[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 4b/8 [Les Misérables]

[drcalvin]

Read the first part of the chapter


While the girls went to greet their father, Javert remained behind, though he rose from the settee and went to stand the window. The night sky was visible as a narrow strip between the houses, and he took strength from its endless depths.

"We have a guest?" Valjean was saying as he entered, that old gentle smile on his face. There was more grey in his hair and the crow's feet around his eyes had multiplied since last Javert saw him, but the only deep lines cut into his face were shaped by laughter.

Releasing a breath he did not recall holding, Javert bowed deep and spoke. "Inspector Javert at your service, Monsieur. Please, hear me out: I must once again humbly beg your pardon."

He did not answer, Valjean, only stood frozen like a stone. Slowly, his shock seemed to give way, and Javert saw a simmering anger rise in him, which he had rarely witnessed. He recalled it well, though, from the first death Fantine suffered, and found himself straightening in response, almost standing at attention as he had before Monsieur le Maire.

"You are not here to..." Valjean glanced back at his daughters flocked in the doorway, and his mouth thinned and grew stern. "Cosette, Éponine! Please return to your room, for I must speak privately with the Inspector."

Cosette gasped in surprise and Éponine began protesting, but Valjean raised a hand, demanding their silence. "Girls. I will speak with the Inspector in private. And I will do so now."

"As you wish, Monsieur." Dark eyes stared at Javert for a long moment before Éponine turned and walked out, every line in her body screaming of suspicion.

"Papa..." Cosette looked between them once, bit her lip, and left the room, making sure that the door closed softly.

As it clicked shut, Javert wondered at how such a small sound could leave such heavy echoes behind.

Valjean went to the door, laying a hand against the dark wood as if to ascertain that it was well closed. He did not look at Javert as he spoke, though the tension of his shoulders more than revealed that this was not a gesture of trust. "Have you come to disturb our lives?"

Again, Javert bowed, locking his eyes on the heels of Valjean's fine boots.

"No. I will never interfere in such a way again. I did you wrong by my words when last we spoke. What I asked for was necessary, but I delivered my warnings with needless cruelty and I have regretted it ever since."

Javert had been so overjoyed to have a warning, so hopeful that this was finally a way out, that he had not considered how his relief might come off. Perhaps Valjean, heartbroken at leaving Montreuil-sur-Mer, had not been graceful when hearing his words; but then, he had not delivered them with any trace of gentleness.

I know what you are, Jean Valjean. I've always known! Now, others have begun digging too, and it seems your time is up. You'll have to chose - ruin or escape.

Is this what you've hungered for all the time, to see me undone? I thought you ignorant of my past, but now I see you're no better than the rest! You stayed your hand out of comfort, out of greed!

Perhaps because the depth of friendship that had been growing between them, the argument had torn deeper than any other Javert had known. Soon, words were spoken and names were called which should forever have remained unsaid; beast and coward, hypocrite and liar.

And those had been the kindest of the lot.

Still more dog than man! You'd rather doom this town than let go of the mayor's juicy bone? What you've stolen, you'll keep - even at the cost of their souls! Sacrifice them all, sacrifice the girl! As long as 'Monsieur Madeleine' is safe!

How could someone like you understand? Heartless, soulless, clockwork man! You care for nothing but your empty rules, your petty sense of order!

Anger had caused Javert's ill-thought words, but pride was the yoke which kept him silent. He'd meet Valjean in Paris, would he not? He needed only to endure, to do what was right, and destiny would bring them together before the barricades rose.

Stubborn, thoughtless pride. It had made him steel his heart, push the matter out of his mind, until years had passed. And when one day, the crawling months began to fly away on hasty wings, it became clear to him how time, that old poison slowly seeping into his soul, had transformed itself into droplets of gold: precious, few, impossible to catch and hold fast.

Only with death breathing down his neck did Javert acknowledge to himself that he did not wish to soil all the friendly words once exchanged between them by going into another life with this bitter rift left unhealed. Even if tomorrow was another start, he'd never meet this Valjean again. He'd lose him to the myriad differences that near invisible changes and pure chance always wrought from life to life. And what kind of man could replace one friend with another without a second's regret? What kind of rat escaped his obligations through death?

