[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 6b/8 [Les Misérables]
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It is a curious fact that not only are our moments of happiness the fastest to pass us by (misery always outstaying its welcome), but by trying to cling to them, we only hasten their escape.
Despite how much Javert wished to halt time so that the summer of 1831 might last forever, he found it evaporating faster with each glance at the calendar. The summer which lived in his memories as stretching through languid days, a memory which had kept his courage high during many years, now passed in a wink.
Still, the autumn rains did not cool his heart. It was joy itself to rub warmth into wind-chilled fingers when his dear fool had given away his gloves and been caught in the storm. But, when the sky darkened earlier each night and green trees and gay flowers withered, his anxiety grew.
Winter soon lay heavy upon them; tendrils of smoke rose thick from the city, ashy fingers clutching at the distant heavens with the same longing Javert held in his heart. He imagined their struggle towards the dimming light to be similar to his own attempts at pushing away worries for the future.
Paradoxically, it was when he forgot himself that time both rushed and stood still. When his mind was focused wholly on untangling the particulars of a crime, or in deciphering a complex sentence written by a madman drunk on dry philosophy, he might look up and conclude that he had lost hours without noticing the passing time. It was not merely the gymnastics of the brain that could occupy him; he might become equally fascinated by the crackling frost settling on shacks and hovels, fancying he heard the rustle of the Angel of Death as that great presence passed by doorways and beneath bridges to take the dispossessed from their last shivering night.
Where he most happily would lose himself was in the hot pleasure of Valjean's presence - the scent of his skin freshly bathed but already stained with the proof of their shared delight, the taste of his fingers, of his mouth, of secrets and raptures they might learn anew.
It could not last.
And yet... Hearing his heartbeat, brief seconds spun into an eternity and Javert was content and unafraid.
It could not last; it mattered less and less.
As the cold grip broke and naked branches swelled with buds, Javert knew this calm in growing intervals. There was such joy in each little thing. To speak of the matters that engaged them both until tired words slurred into each other and their eyes crossed, to then laugh at their own foolish antics - they were old and quarrelsome, they were young in loving another - and to fall into sleep next to his dear body, sink together into the soft mattress and dreams alike... To see every line of age and worry, adore every mark of laughter and sun, to love the man who was now, who had been, and who changed into another each morning; to love him whole and imperfect...
It ought not last, not forever.
All these brilliant shards of life; the growing girls and the aging men and the living, dying, struggling city - better to have known them and walked with them for a stretch along their road, than allow them to be defiled by the tedium of stagnation.
So while the slush ruined his good shoes and Valjean tried in increasingly ridiculous ways to make him accept the gift of a new pair, Javert worked through the winter and thought to understand what contentment meant.
It was not that he had capitulated before his fate; nor did he feel certain that he might defeat it. More than once, his fears overwhelmed him: dark memories and the danger of that great loss waiting in the near future. The calendar and the clock and the passing of the days would wear on him and his prayers would increase in duration until they surprised even Valjean; and only Javert knew that not piety but desperation drove him in these moments. On such days, the saints were only stone and the churches piles of brick, while the future loomed too large and he thought to hear the eternal whisper of the river.
But his nights held fewer terrors and he often dared think of tomorrow without recalling how it whittled another day off this world. It was confusing: comforting or frightening, he knew not, and his mind wavered between opposite poles, stumbling through a night both terrible and star-bright.
While the months rolled by, Javert felt himself doubled and doubled again. As the town had once seemed to echo of itself, the pasts and lives and moments swimming together... he who had once been so sharply cut from the law's clear cloth now wavered and frayed at the edges, a thousand little things pulling at the threads of his worn-out soul.
There was the eternal Inspector in his mind, adding up evidence... Always tallying the course of events and planning, calculating, painstakingly building his trap and preparing his greatest case: The Trial of the Barricade. His were the narrow eyes that searched each new face and tried to find the pattern, his was the idea to teach Éponine and Cosette how to beware of armed men and their blades.
Sisyphus feared. Sisyphus longed for end and still woke plagued by a thirst that would not be quenched (for his strength, for his warmth, for those gentle teasing pleasing killing hands) and lived with a hunger that could never be sated (for his thoughtful words, for his clever mind, for the challenging familiar enervating ideals) and his was the anguish and the nightmares of the Judgement that hovered near.
And there was Javert, who loved.
Perhaps, he dared think as the glorious month of May unfolded around them, perhaps all he needed to fit these awkward shards of self together was another to share his love. It was too simple a solution (Solution? What hope had he for an end to this purgatory he no longer wished to leave? To finish was farewell; to begin anew a horror beyond description) for him to believe in, and yet, as he accompanied the little family on their spring walks and listened to Valjean's laughter, as he felt the paving stones beneath his feet and heard the city pulse around him, his hope refused to die.
Two weeks before Javert expected Thénardier to accost Valjean and his family, he was received at Rue de l'Homme-Armé, where they would usually go for private meetings. Instead of greeting him with his usual good cheer, Valjean was greatly agitated, and it took time before Javert understood the particulars. As soon as he did, he too felt his good mood evaporate.
Valjean had received a threatening letter, worded in a similar way and containing the same demands as the threats that had hounded him upon first arriving at Paris. Then, he had dealt with the problem by abandoning his chosen alias of Urbain Fabre and spending a year sequestered in the convent gardens. When Valjean emerged into the world anew, it was as the widower Fauchelevent, father of two young girls. No one had recognized or bothered them again and Valjean had thought himself safe forever, especially once his public work failed to attract attention.
Neither time did the writer appear to have discovered Valjean's true identity. The envelopes were addressed to the current alias, and within, the only name used was M Madeleine and the threats about revealing his past were vague indeed. Instead, and from Valjean's point of view, far worse, the writer went after Éponine and Cosette. Unless paid a staggering sum, he threatened to reveal the origin of the girls and take back 'what was his'; the wording heavily implying that Valjean would not live to see the result.
Once the explanations were done, Javert examined the meagre evidence spread on the table before him while Valjean paced through the sitting room. Of the first set of threats he had received, only two remained; they did not mention the girls by name and so Valjean had saved them as comparison material in preparation for this exact occasion. The other notes, five in number, had been fed into the hearth.
Javert considered the information. He wished to comfort Valjean, but his friend did not seem amenable to gentle words at this moment - more than anything, he needed the strict reliability of the Inspector which he'd recall from their years in Montreuil-sur-Mer.
