting judgment for the fourth time in his life, and he—Javert—was the only thing standing between him and the inevitable.

     And he did not know if he would be enough.

     Hands shaking, he finally lowered the papers back down.

     Agony overwhelmed him, writhing and roiling into a veritable rage. He wanted to whip the files from his desk, and throw the desk against the wall in fury.

     But he remained seated, shuddering in the candlelight. Dread and guilt welled up from the bottom of his soul and overcame him completely.

     “Merde,” he swore, his voice broken as he put his head in his hands. “Merde …”

     The tears were wet against his palms. He clawed at his scalp in a fit of grief.

     “Putain …”

***

     Sleep did not come to Javert for a long, long time.

     He lay in his bed, staring up into the darkness, his eyes wide.

     All his life he had strived to be honorable, to be an upholder of all that was good and just. Unworthy of disdain. Righteous. And so he had thought himself, until Valjean had let him go free—and he had allowed the man his liberty in turn. Then, his certainty was replaced by confusion. His soul was in upheaval. He realized that he had been ignorant of many things. But he only understood so much as he was blind, and this understanding did not allow him true sight.

     Now, however, that perplexion was replaced by, again, certainty—of a very different kind.

     The vision he’d seen in his mind at the river was now complete: the wretched convict faded into the venerable mayor. And then, the mayor, too, faded, and left, to his amazement, only a man—a man who was simpler and greater than any of the faces he had worn. A man who was willing to lay down his life in the name of justice—of true justice, without petition or reward. A man who had succeeded in becoming an avatar of goodness, where he, Javert, had failed.

     Javert hacked at the branches of evil. Valjean pulled it out by the root. One treated the symptoms, the other, the cause.

     Javert had thought he knew what justice was, back then. He had become it, the hand of it—or, at least, had tried his best to.

     But then he realized that the justice he’d sworn himself to was but a pale imitation of the truth. It fell flat before the genuine article—the real, honest justice: selflessness, kindness, humility, patience, mercy.

     Love.

     Beyond all boundaries and measures, love.

     And it was this true justice that Valjean personified.

     Not him—not Javert, the rigid and upstanding police officer—but Valjean.

     The effect upon him at this conclusion was, probably, the same effect upon Malchus when Jesus healed his ear in the Garden of Gethsemane.

     Javert trembled. Again, he recounted the past. And with the light shed by new information, he perceived details he had never noted before.

     The way Madeleine—no, he told himself, Valjean—had dropped the docket he’d been holding when he’d told him the real Jean Valjean had been found. The slight pallor that had spread across the man’s face for the duration of the conversation thereafter.

     How Valjean had asked him, trying to sound casual, when the trial was to be—and had somehow remained composed when he learned it was the very next day.

     In that moment, Javert realized, Valjean had already decided to intercede. That was the only reason he would have asked when the trial was. There, in that very office, right in front of his eyes, Valjean had made the decision to give himself up.

     And who was responsible for his having to make this decision? Javert himself. For if he had not informed against him, there would have been no need to tell him about the Prefecture’s apprehension of Champmathieu, and therefore, Valjean would have never known of the man’s plight. At least, not in time to do anything about it.

     But because of Javert, he was faced with the terrible decision of whether or not to let another man be sentenced to prison or death in his stead. And his conscience would not allow him to let someone else be damned in his place, knowing himself to be the true offender. So he had made up his mind right there and right then to reveal himself, surrender his life—and with it, any further benefit he could provide to that town. All on account of Javert.

     And Javert stood before him, and denounced himself. Had asked to be dismissed.

     But Valjean would not do so. Valjean commended him! Even knowing that, because of him, everything he had ever worked for would be destroyed. Knowing that he very well might die. He looked upon this man who had—perhaps directly and perhaps not—effected his downfall, and he smiled upon him, with pity and respect. Here Valjean had been given one last opportunity to shame—and rightfully so!—the man who had ruined him—and what did he do? He refused to. Not only this, he took the blame which Javert had placed on himself and tried to invalidate it. Tried to make him see the good in himself!

     ‘You are a man of honor, and I esteem you,’ he’d said. ‘You exaggerate your fault. Moreover, this is an offense which concerns me. Javert, you deserve promotion instead of degradation.’

     Javert shuddered at those words in a sort of reverent horror. They rent his soul apart.

     ‘I esteem you.’

     I esteem you! How could he say that? How could he say that—how, how, how, when he knew that on the very next day, in consequence of Javert’s actions, he would sentence himself to hell? After all of their bickering at the station house, after Javert had failed to treat him with the veneration he deserved, after Javert had given the dogs his scent! After everything, how could Valjean look at him like that, commiserate him like that, offer him his hand?

     Javert writhed under the covers, turning his head and burying his face in the pillow. He curled into a tight ball, shivering and tugging at the sheets, at the roots of his hair.

     The man had been infinitely kinder to him than he had ever deserved. Always, always. Why? Javert had never caused him anything but pain. And yet still Valjean persisted, still he treated him with tenderness—with admiration, even!

     In light of the man’s circumstances, Valjean had treated him more graciously than perhaps any other person ever had. Javert doubted even Chabouillet could be so kind.

     I was wrong, he thought, I was so, so wrong. I was always wrong about you.

     Truly, there was not a more benevolent or courageous soul Javert could think of in the whole of the world.

     And that soul was about to be snuffed out.

     Could he prevent this?

     He did not know.

     Wracked with this uncertainty, he fell finally into a terrible slumber.

***

     A vision flashed before his eyes: a man at the center of a maelstrom of wind, wisps of clouds blown away and replaced by smoke. A flurry of embers and ash whipped around him.

     The air was a lash, tearing at his clothes, his flesh, ripping the feathers from the snow white wings that matched his snow white hair.

     Javert thought himself to be yelling, to be crying out to him, but he could not hear his own voice amid the rushing of the wind.

     The man held his gaze with only a melancholy expression, motionless and mute.

     The stench of blood and gunpowder and burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and he beheld the figure before him with terror as it plunged downwards, devoured by flames.

     One single white plume drifted towards him on a breeze, and Javert reached out to it. As he touched it, it was met by a floating ember, and it turned to cinders instantly and disintegrated at his fingertips. He gave a jolt, flinching back.

     With a cry he found himself suddenly in his bed, his fingers clawing at the sheets, his breath ragged.

     Panting, he stared up at the ceiling and shut his eyes, sweat beading on his brow.

     The trial was in two days.

     And for the first time in his life, Javert was afraid.

***

Chapter Text

“Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable … Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals.”

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

***

     Cosette sat on an ornate concrete bench in the garden, her head bent, her hands clasped tightly around her rosary in fervent prayer. But no words passed her lips, nor crossed her mind, but half-formed pleas towards a silent god.

     The garden was cast in grey; the sky threatened rain. The air was warm against her skin, but she did not feel warmed by it.

     All of a sudden a hand touched her shoulder, and she sat up with a gasp.

     It was Nicolette, and the woman was regarding her with some amount of pity in her eyes. “You are wanted in the foyer, madame.”

     “For what purpose?”

     “There is a policeman asking after you.”

     Her face screwed up in resentment. “Tell him to go away. He can talk to Marius if he likes. I do not want to speak with him.”

     “He says you know him.”

     She knit her brow. “Know him?” Then her heart gave a leap of recollection. “Monsieur Javert!” she exclaimed to herself, darting from the bench. “I had entirely forgotten!”

***

     “Monsieur!”

     Javert gave a start as Cosette rushed into view, stopping dead in her tracks between the rooms and staring at him.

     “It really is you,” she said, her features scrunched in emotion, the folds of her dress scrunched in her fists. “I didn’t know if you would come.” She approached him, wringing her hands, a look of supplication on her face, and a frantic tone in her voice. “You knew about papa, didn’t you? You knew all along. And yet you didn’t tell anybody! You and Marius both, you—”

     “Hush now,” he murmured, glancing around. “No one needs to know that. It could get us all in a great deal of trouble.”

     “Ah—that’s true; I didn’t—” She obediently lowered her voice, and took a look around as well. “You’re a police officer, and so—”

     “And so it would be inappropriate for me to ignore a wanted criminal, yes,” he spoke between his teeth. “Especially inappropriate if someone were to have seen me fraternizing with one, vous comprenez?”

     She gave a quick couple nods of her head. “Je comprends,” she whispered. “But … why did you say nothing?”

     Javert’s eyes continued to slide nervously around the foyer. “Surely you can guess.”

     She knit her brow. “He is a good man, I know that, but as an officer of the law, what made you— Oh, but that’s right,” she recalled, clutching the strings of her bonnet, “he saved your life at the barricades, didn’t he. Is that why?”

     “That’s part of it, yes—but it hardly matters now, and that’s not why I’ve come. Where is Pontmercy? I need to speak with him, too. The both of you. In private.”

     She looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling plaintively. “You’ve come to help us, then?”

     “As much as I can, yes.”

     “Ah!” She took his hands in hers, and the disparity of their sizes was hard not to notice. “Thank you. Thank you. I didn’t know what to do. I—”

     “Inspector!”

     They turned to find Marius descending the stairs, leaning over the banister and craning his neck out to look at them.

     “They told me it was a policeman; I didn’t know it was you!” He hurried down the remaining steps to meet them. “So you’ve heard, then.”

     “I saw them take him away,” Javert muttered, flicking his eyes to the floor. “I didn’t …  I wasn’t sure what I should do. What I could do. But I’ve made up my mind, and I won’t let him go without a fight. Even if it’s one I may not win.”

     The boy’s face lit up. “You mean to come to his defense, then! Publicly?”

     “I …” He clenched his teeth. “There is no other choice that I can make.”

     “That’s great news!”

     Javert could see the boy daring to hope they had a chance, now, and he was afraid it might all be for naught. He doubted he had the kind of authority either of them thought he did.

     “This will help things so much,” Marius was saying, clutching his head in what looked like relief. “To have an officer on our side, someone who can testify his goodness, someone respected—”

     “I fear you overestimate my influence,” Javert interrupted. “My word might hold some sway, but in the face of charges like these—of his previous sentences, his history—I’m not sure what I can do.”

     “Anything you are capable of doing is a boon to us, sir,” he told him. “Truly.”

     Cosette nodded vigorously in agreement.

     Javert took the two of them into account.

     There was something among them already of conspirators; this being due to their prior exchange and subsequent intercession on behalf of Valjean—only this time, circumstances were far more dire.

     Javert saw the reliance in their eyes and shied away from it internally.

     The poor, desperate children.

     Did they have any idea of just how dire the circumstances were?

     Did they have any idea of just how powerless he was?

     God forbid, that he should fail them—that he should fail him, when he—

     Javert shook his head, driving the thought away. Letting those doubts in would cripple him, he knew. And he needed all the clarity he could retain.

     He cleared his throat, glancing away. “Yes. Well. I will do what I can.” His voice turned sharp. “Now listen to me carefully. Did your father keep any valuables under lock and key? Bank notes, old legal documents? Were there any containers he never opened? Anything, anything at all.”

     “Er, no, I don’t think so,” Marius said. “He gave us all of his finances to look after—his banks notes, his papers—well, his false papers, but—”

     “Marius,” Cosette said, her eyes wide as she touched his arm. “His valise. Remember? He would not let anyone else carry it when we moved here. I have never even seen the inside of it; I do not have any idea what is in there.”

     “Yes, good!” Javert exclaimed. “Where is that, then?”

     They ascended the stairs into what had been Valjean’s bedroom.

     “There,” she said, pointing to a small trunk beside his dresser.

     The portmanteau was not very opulent, but it looked to be made of very thick wood, and its lock was large. Unassuming, sturdy and strong. Something a convict would hide his valuables in, Javert thought. Yes, this had to be what he was looking for.

     “I do not know where he kept the key,” Cosette confessed.

     “That is of little matter to me,” Javert mumbled, pulling his lock-pick’s kit from the pocket of his coat and kneeling down. He began teasing the tumblers into place, with his ear pressed to the brass lock.

     “What do you expect to find in there?” Marius asked.

     “Something helpful.”

     In reality, he didn’t know. Part of him hoped he might find the note Fantine surely must have given Valjean to bequeath him custody of Cosette—just in case that long forgotten ‘kidnapping of a child’ charge came to head. Other than that, thank-you notes from people he had given charity to, accounts of his previous lives—anything that could paint Valjean in a moral and favorable light when presented to a jury.

     With a metallic click, the latch undid, and Javert opened the lid. He was hit with an odor of camphor, and various other aromatics.

     The first thing he saw inside, to his bewilderment, was a mass of black fabric.

     He blinked, taken off guard by this unexpected sight.

     Clothes?

     Knitting his brow, he set the things aside carelessly and began rummaging through the stack of papers beneath, muttering frantically to himself.

     His eyes darted over the lettering, searching desperately for he knew-not-what, turning the parchment and paper scraps over in the light.

***

     When Cosette saw the bundle Javert had tossed on the floor, her lips parted, and she grew very still. Trance-like, she approached it, picking through its contents with wondering eyes.

     A little black dress, sized for a very young girl. Tiny black shoes that her feet might yet have fit into. A petticoat, a bodice, an apron. A fichu. Woolen stockings. All black.

     Mourning clothes. The clothes that her father had bought for her the day he had taken her away from the inn.

     It was as though she had come upon the remains of another world, and quite suddenly recalled her origins in it.

     A shudder ran through her.

     That terrible place! That terrible life! She had nearly forgotten it. The memory had blurred into nothing but a vague and menacing shadow in the back of her mind. But now, with these artifacts, she recollected it in sudden, dizzying detail.

     The corner in which she slept, with her broom close at hand. The little knife that was both her sword and her doll. The tattered rags that were her clothes, too thin to keep her warm. Dirty bare feet and hard wooden clogs. The sting of her fingers from the pricks of her sewing needle. Hunger and shivers and that constant, nagging fear.

     The jeers of the patrons, the threats of the Thénardiers, the disgust of their daughters. She had been little more than a dog to them. No, even their cat, and their patrons’ horses, had been treated better than her—as though she were not even fit to be an animal. Everything had been insults and centipedes and grime.

     And yet as she recalled these horrors, so too did she recall their abrupt and happy end: the moment the man had entered her life. How he appeared at her side from out of the darkness of the forest, and how, though she had been terrified only moments prior, she felt no fear. How he had taken the heavy bucket from her aching hands, and carried it for her all the way back. The unbelievable things he had said, had done, in her defense.