"Why did you come, then? Why now?"

Valjean sounded more tired than angered, and Javert clung to this with faint hope. It had all been much easier in his mind, but he still did his best to speak the truth.

"I can make no excuses for my behaviour. For what I said that night, and further, for not offering an apology in all these years... Forgive me, please. I spoke ill, and regret my anger and my words. It was wrong of me."

Valjean ran a hand through his hair and seemed to sink in on himself as anger left him. "I feared you'd come to chase me away again, or worse. How did you even find us?"

Casting a careful glance at the door, which Javert suspected was not thick enough to keep a pair of curious girls with their ears pressed to the wood from hearing what was discussed, he chose discretion.

"I overheard a certain young man in the Jardin de Luxembourg describe you taking walks with a young companion." He was satisfied of Valjean's understanding when he saw the way his shoulders tightened in annoyance. They could still read each other, then. "After that, I simply made a few enquiries in the area and found your current name and address. Please do not worry, Monsieur. Honest people are more likely to speak with the police than assist the blackguards who might try and hurt your children, and I have not implicated you in any way."

Finally, Valjean turned and unless he was mistaken, the lines around his eyes had softened slightly. "I am surprised to hear you admit that there are honest people."

"Few and far between," Javert gravely replied, "which is why I do not always recognize them at once. Will you accept my apologies, Monsieur le Maire?"

"I am no longer that man."

"Another might also hold the position now, but to me you will always be first beneath that title. And to the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer as well. They still remember you with fondness."

For a moment, Valjean only looked at him, searching. Then, he too bowed deep. "I should - I must - offer you my apologies as well, Inspector. My words then were unjust and far too harsh. My anger should not have been aimed at you, when you only came to warn me."

He sighed and trailed his fingers over the closed door. "And, in hindsight, I see how providence guided even those dark events."

Javert's first instinct was to brush away Valjean's apology, act as if he had never cared about his own hurt. But seeing the traces of old sadness on Valjean's face, Javert found himself nodding instead; they'd both hurt, and now they'd both apologized. It was impossible to pretend it had never happened, but perhaps they might let it go.

They stood silent for a moment, Javert taking in the further changes that time had brought to Valjean. The cut of his clothing was perhaps a bit more fashionable than in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the colours brighter, and he had let his hair grow longer. Was it the lateness of the evening, or did he seem more tired than before? At least that inner light which had taken Javert so many years to see still shone undimmed. It eased an old worry in him, the fear that their fight might have caused this man to grow bitter.

"I would... Javert," Valjean said, enunciating the name so carefully that it appeared he had forgotten how to speak it, "would you do us the honour of joining us for dinner tonight?"

"I hardly deserve such a gesture. Monsieur, you must not - for politeness - No, please, no."

"But it is not for politeness' sake. Indeed," Valjean nodded slowly, as if he was only now agreeing with himself, "I would appreciate it very much."

"I should not -"

"And so would Cosette. She has oft asked me about the town, and I have never been able to satisfy her with my answers. You must understand that it is the only friendly childhood she knows, her only tie to her mother."

Perhaps he should have said no, perhaps he ought to have asked for another day. But time was growing short, and Valjean stood before him, his stance relaxed and an invitation on his lips.

It was impossible for Javert to refuse.

He bowed once more, though only a slight inclination of his head this time. "I should not wish to upset a young lady. It would honour me greatly to accept."

When Valjean called, they at once appeared from a room nearby, and Javert re-evaluated their cleverness. The apartment walls looked rather thin. Especially if one had learned early on to use a glass to hear who was awake and who sounded safely asleep, their gold waiting to be removed, it should not be difficult to overhear more than one ought.

He was bidden to wait in the sitting room, Cosette his company, while the rest of the family prepared dinner. It seemed as if the small size of the apartment, coupled with an illness in her family, had led Valjean to send his regular housekeeper away for the summer.

When Valjean realized that this would give his daughter several minutes during which she could interrogate him alone, it looked for a moment as if he considered fleeing and taking another new name. Then Éponine smiled at Javert with well-rehearsed charm, took her father by the arm, and led him to the kitchen.