"I shall of course investigate this, but I feel I must ask. Do you intend to flee again?" Javert asked at last, wondering at his own lack of worry. If Valjean was to leave... but he could not fault him for wishing to protect his family. And much as it rankled, he could not even promise that the law would keep them safe; what had before been an honest vow would turn into a lie unless he caught the traitor within the system first.
Valjean's eyes were dark with anger, but his limp was heavier than usual and his skin felt clammy when Javert reached out and brushed his hand. Still, he shook his head, and seemed not the least hesitant. "I have spoken of this with the girls; they begged me to remain and I am inclined to think them right. The school needs us. Even if I left donations to cover all the costs of running it, Father Michél is too old to organize the help himself. And I," his fist hammered at the table creasing the letter further, until Javert saved the evidence with a wince. "I do not want to leave! We have found a place here, we have built our homes. Must I always run? Must I leave everything behind again, half-done and fragile? I want to stay and see the results of my labours, and see that my daughters grow up in safety." He stopped, the anger seeming to leave him; slowly Valjean sank down next to settee, hiding his eyes. "I am tired, Javert."
"You are not alone in that," Javert sighed. He moved closer, feeling the comforting press of Valjean's shoulder against his own, and took up the note to study more intently. The swoop of the letters were familiar, the choice of words and odd errors hinting at someone unused to writing in the formal tone the missive strived for. He would not swear it before a court, but the thing strongly called to mind his bill from the Thénardier's inn, even without the foul content. While not a surprise, it was good to have confirmation of his immediate suspicion.
"Will you assist me?" Valjean asked. "Or am I foolish to risk -"
"Of course I will! Whatever else, it is my duty!" Now, Javert turned wholly towards him, grabbing hold of Valjean's shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. "And there is far more than duty between us. You are my dearest friend," he said, voice turning low and fervent, "and I wish for nothing more than to see you safe - happy! And the girls as well; I may not be an affectionate man, but I do care for Fantine's daughter in my own way. Nor do I wish to see Mademoiselle Éponine returned to the conditions of her past. I swear to you I shall do everything in my power to ensure that your lives are not disturbed. Everything!"
Then a shuddering breath left Valjean and he slid down in his seat. Hesitant, but needing to both give and find comfort, Javert laid an arm around him, pulling him closer until the grey curls rested against his chest.
"Forgive me for my doubting words," Valjean whispered. "I did not mean to slight you. I know you will set the hounds of justice upon this villain, but fear tends to make a man irrational. I don't know what..." he took Javert's hand in his and pressed it to his lips; first touching the palm, then gently blessing each finger in turn. "I am feeling old, my friend," he whispered between kisses. "Worn and frightened for all our sakes, and horrible dreams plague my nights."
Bending his head so that he might find comfort in the scent of his hair, pretending his arms were enough to protect them both, Javert could only answer: "You should not waste worry upon me."
"I do not waste anything on you," Valjean rebuked him softly, "but I fear for you in the dark. Paris is tense and waiting, and now this message of hatred from the past... It is like an omen. In my dreams, I see us fall to dark fates. My Éponine, thin and worn, old before her years, lies dead on the streets. Cosette alone and full of tears, and you, my dear, tortured by my nightmares in all manner of horrible ways. I cannot help it," he said quickly when Javert made a noise of protest, "and I know it is impossible - why, I dreamt you sinking out of sight, weighted down by my prison chains, or lying bloodied on the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer - such cruel, improbable tricks from a worried brain. But waking, knowing these images for mirages, my heart still worries." He kissed Javert's hand again, his lips etching truth against the skin. "I would not see you harmed; not by blows nor dishonour nor any other hurt. This I will swear: if it is in my power, I will keep you safe, just as you fight to guard me and mine."
He had to swallow then, once, twice; had to fight down the ache of tenderness before he could answer and still Javert's voice shook as he replied. "The years have been long and hard upon us both... But I will not let go. I will not let the past drag us down again; not ever again. I promise. I promise."
They held each other in silence after that, and the warmth between them kept the coldest fears at bay.
On the following day, Javert rose early to investigate the most pressing case of his existence.
He had already laid the foundations for it before he encountered either Thénardier or any other member of the Patron-Minette gang; three lifetimes worth of memories and eleven lonely years to consider them had given him plenty to work with. Now, he followed the leads with even greater fervour.
In the winter of Fantine's death, once he received word that 'Madeleine' had acquired Éponine, Javert had travelled to Montfermeil on vague grounds. He had asked several questions in town and done his best to reach a good rapport with the local constabulary. At that time, Javert had not found anything that allowed him to arrest the Thénardier pair, as, with the rats' sharp nose for trouble, they held off their thievery as soon as they scented police. With or without uniform, unless wrecked by consumption, he could not hide the mannerisms of law, but he had learned much of use even so.
Some months later, a missive from the local constable reached him with further news of interest: the former innkeeper was now a wanted man, and not merely for running from unpaid debts. Completely bankrupt, Thénardier had torched his public house rather than let his creditors have it and when the fire spread, it damaged several nearby properties and claimed two lives, catching an elderly couple in their sleep. Despite the sad message, Javert had felt a flicker of triumph in his heart when he read it; he could take the loathsome man now and neither Valjean nor Éponine need be involved as witnesses.
But before Javert could arrest Thénardier, he must be certain that jail would hold him. For that, he must first find his helper or benefactor. When he was finally transferred to Paris, he had begun his search for the traitor within the system with immediate zeal.
Considering it now, Javert was forced to conclude that it was probably his own investigation that had drawn the attention of the bandits to Valjean. Not because he had in any way mentioned M. Fauchelevent in connection with his work, but if someone had arranged to tail him? They would have to be blind to miss Javert's frequent meetings with the man. Further, shameful as it was to admit, if there was one time in the day when he was distracted, it was on the way to Rue Plumet.
He debated with himself over revealing this to Valjean, but could not come up with a way to word it which did not involve either too many lies or too dangerous a truth. Only silence remained, silence and prayer that he had not chosen the wrong option yet again.
The realization that they had found Valjean by following Javert had one silver lining: it had shown him where to find that sneaking rat Claquesous, whom he had long suspected to be Thénardier's secret helper. It was a relief when he saw that the man was not an officer of the law, as Javert had feared, but someone far better hidden, like a maggot buried deep inside healthy flesh.
The villain by night had a far plainer occupation in the daylight: a cleaner's assistant he was, a well-ignored and easily forgettable man who came in and helped move the heavy furniture once a week so that the ladies could reach with their mops and brooms. Here, Claquesous went by the name Le Cabuc, and that he sometimes also played snitch for the police surprised Javert not a whit.