     How he had simply swept her away, in the course of one day, and replaced all the cruelty and loneliness and despair with softness and gentleness and joy.

     She stared at the clothes in the candlelight, frozen, as a measure of understanding, and then a wave of grief, overcame her.

     How he had loved her!

     To keep her clothes after all this time, preserved like this!

     Other men had chests of gold and silver—vaults of jewels, hoards of valuables, guarded greedily under lock and key.

     His secret treasure was but his memory of her.

     Marius called her name, but she was barely aware of him doing so, and made no reply.

     Her numb expression contorted into anguish as a low moan escaped her throat. Burning tears welled in her blue eyes and coursed hot down her cheeks as she crumpled the dress in her hands.

     She flung herself over the side of her father’s bed and wept, burying her face in the faded black fabric and sobbing uncontrollably.

***

     Javert didn't know how long he knelt there, skimming through old pieces of parchment by candlelight while Marius tried to console his grieving wife.

     Scraps of newspapers, hastily scrawled notes, technical drawings, unsent letters or journal entries (he could not tell which)—there was certainly a wealth of documents at the bottom of the valise, but …  

     “Damn,” he breathed. Damn, damn, damn.

     “What is it?” he heard Marius ask.

     Javert shook his head. “None of this is …” He brushed his thumb over a stack of papers he was holding, his hand clenching. “None of this is of any use to me.”

     The boy’s footsteps approached him. “You went through everything inside?” Marius asked, leaning down.

     “Yes.”

     “I see. That’s unfortunate.” Javert felt a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps, then, we should …”

     The touch made his skin prickle, his senses sharpen, and all at once Javert became distinctly aware of the pitiful, muffled hiccoughs coming from the other end of the room. His eyes slid away. “Oh.” Carefully he replaced the papers in the valise and shut its lid, rising to his feet.

     “Cosette,” Marius murmured as they left the room, “We will be in the drawing room if you need us.”

***

     As soon as the boy shut the door Javert turned to him with a frown on his face. “I know the look of a man when he has a secret to keep, Pontmercy. What is it?”

     That gave rise to a bloom of red beneath Marius’ freckles. “I, ah—look,” he said, wringing his hands, “Cosette knows nothing of what I’m about to tell you, and I would prefer for it to remain that way.”

     “Fine, then. Out with it.”

     “It does nothing to help our current situation, but it is relevant to it, and it’s something which I feel you ought to know. You remember, perhaps, that family I informed upon to you, the winter before last? The one from the Gorbeau house?”

     Javert’s nose wrinkled. He tilted his chin up, staring down at him with angry anticipation. There was a troubled, suspicious feeling brewing in his gut. “I have not forgotten that incident, no. What of it?”

     “Well, I—I have met with the father since.”

     His eyebrows shot up. “Met with him?” he repeated incredulously. His countenance became terrible. “With Jondrette? That wretch! He escaped jail; he is still at large! You knew him! You knew he was a criminal! Why did you not inform the authorities?”

     Marius turned pale. “Ah! Because—because … His name is not Jondrette;” he confessed, his words stumbling out over themselves helplessly, “his name is Thénardier! And he saved my father’s life at Waterloo! I only realized it that night. I could not bring myself to have him arrested, damn him; it would be like spitting on my father’s grave! I hate him; I do—but I made a promise, a sacred vow—you understand, monsieur! I could not do it, though I wanted to. I could not!”

     “You damned—! Of all the stupid, sentimental things …” he growled. “Do you know what you’ve done? That man is a blight on humanity! He was given the death sentence for a reason! How many innocents have you endangered by letting him go?”

     Marius trembled beneath him, his eyes wet. “I am sorry, monsieur, truly! I am! I would like to see him brought to justice—just so long as it is not me that brings him there. Oh, I would gladly see him rot, yes; he disgusts me. He is a terrible man.”

     “I am glad we agree upon something. But that’s hardly the issue. Why do you bring this to me now? Has he some hand in this?” Javert scowled. “He has, hasn’t he.”

     “Oh, God! I—” Marius shook his head as though trying to dispel his emotions, his face red. “He came asking for money, said he had information to sell me which was of some concern to me. I had no idea what he was on about. He made me pay him twenty francs before he would say anything.”

     “And what did he say?”

     “Nothing that I didn’t already know. He recounted Valjean’s past, his earlier crimes. Tried to convince me the man was a petty pickpocket, and a murderer at that. But the young aristocrat he’d perceived as a corpse on Valjean’s back in the sewers had been me! He brought a scrap of the waistcoat I’d worn that night as evidence, and I shoved the rest of it in his face.”

     “‘The man is no murderer;’ I said, ‘the man is a saint! And here is the proof! It is you who is the criminal; it is you who is the liar, the thief! I know who you are, you two-faced louse. Your name is not Thénard, but Thénardier! You do not even remember me. I lived next to you for a time. In the Gorbeau house. I know of your shady goings on. In fact, it was I who alerted the police to your little ransom scheme! And now you try to sell me information I already know, all twisted up with misgivings and half-truths. You try to ruin the name of a good man. Of my father! Furthermore, that man is in the house this very moment, and you should be glad I do not alert him to your presence here.’”

     “‘Get thee gone, you villain! You are lucky I do not summon the police on thee. I would, too, and justly so, if my father did not owe you his life. I abstain from having you hauled off to jail—from which you escaped, and where you ought to be at present—only for that. I will grant you mercy, just this once. But nevermore! You shall have nothing further from me. Casse-toi, you brigand, you—you bandit! Waterloo protects you!’”

     Marius’ shoulders sagged. “I thought perhaps that would be the end of it. That he would leave us in peace. But I was wrong. About a week later, he sent me a blackmail note, threatening to reveal Valjean to the police if I didn’t give him fifteen thousand francs. Fifteen thousand! It was ludicrous. And how dare he, how dare he try to use Valjean against us! There was no way I would give in to such a vile demand. Besides, I knew that if I gave him anything, he would just keep coming back for more, because his threat would always be relevant, and he is just that type of man.”

     “So I sent him back a letter saying that I knew things I could use against him, too. That if he made my father to suffer, I would do everything in my power to ensure he suffered in turn. That seemed to sober him. He was quiet for a number of weeks. I hoped he’d finally gone to America, like he’d said he was planning to. That he had disappeared for good, lest I bring the law down upon him. But then—then—!” The boy’s composure was quickly running out.

     “Then what?”

     Hand shaking, Marius reached into the breast pocket of his tailcoat, withdrawing a creased up envelope, which he handed to him. “Then yesterday I received this in the post.”

     Grimacing, Javert opened it and unfolded the piece of rag paper within.

     Scrawled across the middle of the page in large, scratchy letters, were the words,

     “WATCH YOUR ANGEL BURN.”

     Fury and disgust rose up like a gale inside of him. Seething, his lips drew back to reveal his clenched teeth, the paper trembling in his hands.

     You bastard.

     You bastard!

     You, you, you; you’re the one who’s done this!

     A low growl escaped Javert’s throat. “So,” he accused Marius, “by trying to appease the ghost of one father, you have condemned the other one.”

     The boy looked up at him in fright at that remark. His eyes flicked about, his mouth opening. He clawed at his scalp, black tufts of hair sticking up between his fingers. “Oh, Christ,” he moaned, “you’re right. This is all my fault. If I’d just—if I’d mustered the courage and turned him in to the police, none of this would have happened. I—I shouldn’t have—” Tears welled in his eyes. “If my father had known the kind of man his savior had turned out to be—if he knew I had aided that man on his behalf, knowing he would only cause trouble …” He shook his head. “I thought I was doing right by him, but—what would he say to me, now? I have caused this. I have brought this upon us. I have failed them both!”

     Javert scrutinized him. The flare of his temper died back a bit.

     Upsetting that booby of a boy wasn’t going to do anyone any good; he was already upset enough as it was. 

     Frowning, Javert took hold of the lapel of Marius’ tailcoat, tugging him upright. “You are wrong,” he told him. “You think that man would hold his peace behind bars? No, he’d have nothing to lose by revealing your father’s identity. In fact, he’d have everything to gain. Revenge, for one—on you, for slighting him. And then, he would have found some way to lighten his sentence by giving the man’s name to the authorities. Claim Valjean was his accomplice in something, make a trade-off for the information, and voilà. Suddenly the death penalty becomes a mere life sentence. Which he would no doubt attempt to escape from again.”

     “Ah! That’s true. He would, wouldn’t he.”

     “If there’s one thing that man knows, it’s how to turn a profit. He had secrets; he would have found someone to sell them to eventually. The rat. Of course, you absolutely should have turned him in. I’m just saying that it wouldn’t have mattered whether or not you did; he’d have used Valjean’s past to his advantage at some point or another. So put no more thought into it,” he said, handing him back the letter. “Revenons à nos moutons. We need to focus on the trial now, not your abominable idiocy, or your guilt.”

     “Yes,” Marius said, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath, “I need to prepare my case.”

     Javert blinked. “Your case?”

     Marius looked up at him with surprise and indignation. “What,” he scoffed, “do you suppose I would do nothing? I am his son! Furthermore, and most relevant to this, I am a lawyer, monsieur.”

     Javert stared at him with wide eyes for a moment, one corner of his mouth drawn back. “No,” he finally said. “You shall not be going anywhere near that courtroom.”

     “What? But why?”

     “Firstly,” he said, throwing a hand up in frustration, “no one else can know of your part in the rebellion; it will discredit you immediately, and possibly get you into a great deal of legal trouble. Even if it does not, you don’t want your clients at the law firm knowing your political views are so radical. It makes for bad business.”

     “Then I shall not mention it; I will keep my tongue and my composure in check.”

     “I do not trust you to do that.”

     “You should! How do you think I’ve managed my career if I could not be professional in the courtroom?”

     Javert scowled at this. “I hold that you are an overly emotional fool and have thrown away your life for less. I don’t believe for a moment that you’ll be able to approach the matter of your father’s judgment from a professional angle. That requires a level of personal disconnect that I do not think you possess. At least certainly not in regard to this. If you did possess it, you would have turned in that blackguard Jondrette. No, I shall not be letting you anywhere near that courtroom.”

     A furious breath issued from the boy’s nostrils. “You would restrain me from testifying in defense of my own father?”

     “Absolutely.”

     “And what do you propose, then?” he demanded. “Who is going to testify on his behalf? You?”

     “Yes.”

     The boy stared at him stupidly.

     “Look here,” said Javert, “You are a student, I am a policeman. You’re only twenty-something, and I have been on this earth for over five decades. You are a newcomer in the world of law; I have been a part of it all my life. Which one of us is more reputable? Which one of our testimonies is going to hold more sway? Who do you think they are going to listen to, eh? You or me?”

     Marius’ throat bobbed.

     “You are his son-in-law. You cannot testify on his behalf; you have obvious reason to be biased in his favor. No one will be able to take your word without at least a decent sized portion of doubt as to its veracity. Besides which, you are a lawyer; it is your job to make up excuses for criminals.”

     “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but I do not think you know of what you—”

     “Spare me your lectures, boy. It does not matter whether or not you are an honorable man. The jury and the magistrates will look at you and see someone who furnishes lies for a living. Me, they will trust. Even more so because they will not see a reason for me to bear preference towards a convict over the law. I have been that man’s antagonist for thirty years, and for me to come forth now and defend him will hold far more gravity than anyone else, especially you.”

     “You do not understand!” Marius insisted, violently shaking his head. He seemed desperate now. “I told him once that I would procure for him a pardon. ‘My grandfather has friends,’ I said. He told me it was useless, that he was thought dead, and that sufficed. But now he needs someone’s intercession! It is I that must do this thing; I have the power to do it, don’t I? Don’t I?”

     “No,” said Javert. “You do not. You are a child; you are kin to him, no matter if he is not related to either you or your wife. By adoption and betrothal, he is your father-in-law. You will be biased for him. Furthermore, I have heard the rumors: he has given you a vast sum of money. The whole of his fortune. You may call it a dowry if you like, but in the eyes of anyone else, if you defend him, it will look like bribery.”

     Marius paled at this. “Bon Dieu,” he breathed, “that’s right—the money. I had not considered …”

     “They will throw your plea out of court,” Javert warned him. “Not only this, but they will charge you with aiding and abetting.”

     His eyes bulged. “Aiding and—”

     “Abetting; that’s right. You come to them recounting the whole of his past, arguing for his benevolence—and you know what they will say to you? ‘Why, how convenient; you have his life’s story. And how long have you known this? Why did you do nothing when you discovered he was a wanted convict? Perhaps it has something to do with the thousands upon thousands of francs he gave you? Hm? Or the fact that you are married to his daughter; perhaps this swayed you.’” His tone turned sharp, a growl. “I am telling you, boy: if you go in there to defend him like that, he won’t be the only one getting a guilty sentence.”

     Marius trembled. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

     “Lastly,” Javert said, “your family may have friends in high places, but do you really expect them to give a sou about some galley-slave they’ve never met nor heard about until this day?”

     “But he saved my life,” Marius protested.

     “Yes, from being taken by the National Guard. You were a rebel, a Republican. Your grandfather and his friends are all Royalists, and hotheaded ones at that. Just about anyone in Paris could tell you that. How do you suppose they’ll receive the news that this man had to save you from being shot because you tried to overthrow the government?”

     “Then we don’t tell them all that! They only need to know we’re indebted to him for preserving my life, not what events led to the situation. My grandfather will vouch for him. He will! He likes him very much. Even now, when he knows what he is, after I have told him everything. He will convince his friends to—”

     “To what? To demand pardon for this man they’ve never met? To bribe the magistrates? Look at it from their perspective, boy. They’re being asked to give their word that this man will not commit another crime, will not harm another soul, when they have no proof of it. If they vouch for him, and he later proves them wrong, it will put a stain on their reputation and they will be made to look like fools.”

     “But he would never do such a thing!”

     “They don’t know that!” he hissed. “It will be a possibility in their minds. A possibility whose repercussions are far too severe for them to consider doing you this favor.”

     “Do you really think they’d have it in them to refuse me, to refuse my grandfather? To shut the doors in our face and ignore our earnest pleas? There are some who’ve been friends of the family for over sixty years. Sixty years, monsieur!”