If the inspector held the illusion that he had escaped, he was quickly relieved of this when Cosette (hadn't she asked him to sound like a dragon only yesterday?) pressed another cup of tea into his hand and pointedly asked how come he had not written to her as he'd apparently once promised.

When Éponine called, they moved to the dining room and Javert took notice of how Madeleine's sturdy pewter and stoneware table set had been replaced by glazed china and thin glass. Still simple in style, as was the white linen tablecloth, but no longer bringing to mind the interior of a convent.

The first dish was served and it became clear that not even a master of escape such as Jean Valjean could run much longer, not when his daughters were on the hunt for truth.

"Due to my position, I gained opponents in Montreuil-sur-Mer," Valjean began. "I will not name them enemies, for I do not believe they held me personal enmity, but these opponents were digging through my past in the hope that they'd find something with which to depose me."

"But papa, why?" Cosette frowned. "I thought everyone liked you."

Valjean fair squirmed at her question. "They did not agree with my political agenda."

Javert couldn't hold back a snort of disdain. The bourgeoisie of Montreuil-sur-Mer didn't give a whit whether their mayor was a Bonapartist, royalist or republican, as long as he continued to fill their coffers.

On the other hand, if Valjean's improving measures for the poor meant that they weren't allowed to use the town coffers to build fancy statues in honour of their grandfathers? If they realized that a fine hospital for all meant that a rich man no longer received preferential treatment? Ah, then, all bets were off.

"Pardon, Monsieur," he said as he felt three sets of questioning stares aimed his way. "But you must admit that your 'political' agenda mostly consisted of trying to improve the life of the poor. The main issue was the jealousy of a few business competitors, aided by a handful of fools with more egoism than sense. It may comfort you to hear, Mlle Cosette, that a great many regrets were uttered among the citizens when your father left and the complaints had not stilled even when I was transferred."

"I suppose I should be flattered, then," Valjean said, sounding somewhat bemused.

"But why leave? If it was only a few persons who opposed you..." Éponine asked.

"Unfortunately, I am but a man, and as such, there are blots on my character. With Cosette so recently come into my care, I did not dare stay and attempt to fight off my detractors. I had to leave, I left, and it is all behind us now."

Éponine was biting her lip as if she wanted to ask what those blots were, but kept silent.

"I received warning from a superior impressed with Monsieur le Maire's good work," Javert told the girls, as it became obvious that Valjean considered the matter cleared. "Unfortunately, when I passed this warning on, I did so in a most unfitting way. Already upset, we then fell into an argument about what the best solution was."

"It was not one of my prouder moments," Valjean acknowledged.

"Nor mine." And by God, did he not have a fine collection of prideless moments by now? "After that, we lost contact. When I was transferred to Paris, where M. Madeleine had last been residing, I decided to try and make amends."

Silence fell over the table again as Javert finished speaking, and he wondered if he had managed to say too much, or had chosen the wrong words again. Busying himself with his food, he wondered if he would not have done better in refusing the invitation after all.

Opposite him, Valjean was chewing with equally stern dedication.

Éponine remarked upon the quality of the duck, her sister answered, and they managed to fill the air with a few minutes of chatter regarding the markets in Paris. When the topic was emptied, Cosette dared ask Javert for a comparison, and he fumbled for something appropriate to say about the quality of food in Montreuil-sur-Mer compared to Paris.

To his horror, the first thing that came to mind was that no matter how lousy it could be, it was at least always better than at Thénardier's inn. He managed to quell his tongue, and came up with something inane about the easy access to Dutch cheese instead.

If spending decades debating civic improvement and moral problems with Monsieur le Maire had not noticeably improved Javert's repertoire of small talk, it had at least taught Valjean to notice when he was sorely out of his depth.

Clearing his throat, Valjean pulled the attention back to himself. "I do hope that you shall take some comfort from this visit, 'Ponine."

The girl stopped, a bit of caramelized onion slowly sliding off her fork while she looked at her father in confusion. "I?"

"Indeed! You have always worried that we are living such retiring lives because of your roots. I have long told you that this is not the reason, have I not? I know you did not want to believe me, but as you can see," Valjean gestured to Javert, "the good inspector confirms my tale. We live in the shadows, my dear, because of my past as much as yours."