Working after hours, Claquesous' filthy hands could easily rifle through pay-stubs in the outer office to find long-time informers, and he might study the large map where pins detailed active cases. Taller than the women, it was also his task to climb a ladder and polish the smaller chandeliers; a task which left him alone with access to scheduled working hours and planned patrols for the coming week. It was not at all inconceivable that he might also find a way to forge release papers - either that, or he had an accomplice within the office. The latter would certainly explain how a man with such meagre references and so opaque a background had found employment within the Palais in the first place.
Knowing that he was likely to find a traitor within the force, Javert had not discussed his investigations with any of the other officers. His sole assistant was an officer who, while his virtues were not over-large in other areas, could at least claim perfect innocence regarding a conspiracy within the Paris Department of Police.
The sum of it was that Javert was forced to conclude that he had been followed. It was vexing that Thénardier had noticed him digging around, but it gave him a vital clue: Someone must have known and revealed where and when Javert was likely to finish his working day. They must know which patrol route he would follow, unless crime and accident did not disrupt his schedule too badly. The thought that he might have been followed for a full day, the tail picking up at his front door, was examined and thrown away; had he been that distracted, he would be long dead.
The leak was within the offices, then, and not in the jail system nor (which he had feared) so far up the chain that a discreet word would see the Patron-Minette gang released with fake papers.
When his first sweep of the offices revealed nothing, Javert posted his assistant on watch inside, having him go through a nigh endless stack of old files. He himself spent most of the following days and nights hidden among the roofs overlooking the back entrance; criminals being what they were, he doubted many would wish to walk up the front gate of the Palais de Justice.
His reward came on the third evening when a familiar worm crept in... and then out; Javert stalked Claquesous in secret, followed him all the way to the Gorbeau tenement and the old spider Thénardier himself. It was with considerable satisfaction that he delivered his report at the Prefect's desk early the next morning.
At the moment, Claquesous was still at large, although he would find no more correct information to sell to the criminal underworld. M. Gisquet, being understandably interested in tracing the complete network, had not wished for Javert to arrest him just yet, but now the trap was armed and closing around the entire Patron-Minette gang.
Javert planned to share the happy news with Valjean once he got off work, certain that his promise of justice served would be the absolute truth this time.
As if the fates wished to prick hole on his sense of accomplishment, the villains attempted to take Éponine that same afternoon.
The street was the same as before, but the timing wrong: three days early and Javert and his men further away than ever when he heard the gamines start crowing about the developing brawl. Instinct and fear alike whipped him on; without a thought for procedure or propriety, Javert raced ahead and left his men behind. Tearing through the winding streets as fast as his feet could carry him, he ran into the gawking crowd, and was sorely tempted to remove them with his stick.
"Halt!" he called out, making his voice as stern as possible while his lungs burned for air. "What is the meaning of this?"
Before him the scene calmed down, and he heard his name whispered between the gutter-snipes: Inspector Javert, who cannot be bribed, the purse-snatchers and pickpockets spat, he who never looks the other way for a share of the haul. Inspector Javert, who uses words before canes and fists, the beggars and public women admitted. Inspector Javert... all on his lonesome... all on his own, no backup in sight...
The crowd closed in around them.
Javert weighed his heavy stick in the hand, examining his surroundings; he hoped his men would arrive soon. Unless, he realized, his mad rush had lost them in the alleys, in which case they were wholly on their own.
Éponine was free, though she had an ugly scratch on her left arm. She crouched warily, hands held protectively between herself and Montparnasse, who couldn't have done a worse job of hiding his switch-blade if he'd tried. Her skirts were wide and heavy, but at least seemed loose enough that Javert thought she would be able to escape if need be. From the look of her, she hadn't lost her head to panic. He could only pray that she recalled her lessons: run, do not stop while on their turf, and if you must fight, disarm and run again.
Thénardier and the big brute called Guelemer had crowded Valjean against a rotting door, though he appeared to have used Javert's arrival to twist himself free. Of the wife and the rest of the gang there was no sight, nor of Cosette, and he hoped this was cause more for relief, than worry.
The former innkeeper recognized him. An oily smirk appeared on his face when he saw that Javert was indeed alone. "Why, Inspector," he simpered, "fancy meeting you here."
"What is the meaning of this?" Javert demanded, applying bluster to hide his lack of force. "Who dares accost this gentleman?" He stomped forward and, though his back itched at the thought of that sneaking blade, inserted himself between Éponine and Montparnasse. "Come, Mademoiselle; these streets are not safe for a lady."
"This madman dared threaten my daughter!" Valjean called. He tried to push himself free again, but the two men holding him were joined by the thief Babet, their bodies boxing him in. Valjean could not join forces with Javert, not without forcing an open fight, and they both sensed that the numbers were against them.
"Ahh, regarding the topic of daughters, Monsieur, things are not so simple as he makes out," Thénardier smirked, though the strain seeped through his voice; Valjean had not given up struggling yet. "This man stole a child from me, he kidnapped my own flesh and blood!"
"Are you mad? What nonsense is this?" Valjean protested immediately.
This was not a discussion Javert wished to have on the streets either. "I am not interested in your tales, Jondrette! You slander and you lie like the crook you are. However - justice will be done, even for one of your ilk." He gave the man a thorough look-over and smiled like a wolf. "If you have complaints about this gentleman, then please... Leave a report at the nearest police station, and we shall listen with great interest to your words."
There came a stifled giggle in the crowd, for there were plenty who knew of old 'Jondrette' and his nightly business. From the way the man's grin slipped, he too had caught on, and he did not seem amused by the threat.
A flick of the bastard's eyes, a tightening around his jaw; even before Éponine shied closer and whispered a warning, Javert knew something was up.
Trusting his instincts Javert swept his arm around the girl, shielding her with his body when he turned to face the man sneaking up behind them. A mere tool in Thénardier's hand, having given himself completely over to his greed, and only more dangerous for that: it was the robber Brujon who came at him with murder in his eyes.
"Run!" he yelled at Éponine and pushed her away just before a knife could reach her. Whatever his misgivings, they could no longer avoid an open confrontation; nor could Javert protect the girl when all his focus must go to keeping the robber at bay.
His shout was echoed by Valjean, whose own struggles seemed to renew. The crowd around them surged and Javert feared that their fight would incite the very uprising he had spent a lifetime preparing for. He fought with stick and fist, but refrained from drawing his firearm just yet; there were far too many opponents for him to try and shoot them all - and the effect of a gunshot on an agitated mob must never be underestimated.
The familiar whistle sounding from the other side of the plaza was more welcome than a choir of angels; bless the man for finally doing something right!