     “Listen,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh, “you may go to them if you like. You may crawl on your knees and grovel at their doorstep and make yourself out like some pathetic wretch if you want, but I wouldn’t place all your eggs in their baskets. And it would look bad, very bad for all of you, were any matters or even rumors of bribery to turn up.”

     “Besides, even if you managed to convince them to join your cause, even if they tried to sway the opinion of the judicial system without bribery, you can’t just expect the court to fall at your feet because your family’s friendly with a few of its officials. That’s not how the law works. Or at least, that’s not how it’s supposed to work. It’s immoral, it’s unlawful. The magistrates ought to know that. If they are honest men, they might not take kindly to being asked to curb their judgment. In fact they might recoil from the idea and be persuaded to do the exact opposite, just to prove a point. No, I would stay far away from this, if I were you.”

     Marius’ gaze fell to the floor, crestfallen. “But monsieur …”

     “No ‘buts’,” said Javert.

     Marius gazed at him with hard eyes and a tight-lipped frown. “Inspector, if you are going to do this, at least allow me to propose a stratagem.”

     Javert narrowed his eyes. “I am listening.”

     “First,” Marius said, “You must tell me all that you know of the man. And you may as well settle in, because we’re going to be here all night.”

***

Chapter Text

“Law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice, and when they fail in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress.”

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

***

     Hours slipped through their fingers as they sat in the drawing room, Javert recounting everything he could remember about Valjean’s past, Marius sitting slouched in his chair, nodding gravely, scribbling notes to himself now and then.

     They had set a fire in the hearth, despite the summer air, more to dispel the unease than to warm them. Its murmurs were a comforting boon—the pops and crackles filling up what would have been a disquieting silence.

     Javert lost himself in his retelling, staring off numbly at the floor. He ran his fingers through his hair, worrying the greying locks until the most of them had escaped their queue, to which he paid little mind.

     Marius sipped sparingly from a snifter of cognac—“to settle his nerves,” he said. It was here that he learned of the Bishop’s mercy, of the spark of charity which had set off the powder keg of Valjean’s epiphany, and his subsequent reform. It was here that he was made to understand just how terribly his father had suffered—hunted for decades, always so close to discovery, and recapture. And, too, how despite these constant, crushing downfalls, and ever-present terrors, he had continued to devote as much of himself to the causes of virtue as possible.

     Javert did not tell him of those nights at the river, of the days of feverish agony he had endured with Valjean by his side. The boy already knew Valjean had saved his life; he did not need to know just how many times. And Javert found himself, on account of pride, or perhaps humility, unable to admit what he had done. Unable to articulate what exactly had occurred between them those short weeks.

     It was too personal a thing to him, not only because of his own shame, but, also, somehow because of Valjean as well. He did not know what it was, but there was something strange between them, something fragile and deep and inconceivably strong that had grown in those moonlit spaces of silence, and he guarded it fiercely.

     Instead, he spoke of Montreuil-sur-Mer, and of the trial at Arras. The more he expounded upon the man’s self-sacrifice, the more he came to comprehend the extent of it himself. And the more acutely he felt the injustice, and his own blindness.

     He had always been a calm and collected man, for all his life, and yet in this there was something that grated at the edges of his conscience and drove him into a passion. As the conversation went on, he found it hard to keep his emotions in check. But it was good practice, Marius insisted, for facing the magistrates. And he supposed the boy was right.

     When all was said that could be said of Jean Valjean, they turned to the judicial system. A lawyer and a policeman, they had between them no meager grasp of the particulars of the penal code. Even so, they were keenly aware of the near hopelessness of their situation, and the staggering height of what was required of them to resolve it.

     Jean Valjean faced a death sentence. That much was clear. And they could not argue that he was innocent of any of the crimes with which he was charged under the law. So their argument had to be, purely, against the law itself. Against the whole of the judicial system. And all they had to their case was his reform, which may not amount to anything at all in their eyes. A small caliber of ammo indeed. It was like trying to topple the walls of a castle with nothing but grapeshot.

     Some time late into the night, or early in the morning—Javert could not tell which—they grew too exhausted to continue, and they retired, Marius insisting he use the spare bedroom instead of going all the way back home at such an hour. Javert was too tired, and too worried, to consider arguing with him.

     He stripped himself down to his underclothes and crawled unhappily under the fine linen sheets, his mind a cloud, still constructing his defense.

***

     Javert found himself on a path, a straight and well-swept road of dirt, leading through the forest. A cool and swirling mist cloaked the wood. It sent shivers up his spine, like breath against his skin.

     He thought, perhaps, that it was early morning—sunlight filtering through the fog before him from the east. Yet it seemed like sunset. And he did not know why, but it felt like something was coming to an end, and his heart hung heavy in his breast with a sort of dread.

     Someone was walking up ahead of him, silent as a ghost. He could see details of them now and then, within the mist. The hint of color: a yellow tailcoat. A flash of grey curls; a bent head. It was a figure he knew well, and yet had barely known at all.

     With sudden terror he realized where they were, and where the path was heading.

     Again, he called his name. And again, his cry produced no sound, like the scream had been stolen from his throat.

     The man paused upon the path. He turned his head, slightly, as though he knew who was waiting there. But he did not look at him. And after a moment of mournful contemplation, he faced forward again, dejectedly, and resumed his steady pace.

     And Javert had to watch all over again as Madeleine headed to Arras.

     Had to watch as the color faded from his hair, and his finery turned to red rags, and the rags fell to tatters on his back, amid a million bleeding scars. And still he walked with the same steady pace, without a single word.

     Javert reached out for him, straining, but to no avail; the man continued to fade away.

     Isn’t this what you wanted? a voice whispered in his head.

     No, he breathed, shuddering. He had never been so sure of anything in his life. No!

     And he fought, and he cried out to him, but his efforts were in vain.

     The mist had swallowed him up.

***

     Javert awoke with a cry, tangled up in the sheets. Slowly, as he came to his senses, the grip he’d had on the edge of the mattress slackened. The early sunlight bathed the unfamiliar room in gold. Even in the warmth of summer, a shiver ran down his spine.

     He clutched at the pillow, curling into a ball, and lay there listening to the sound of his own ragged breath, and waiting for the pounding of his heart to subside.

     Then he pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his head hung, his face in his hands. And he forced himself, finally, to rise.

***

     Cosette joined Marius and he at breakfast, but was silent, and hardly touched her food. She had a sallow look about her, as though, along with her happiness, her very color had begun to fade. It was just as well; Marius and Javert spoke little either, and had a similar lack of appetite. The Gillenormands did not even show themselves; they were holed up in their respective bedchambers.

     Afterwards, Javert and Marius returned to the drawing room, exasperated but determined. They argued for which directions to take their case, and the grounds on which they could support it. Marius compiled all the notes that he had taken the night before, and charted out a logical progression of discourse. He was, Javert had to admit, more versed in the art of subtle coercion than he. And he brought up a few legal technicalities that Javert had failed to consider. However, they were not, he worried, something which made an entirely sound argument.

     They spent the entire day thusly, and had to be reminded by one of the maidservants to eat something for lunch, as they had completely lost track of time. Law books and scraps of paper littered the table between their chairs.

     Eventually the atmosphere grew so tense, and they so frustrated, that it necessitated a break. Without knowing what else to do, Marius went for a walk in the garden, and, at the offer, Javert accompanied him. They strode along the pathways in silence for some time, each lost in their own trails of thought.

     “You’re a decent fellow, Pontmercy,” Javert finally said, without bothering to look up. “I did not think terribly well of you, before. You are something of a coward, and an idiot. But you are also clever in your own way, and your heart is in the right place. I cannot begrudge you that.”

     Marius glanced over at him, his eyebrows raised. “Ah—thank you.”

     “I suppose I don’t regret allowing him to bring you home. Even though you were an insurgent.”

     “That is … considerate of you.”

     “Mm.” He stopped, staring down at a cluster of heliotrope. “Why were you even at the barricades? You seem too chicken-livered for a thing like blood soaked revolution.”

     The boy gave a pause. Let out a harried breath. “That’s a fine thing to say.”

     “It is impertinent, I know. But still. You’re not quite the type. And you appear to have gotten on just fine without so much as a whisper of anarchy since.”

     A lopsided frown formed on Marius’ face, then flashed away. He turned to look at the grass at his feet. “I was there because … they were my friends, monsieur. Their cause was noble, and one that was likely to get them all killed. And perhaps I, being poverty stricken, and believing my love forsaken, did not feel I had anything further to live for, at the time—and may as well exit this world in the company of brothers. At least then I could say that I … stood alongside my compatriots, and died for something worth fighting for.”

     Javert turned to study the shadow that had fallen over the boy’s eyes. He had not expected such a response, least of all one whose implications resonated with him. “I see,” was all he could think to say, as he averted his gaze once more.

     Marius began walking again, downcast. Javert matched his pace. They did not speak again for a number of minutes.

     All of a sudden Marius stopped. “If we lose this case, will you …”

     An image of the rapids flashed before him, like a maelstrom, sucking him in.

     “—remain a friend to us?”

     Javert blinked. Knit his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but the boy, unseeing, cut him off.

     “You will be the only link to him we’ll have.”

     At that thought, a nausea gripped him, and a dizzying disorientation, as though someone had pushed him from a height. His head reeled.

     He had not hitherto attempted to picture himself in a world where Jean Valjean was dead, and though he could not admit it to himself, he knew the reason why.

     “No, I’m sorry,” Marius sighed. “That is—perhaps that is too much of me to ask. But you are a good man, Inspector, and I am grateful to you for your help. And I will continue to be grateful to you, no matter the outcome of this case, or whether or not you choose to remain in contact with us.”

     Javert was still too unhinged by his previous statement to formulate a response. So when Marius resumed walking, he only trailed after him in silence, his mind tumultuous.

     ‘If we lose this case …’

     The river rushed around his legs.

     ‘If we lose this case …’

     He squeezed his eyes shut, balling his fist and driving the tempest from his thoughts, until all he could hear, and all that he knew, was the crunching of rocks and sand beneath their feet.

***

     They returned to their discussions of the case until the sun began to set, refining their argument until it took a final, polished form. Then they practiced its delivery, to Javert’s great chagrin. He ran through it again and again, until he had the structure memorized, until he felt he could refute a number of possible counterarguments.

     And then they had prepared the case as much as they could, and there was nothing more to be done. Javert pocketed the notes they’d drawn up, and bid his farewell.

     Part of him wanted to say some word of parting to Cosette, but he did not know what he could possibly do for her. It was best, he decided, to let her be.

     Marius had offered to let him spend the night with them again, but Javert had only shaken his head and declined. He needed a night to himself, to clear his thoughts. To steel his will. To … come to terms with things.

     That, and he needed to make himself presentable, which required a shave and a fresh change of clothes.

     Just as he was about to leave, he found himself beckoned by one of the old servants—Cosette’s nursemaid, if memory served him correctly. He was surprised to see her here. Hadn’t Valjean said she’d been dismissed? Well, no matter. She was here now, anyway. And she apparently desired something of him.

     “Monsieur,” she said, “may I speak with you in private for a moment?”

     Too tired and defeated to even be annoyed, Javert begrudgingly followed her into one of the empty rooms, and she shut the door behind them.

     “What is it you want?” he asked.

     She folded her arms behind her back and glanced away for a moment. “You remember me, perhaps?”

     “Your name is Toussaint.”

     “Yes. Well.” She wet her lips. “I know you have been working diligently with Marius in an effort to prepare a defense for M. Fauchelevent. And I could not help myself from wondering why you would care to come to his defense at all. Make no mistake, I believe he is a good man. I don’t know what he did in the past, and I don’t care to. I have lived with him for over four years, and that is far more than enough for me to see he is a saint, his former history notwithstanding.”

     “But you, monsieur … as far as I know, you’ve only had the occasion to be in his company for little more than a fortnight. So I did not understand why you would feel so strongly for him. But then I remembered how it was that we met, and I …” Her tone dropped significantly. She bowed her head. “You jumped into the river, didn’t you?”

     The blood drained from his face.

     “You don’t have to answer that.”

     Javert fought for a response, but could find none. Rather, he did not understand how this woman could know such a thing, unless—

     “Did he—?”

     “No, monsieur. He did not tell me. But I am not altogether unobservant. There were … signs.”

     A shadow fell over him, and he held his tongue.

     “I was in the hospital for a long time, you see,” she told him. “Watched people come and go. I know the look of someone who has tried to take their own life. That numb, glassy stare. Total apathy towards their surroundings. Dumb, and mute. Sometimes they come back out of it. Others, they had to send them to Bicêtre, or Chaillot.”

     “M. Fauchelevent told me I was not to let you out of the flat without him. He did not give much explanation for it save to say that you were not in your right mind. But I considered your sodden clothes, and when I asked about the bathwater, he spoke of you needing to wash off the silt. Where else could you have been but the river? I saw you sitting there, before the fire, with that look upon your face, and I knew what it was he had meant.”

     “That is why you come to his defense now, is it not? You jumped into the river, and he went in after you. I am not surprised; it is something he would do. And those weeks he spent with you—he was trying to heal your mind, yes? I have not told anyone of this—nor do I plan to—and I would not have brought it up, but it has become relevant now. I must ask you, monsieur—are you going to use it in your testimonial?”

     He was silent for a number of breaths. “I would,” he finally said, his voice hushed, his head hung in shame, “but they would think me mad, and then nothing I said would be of consequence to them.”

     The old woman pondered over this before giving a slight nod. “Yes, I could see how that might affect things.” She gave a sigh. “In any case, I want to thank you for standing up for him, whatever your reasons may be. You do not understand what it means to me, or to Cosette.”

     “I think I do.”

     She looked up at him, scanning his expression. “Perhaps, yes. Perhaps you do,” she said. Then, “If there is anything I can do to further aid in the endeavor, I will gladly do it. I will testify in court, if you think that it would help. I’m sure Cosette would, too, but the poor girl does not deserve to face a jury like that, and I am not sure she has the strength for it just now.”

     “That is good of you, madame,” he managed to say. “But I think it would be unnecessary. There are many reasons why a jury might find testimonials from an employee of his to be untrustworthy. I am the only person who can walk into that courtroom without being immediately doubted for reasons of personal bias. And to be fair, I have known him longer than anyone else. We share a … storied history. Though it is not a particularly pleasant one.”