When Éponine grew flustered, Valjean clapped his hands together, and that amazing transformation that had once so confused Javert took place. The worried man, the parole-breaker with secrets in his past, became wholly the respectable father. He spoke with confidence, asking about how his daughters had spent their day. He recalled items from the news sheet which he judged Javert had been likely to read, and they had a short, easy conversation about custom fees. Though curiosity still tinged their features, the girls responded to this perhaps more familiar face of their father. The conversation was lighter during the remaining dishes. When dessert was placed before him, Javert began to tell Cosette tales of those she might have known as a child. Éponine listened as well, though her interest was not near as deep since she had never met any of the people concerned.

The only one who did not ask questions was Valjean, who seemed satisfied to serve the fresh white wine and listen politely. His reticence lasted until the meal was being cleared away, when Javert happened to make a comment about the inherent sin of every man.

Turning on the spot, dirty dishes still held forgotten in his hands, Valjean stood in the doorway and held a passionate speech in defence of the goodness in each soul. Javert's retort was short, to the point, and weighty enough that it would have silenced anyone else. Instead, Valjean handed over his burden to an amused Cosette, wiped his hands on his trousers and pulled a recent treatise on morals from his bookcase. Then he read out loud a passage discussing the interconnectedness of sin, poverty and liberty, his familiarity with the words making it obvious that it was a dearly beloved text.

While Javert had not read this particular treatise, the author was known to him. Not wishing to engage further with the sentimentalism of this particular author, he did not make a direct retort. Instead, he pulled a few quotations from his own memory, which all touched upon the wider issue.

It turned out that Valjean possessed several of the books quoted and did not always agree with Javert's reading of them. While the girls looked on with incredulous smiles, they took out a sizeable part of the bookshelf to aid them. Soon enough, they were retreading the grounds of the old discussion of how kindness weighed against justice, a debate that several lifetimes had not resolved.

Finally, Cosette cleared her throat. Repeatedly. By the time they looked up from where Valjean had been sketching out the principles of salvation on his dirty napkin she was drumming her fingers on the back of a chair.

"Ah..." Valjean put down the napkin and only now seemed to realize that his bookshelf had somehow migrated out over the dinner room. "I'm terribly sorry for ignoring you, my dears. And I must ask you to pardon my atrocious manners."

A light blush stained his ears, moving down beneath his sideburns, and it carried far too much fascination for Javert. Luckily, he was still attentive enough to realize that he, too, had been rude to two young ladies, and hurried to mumble an apology.

"It seems as if I've missed having someone to discuss practical ethics with more than I realized," Valjean admitted, favouring them all with a charming smile.

While Javert silently debated making his escape, possibly through the window, Cosette and Éponine exchanged a glance that spoke volumes in the secret language reserved for young girls.

"No, papa, you don't say?" Éponine finally offered. "I almost thought -"

Her sister might smile like an angel, but if Éponine's jerk was any indication, she could pinch like a devil.

"Why don't you and the inspector clear this room, while we finish up in the kitchen," Cosette suggested. "Then we must beg your pardon for tonight. 'Ponine needs to help me with my sums."

"I do? I do. Absolutely, papa, she forgets as soon as I teach it."

Javert took his farewells of the girls, marvelling once again at the natural elegance Éponine seemed to possess, and the contrast this was to the Thénardiers' unkempt, vulgar daughter who now lived only in his memories.

It was an unfortunate fact that it always took longer to return books to order than it took to yank them off the shelf in the heat of debate. Especially since Valjean insisted on using his own idiosyncratic and impractical system of organization.

They had a discussion about that too, which took a fair while.

When finally the dining room was restored to order, even Javert was willing to accept that they deserved a brandy for their work.

Once Valjean had presented him with the drink, and they had taken their seats, another awkward silence filled the room. Neither man was willing to look closely at the other, not with the spectre of two young ladies giggling at them still hovering in the air.

In the end, it was Valjean who proved the braver man again. He sipped his drink, cleared his throat and spoke, in a falsely disinterested tone. "So, Inspector... You don't still hold to the ridiculous notion that it is better to write the laws so that they bind one innocent man rather than allow one criminal to go free, do you?"