Withdrawing long enough to whistle a sharp reply, Javert paid for the signal with a nasty swipe at his head. But there was a uniformed officer fighting his way through the crowd, another had appeared to support Valjean, and he thought he heard the clatter of steel-shod hooves against pavement. The threatening atmosphere was dispersing along with the unsavoury elements of the crowd and Javert no longer hesitated; he attacked Brujon with all his might, driving him back until he had opportunity to draw his gun.
"Inspector Javert!" the officer on the horse called, waving at him. "Are you safe?"
"Never mind me," he yelled back, never taking his eyes off his quarry. "Grab the leader! Arrest them all!"
With things calmed down, it was the work of moments to cuff his opponent, and Javert looked around to locate Éponine. In the chaos around them, snatching the frightened girl would have been far too easy, and Javert could imagine no worse way to fail.
He need not have worried. Montparnasse lay insensible on the street, having lost a battle against a policeman's horse if the gash in his forehead was any indication. Éponine had wasted no time in liberating his knife and now held it with a trained attitude; one she had certainly not learned from Javert.
When Valjean hurried to her, she blanched and dropped her hand; the noise-level made it hard to be certain, but Javert much doubted that he she had let the switch-blade fall to the street. However, considering the events approaching, he decided to forget what he had seen.
"Inspector!" It was Dubois who rode over, his horse throwing its head as it stepped delicately around Montparnasse.
"Dubois," he acknowledged, tallying up the rest of the band. Brujon was being held by another of his men, and the third had Guelemer on the ground, was just cuffing his hands - but of Thénardier himself, there was no trace. "You certainly arrived in a timely fashion."
Perhaps Thénardier hoped to avoid them by crouching in his hiding-hole? Javert signalled with his hand, and Dubois hurried to get off his horse and follow him, throwing the reins to another officer. They walked into the miserable apartment belonging to Thénardier, but found nothing but rags and a misshapen lump of wood.
"Oof, that was a close one. I thought we'd lost you, Inspector," Dubois said once it was clear the room was empty. "Lord knows where I'd have known to look if you hadn't been here!"
Something about his statement bothered Javert. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, well..." He gave an embarrassed cough and adjusted his hat. "We tend to pass by this square, yes? And I remembered, like, how you'd get the same back home - in Montreuil, I mean."
"Yes, I follow," Javert snapped. "Out with it, we still have witnesses to hear."
"Well, we noticed after a while - me and the other men back home, you see. That when you'd look twice at a place, it's because you've got an eye for detail. But if you kept us all looking more than that," and here Dubois lowered his voice to a conspirational whisper, "something eventually turned up, no? And you'd always know ahead of time. Don't fret now, Inspector, we've all kept mum!"
"Oh, for crying out..." Awkward as it was to know that some of his men thought he possessed the sight, Javert remembered how Dubois had once held far worse delusions; a blessing his mind hadn't wandered down that suspicious path again! It had been partly to keep him from such ideas that Javert painstakingly pulled Dubois along during his career, despite the dolt's continuing issues with gambling. Eventually, he realized the advantage of bringing along a man accustomed to his methods, as well as trustworthy in the matter of the Patron-Minette gang, and had suggested that Dubois too was transferred to Paris. While he'd never become a brilliant policeman, he was a diligent worker and by now a decent observer. Although, Javert realized, these very skills raised some hairy questions about what Dubois might conclude or reveal concerning Valjean, whom he might well recognize on sight.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Javert said, marching back out into the square. "Now get on that horse, and go bring Le Cabuc in. Wait; ride past the station and bring two more men along; we can't know that the rest of them aren't lying low in his home."
"Oh? Oh!" Dubois looked around with wide eyes. "These are members of the Pa -" Javert's glare practically skewered him where he stood. "Indeed, Inspector, on the double!"
With an internal sigh, Javert waved him off.
During the time he had been inside, Cosette had appeared and he berated himself for not immediately making sure that she too was safe. Judging from the way way young Pontmercy hovered near where Valjean comforted his daughters, he had somehow been involved in spiriting her away from danger; a mark in his favour, Javert had to admit.
"Come, Monsieur," he said, straining to keep his voice professional, "this area is not safe for you. Let me escort you to safety, and -" his voice caught when Valjean glanced up, anger and fear warring within his usually gentle gaze. Inside, Javert thanked the high heavens that Dubois' silly words had reminded him about the dangers of gossip, but his voice remained distant and firm. "Then, I must ask for your statement. Trust me, these vermin will soon feel the full weight of the law!"
"Yes," Valjean agreed. "Come, Cosette, Éponine, it is time for us to leave."
Javert gave some final orders to his men, Pontmercy proved himself smitten yet again, while Cosette blushed fetchingly whenever she glanced in his direction, and Valjean fussed greatly over Éponine's shallow wound.
While the carriage clattered away, Javert's thoughts whirled. They had survived so far, but Thénardier was still at large. He'd have no further access to police information, but would he still be a danger, or would he skip town? Was there a point to the damn man escaping again and again? Or did he simply have the luck of the devil? Had Javert done it all right, had he forgotten...
"Inspector? Javert?" Valjean's touch on his knee was unexpected, and Javert came back to the present with a jolt. "We have arrived," his friend said, "if you would like to come up and join us?"
"Yes, pardon. I was lost in thought."
"Name your worries for what they are, Inspector," Cosette said. "You and Papa both try too hard to shelter us, to your own detriment, I believe. Why, imagine what could have happened today had you not taught us how to avoid a blade!"
At that, Éponine developed a sudden cough while Javert nearly bit his tongue in half. Realizing what she had let slip, Cosette grew pale, and her lips trembled when she slowly turned to face Valjean. Once he dared to follow her example, Javert thought he felt the temperature in the carriage plummet several degrees.
"A blade. How to avoid it." Valjean stated. "Taught them how to avoid a blade." He swallowed, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak. Then Valjean held his breath for a moment, shook his head, and with great effort swallowed again. "Come, Éponine. I shall see to your arm and we shall give thanks for being safely delivered out of that nightmarish situation." he said. "And then... Inspector; dearest daughters of mine, then we will have words."
They had words.
A short time later General Lamarque passed away. Whispers of revolution spread like wildfire; Javert had informants fair falling over each other to report about the secret societies plotting against order. He sent letters, he argued passionately for the least violent solutions, and his reward was the responsibility of organizing the police on the day of the funeral.