     She cocked her head at him. “Is that so? I hope that it will be enough.”

     “As do I.”

     She paused for a second, her mind apparently somewhere else. “Monsieur, before you go, will you tell me something?”

     “What is it?”

     “Whatever thoughts that drove you to the river that night … Are you past them?”

     He felt a fog of uncertainty fill his soul. “I was.”

     “And now?”

     Javert could not meet her gaze; he felt his face grow hot. “Goodnight, madame,” he said, and then he left without another word.

***

     Javert stood upon the parapet.

     The sky was black. Jean Valjean was dead.

     The water coursed beneath him in the darkness, rushing, rushing, rushing in his ears.

     You failed, a chorus of voices whispered.

     You failed.

     You failed.

     You failed.

     A flash of metal, a bloodied feather, a cry unheard.

     There were no stars. The lamps glowed red. The world, and his chest, were hollow.

     He stared into the void before him.

     He fell.

***

     The sound of his own gasp woke him up, bolting upright like a drowning man gulping down air. It was the middle of the night. Javert was covered in sweat. Tears coursed hot down his cheeks, and his nightclothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

     He reached out in the darkness, and let out a low moan, then clutched at the sheets beneath him, twisting his fingers in the coarse white linen. His gasps turned to panting, and he shuddered, curling into a ball with his arms around his legs and his face buried in his knees. He could not think. He did not want to think. He did not want to consider any of it. Him. The world. Jean Valjean.

     He just listened to the sound of the crickets outside his window and hoped to let them replace the sound of the Seine, and his own screaming nerves.

     With a shaky breath, he laid back down, and wrapped the covers around him, and tried to blot out everything but himself and his bed, and those tiny chirps below his open window. He could not sleep. He had to sleep. He could not afford to lay awake.

     Writhing under the sheets, he tossed his head this way and that on the pillow, until finally his face was pressed against it, with just barely enough room to breathe, his fingers clenched around the casing. This helped to calm him some, in a fitful sort of way.

     The thought crossed his mind that if Valjean were there, by his bedside, as he had once been, Javert would not hesitate to take his hand. He would not jerk away from him, and face the wall, as he had then. He would not resent his presence, or his touch. Truly, he regretted those moments of insensitivity, and ungratefulness, and wished that he could take them back. Wished that he could tell him that.

     But Jean Valjean was not there, and if he did not succeed in court tomorrow, the man’s company was a privilege he would never know again.

***

     In the early morning he rose and drew a bath, and sat huddled in the washtub with his long dark hair draped past his eyes, letting the coolness seep into his soul.

     He was not the man of a year ago: Inspector Javert, First Class, glacial and distant and perfectly sure of himself.

     But if he had any chance of convincing a courtroom of anything, he needed to be that man again, for just a little while.

     That’s right. Jean Valjean was just another defendant. And he, Javert was an officer of the law. His duty was, first and foremost, to justice. That is what he sought, and that is what he, as all other times, was going there to advocate. He could remove himself from this. It was not impossible. This was merely another aspect of his employment. That is what he must portray. That he was of the same cloth as them; that he stood for what they stood for. That what he believed in this matter, they should believe also.

     Slowly he felt the tension leave his muscles, and his clarity return.

     He toweled himself off with a stoic indifference, and shaved. Dressed in his finest clothes, oiled and brushed his hair, and tied it back into a queue. With a strangely vacant air, he exited his apartment, not knowing what might come.

     He left the case notes on his bed.

***

     Jean Valjean had grown pale and somewhat gaunt; he had not eaten in a number of days. Coarse white stubble wreathed his mouth. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been arrested in, as he had little other choice, and the consequence of this—combined with his inner turmoil, and the summer heat—was not pleasant.

     His mind had gone numb from grief and lack of food, and his eyes had taken on a permanently glassy stare. Like a monk he had fasted, and fell into a sort of trance; not for virtue’s sake, but for his own sense of crippling shame.

     He gave not struggle nor protest when they came for him on the day of the trial, binding his wrists once more in chains and leading him in a grim procession through the Conciergerie towards the Palais. Two gendarmes flanked him as another led him by the his manacles into the courtroom.

     He felt as though he were being led into the gaping maw of Hell. Resignation and apathy dulled his brain. And yet beneath this there was a terror that gripped him. He could do nothing for himself; any attempt he made at self-preservation would only serve to deepen his humiliation. There was but one thing he could preserve, and that was his dignity, which he kept by way of silence. It was all that he could do.

     The gendarmes seated him on a heavy wooden bench before the stand, fixing the chain that ran between his shackles to an iron loop in the floor installed expressly for that purpose. Then they sat down on either side of him. He did not look at them as they did so. He did not look at anyone, not directly, and had not done so since his daughter. But the temporary clarity she had brought him—which had only heightened the agony of his soul—had fled, and he had returned to a husk of himself.

     It was an old habit he had acquired in Toulon: the shutting up of his senses. It was the only defense he had against the unconquerable current of events which conspired against him. For when one denies oneself the luxury of feeling, one becomes impenetrable to pain.

     Trance-like, in a sort of spiritual stupor, he sat there between the two gendarmes as the jury began to file in, and then the audience. He could feel their gazes boring into the back of his head. He gave a shudder and grew still again, a shadow falling over his face.

     The Président arrived, followed by the District Attorney, and the special guests thereof, and they took their respective seats behind the bench, guarded by another set of gendarmes, and attended by clerks. Behind them, on the wall, loomed a massive wooden relief of the French coat of arms, and, above it, an iron crucifix.

     Valjean listened to the proceedings like a man in a dream, head down, expression empty.

     The whole of the world was surreal, and he no longer felt a part of it. They recounted the charges brought against him in Arras, and those he’d been accused of since, and he bore them with unflinching, beaten down stoicism.

     Parole-break.

     Theft.

     Highway robbery.

     Two counts of prison break.

     Valjean could not deny any of these. Besides which, arguing on his own behalf would do nothing for him but draw out his misery. And, in any case, the thought to defend himself did not even properly occur to him. He was too lost already; all tears and protestations had long since dried up, having borne no fruit.

     His eyes drifted to the silver flintlock that was tucked into the waistband of a gendarme by the bench. He stared dully at the pistol with the vague longing of a parched man considering the mirage of a distant oasis. His gaze fell back to the floorboards.

     Half an hour passed.

     With no one to argue in his defense, and keeping his silence, the trial flew swiftly.

     “Do you not wish for a lawyer?” Someone had asked him back at the jailhouse.[1]

     He had thought, then, of Marius, simply at the mention of the word, but immediately vanquished the idea of it. He would not—could not—bring his children into this shameful matter any more than he already had. Especially on account of a cause he knew to be hopeless.

     “No,” he’d told him.

     “Then do you plead guilty to the charges brought against you?”

     Valjean had not given a reply.

     In Arras, there had been a sort of honor, a sort of glory in admitting his own guilt. Because it was an act of heroism, and while it was his ruin and damnation, so too was it another’s salvation, and he could feel pride in the act of laying down his life. Because it was the right thing to do. The courageous thing. The kind thing.

     But now, admitting his guilt saved no one. An argument could be made for his immortal soul, perhaps, but given that his silence was more assent than dismissal, this was not really an issue.

     He allowed the current to carry him where it may; he knew any struggle was in vain. Yet filled with fear was he, even still, as he was swept along its path, acutely aware of where it was taking him. He knew that at the end of this river waited an abyss, and he would be cast into it and forgotten. A soul dragged down by the Styx into the depths of Tartarus.

     If only he could close his eyes now, and never wake again! It would be better, he thought. So much better. But he had to endure this, his final trial, his final humiliation, before being allowed the merciful reprieve of death. And even then, that reprieve terrified him beyond comprehension. He brimmed with mute horror, incredulous, unable to understand how any of this had happened to him, or what exactly was happening now.

     The District Attorney gave his closing statements, tidying up the docket he had brought with him and readjusting his spectacles. His voice was cool and confident. “That about sums it up, I believe,” he sighed.

     “If you are finished presenting your case,” said the Président, “and if there are no further comments to be made, then the jury will be allowed a brief span of time to decide their verdicts and this court will reconvene when a consensus has been reached.”

     Valjean’s vision began to dim. He felt as though the jaws of Cerberus were closing in on him.

     And then, from out of that darkness, from out of the murmurs of the rising crowd, rose a voice, calm and clear: “Just a moment then.”

     Still drowning in a cold and numbing dread, Valjean heard footsteps coming from the back of the courtroom. As they neared him, a flicker of recognition sputtered in his brain, the sound of them vaguely familiar.

     He slowly lifted his head as they approached the well.

     Before him stood a tall, dark-haired man in a weathered greatcoat, facing the magistrates with his head held high.

     Valjean’s eyes widened.

     “I wish to intercede on this man’s behalf,” said Javert.

***

Footnotes:

[1] At this point in time, there was no law mandating a council for the defense. You had the right to a lawyer if you wanted one, but if you didn’t wish to be represented, then it was possible to go through a trial without anyone speaking on your behalf. If you didn’t speak up for yourself, it would essentially be ensuring a guilty sentence without actually pleading guilty. This is what happened to Valjean the first time he was sentenced for theft and for breaking and entering.

Chapter Text

“Justice must always question itself, just as society can exist only by means of the work it does on itself and on its institutions.”

-Michel Foucault

***

     Valjean was struck dumb with awe. He stared up at Javert with eyes that were, for the first time in days, completely focused.

     The world had been plummeting, hurtling out of control, and now suddenly it had come to a screeching halt.

     Slowly, Javert turned his head, gazing over his shoulder at him with one eye. It was the color of an ancient iceberg upon a frozen sea, and yet—and yet, for the first time Valjean could recall, there was nothing within it that was not warm.

     He stared up at him from where he sat chained to the wooden bench, bewildered, shocked. Mere seconds ago he’d felt as though he were on the brink of death, as though the stress would suffocate him before they’d even reached a verdict. But his heart, pounding frantically, had just stopped.

     There were many points in his life when someone had kept his safety by way of secrecy and silence. But never once had anyone risen to defend him. And that look in Javert’s eye—that fleeting look—was all at once a heartfelt apology, a declaration of thanks, and a promise of protection.

     It took Valjean a moment to process the enormity of what had just happened. And when he did, he was overwhelmed beyond words. His once empty expression contorted into one of anguish the like of which comes from ineffable gratitude and relief in a time of desperation.

     He had not thought he possessed the capacity for tears any longer. This was proven very, very wrong. They sprung forth anew and streamed hot down his cheeks.

     Javert gazed at him only long enough to see this transition, then returned to face the magistrates.

     Valjean, unable to express himself, and no longer able to withstand the sight of the court, or the magistrates, or Javert, put his face in his hands and wept.

***

     Under the scrutiny of the magistrates, Javert stood his ground.

     This was not the proper procedure for entering a trial and he knew it, but this certainly made a more lasting impression.

     The jury, which had been in the process of leaving their seats, was beset with another murmuration, louder than before, pausing in their tracks. One by one, they began to sit back down.

     The Président’s eyebrows rose. “Inspector Javert!” he said. “I have seen you come and go through this court a hundred times, and almost never have you come in defense of the accused. Why this man? Why now? What is it about him that you feel is worth your intercession?”

     “I will clarify that in a moment. But beforehand, let me address the charges brought against him. Firstly, the sentence for the initial charge of theft and property damage was already carried out in penal servitude, along with the additional sentences for the subsequent escape attempts he made in Toulon, so let us consider those moot.”

     “Yes, that is well. They are moot.”

     “We then have the two remaining counts of theft, his broken parole, and final prison escape, during his second stint in the galleys.”

     “Two counts of prison break, actually. Once before he was sent to Toulon.”

     “Yes, I will grant you that; he did indeed escape from another prison also before his transfer. But if your honor will allow me to continue …”

     “I’ll allow it.”

     “Thank you. I wish to speak foremost on the theft of which he was charged and sentenced for in Arras.”

     “Which one?”

     “The former, your honor.”

     “He stole an entire set of antique silver. From a Bishop, no less!”

     “And if that Bishop were alive today he would tell you that he gave that silver willingly to the accused, as an act of charity, and that the gendarmes failed to take his word on it, despite releasing the man from custody at his behest.”

     “The man confessed to the crime himself,” the District Attorney argued. “In court. ‘I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop,’ he said. Right here.” He poked at the docket before him for effect.

     “I know,” Javert said. “But it remains that the Bishop chose not to press charges. The matter never made it into court at all; the only reason he was charged with it to begin with is because I had earlier remarked upon my suspicion of the theft, and then he admitted his own guilt in court.”

     “But there you have it, Inspector; he admitted guilt. Charges can be pressed retroactively after admission of a crime, in which case the defendant is automatically given a guilty sentence.”

     “I ask for your patience, monsieur. Let me remind the court that in such a case wherein the victim does not press charges, and is not in any apparent need of protection—such as a case of stolen property—the decision to press charges falls squarely on the District Attorney.”

     “Yes, and the District Attorney chose to press charges.”

     Javert glanced to the side somewhat; the tone of his voice dropped. “Retroactively. He retroactively pressed charges. But his reasoning for doing so was inadequate.”

     “And why do you say that?”

     “The law, I feel, in this case, has little reason to circumvent the Bishop’s decision. The matter of such things is indeed a personal one first and foremost, and if the wronged party chooses not to bring the law into the affair, that is their business.”

     “Whatever the truth is, whether Jean Valjean stole that silver at first or not, the fact remains that the Bishop insisted that he was innocent, demanded his release, and then bestowed the set of silver on him as an act of charity. This we can be sure of from the words of the gendarmes, whom I had questioned on the matter.”

     “If Valjean did steal from him, then the Bishop chose to forgive him this, to lie on his behalf to the gendarmes, and to grant him in fairness that which he had tried to steal. It was an incredible act of clemency. A Christ-like act of compassion and mercy. Should we then ignore this act? Shall we deem the Bishop’s forgiveness of the trespass inconsequential? I see not why we should.”

     “Furthermore, I believe the charges should have been dropped due to the fact that the crime occurred eight years prior to them. And during these eight years, there accrued a great deal of evidence suggesting the man’s subsequent reform.”

     “You are speaking of his deeds as mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, I presume?”

     “I am.”