"Certainly I do," Javert said, not in the least recalling what he had last said of this issue - which did not mean that he could not quickly come up with an opinion on the matter. "A truly innocent man will not be in danger from even the strictest laws. If there is doubt enough to convict him, why, then he could not have been so guiltless in the first place."

This opening spar loosened their tongues and they spoke well into the night, moving close to the fireplace and speaking with low voices when Valjean mentioned that the girls were probably asleep.

It was... invigorating. Javert had lacked a conversation partner these last years. They went back to old arguments they had both perfected, enjoying the mental battle. They had both learned more since the last time, struggled through improving texts and committing large swaths thereof to their unschooled memories.

Valjean spoke with pride about Cosette and Éponine's scholarly skills being nurtured in their youth, and Javert was honest in his congratulations. Still, they both knew that for them, true satisfaction was proving oneself to another who understood exactly the struggle behind a hard-earned theoretical example and knew the effort buried beneath each natural-sounding simile. They had both struggled for every crumb of learning, and a victory where the opponent knew the cost of each spar, always tasted sweeter.

Their discussion was familiar now; more than that, it was comforting. It seemed to Javert that, having accustomed himself to having another to exchange thoughts and ideas with, he had become addicted to what he had once spent a life without. That he might find this again, that Valjean would look so gently at him in the candlelight, all the while dismantling every one of his arguments with a surgeon's lack of hesitance, went to his head faster than the brandy.

Comfort, long missed. Time, running out.

Either one alone would not have tripped him up, but together, they made him careless. When Valjean reached for another book, passing so close by him, it was as if his hand took on a life of its own.

It was a light touch; Javert's fingers barely allowing themselves to feel the texture of the sleeve enveloping that still strong arm, before he pulled his hand back and clasped it securely behind himself.

Too much, even so, and Javert knew it even before Valjean stepped away from him; to put away a text, of course, one small step that meant nothing and a lifetime at once.

"I'm sorry," Valjean whispered, "I think it might... It's been years, Javert." He seemed to stare through the closed door, his left hand sliding over the sleeve as if it had been a glowing brand that had touched him there long ago, instead of a mere brush of fingers. "It's been years, and I have daughters. But we have time now, do we not?" The careful hope in his eyes was almost as painful as his placating words. "I believe that I should dearly like to have occasion to speak to you again."

Of course Javert nodded in return, smiled and accepted it. He even stayed another half hour, before he mentioned that he had early work tomorrow, and it was already well past midnight.

Valjean asked for his address, received it, and insisted on paying for a cab to bring him home. They shook hands firmly, like old friends might. Valjean invited him to return come Sunday.

Javert declined; there would be a great deal to do for the police this weekend. However, it would be an honour if he were to be allowed to return the week after that.

Naturally, Valjean said. He would be warmly welcomed.

Instead of directing the cab to his home, Javert had it take him to the Palais de Justice. As he walked up the marble stairs, a great many thoughts flowed through his mind. He paused before stepping out onto the roof, standing in the darkness of the little chapel and simply listened to himself breathe. He felt no fear this time, for he knew now that his progress was real.

The stakes, the lives affected, and the time involved were all rising... but heights had never scared him. No, all Javert feared was the possibility that he was trapped in a place were both depths and heights were mere illusions, because there was no further distance to fall.

It was two hours past midnight when Inspector Javert stepped out on the roof, where he remained until the sun rose. He watched the distant dance of the stars, their movements tranquil above the restlessly dozing city, and he realized that he no longer envied their cold detachment from the world. What lonely beings they must be, to exist only in their own solitary brightness through eternity, while empty nothing surrounded them on all sides.

The first flickers of dawn's flame rose on the horizon. The coming day drowned the buildings in gold and scarlet, painting the circle of glory-filled dreams and bloody realities against the ancient stones of the cathedral. Yes, dreams and gold and blood; Paris had known it all, and she would know all three again, perhaps until the stars themselves faltered.

As the church bells began tolling seven, Javert turned his back on the morning and went down to write the letter in which he would volunteer to spy on the rebellious elements of the city.

It was a sweet summer morning, it was the 29th of May and, in the winding alleys, children dreamed of freedom and prepared to bleed.