Of those members of the Patron-Minette gang that were still at large, no trace could be found, though the police were more ready to snap them than in any previous lifetime. Brujon had cracked under interrogations and coughed up some locations where they stashed their ill-gotten goods, so their funds would be running low. Further, Javert had been able to officially connect Jondrette and Thénardier, with further evidence on its way down from Montfermeil. The net was drawing tight and soon might close... but today, all hands were called to deal with the unrest in the city.
When Javert stumbled home, having had his fill of petty power-struggles with men who would never stand in the line of fire again, it was late enough that the calendar proclaimed the fourth of June already. One day more 'til Judgement Day and he had never been more weary.
The alleys were empty of all but criminals and policemen at this hour; the eternal stars above the only eyes gazing down at him. He ought pray, he thought, but his head was thick like clay and the words languished unsaid in the muck.
Red brick switched off to familiarly cracked plaster, the stench wafted over from the unkempt stall and a crooked window winking at him; Javert's feet led him home by feel while his mind spun empty thoughts. He found the gate, he made to open it, he bumped into the strong arm of Jean Valjean when the gate was pulled open before him.
Javert closed his eyes, repeating the sequence. It was not one he had seen before... it was not one that made sense. Greetings made sense, but he could not recall the appropriate form of address at the moment. "Monsieur?"
"You look like death warmed over," Valjean said, leading him inside by a solid grip along the elbow. "I have called your name thrice over already!"
"Pardon, Monsieur," he said, while they stumbled up the creaking stairs. "I was..." His apartment door, another obstruction in his way. His keys rattled in his hands, then were removed and the door opened as if by magic. Valjean led him inside.
This wasn't a room fit for Monsieur le Maire; too cramped, the bed unmade, the dust thick on the walls- He did not think he would wish to show it to Valjean either, because it reeked too stale of time's prison and he had not seen 24601 in many a year; he had no particular wish to now face him again.
"Why are you here?" Javert finally thought to ask.
"Shush," Valjean said, helping him with coat and shirt, "we can speak tomorrow."
"No," Javert protested, batting his hands away; a break in the pattern, a change in the tune? Always important, and always, he noticed it too late. "Why?"
Lighting a candle, Valjean pushed him down on the narrow bed and began with his boots. "Would you believe I had a dream from long ago?"
Javert stretched out, groaning with pleasure at finally laying horizontal. "What dream?" he asked, aware the words were badly slurred, not caring enough to repeat them. He managed to turn his head and looked at Valjean through half-closed eyes. "Tell."
"A vision came to me tonight," Valjean said, beginning to remove his own clothing. "It was of the day I received my parole. But it was not exactly that day - I was not there in body, you see. In my stead, you stood in chains. Before you was a jailer far more awesome than any I have ever seen, in stature and expression both; his eyes were great and dark, and though he was clearly a man, he seemed immense, a soldier greater than the mountains themselves. And he handed you your papers, only they shone like gold."
"Your time is up and your parole's begun," Javert whispered.
"Yes; those are the words he spoke. But you..." Sitting down on the bed, Valjean bent over him. It only now occurred to Javert that he seemed highly upset; the candle-light was flattering, but its flicker still revealed lines of worry. He reached out a hand, a vague thought of wiping away all worry animating him.
"You did not answer as I did."
"Yes... it means..."
"I am free," Valjean finished, and he closed his eyes as if in recollection of that long-ago day. After a moment, he shook his head and the frown on his forehead deepened. "Instead, you asked if today was your execution day."
"Judgement," Javert mumbled.
"No." His kiss was swift, but Valjean did not withdraw far once he had delivered it, and Javert let his hand curl around that dear head. "I heard it clearly, and I feared for you then."
"Did he answer?"
"That, I could not hear," Valjean admitted, brushing their lips together once again. "He replied, and his voice was loud like the rumble of stones cracking and falling; yet I could not hear him properly. A moment later the sea broke in over us all and in the manner of dreams, the entire prison was swept away in a single movement. The waves, the weight of that parole, your ominous words; it all flowed together and became a dark river swallowing us all... I awoke in my bed, then, cold with fear. It was already late, but I knew I must see you soonest. My dear," and here, Valjean's grip grew possessive and harsh, "what exactly are you doing tomorrow? They whisper of uprisings, they talk of violence in the streets - what will your role be in all this?"
He wished to answer, Javert honestly did; but his tongue was useless and his eyelids made of lead. Instead he wrapped heavy arms around Valjean's warmth, and a sleepy breath must suffice to carry his love, for he was too caught in Morpheus' thrall to speak further.
The night felt short, but their dreams were deep and peaceful, so that when they awoke in the morning, the fear of midnight seemed to have left them.
Instead, there was another urgency between them. Valjean's ministrations in the night had stripped them to their breeches; now they made quick work of the rest. While the morning sun drew eddies in the dust, they met skin to skin and mouth to mouth, and their final oaths were sworn in a language older than words. Valjean's hands found his secrets without shame, teased moans and curses from him. When it was time to repay, Javert drank him down to the root and delighted in his cries, trying to etch the sights and sounds into his soul.
They allowed themselves this languid morning, let themselves laugh over the squeaking bed which complained more loudly with every hour. It was narrow as well, fitting two men only if they did not mind elbows bumping and sweat mingling - fitting them well, if it kindled desire instead of disgust. They might enjoy it, even, if desire burned still brighter when they slid off the mattress, pulling one puny blanket along and forgetting the hard floor beneath.
Though it left them no time for breakfast, they chose to feast upon each other again rather than break bread together and, bitter as the thought was, Javert knew he'd find no sweeter last meal if such was fate's judgement. A bruised back and embarrassing splinters he found a small price to pay, made even lighter by Valjean's merriment at his grumblings.
As to the question of what Javert would do in the coming days, he dared not speak of it yet, risk upsetting fate with a careless word. But at the same time, it would be an abuse of truth to claim he would do no more than on a regular day; the coming events went beyond his usual duties in more way than one. Instead, Javert chose the other truth: he asked Valjean in plain words to not inquire further.
Valjean looked at him with worry in his eyes, but trust won out; he bent his head, finally, accepted and kept his silence, and they sealed this with a kiss behind the closed door.
Once down on the street, there was no handshake, no fake acquaintanceship played up between them; neither Javert nor Valjean inclined to such charades today. When they then parted ways, in silence, they walked with steady steps, and the farewell between them hung honest, silent, and golden like a prayer.
It was the fourth of June. In the winding alleys, children and old Inspectors alike dared dream of freedom, while Paris prepared to bleed.
Continue to the next part
It is a curious fact that not only are our moments of happiness the fastest to pass us by (misery always outstaying its welcome), but by trying to cling to them, we only hasten their escape.