     “Mm.” The Président drew in a breath. “Javert,” he began, knitting his hands, “I shan’t dispute anything you’ve just said, as it is really a matter of personal opinion; however, I would remind you that the man was already tried and sentenced in Arras for the aforementioned charges of theft. If you wished to argue the fairness of that trial, you should have submitted an appeal.”

     Javert gave a slow nod. “Your honor, again, I had not the time for such a thing before these proceedings. You see, my own opinion of that verdict has only just recently changed as well. I am aware he was already sentenced for those charges. But I hold now that the sentence was unjust, as the charges should have been dismissed. Still, it is not merely in the name of declaring a mistrial that I bring those charges up.”

     “Then why have you?”

     Javert lifted his chin, meeting the man’s eyes. “I feel that the nature of the accused’s former deeds as perceived by the people of the court will skew their opinion of him in such a way as to not be fair, and in such a way as to decidedly alter their verdict of this trial. Before I make my case for the charges at hand, I wanted to clarify those of the past, because I believe it relevant to the matters we’ve come here to settle today.”

     The Président wet his lips. He searched Javert’s face. “I will permit it,” he said begrudgingly. “Continue. You say ‘charges’. You feel the charges, plural, were unjust. You dispute the count of highway robbery as well, then? That is no small thing. He stole a forty-sou piece of white from a little Savoyard. A child!”

     Javert lowered his head. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

     “What was that?”

     “The crime was unintentional,” he muttered, somewhat louder than before. “The boy was tossing the coin and it rolled into the underbrush; he saw Valjean sitting there, he asked for it back, and Valjean did not have it on his person to give. The boy believed it stolen, he called him a thief, he cried insults at him; Valjean yelled at him to go away. Perhaps he threatened violence, perhaps not; the story was imparted to us by a frightened child, and we must take that into account. In any case, he did not actually harm the boy at all. Nor did he directly take his property. The most we can assuredly say of the matter was merely that Valjean spoke gruffly to him and warded him off.”

     “This should not come as a surprise to anyone. The defendant was troubled. We must reflect that this happened almost immediately after his departure from the Bishop, who had just saved his life and bestowed upon him a small fortune. Such a monumental event does not lend itself to clarity of the mind. He was likely lost in thought at the time, and unaware of what all was going on around him. It was only after the child left that Valjean found the coin on the ground. It was not … It was not an intentional theft. Your honor.”

     “Moreover,” he said, “it is a fact that he attempted to find the boy and return it to him. He asked a passing priest, whom he donated to, if he had seen the child. He asked around the village up ahead. He tried to explain what had happened, tried to seek assistance in finding the little Savoyard, but no one in the village had seen the boy, or heard his name before. It is evident from these efforts that the man did not intend to steal; he made every attempt to restore the lost property, but the task proved impossible. That is a fact. That is a fact!”

     The District Attorney threw up a questioning hand. “And how do you even know all that?”

     “Because I was there!” he exclaimed, casting a glare at the man. “Because I investigated the matter! Because I asked around the area, and have a halfway decent memory! Because I’ve been hunting that man for decades and I know more about his past than anyone else on this earth!”

     The Président pressed the tips of his fingers together atop the bench. “I would ask that you curb your tone, Inspector. Your considerable expertise on the matter is noted.” He gave a sigh. “Monsieur Girard, you may continue.”

     The District Attorney glanced at him, then back at Javert, with a considerable frown. “Inspector,” he grumbled respectfully. “Even if both charges had been dropped, and he was never convicted of them, there remains the incontestable truth that he broke his parole—he failed to show his yellow passport upon entering the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, he subsumed a false identity, upheld that he was someone he was not, and committed forgery on countless legal documents to that end.”

     Javert’s fingers twitched at the edge of his sleeve. “Forgery is—that is not the definition of forgery. Forgery would be a factor if he was assuming someone else’s identity. But before he arrived in that town, the man known as ‘Jean Madeleine’ never existed. He was never charged with forgery; he was merely calling himself by another name. That’s not illegal.”

     “It is when you’ve a parole to keep,” said the man. “And he deliberately failed to do so. That is a crime in of itself. And you know what the penalty for recidivism is.”

     Javert growled under his breath. “Recidivism? Recidi—” He threw up his hand, gesticulating wildly. “So he broke parole. So he broke parole! What is that to you? What is the purpose of parole? To ensure the continued lawful behavior of released convicts. To forcibly persuade them to reform. That is the end of the matter, that is the reason such systems are in place. And what was he, in his time in Montreuil, if not lawful, if not the shining example of reform? Do you even know who he was, back then? What he did? The things that he accomplished? There was a reason the King appointed him mayor—not once, but twice!”

     “His honorable majesty the King would not have appointed him such a position at all if he’d known the man was an ex-convict,” the District Attorney insisted.

     “That is assuming he would not appoint him for fear he would behave in a criminal manner whilst in office, which he did not,” countered Javert. “I would know, because I was present for his entire term. He broke no laws during his stay and served his duty with more diligence and care than anyone could have rightly hoped for. And let me remind you that the reason the King was made aware of his upstanding nature, made to feel him worthy of appointing mayor, was because the then Prefect of Police of the Pas-de-Calais himself recommended him as a candidate. And the King had to appoint him twice because the first time, like Caesar, he refused it; he was too humble. But the public cried out for his acceptance of it, and he was forced to relent.”

     “The man did not even think himself worthy of the job and yet he excelled at it infinitely more than his predecessors. There was a time I can remember, and I am sure even you can remember, that the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer was the envy of every town in the Pas-de-Calais!” he said, throwing out a hand. “There was not a single one of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissement which was not indebted to him for some charity or rendering of aid.”

     “He revived the jet industry; the town prospered at his hand. He funded the building and maintenance of schools, and hospitals, and dispensaries. Funded reserves for the old and the infirm, who could no longer work. Out of pocket. Out of pocket! This was before he was even appointed the mayor. The man spent over a million francs of his own earnings from that factory on improving the town and the lives of the people therein. And he spent next to nothing on himself. He lived along the ramparts with the poor; he ate black bread. This from a man who had hitherto never possessed a considerable amount of money in his life, who had once resorted to selling everything he had in order to feed his sister’s family.”

     “So you see,” he said, lowering his voice and touching his forehead, “he understood; he understood the hardships, the suffering of the less fortunate members of society—for he had been one. And he aspired to make it so that the circumstances which drove him to fall on the wrong side of law never befell anyone else to begin with. The amount of crime in the arrondissement from the time of his arrival to the time of his arrest dropped more than thirty percent; I can attest to that number. That’s more than a third of all kinds of arrests that never had to happen, on account of his influence.”

     “The man was …” Javert clutched his brow. “If I had not had reason to suspect him as a convict, I should have revered him. But I … did not believe that such benevolence could possibly be true. Did not believe that any man could be so charitable without something, something he was hiding. And the man was a recluse, was quiet as a dormouse, was hardly to be seen at public events. He made every excuse to escape conversation, unless it entailed some noble cause for which his knowledge or his charity could benefit. Behind his goodliness there seemed to be nothing else, and I conceived of it a mask for darker deeds. But I am convinced now of its genuineness.”

     “And what has wrought this change of heart in you, Inspector?” the Président asked, resting his chin in his hand. “Because, if I am recalling correctly, you were the one to implicate him as an ex-convict, and you were the one who led to his arrest.”

     Javert’s head drooped a little. “I cannot refute that; it is true. I am the cause of his downfall. I, and no one else.”

     “Surely, then, at the time you believed him a danger to the public?” He glanced down at his docket once more, rifling through the pages. “It says here that you once …” He cleared his throat. “You once testified that Jean Valjean was, and I quote, ‘very vicious, and much to be feared.’ And that it was only with ‘extreme regret’ that he was released from Toulon at the end of his sentence.” The man met his eyes with a look that demanded an explanation.

     “That is …” Javert’s words had dropped to a hush. “I told you, I believed, at the time, that his kindness was a merely a front.”

     “Speak up, will you, so that the rest of the court can hear?”

     Javert gave the slightest cringe, endeavoring to raise his voice, “I did not … come into the situation without bias.” He was scratching at his coat sleeve again. Such a tiny, frenetic, betraying action. “I knew of Jean Valjean only what I had seen of him in the galleys, which was, at the time he came to Montreuil-sur-Mer, a considerable number of years earlier. And at the galleys he was … frighteningly strong, and he made many escape attempts, and so he was labeled—and was, in my mind—a dangerous criminal.”

     “But these fearsome aspects are things the galleys impart to many men,” he said, regaining his confidence and shaking his head. “It must be remembered that the reason he was sentenced to them in the first place was only because he had stolen a loaf of bread to feed his starving family in the midst of winter. He was a tree pruner, of the provinces, and as such his work was seasonal. His sister, whom he lived with, had numerous children, and her husband had recently died, leaving them nearly destitute.”

     “Who here can say that they, in the same situation, would not do the same as he? Who here can say that they would rather watch their loved ones die than break a law? The man was never violent or vicious in anything more than his appearance, and his appearance was due to the harshness of the bagnes.”

     “You have quoted many things said at that trial in Arras,” he continued. “That is the official transcript; it may omit details that particular clerk felt unimportant. I do not know. But I have with me here a written testimonial from a member of the jury that day, which was gathering dust in the archives, and which I doubt you have had the occasion to read.” At this he produced from the pocket of his coat a packet of papers, folded in two. “You may take it;” he said, approaching the bench and handing it to the Président before stepping back, “that is well. There is a police stamp on the front of it verifying its authenticity. Keep it; deliberate on it. I have read it so many times in the past few days that I can quote it from memory.”

     “One such quote by the defendant, was ‘I have done my best,’ and ‘I have tried to reenter the ranks of the honest.’ If it is not already plain from what I have told of him, the man had strived to reform himself. He said, ‘The infamy from which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys make the convict what he is.’ And then, ‘Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me, as severity had ruined me.’”

     “He was speaking here, I believe, of the Bishop of Digne. Of how the man called for his release, and gave him mercy instead of condemning him. Of how he gave him, in the form of a pardon, and infinite wisdom, and a set of very valuable antique silver, the means with which to start a better, more honest life. And I think, your honor— It is my conviction that ever since that day, he has.”

     Javert took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Now, I doubt that the jury has been made aware of what happened at the trial in Arras. I myself was only made aware of it less than a week ago. And it is one of the reasons I have had, as monsieur has so eloquently put it, ‘a change of heart.’”

     “While I had implicated M. Madeleine—the then mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer—as a wanted ex-convict living under a false identity, my assertions were quickly dismissed, and I was told by my superiors that I was obviously mad. For you see, the ‘real’ Jean Valjean had already been found, and was about to be put to trial in the court of Assizes. He was calling himself Champmathieu. There was a slew of evidence that he was really this convict, Jean Valjean. I myself traveled there to confirm this; I recognized the man immediately.”

     “It was a case of mistaken identity. The man Champmathieu was not Jean Valjean. But he resembled him perfectly, and their histories shared a number of things. No one could rightly be blamed for confusing the two. So this innocent man was going to be put to death for crimes which he did not commit, and buried under a name that was not his, and remembered only with disgust.”

     “I myself, having just seen in Arras what I believed the true offender, and having thought I had wrongly accused the mayor of being someone I did at that point think to be a ‘very vicious’ criminal, went home to Montreuil-sur-Mer with my tail between my legs. I reported to the mairie; I denounced myself to him immediately. I explained what I had done—evidently, as it were, in error—and requested that he dismiss me for my impudence and my egregious show of disrespect.”

     “The man refused. He insisted that I was an upstanding officer, whom he esteemed, and that my honesty on the matter ought to be commended. He told me that I deserved to be promoted rather than degraded. All of this came from the man who, as we know today, was the real Jean Valjean.” He paused, clasping his hands behind his back and wetting his lips. “Let me rephrase that. I had just walked into this mayor’s office, told him I’d tried to have him arrested and subsequently guillotined, explained my utter contempt for his true identity, unwittingly told him another man was to be put to death in his stead, and then asked him to expel me from the police.”

     “And he complimented me, and he thanked me for my honesty, and he tried to convince me to retain my position. Tried to convince me I deserved better than my position! And in the midst of all this, without expressing any particular concern, he inquired as to when the man’s trial was to be. Thinking nothing of this, I told him it was the following day.”

     “The next morning, completely unbeknownst to me or anyone else in the town, he rose before the sun, hired a driver, and set out for Arras. He arrived in the middle of the trial and sat behind the magistrates, who had welcomed him into the court as a person of honor. Then he waited until his old chain-mates from Toulon had been brought out to reaffirm their recognition of this Champmathieu—this man who had been mistaken for him—and then rose from his seat, and declared himself the real Jean Valjean.”

     “The entire court was in disbelief. They thought he’d gone mad. They called for a doctor. He dismissed them; he begged them to listen to him, to let the other man go. Then he recounted various personal details of those old galley slaves who had been brought in, which only a former acquaintance could have known. Methodically, without raising his voice or losing his composure, M. Madeleine proved himself to be the real Jean Valjean, effectively dooming himself to execution for the sake of saving an innocent man, who was a complete and total stranger to him.”

     Javert bit his lip, struggling to articulate himself in a professional manner. He swiveled on his heels, facing in turn the jury and the magistrates, and throwing up a hand. “Does that kind of honesty, that humility, that self-sacrifice even unto pain of death in the name of justice, true justice, mean nothing in the face of the law?”

     He let out a breath and shook his head, composing himself. “The magistrates of that court were so struck by this display that they allowed him to go free—which I would emphasize to those presiding over this trial today.”

     Here the District Attorney, who had not spoken in some time, voiced himself. “They later called for his arrest,” he muttered.

     “Yes,” said Javert, “but their hesitation in doing so ought not to go unremarked. And furthermore, though as a recidivist he was facing the death penalty, I would remind the court that the King himself once more stepped in and granted him a lesser sentence, which was that of hard labor for life instead of execution.”

     “Also, to his credit, when the defendant left the courtroom, it was with the open invitation, and honest expectation, of his own impending arrest. He said that they would know where he was going—which was back to Montreuil-sur-Mer—and that they could have him arrested when they liked. And the reason he left was to complete a pressing business in the town while he still had the time and life to be of use to it.”

     “When the order came that night for his arrest, it was sent to me, as I had implicated him to begin with, and was the acting officer of the arrondissement. And when I went to retrieve him, he did not resist me; he went willingly, of his own accord, and allowed me to conduct him to the nearest prison.”

     “From which he immediately escaped, by bending the iron bars and climbing out the window!” The District Attorney exclaimed. “That was a mere decade ago. If he had the strength and the cunning to do that then, do you honestly expect us to believe the man is no longer dangerous?”

     “I am not—” Javert drew in a deep breath. The man was grating on his nerves. “I am not saying he no longer possesses the ability, or the capacity, to commit harm. I am saying that … it is no longer in his nature to do so. Nor has it been in a very, very long time.”

     “Javert,” sighed the Président, “if what you are saying is to be considered—those charges of theft and robbery dropped, and his broken parole … shall we say, overlooked—it still leaves the fact that he twice broke out of prison. Which is, actually, the main reason we are here today. In fact, as I hear it, he faked his own death to get out of Toulon the second time.”

     Javert gave the man a curt nod. “This is true. But if we were to agree based upon my testimony that he should not have been charged for the crimes for which he was sentenced in Arras, then he should not have been put in the galleys to begin with, and so he would not have had to escape.”

     “He did not have to escape at all.”

     Javert bit the inside of his cheek. “If a sentence is unjust, I think—I think that prison-break at least becomes a little more understandable, no? Even if it is against the law. Because, monsieur, your honor—and I hate to say this, but—sometimes, at least in my experience, the law is … mistaken.”

     “That is a bold statement to make, Inspector.”

     “But I hold that it retains a kernel of truth. For if the judicial system was always, in every possible case throughout time, completely just, then why should we have reformed it so many times?”

     “You make a point,” the man conceded.

     “I should hope so. It was not an easy revelation for me to have myself. The law has been the whole of my life; that, and nothing more. I have devoted myself to the pursuit of justice. I once thought that justice and rigid application of the law were one in the same. But I have found that there are, at times, discrepancies between the two. And it was … it was this man who compelled me to this revelation. Not by his own words, no; he never tried to sway me. But his actions, messieurs—his actions spoke volumes.”

     He let out an exasperated breath. “You say … he faked his own death to escape the bagne of Toulon. That is correct. But do you know the particulars of it?”

     The Président pressed his hands together against his lips, his chin resting on his thumbs. “Enlighten me, Inspector,” he sighed.

     “Valjean’s chain gang was working on the deck of a battered ship, the Orion, which had stopped in the port for repairs. There was a terrible storm brewing. The winds were fierce. A sailor, who had been up in the rigging, slipped and fell from the mast, only managing to grab hold of a rope halfway down. However, he had much difficulty climbing it, and the storm was growing worse, and he was losing his strength. The defendant, observing this from the deck below, begged his supervisor to break his chain, so that he might attempt to rescue this man.”

     “The supervisor agreed; Valjean was set loose, and he scrambled up the rigging in the rain, dropping down on a rope beside the exhausted sailor, grabbing him, and climbing back up to the mast. It was only after he saw the man safe that he slipped from the rigging himself and fell into the sea.”

     “He was waiting for an opportunity to escape,” the District attorney pointed out.

     “Possibly, but that is beside the point.” Javert told him. “He rescued the man either way. Besides which, this is not the first time he has risked his life to save that of another’s. For example, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, there was an old carter that disliked Valjean, then known as Madeleine, for political reasons, and was not at all hesitant to voice this. One day his cart overturned on him, a heavy, monstrous thing, and it was slowly both crushing and suffocating him under its weight as it sunk into the mud. A large crowd gathered around, but none could lift the thing; the man was struggling to breathe and begging for help. It was then that Madeleine appeared.”

     “I was there already—I had been summoned by the townsfolk—but I could do little more than anyone else, which was to wait for someone from the other town to arrive with a jack. Madeleine implored the people to try lifting the cart again, even offered a reward for it, a ludicrous amount of money, in the hope of inspiring their courage. I told him it was pointless. I told him that there was only one man I knew capable of lifting such a burden, and that had been a galley slave I’d known in the South. I was referring of course, to him—rather, to Jean Valjean, or as he was known then in the bagne for his remarkable strength, ‘Jean le Cric’.”

     “Madeleine already knew I suspected him, I would guess. He must have known I had been prowling about the town for ages, asking about his background. And he must have known that if he used his incredible strength to lift that cart, that it would only damn him further in my eyes. But no one else would step up, and the jack-screw was yet far away, and so he did the unthinkable; he slid into the mud beneath the cart and began hoisting it on his back.”

     “Even for a Hercules or an Atlas such as himself that cart was far too much to bear. I think it would have crushed him too, had his display not inspired the other people in the crowd to rally behind him and try to lift it all together. It paid off; the cart was lifted just long enough for both men to escape, and though the man’s leg and probably a number of his ribs were broken, he survived. And so Madeleine risked his own safety, in more ways than one, to save a man who very openly despised him. After this, of course, the old man had not a lick of spite in his heart for him; he rather worshipped him like a saint.”

     “And perhaps he was not wrong to do so. Truly, the acts of selflessness Jean Valjean has displayed in these past few decades are innumerable. The very first night he arrived in the town, for instance, there was large fire that had broken out in the town-hall, trapping the children of the captain of the gendarmerie inside. The defendant, having only just crossed the border, saw this, and—without a word to anybody—ran into the burning building, pulling the captain’s two little boys from the flames. They both survived, thanks to him. That was the beginning of his legacy in Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

     “As another example, when he was mayor, there occurred an incident in the town where a woman was wrongly accused of assault, when the truth of the matter was that she was only acting in her own defense. She was dragged to the station-house; she was about to be shipped off to prison. She begged for her freedom, insisted she had not spurred the attack, but none would listen. She said she had a young child, who would be turned out on the streets without her support. But again, no one cared. Perhaps they thought she did not even have a child.”

     “During this scene in the station-house, Madeleine had been outside, questioning the onlookers who had witnessed this attack. Divining the truth of the situation, he betook himself to the station and demanded her release. Mayors do, in these matters, have authority; and so she was relinquished to him. The woman was poor, and starving, and very sick. He took her to the local hospital. He paid for every treatment they could provide.”

     “It was not enough. The woman had been stricken with the White Death. She died a number of weeks later, but not before he had promised to fetch her child, and make sure that the girl was properly cared for. And that, you see, is why he broke out of prison those times. He was trying to fulfill his oath. The girl was in jeopardy without him; it was true that she would have likely become destitute or died had not someone come to her aid.”

     “And this child, messieurs, is still with him today. For as her mother had died, and she had no remaining family, there was no one for him to bring her to, and so he adopted her, and has been a father to her all these years since. He moved to Paris with her. They lived in a convent for a time, with that old carter he’d saved, who had become its resident gardener, and was happy to assist them.”

     “During their time in this city, I have found no evidence of any wrongdoing, besides that of keeping his peace, which, in his situation, I do not think can be called a crime at all. I would also like to point out that Jean Valjean, under the name Ultime Fauchelevent, was remarked upon by the census of 1831 as being a citizen in good standing of the city of Paris, and was in result drafted into the National Guard two years ago.”

     “Now, I would remind the people of the court that at the time of his draft, he was in fact already over the age of sixty, which is, as you all may know, the cut-off age for compulsory service. This considering, he could have opted out of service, had he wished. However, he did not, and he has performed his duties in the Guard faithfully for those two years—which, I think, reflects well on his character.”

     “Inspector, nearly anyone can be in the Guard, it is after all a mandatory affair,” the District Attorney pointed out. “Besides which, you have been given to pontificating on a number of rambling tales and stories of heroism, but I fail to see why—”

     “You admit that the man is a hero, then?”

     “I— What?”

     “You just called his deeds ‘stories of heroism,’ monsieur. Does that not make him a hero?”

     The man went red in the face. “That is not what I … Look here, I never said that. I only meant that you keep regaling us with all of these stories that have your own personal bias injected into the narrative, and that in and of itself is a strange thing, because I am still not sure what has caused you to care about this man whom you so gleefully condemned a short number of years ago.”

     A frown twitched on the edge of Javert’s lips. “It was over a decade ago, and more like two or three since my original misconception of him first emerged—which, unfortunately, colored much of my perception of him thereafter. And I have already given you a thousand reasons why I ought to have upheld him as a righteous man, but failed to do so on account of my own blind assumptions.”

     “Earlier I recounted how the man denounced himself to save another in Arras, and that is one of the reasons I have reexamined my beliefs of him. But it was not, I confess, what first led me to these newfound convictions, no. There was something else; something which left a profound impression on me. I believe you wished to know why I, personally, felt this man worth defending?”

     “I did.”

     Javert glanced over at the Président. “I know I have taken a great deal of this court’s time already, but if your honor will permit me explain one last time…”

     “Speak.”

     “During the June rebellion, I had been assigned to spy on one of the barricades. A boy recognized me there, however, and I was forced to admit my rank. They bound me to a post in the café they were operating out of, perhaps thinking to use me in a negotiation with the Guard. In any case, when I asked why they did not kill me immediately, they said they could not spare the powder. Later on, when they realized the hopelessness of their situation, and that negotiations were no longer an option, they finally saw fit to execute me.”

     “Yet here you stand,” said the District Attorney, with a grain of salt.

     “Yet here I stand. Because, of all present on that afternoon, that man—” He gestured back to Valjean. “—stepped forward and requested that he personally be allowed to blow my brains out.”

     The Président’s eyebrows shot up. “What! This man was part of the rebellion?”

     “No. He was not part of the rebellion, your honor. He did not go there to fight on part of the revolutionaries, but rather, to attempt to retrieve one of the schoolboys there with whom he was acquainted.”

     “But he contributed to their cause!” The District Attorney exclaimed, rising some in his seat and throwing up his palm. “You say he was a member of the Guard, and yet he failed to uphold his orders! He goes to rescue one of them instead of helping his fellow Guardsmen quell their uprising! Why should we not commit him on the spot for treason?”

     “Firstly, it is likely that he never received any orders. You see, the man has three separate residences within the city, and frequently moves between them. He had only just moved from his main address to one of his apartments at the time of the rebellion. This information likely had not reached the proper authorities yet. And so his orders, if he received any, were likely sent to the wrong address, and there was no one there to answer the door. So it is not his fault if he was not out patrolling the streets.”

     “Furthermore, it was not his intent to bring harm to any of the combatants, be they royalists or revolutionaries. While it is true that he acted as a sniper at the barricade, and kept watch with a musket, there was an ulterior motive to this act. For where they would have had another in his place shooting to kill, he merely gave warning shots. This directly prevented the deaths of both a soldier and an officer of the Guard, who had been watching them from the rooftops. He placed his aim carefully, so as to only scare them away, and made a point of saving bullets. It is a fact I was witness to that when one of the schoolboys offered him some cartridges, he declined to take them.”

     “Moreover,” Javert continued, “the most of his time was spent in tending to the wounded, which he carried off to the tap-room I was held in, and bandaged. Jean Valjean shed no blood at the barricade, nor did he come there with the intent to. But his efforts did keep them safe for a little while longer, and so their leader voiced that he should be rewarded. So, having recognized me, he asked that he should be the one to kill me. Their leader granted this request, and ordered that he take me out behind the barricade and shoot me, past their own dead, so as to not mingle our blood.”

     “When we had surmounted the little barricade of Mondetour lane, and were past their line of sight, he put away the pistol they had given him and withdrew a clasp-knife. I thought that he intended to give me a more painful death in the name of spite—as I had been the cause of all his troubles—and I merely laughed at the appropriateness of it. I was not afraid of death. When he put the blade to my throat, I was resigned that it should be slit—but instead of my flesh, it was the rope around my neck he cut. And then the one binding my wrists, and the one around my ankles. ‘You are free,’ he told me. And he fired a shot into the air. I have never been more astonished.”

     “In short, he specifically tasked himself with executing me, so that he might draw me away from the rebels without suspicion and save my life instead. This he did knowing full well that I recognized him. That if he should make it out of the barricades alive, I would arrest him. Make no mistake; at the time, I assured him of this. Given our personal history, and his vulnerable position, he had no reason to let me go. Yet he went out of his way to save the life of a police agent—the very police agent, in fact, responsible for his ruin—despite knowing it posed an inevitable threat to his security, and even his very life.”

     Javert collected himself and stood rigid, squaring his shoulders. “The sum of my argument amounts to this: should not such actions be worthy of granting pardon for the comparatively minor charges left to his name? It is evident, based upon his history, that the man has been reformed for decades. Yet still the law pursues him. But what good does it do to condemn a man who has already changed his ways? Nothing; in fact, it does harm. He is a benefactor and an honest man—more than an honest man; rather, an admirable example of virtue—and the law would have him put to death! I have been serving this country for nearly forty years now, and in that time, not once did I waver in my convictions about the justness of the law—until he came along.”

     “People of the jury, monsieur le Président, monsieur le Procureur de District—if you were to condemn this man, after all that he has done in good will for the people of France … then you might as well shoot me where I stand, because I would not be alive without him.” He paused for a moment, bowing his head. “I rest my case.”

     He was in the process of stepping down from the well when the usher approached the bench, holding out a scrap of paper.

     “What’s this then?” the Président said to himself, unfolding it. His brow furrowed for a split second, and then his eyebrows raised, both at once, and then just one. He mumbled something to the usher, who bowed his head and returned from whence he’d come.

     The Président cleared his throat. “Ah, messieurs, the bench recognizes Monsieur le Préfet de police, Henri Gisquet.”

     Javert gave a terrible start. The blood froze in his veins. Slowly turning his head, he found the Prefect of Police standing amidst the audience in the gallery, staring at him.

     And just like that, as it had at the river, his carefully constructed world shattered like a pane of glass.

***

Chapter Text

“Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are.”

-Plutarch

***

     “Monsieur le Président,” Gisquet said, turning his gaze to the magistrates, “It would please me to say a few words on this matter.”

     Mon Dieu, Javert thought in a panic, how long had he been sitting there? How much of his testimony had he heard?

     No, no—

     If Gisquet was to mention his previous state—his mental duress, his desperate bid to be dismissed those months ago, the way he’d shown up unannounced at his doorstep in the middle of the night—if he were to call Javert’s sanity into question, even for a brief period …

     And then, then was the matter of that note he’d left the night he’d tried to—

     He blanched all at once.

     My god, the note! How could he have forgotten? The note he’d written “for the betterment of the service”, with all sorts of radical sentiments! Surely the Prefect had gotten it long ago—why hadn’t he brought it up?