Despite how much Javert wished to halt time so that the summer of 1831 might last forever, he found it evaporating faster with each glance at the calendar. The summer which lived in his memories as stretching through languid days, a memory which had kept his courage high during many years, now passed in a wink.
Still, the autumn rains did not cool his heart. It was joy itself to rub warmth into wind-chilled fingers when his dear fool had given away his gloves and been caught in the storm. But, when the sky darkened earlier each night and green trees and gay flowers withered, his anxiety grew.
Winter soon lay heavy upon them; tendrils of smoke rose thick from the city, ashy fingers clutching at the distant heavens with the same longing Javert held in his heart. He imagined their struggle towards the dimming light to be similar to his own attempts at pushing away worries for the future.
Paradoxically, it was when he forgot himself that time both rushed and stood still. When his mind was focused wholly on untangling the particulars of a crime, or in deciphering a complex sentence written by a madman drunk on dry philosophy, he might look up and conclude that he had lost hours without noticing the passing time. It was not merely the gymnastics of the brain that could occupy him; he might become equally fascinated by the crackling frost settling on shacks and hovels, fancying he heard the rustle of the Angel of Death as that great presence passed by doorways and beneath bridges to take the dispossessed from their last shivering night.
Where he most happily would lose himself was in the hot pleasure of Valjean's presence - the scent of his skin freshly bathed but already stained with the proof of their shared delight, the taste of his fingers, of his mouth, of secrets and raptures they might learn anew.
It could not last.
And yet... Hearing his heartbeat, brief seconds spun into an eternity and Javert was content and unafraid.
It could not last; it mattered less and less.
As the cold grip broke and naked branches swelled with buds, Javert knew this calm in growing intervals. There was such joy in each little thing. To speak of the matters that engaged them both until tired words slurred into each other and their eyes crossed, to then laugh at their own foolish antics - they were old and quarrelsome, they were young in loving another - and to fall into sleep next to his dear body, sink together into the soft mattress and dreams alike... To see every line of age and worry, adore every mark of laughter and sun, to love the man who was now, who had been, and who changed into another each morning; to love him whole and imperfect...
It ought not last, not forever.
All these brilliant shards of life; the growing girls and the aging men and the living, dying, struggling city - better to have known them and walked with them for a stretch along their road, than allow them to be defiled by the tedium of stagnation.
So while the slush ruined his good shoes and Valjean tried in increasingly ridiculous ways to make him accept the gift of a new pair, Javert worked through the winter and thought to understand what contentment meant.
It was not that he had capitulated before his fate; nor did he feel certain that he might defeat it. More than once, his fears overwhelmed him: dark memories and the danger of that great loss waiting in the near future. The calendar and the clock and the passing of the days would wear on him and his prayers would increase in duration until they surprised even Valjean; and only Javert knew that not piety but desperation drove him in these moments. On such days, the saints were only stone and the churches piles of brick, while the future loomed too large and he thought to hear the eternal whisper of the river.
But his nights held fewer terrors and he often dared think of tomorrow without recalling how it whittled another day off this world. It was confusing: comforting or frightening, he knew not, and his mind wavered between opposite poles, stumbling through a night both terrible and star-bright.
While the months rolled by, Javert felt himself doubled and doubled again. As the town had once seemed to echo of itself, the pasts and lives and moments swimming together... he who had once been so sharply cut from the law's clear cloth now wavered and frayed at the edges, a thousand little things pulling at the threads of his worn-out soul.
There was the eternal Inspector in his mind, adding up evidence... Always tallying the course of events and planning, calculating, painstakingly building his trap and preparing his greatest case: The Trial of the Barricade. His were the narrow eyes that searched each new face and tried to find the pattern, his was the idea to teach Éponine and Cosette how to beware of armed men and their blades.
Sisyphus feared. Sisyphus longed for end and still woke plagued by a thirst that would not be quenched (for his strength, for his warmth, for those gentle teasing pleasing killing hands) and lived with a hunger that could never be sated (for his thoughtful words, for his clever mind, for the challenging familiar enervating ideals) and his was the anguish and the nightmares of the Judgement that hovered near.
And there was Javert, who loved.
Perhaps, he dared think as the glorious month of May unfolded around them, perhaps all he needed to fit these awkward shards of self together was another to share his love. It was too simple a solution (Solution? What hope had he for an end to this purgatory he no longer wished to leave? To finish was farewell; to begin anew a horror beyond description) for him to believe in, and yet, as he accompanied the little family on their spring walks and listened to Valjean's laughter, as he felt the paving stones beneath his feet and heard the city pulse around him, his hope refused to die.
Two weeks before Javert expected Thénardier to accost Valjean and his family, he was received at Rue de l'Homme-Armé, where they would usually go for private meetings. Instead of greeting him with his usual good cheer, Valjean was greatly agitated, and it took time before Javert understood the particulars. As soon as he did, he too felt his good mood evaporate.
Valjean had received a threatening letter, worded in a similar way and containing the same demands as the threats that had hounded him upon first arriving at Paris. Then, he had dealt with the problem by abandoning his chosen alias of Urbain Fabre and spending a year sequestered in the convent gardens. When Valjean emerged into the world anew, it was as the widower Fauchelevent, father of two young girls. No one had recognized or bothered them again and Valjean had thought himself safe forever, especially once his public work failed to attract attention.
Neither time did the writer appear to have discovered Valjean's true identity. The envelopes were addressed to the current alias, and within, the only name used was M Madeleine and the threats about revealing his past were vague indeed. Instead, and from Valjean's point of view, far worse, the writer went after Éponine and Cosette. Unless paid a staggering sum, he threatened to reveal the origin of the girls and take back 'what was his'; the wording heavily implying that Valjean would not live to see the result.
Once the explanations were done, Javert examined the meagre evidence spread on the table before him while Valjean paced through the sitting room. Of the first set of threats he had received, only two remained; they did not mention the girls by name and so Valjean had saved them as comparison material in preparation for this exact occasion. The other notes, five in number, had been fed into the hearth.
Javert considered the information. He wished to comfort Valjean, but his friend did not seem amenable to gentle words at this moment - more than anything, he needed the strict reliability of the Inspector which he'd recall from their years in Montreuil-sur-Mer.
"I shall of course investigate this, but I feel I must ask. Do you intend to flee again?" Javert asked at last, wondering at his own lack of worry. If Valjean was to leave... but he could not fault him for wishing to protect his family. And much as it rankled, he could not even promise that the law would keep them safe; what had before been an honest vow would turn into a lie unless he caught the traitor within the system first.
Valjean's eyes were dark with anger, but his limp was heavier than usual and his skin felt clammy when Javert reached out and brushed his hand. Still, he shook his head, and seemed not the least hesitant. "I have spoken of this with the girls; they begged me to remain and I am inclined to think them right. The school needs us. Even if I left donations to cover all the costs of running it, Father Michél is too old to organize the help himself. And I," his fist hammered at the table creasing the letter further, until Javert saved the evidence with a wince. "I do not want to leave! We have found a place here, we have built our homes. Must I always run? Must I leave everything behind again, half-done and fragile? I want to stay and see the results of my labours, and see that my daughters grow up in safety." He stopped, the anger seeming to leave him; slowly Valjean sank down next to settee, hiding his eyes. "I am tired, Javert."
"You are not alone in that," Javert sighed. He moved closer, feeling the comforting press of Valjean's shoulder against his own, and took up the note to study more intently. The swoop of the letters were familiar, the choice of words and odd errors hinting at someone unused to writing in the formal tone the missive strived for. He would not swear it before a court, but the thing strongly called to mind his bill from the Thénardier's inn, even without the foul content. While not a surprise, it was good to have confirmation of his immediate suspicion.
"Will you assist me?" Valjean asked. "Or am I foolish to risk -"
"Of course I will! Whatever else, it is my duty!" Now, Javert turned wholly towards him, grabbing hold of Valjean's shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze. "And there is far more than duty between us. You are my dearest friend," he said, voice turning low and fervent, "and I wish for nothing more than to see you safe - happy! And the girls as well; I may not be an affectionate man, but I do care for Fantine's daughter in my own way. Nor do I wish to see Mademoiselle Éponine returned to the conditions of her past. I swear to you I shall do everything in my power to ensure that your lives are not disturbed. Everything!"
Then a shuddering breath left Valjean and he slid down in his seat. Hesitant, but needing to both give and find comfort, Javert laid an arm around him, pulling him closer until the grey curls rested against his chest.
"Forgive me for my doubting words," Valjean whispered. "I did not mean to slight you. I know you will set the hounds of justice upon this villain, but fear tends to make a man irrational. I don't know what..." he took Javert's hand in his and pressed it to his lips; first touching the palm, then gently blessing each finger in turn. "I am feeling old, my friend," he whispered between kisses. "Worn and frightened for all our sakes, and horrible dreams plague my nights."
Bending his head so that he might find comfort in the scent of his hair, pretending his arms were enough to protect them both, Javert could only answer: "You should not waste worry upon me."
"I do not waste anything on you," Valjean rebuked him softly, "but I fear for you in the dark. Paris is tense and waiting, and now this message of hatred from the past... It is like an omen. In my dreams, I see us fall to dark fates. My Éponine, thin and worn, old before her years, lies dead on the streets. Cosette alone and full of tears, and you, my dear, tortured by my nightmares in all manner of horrible ways. I cannot help it," he said quickly when Javert made a noise of protest, "and I know it is impossible - why, I dreamt you sinking out of sight, weighted down by my prison chains, or lying bloodied on the streets of Montreuil-sur-Mer - such cruel, improbable tricks from a worried brain. But waking, knowing these images for mirages, my heart still worries." He kissed Javert's hand again, his lips etching truth against the skin. "I would not see you harmed; not by blows nor dishonour nor any other hurt. This I will swear: if it is in my power, I will keep you safe, just as you fight to guard me and mine."
He had to swallow then, once, twice; had to fight down the ache of tenderness before he could answer and still Javert's voice shook as he replied. "The years have been long and hard upon us both... But I will not let go. I will not let the past drag us down again; not ever again. I promise. I promise."
They held each other in silence after that, and the warmth between them kept the coldest fears at bay.
On the following day, Javert rose early to investigate the most pressing case of his existence.
He had already laid the foundations for it before he encountered either Thénardier or any other member of the Patron-Minette gang; three lifetimes worth of memories and eleven lonely years to consider them had given him plenty to work with. Now, he followed the leads with even greater fervour.
In the winter of Fantine's death, once he received word that 'Madeleine' had acquired Éponine, Javert had travelled to Montfermeil on vague grounds. He had asked several questions in town and done his best to reach a good rapport with the local constabulary. At that time, Javert had not found anything that allowed him to arrest the Thénardier pair, as, with the rats' sharp nose for trouble, they held off their thievery as soon as they scented police. With or without uniform, unless wrecked by consumption, he could not hide the mannerisms of law, but he had learned much of use even so.
Some months later, a missive from the local constable reached him with further news of interest: the former innkeeper was now a wanted man, and not merely for running from unpaid debts. Completely bankrupt, Thénardier had torched his public house rather than let his creditors have it and when the fire spread, it damaged several nearby properties and claimed two lives, catching an elderly couple in their sleep. Despite the sad message, Javert had felt a flicker of triumph in his heart when he read it; he could take the loathsome man now and neither Valjean nor Éponine need be involved as witnesses.
But before Javert could arrest Thénardier, he must be certain that jail would hold him. For that, he must first find his helper or benefactor. When he was finally transferred to Paris, he had begun his search for the traitor within the system with immediate zeal.
Considering it now, Javert was forced to conclude that it was probably his own investigation that had drawn the attention of the bandits to Valjean. Not because he had in any way mentioned M. Fauchelevent in connection with his work, but if someone had arranged to tail him? They would have to be blind to miss Javert's frequent meetings with the man. Further, shameful as it was to admit, if there was one time in the day when he was distracted, it was on the way to Rue Plumet.
He debated with himself over revealing this to Valjean, but could not come up with a way to word it which did not involve either too many lies or too dangerous a truth. Only silence remained, silence and prayer that he had not chosen the wrong option yet again.
The realization that they had found Valjean by following Javert had one silver lining: it had shown him where to find that sneaking rat Claquesous, whom he had long suspected to be Thénardier's secret helper. It was a relief when he saw that the man was not an officer of the law, as Javert had feared, but someone far better hidden, like a maggot buried deep inside healthy flesh.
The villain by night had a far plainer occupation in the daylight: a cleaner's assistant he was, a well-ignored and easily forgettable man who came in and helped move the heavy furniture once a week so that the ladies could reach with their mops and brooms. Here, Claquesous went by the name Le Cabuc, and that he sometimes also played snitch for the police surprised Javert not a whit.