     Had he been waiting for Javert to further damn himself, to falter in his service, to confirm the kinds of liberal positions he took and prove himself without a doubt unfit for duty? Had he been biding his time until a situation arose in which he could drag Javert’s name through the mud for his beliefs like he deserved? Denounce him as a turncoat to the public eye?

     And what better a time to do that than this!

     Javert’s stomach twisted. Sweat slid down between his shoulder-blades as a chill shot up his spine. It felt as though he was going to retch.

     He shuddered as the man approached them, hiding his face away and stepping back. Truly, he should have returned to the gallery, or to the side of the defense, as was proper procedure, but he found he could no more remove himself from the well of the courtroom than he could turn his back on a crime in progress.

     Gisquet regarded him as he passed with something like a nod, saying “Inspector,” in a knowing tone that made Javert want to curl up and die. He finally understood what Valjean had meant when he’d said that given the opportunity he’d have rather blown his brains out than suffer such shame.

     “Monsieur,” Gisquet nodded to the Président familiarly, “Some time ago—about a year, if I’m not mistaken—I witnessed something which I believe has relevance to this case.”

     No, no; he was going to—

     “It was very late at night, and I happened to be passing by the river, when I noticed a man standing upon the parapet. It was clear that he was preparing to fling himself into the Seine and commit suicide by drowning.”

     Wait, wait— Oh god! That night!

     He had followed!

     He had seen!

     Then he knew—        

     “I was some distance away, you see, and so I do not think I would have had time to reach him had I tried—but ere I could do anything, this man—” He motioned back towards Valjean. “—came running out of nowhere and grappled him before he could jump. I watched as he talked him down, as he held him there struggling against him until he’d calmed. And afterwards, he led the man away to what I believe was his own home for the night.”

     He turned to glance back at Valjean. “Was that not the case?”

     Valjean stared up at the Prefect uncomprehendingly for a moment before finally realizing he was obliged to give a response.

     “I ….” His voice was hoarse and untempered, small and broken, as though he had not used it in some time, and found difficulty in remembering how to. “Y-yes, monsieur,” he said, a hint of fearful bewilderment in his tone. He had taken on the demeanor of a whipped cur, doing as it was bid and not knowing the meaning behind its actions other than if it failed in them it would get the lash again. “That is true. But, I do not understand why you …?”

     Gisquet ignored the man’s confusion, turning back to address the District Attorney as Valjean trailed off into silence. “Now,” he said, “is such a selfless act of compassion—towards a perfect stranger, no less—not something that ought to be taken into account when judging the character of this man?”

     Javert stood staring at him in shock, barely able to refrain from gaping. His wide, ice-blue eyes probed the Prefect with a gaze inappropriately sharp for such a professional setting.

     But the man didn’t seem to notice, didn’t turn to look at him once. He didn’t even consider him, as though his presence had no relation to the words he’d uttered.

     “On that note,” Gisquet continued, “I would like to explore something for a moment with you if I may. Now, we have all heard the inspector’s testimony. And I will vouch for his character, and his excellent reputation in the Police. Truly, he has never done it wrong, and his record is impressive. He has never been known to take bribes, and has been nothing but honest. So I doubt that he would suddenly relinquish those principles.”

     “Moreover, I can verify the fact of his involvement at the barricades, and the story which he has just told you of it. He was indeed a spy there, where he was, unfortunately, recognized. Immediately after his release, he gave a verbal report to me, explaining how a man had infiltrated the ranks of the insurgents and freed him rather than executing him—after which I sent him out to patrol the banks and the sewers with the rest of the men.”

     “So, that he owes his life to this man, this Jean Valjean, is indisputable. Of the rest, I know only what he has said here today; even so, I feel that surely I ought not be the only one compelled by it. Now, if we put aside the matter of his escapes from prison, which did not, I believe, involve any violence, and are secondary offences, it has been nearly two decades since this man has committed a crime, and he has bent his head willingly to the arm of the law during that time.”

     “There may not be any rulings in effect that limit the number of years since a crime took place during which the perpetrator can be charged with it, but … I think, perhaps, we should pause to reflect on what purpose we would be serving by convicting this man for things he may or may not have done nearly two decades ago. Are we avenging the victims of these crimes? How so? For our own sense of satisfaction, or for their wellbeing?”

     “The Bishop of Digne, I believe, died a great many years ago. So this would certainly not do him any good. And seeing as he clearly did not wish to see this man punished for the theft, he would likely not be pleased with us.”

     “And this little Savoyard, this Petit Gervais—I am sure he is no longer ‘petit’. I doubt there is any way to contact him, but by now he would be a grown man. Can we really be sure that, if he were here today to hear the tale of the man this Jean Valjean had become since that day, he would still wish to press charges? Do we really think that this Gervais would think it just that this man—whom as the inspector has said, has donated over a million francs to the poor and the needy, and to improving the infrastructure of the state—should be put to death over the purported theft of a single coin? Of forty sous?”

     “Is that all the man’s life is worth to us, as magistrates, as fellow men?—forty sous? A set of silver? Can life be measured in such a way? Can all the acts of kindness, and of selflessness, the man has done in these past decades, be lesser in worth than the value of these material goods? Do the state functionaries truly serve their purpose of ensuring justice when they choose to press and to convict upon these charges?”

     “Furthermore, as the inspector has said, the defendant has been in the habit of saving people’s lives. Firstly, the two children in Montreuil-sur-Mer, risking his life twice—and then, the old carter, and that sickly woman, wrongly accused, and later her daughter; also—with his assistance and charity—doubtless many other lives in that town, that would have otherwise fallen prey to hunger or cold, poverty and illness, destitution and perversity. Then, on top of all that, there is the sailor whom he rescued on the Orion, and the National Guardsmen who may have otherwise been dealt killing blows by the insurgents at the barricades. And finally, the inspector himself, whose life the man has saved at a very real and very grave personal detriment.”

     “If such a lengthy list of virtuous deeds does not speak volumes about the righteousness of his character, then I do not know what shall. And is that not the point of the judicial system? To reform the miserable wretches put through its bowels? To make them good and decent folk once more? And if this is not the case—if we do not mete out these sentences in the hopes of reforming them—then what good is the punishment? Why do we do it? Why do we let them walk free again after their sentence is served; why not lock them all away for the rest of their lives, or execute them, even?”

     “The answer, I believe, is because we have faith that there may yet be a divine spark of goodness in each man, and that, shown the correct path, they might follow it and become good once more. And is that not what this man has done? Proven time and time again that he is good? Would you so soon extinguish that spark in him, and take away from the world a man that goes about giving alms and helping strangers? Again I say, the point of the law’s institutions is not to punish merely for the sake of punishment, but rather, for the sake of reform. What use is punishing him if his reform has already occurred? Who benefits from his further suffering? Not the people. Not the state. And certainly not he himself.”

     “To judge him now, after all this time, for mistakes he made so many years ago—to not take into consideration his actions since then—is to deny that men are capable of change. To suggest that once one has strayed from the path of righteousness they can never return to it, and will be forever denied it despite their own actions, their own desires. And I simply do not believe that is true.” He paused in thought, his eyes scanning the floor before rising to look at the crucifix on the wall behind the Président, letting them linger there almost, Javert thought, intentionally.

     “Besides that,” he said, tilting his head a little, “it is the nineteenth century, and the judicial system has undergone a great deal of reform in the past few decades. Does this man’s quandary not bear reexamining with fresh eyes? The law has been crafted of late to recognize reform; what better an opportunity to do so than this? Your honor, messieurs of the jury, in light of all that he has done in the past eighteen years, I believe this man ought to be pardoned. And that is all I have to say about that.”

     After a moment, the Prefect let out a sigh. “I regret I cannot remain to see the verdict,” he said, “but I have pressing business elsewhere, for which I have already made myself late. I trust that, in my absence, you will make the right choice.”

     His gaze drifted to Javert—who had been staring at him for the duration of this speech—and he gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Then he turned about face and slowly walked away down the aisle and out the doors.

     Complete silence followed in his wake.

     It lasted for a number of moments before the Président cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter in his seat. He looked vaguely disquieted.

     The District Attorney, on the other hand, was clearly both fuming and horrified.

     The Président wet his lips. “Well, then,” he said. “If that is the last of the counsel for the defense—” Here he paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the rest of the crowd with nervous caution. “I will give the opposition one last chance to make a rebuttal before we adjourn.” He glanced at the District Attorney. “Monsieur Girard, have you anything to say?”

     The District Attorney swallowed and stood up, surveying the room with a frantic air. “Well, I have stated my opinions on the matter, and my position stands—in the name of the good of the state. The inspector’s testimony changes nothing of what I have said; truly, he has not refuted any of it. The man committed theft, and highway robbery. The man broke parole, and broke out of two different prisons.”

     “Jean Valjean is a recidivist—twice, thrice, countless times over—and would have been sentenced to death if not for the graces of the King. That was the mercy there: that he was sent to the galleys instead of being executed. And he was supposed to be there for the rest of his natural life. Yet he has shown that even being granted mercy, he will continue down a path of crime. The Bishop gives him a set of silver, and forgives him, and what does he do? He immediately commits another theft. He breaks parole. The King stays his execution, and the man can’t even bring himself to serve the lesser sentence.”

     “The man has no respect for the law. He does as he pleases—and you, Inspector, you defend his actions by saying that others outweigh them. Shall we excuse anyone of anything, then, if they have a long enough list of virtues? And good Lord! The idea that he should be pardoned? At the very least, he should be serving life back down in Toulon, as he was meant to! That alone would be a lenient sentence. The idea that we should just turn him loose in the city, to do God knows what—it’s simply preposterous!”

     “The man has trespassed time and time again, for his entire life, and you are telling me I ought to trust that he will suddenly stop? The world has shown him enough forgiveness already; I say he be shown the unflinching hand of authority. You cannot go around defying the law at every turn and not be put in your place for it. It would be anarchy! If you give this man a pardon it would be telling every low-life and scum in the belly of Paris that they could commit whatever crime they liked and get away with it so long as they toss enough of their earnings to the poor.”

     “Is that what you want? Is that really the message that we wish to send? That the law can be bartered with? That the state can be bribed? He must be made an example of. He ought to pay for what he’s done—as is right, as is only just. Are we not here to serve justice? She is not called ‘Lady Mercy’. If you are set on this idea of leniency, well, then, send him back to the bagne, but I will tell you now, it won’t be long before he makes good his escape once more. And then who knows how long it will be until we have him in our grasp again, if ever!”

     “My parting sentiments are these, messieurs. At every turn, Jean Valjean has snubbed the judicial system. At literally every turn! He breaks into a bakery and steals a loaf of bread, and is fairly caught for it. He’s given a sentence of four years, and he fails to serve it out. He tries to escape over and over, until due to his own stubbornness and his own refusal to follow the path of reform the law has set out for him, he finds himself in the galley for nearly two decades! And when he finally, finally gets out, the first thing he does is steal from an honored member of the clergy!”

     “And when he is miraculously forgiven for that, and even given a whole set of silver, he sets out onto the road and not even a day later steals a week or two’s earnings from a child. The inspector can claim it was an accident all he likes; it remains that the child reported it as robbery. And if the defendant truly wished to reform himself, he would not have broken his parole! Come now, honestly, what good do you suppose he was intending to do by falsifying his own history? A decade ago, the inspector himself questioned the man’s true intentions, and it is only because he now owes him his life that he’s reconsidered any of it! Surely that is plain to see.”

     “And have you stopped to consider that perhaps the reason the defendant continues to do these outlandish acts of charity is for this very purpose? So that, were he to be discovered, it would render sympathy for him, and ensure a lesser sentence? Well! It worked in Arras, didn’t it? And I would bet you he’s counting on it to work again today! Look at this false humility he cultivates; why, the man hasn’t even risen to his own defense! He’s counting on this heartwarming testimony of the inspector’s—which he no doubt feels he owes him—to save his skin, when the fact of the matter is that he shouldn’t even be ali—”

     “That is enough!” Javert’s voice pierced the air, louder than it had risen in all the time that he’d been there. His eyes were cold with fury; his hand balled into a quivering fist at his side. “You! You, you monsieur …” It took all the strength he had to keep himself from exploding in a fit of rage. The most he could do was lower his volume, but he could not keep the disdain from his tone. “It is men like you that pervert the purpose of the la—”

     “You are speaking out of turn, Inspecto—”

     “You’ve had your say! I think it’s very clear what your position is, monsieur; you only care that rules are followed to the letter, no matter the cost. That you yourself aren’t made to look the a—”

     “Monsieur Inspector! I was not through speaking; you have not been recognized.” He turned to the Président with a look of disbelief. “Nearly everything he’s said today is hearsay, speculation, colored by his own personal opinion! Now he attacks me directly and questions my principles! I am only acting on behalf of the state. He is a functionary of the state as well, and yet look how he disregards it! He has no care for the law save his own interpretation of i—”

     “I have been serving the law for forty years, monsieur; I have no purpose in life but the pursuit of justice. And it is in the name of justice that I have come today. If you are a man of justice as well, and not merely a man of the law, then you will—”

     “Justice is the law!”

     “It ought to be! But you are blind if you cannot see that has not always been the—”

     “We are here to interpret and act on behalf of the law, not to question it’s very existence! What you’re asking is a matter for the Court of Cassation, not an inferior cou—”

     “Order!” The Président banged his gavel and stood up in his seat, raising his voice over the two bickering men. “I will have order in this court! Stand down, the both of you!” He waiting until they had stopped before continuing. “Inspector,” he said, gripping the edge of the bench, “I understand your personal investment in this case. And monsieur Girard, I understand your complaint. The both of you are decent men. While you are in this hall I would like for you at least to act like it. Now. Girard, you were last to be recognized. So long as you remain sufficiently calm, have you any other remarks you’d like to make that support your position?”

     The District Attorney stood for a moment, his expression rigid, before slowly taking his seat. “No,” he said, rubbing his mouth and fixing his eyes on Javert with a damning look, “No, I don’t think there’s anything further I need to say.”

     “Then, Inspector, you may have the floor one last time,” the Président sighed.

     Javert cast a lingering, scathing glance at the District Attorney before turning his face away. He gave a long and shaky sigh, covering his eyes for a moment, then rubbing his temples. When he looked up again, he was calmer, but not by much. The dread which had been brewing in his gut had returned with the Attorney’s callous and perfectly lawful remarks.

     He was reminded again of the man he might have been—must have been—before the river. He had cared little for people’s intentions at the time of a crime, or of their history; such things had not been relevant to him. He’d seen them only as excuses, petty and pathetic, and he’d seen the law as the unswerving road to justice, to order, to peace.

     Surely, at that time, in the hospital with that woman, and with Madeleine—no, with … Fantine, and Valjean—he had been like this man. And the thought of how he must have appeared, from their perspectives, was upsetting.

     Even now, after everything, there was some part of him, some shadow in the back of his soul, that agreed with the District Attorney. It was the guard in him, the soldier and the slave. It was the law itself, faceless. The phantom of his old self, the part of him that had drowned. He saw so much of it in this man before him at the bench, and he knew that they were not wrong—on technicality, at least—but they were … inconsiderate. Unfeeling. And he had not believed that to matter in the pursuit of justice before, but now he knew better.

     And just as he had wrestled with himself for so long, now must he wrestle this man, in public, in court, for the fate of Jean Valjean. For the very principles he lived by. He must recompose the argument which had driven him to cause his own demise. And he must win.

     “There are many things that I would like to say to you, monsieur,” he began, “and to the court. But I fear they would not make any sense. Rather, I will say that which might be understood. Foremost, I came here of my own accord. The defendant did not know that I would come. I have not spoken with him. He is likely as surprised at my intercession as yourself. So you cannot accuse him of saving me only to make some sort of bargain. Rather, the both of us expected it would only end some day with me arresting him.”

     “But I have had time to think on things. To reevaluate myself, and my positions. And I think that … he is right. The galleys are indeed injurious. They transform the unfortunate into the reprehensible, the degenerates into the wicked. They are stripped of their names and given numbers, they are forced to endure backbreaking work, and receive next to nothing in return. They are collared and chained to one another like beasts, and treated little better.”

     “The punishment they endure there is supposed to end with their sentence, but it lingers on in the form of terrible discrimination. I was a guard there, you may recall, so I am duly aware of the regard in which they are held. Upon their release, they are thrust back into society and abandoned. Some of them—many of them—have nowhere to go, and no one to return to. And their earnings are a pittance; they must find employment immediately, or starve. But few employers will have them, and even then, they pay them less than proper wages.”

     “Ex-convicts carry the weight of the bagnes wherever they go. They are given a passport marking them as a criminal; they must present this at every town. They must remind everyone around them of their past and the shame they are trying to escape. And, having no choice but to present themselves as evil men, they are seen as evil men, despite their parole, despite serving their sentence. Truly society makes every effort to condemn them.”

     “Should we be amazed, then, if they, stripped of the ability to be honest, resort to dishonesty to survive? Should we further punish those who have already suffered the price of their crimes, and are only trying to start their lives again? Should we condemn a man to death because he abandoned a name that marked him as a malefactor? Because he tried to become someone else—become, in fact, the kind of man the judicial system wanted him to be?”

     “The defendant spent nineteen years of his life in the galleys, and faced the hardship and adversity that entailed. In the eyes of the many he was worth less than a dog. He had no friends and no remaining family. No home to return to, nor even anyone that could remember him. From the world he faced nothing but contempt. That the man has … come out of that, and managed to become what he is today, is admirable, I think. It was certainly something I never expected possible.”

     “But reflecting on his deeds, and our previous encounters, perhaps I should not have been so surprised. Despite my being his adversary all these years, and hunting him, and treating him like a corrupt and vile man, he has been nothing but respectful to me. And he has done nothing in the course of these eighteen years which has not, as far as I can see, been done in the name of good. What he has risked, and given up, on behalf of others, is no small thing.”

     “If you sentence him to death—or to the galleys, which is another form of death—then you would be saying that … that reform was never the point of the system. That it only exists to crush those who have fallen astray. You would be saying that no matter how much you work to, and want to, be an honest man, and no matter how much of yourself you devote to the path of righteousness, you can never be redeemed.”

     “If you condemn him now, it would be telling every hapless man and woman in France that it doesn’t even matter what they do, society will never accept them back into its ranks. So why should they try to reform their ways at all, if the country does not recognize reform? If the law only serves to punish, and not to guide?”

     “You go to your churches every week, and you pray to your god to forgive you your sins. But can you forgive another’s? You pray for enlightenment, but do you seek understanding? You see honesty, and humility, and self-sacrifice as virtues, but do you recognize them in others? Or do you see only what you wish to see, and, seeking godliness, turn your backs on your fellow men?”

     “A magistrate’s and a jury’s duty is to interpret the law, and sentence accordingly. My interpretation is that … the law was created to bring order, and fairness. If the law is only a tool to be used as a sword, and not a shield, then how can we say it was forged to protect? It is our own citizens we wield it for, and against. Perhaps a little more thought should be put into its application. That is what I think, messieurs; that is what I have come to understand. And it is my hope that you can understand it also. Because if you can’t, then …” He withdrew the little round glass piece that was his badge from his pocket, clutching it tightly in his hand and staring sadly at the lettering. “—then I don’t know what it was that I’ve lived for.”

     His eyes lingered on his name, and his rank, and the signature of the Prefect below them, and he thought of himself, and Jean Valjean. Of their lives, and their deaths. And he wondered if there was any point to them at all. And he hoped, against hope, that there was.

     He bowed his head, and put the badge away. “The defense rests,” he said.

     The room was quiet for a moment. There seemed a certain gravity in the air.

     Then someone shifted in creaking seat, and the spell was broken.

     The Président, who had leaned back in his chair, and had been gazing at him solemnly, sat up. “Well, then,” he sighed, “If no one has anything further to add, the court will now adjourn to discuss what has been said, and decide upon a final verdict.” With this he banged his gavel once, twice, upon the sound block. “The session will recommence when a majority agreement has been made. Monsieur Girard,” he added in an aside, “you will join me in the antechamber.”

     The District Attorney glanced at him with uneasy agitation, rising from his seat, and the two of them disappeared through the door behind the bench.

     Javert watched them go, his gut twisting itself into knots.

***

     It took three hours for the court to reconvene.

     In the interim, Javert sat—beside one of the gendarmes, as it were—on the wooden bench with Valjean. It was against the law for him to interact with members of the jury, and he had nothing else to do, so he remained in the courtroom, waiting.

     Both men stared fixedly at the floorboards beneath their feet, neither speaking, neither daring to look at one another, too full of dread to interact. And then, there was something of the ever-present gendarmes which divided them, both literally and otherwise.

     There was no way to tell the hour but for the distant sound of church bells tolling outside the windows, and between their rings, time seemed to have no meaning. Hours felt like years. The shadows cast from the evening sun shifted position, creeping ever further across the floor.

     At one point, the gendarme sitting to the right of Valjean, without turning to look at him, his eyes obscured by the brim of his shako, murmured “I will pray for your soul, monsieur.”

***

     When the jury and the audience began to file back into the courtroom, Javert broke out in a nervous sweat.

     A few minutes later the usher gave the “All rise,” and they stood as the magistrates entered and took their seats.

     The Président cleared his throat. Touching the tips of his fingers together, he leaned forward on the bench, inclining his head. He closed his eyes for a moment in deep consternation before opening them upon the whole of the courtroom.

     There was nothing but silence and an anxious anticipation in the air.

     The Président let out a short, frustrated breath. The expression on his face was that of a man who was about to do something regrettable. His voice was loud and clear. “A majority verdict has been reached, and I have made my decision. For services rendered to the people of France, and in light of apparent reform, and encroaching age, this court hereby pardons Jean Valjean of Faverolles for the crimes with which he was charged in today’s proceedings, and also those for which he was sentenced guilty in Arras. Provided that he remains on the right side of the law henceforth, and continues to perform exemplary behavior, he is free to go.”

     Javert let slip an awestruck breath. He stood frozen in shock for a moment before whipping his head around to face Valjean.

     The look in the man’s eyes was equally shocked, but it was not directed at him, nor anybody in particular, and it was glassy and far away, as though he were not entirely there.

     “I trust, monsieur,” the Président said to him, “that you will use this opportunity wisely, and prove us all correct.”

     The crack of the gavel resounded through the room like a shot.

     “Court dismissed.”

     On cue, the jury and the audience rose, speaking energetically amongst themselves. They cast furtive, wondering glances at Valjean.

     “Remove his chains,” the Président ordered the gendarmes with a sigh and a sweeping gesture. “Set him loose.”

     The men complied, standing the bewildered man up and opening his shackles. The gendarme who had spoken to him earlier bent and said something quietly to him, which Javert could not make out.

     As he and his fellow guard, and the rest of the court, were leaving, a member of the jury, some nameless but no doubt well-to-do person, approached Valjean, who had not taken his eyes from the gendarmes, and reached out to shake his hand.

     Valjean, having apparently only just noticed his presence, and this action, at the last possible moment, gave a jolt and stepped back, trembling in apprehension of what was surely just a harmless gesture of congratulations. It was the instinctual reflex of a man who was used to being beaten, and Javert recognized it well.

     The jury member, noting the man’s fright with some surprise—and, perhaps, pity—withdrew his hand and merely bowed to him before walking away, casting one worried glance back at him over his shoulder before he got to the door.

     Javert turned to him, studying him quizzically. “Valjean,” he said softly.

     The man seemed to be in a sort of stupor. He stood there in silence, staring off as the jury filed out of the courtroom.

     And then they were the only two left therein.

     “Valjean.”

     Falteringly, Valjean looked up at him. His expression was devoid of emotion, save perhaps for a vague fear.

     “Are you … all right?”

     “W-what?”

     Javert knit his brow. “Valjean. Do you understand what’s just occurred?”

     The man gave no reply, his face unchanging.

     “You have been pardoned. You are a free man.”

     “A free …?”

     “Yes.”

     Dumbstruck, Valjean appeared to regain his wits. His eyes cleared. Focused. Javert could see him gradually comprehend the reality of situation. For the first time he seemed to take notice of the courtroom around them, his eyes sweeping the benches in wonder before landing back on him. He stared at him for a long, long time, with a look of wary awe.

     Finally, the man’s features contorted into a sort of ecstatic anguish. “Javert,” he said, his voice breaking as his eyes grew wet. “Javert …”

     It was as though all the emotion he had been holding back for the duration of the trial now burst forth from its dam and flooded through him.

     Javert gave a start as Valjean threw his arms around him, squeezing him fiercely, as if his life depended on it, and burying his face in his shoulder.

     “My friend,” the man squeaked, “My only friend.” He stood on his toes and, cupping a hand to his face, pressed his lips to Javert’s cheek.

     Javert felt a surge of heat rise to the surface of his skin.

     Valjean shuddered against him. “Javert …”

     Javert stood rigid in his grasp, the corners of his mouth drawn back. Never in his life had he been clutched at with such desperation and such ferocity. He had no idea how to react.

     Valjean choked back a sob and slid down his chest, crumpling to the floor at his feet. On his knees, he wept into Javert’s coattail, reverent, like the recipient of a miracle clutching at the robes of Christ—filled with a fearful devotion at the act of mercy that had been bestowed upon him.

     Javert felt extremely uncomfortable at this. His humility did not allow him to take pride in such praise, or even feel it due. And he derived no pleasure from seeing the man brought so low. Could not bear to see anyone prostrate themselves thusly before him. Especially not Valjean. It was wrong, all wrong.

     Flushed, he turned his face from the sight. “Come now,” he muttered, “pick yourself up off the floor. There is no need for that. It doesn’t suit you.”

     Valjean paused, looking up at him from beneath his mess of untidy white curls.

     Javert cast a furtive glance at him, mumbling, “I did nothing; it was nothing.”

     Valjean stared at him, his face going blank. He blinked. And then he did a strange thing: he laughed. He laughed at him like he’d just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, and he broke out into a helpless smile as the tears ran down his face.

     Javert was dumbstruck by this sudden change. Valjean was laughing because of him. The man was happy. And he, Javert, had made him so. An odd feeling brewed in his gut—a strange lightness, a fluttering, a clenching in his muscles.

     And then the laughter was gone, and dissolved back into sobs, issuing through clenched teeth as Valjean hung his head once more.

     Javert watched this solemnly. His shoulders sagged. “Valjean …” He bent down on one knee, putting his hands on the man’s upper arms in an attempt at comfort. “You …” He glanced away. “You shouldn’t—”

     He grew silent as Valjean leaned into him, his head drooping to rest against his breast. The man gave a hiccough, sniffling and trying to quiet himself.

     Javert gazed down at him considerately. He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that reverberated through his chest. The discomfort that had plagued him only moments ago had melted away.

     He did not like to see Valjean like this. But perhaps in this moment, it was what the man needed. He stared at the trembling figure beneath him, overly aware of just how vast a space they were in.

     Valjean seemed, to him, naked and vulnerable in this place, brought to his knees, sobbing on the floor of the courtroom. It was as though the ghost of the judicial system itself was peering down at him from every wall and empty seat, judging him silently in this, his greatest moment of weakness.

     Javert shrugged off his heavy wool greatcoat and draped it over Valjean’s shoulders, hoping the sheltering weight of it would impart to him some measure of security.

     Valjean’s head lifted a little at that, his sobs ceasing for a second, before he bent back to his breast and fell further against him, devolving back into soft cries.

     Javert felt every shudder that wracked the man’s frame. Unsure of quite what he was doing, he clasped his hands first around the small of Valjean’s waist, then trailed one up to cradle the back of Valjean’s head.

     Valjean, in turn, bent into the crook of his neck, white curls brushing against Javert’s lips.

     Had anyone entered the room in that moment, Javert would have cast a fiery glare at them, daring them to interrupt. But as it was, they remained alone with each other.

     He did not know how long they sat there like that, silent but for the muffled sounds of anguish Valjean tried to suppress.

     Finally he seemed to settle some, and what were once sobs became little more than tiny, gasping breaths.

     “Listen,” Javert murmured, grasping the man’s shoulders, “We ought to get out of here. There will be another hearing soon.” He slid his arm under Valjean’s and helped him to his feet.

     Valjean leaned against him, as though he had no sense of balance anymore, and Javert wrapped an arm around his waist for support as he shepherded him towards the door.

     “Come along, then,” he said softly, “Let’s get you home.”

***