Working after hours, Claquesous' filthy hands could easily rifle through pay-stubs in the outer office to find long-time informers, and he might study the large map where pins detailed active cases. Taller than the women, it was also his task to climb a ladder and polish the smaller chandeliers; a task which left him alone with access to scheduled working hours and planned patrols for the coming week. It was not at all inconceivable that he might also find a way to forge release papers - either that, or he had an accomplice within the office. The latter would certainly explain how a man with such meagre references and so opaque a background had found employment within the Palais in the first place.
Knowing that he was likely to find a traitor within the force, Javert had not discussed his investigations with any of the other officers. His sole assistant was an officer who, while his virtues were not over-large in other areas, could at least claim perfect innocence regarding a conspiracy within the Paris Department of Police.
The sum of it was that Javert was forced to conclude that he had been followed. It was vexing that Thénardier had noticed him digging around, but it gave him a vital clue: Someone must have known and revealed where and when Javert was likely to finish his working day. They must know which patrol route he would follow, unless crime and accident did not disrupt his schedule too badly. The thought that he might have been followed for a full day, the tail picking up at his front door, was examined and thrown away; had he been that distracted, he would be long dead.
The leak was within the offices, then, and not in the jail system nor (which he had feared) so far up the chain that a discreet word would see the Patron-Minette gang released with fake papers.
When his first sweep of the offices revealed nothing, Javert posted his assistant on watch inside, having him go through a nigh endless stack of old files. He himself spent most of the following days and nights hidden among the roofs overlooking the back entrance; criminals being what they were, he doubted many would wish to walk up the front gate of the Palais de Justice.
His reward came on the third evening when a familiar worm crept in... and then out; Javert stalked Claquesous in secret, followed him all the way to the Gorbeau tenement and the old spider Thénardier himself. It was with considerable satisfaction that he delivered his report at the Prefect's desk early the next morning.
At the moment, Claquesous was still at large, although he would find no more correct information to sell to the criminal underworld. M. Gisquet, being understandably interested in tracing the complete network, had not wished for Javert to arrest him just yet, but now the trap was armed and closing around the entire Patron-Minette gang.
Javert planned to share the happy news with Valjean once he got off work, certain that his promise of justice served would be the absolute truth this time.
As if the fates wished to prick hole on his sense of accomplishment, the villains attempted to take Éponine that same afternoon.
The street was the same as before, but the timing wrong: three days early and Javert and his men further away than ever when he heard the gamines start crowing about the developing brawl. Instinct and fear alike whipped him on; without a thought for procedure or propriety, Javert raced ahead and left his men behind. Tearing through the winding streets as fast as his feet could carry him, he ran into the gawking crowd, and was sorely tempted to remove them with his stick.
"Halt!" he called out, making his voice as stern as possible while his lungs burned for air. "What is the meaning of this?"
Before him the scene calmed down, and he heard his name whispered between the gutter-snipes: Inspector Javert, who cannot be bribed, the purse-snatchers and pickpockets spat, he who never looks the other way for a share of the haul. Inspector Javert, who uses words before canes and fists, the beggars and public women admitted. Inspector Javert... all on his lonesome... all on his own, no backup in sight...
The crowd closed in around them.
Javert weighed his heavy stick in the hand, examining his surroundings; he hoped his men would arrive soon. Unless, he realized, his mad rush had lost them in the alleys, in which case they were wholly on their own.
Éponine was free, though she had an ugly scratch on her left arm. She crouched warily, hands held protectively between herself and Montparnasse, who couldn't have done a worse job of hiding his switch-blade if he'd tried. Her skirts were wide and heavy, but at least seemed loose enough that Javert thought she would be able to escape if need be. From the look of her, she hadn't lost her head to panic. He could only pray that she recalled her lessons: run, do not stop while on their turf, and if you must fight, disarm and run again.
Thénardier and the big brute called Guelemer had crowded Valjean against a rotting door, though he appeared to have used Javert's arrival to twist himself free. Of the wife and the rest of the gang there was no sight, nor of Cosette, and he hoped this was cause more for relief, than worry.
The former innkeeper recognized him. An oily smirk appeared on his face when he saw that Javert was indeed alone. "Why, Inspector," he simpered, "fancy meeting you here."
"What is the meaning of this?" Javert demanded, applying bluster to hide his lack of force. "Who dares accost this gentleman?" He stomped forward and, though his back itched at the thought of that sneaking blade, inserted himself between Éponine and Montparnasse. "Come, Mademoiselle; these streets are not safe for a lady."
"This madman dared threaten my daughter!" Valjean called. He tried to push himself free again, but the two men holding him were joined by the thief Babet, their bodies boxing him in. Valjean could not join forces with Javert, not without forcing an open fight, and they both sensed that the numbers were against them.
"Ahh, regarding the topic of daughters, Monsieur, things are not so simple as he makes out," Thénardier smirked, though the strain seeped through his voice; Valjean had not given up struggling yet. "This man stole a child from me, he kidnapped my own flesh and blood!"
"Are you mad? What nonsense is this?" Valjean protested immediately.
This was not a discussion Javert wished to have on the streets either. "I am not interested in your tales, Jondrette! You slander and you lie like the crook you are. However - justice will be done, even for one of your ilk." He gave the man a thorough look-over and smiled like a wolf. "If you have complaints about this gentleman, then please... Leave a report at the nearest police station, and we shall listen with great interest to your words."
There came a stifled giggle in the crowd, for there were plenty who knew of old 'Jondrette' and his nightly business. From the way the man's grin slipped, he too had caught on, and he did not seem amused by the threat.
A flick of the bastard's eyes, a tightening around his jaw; even before Éponine shied closer and whispered a warning, Javert knew something was up.
Trusting his instincts Javert swept his arm around the girl, shielding her with his body when he turned to face the man sneaking up behind them. A mere tool in Thénardier's hand, having given himself completely over to his greed, and only more dangerous for that: it was the robber Brujon who came at him with murder in his eyes.
"Run!" he yelled at Éponine and pushed her away just before a knife could reach her. Whatever his misgivings, they could no longer avoid an open confrontation; nor could Javert protect the girl when all his focus must go to keeping the robber at bay.
His shout was echoed by Valjean, whose own struggles seemed to renew. The crowd around them surged and Javert feared that their fight would incite the very uprising he had spent a lifetime preparing for. He fought with stick and fist, but refrained from drawing his firearm just yet; there were far too many opponents for him to try and shoot them all - and the effect of a gunshot on an agitated mob must never be underestimated.
The familiar whistle sounding from the other side of the plaza was more welcome than a choir of angels; bless the man for finally doing something right!
Withdrawing long enough to whistle a sharp reply, Javert paid for the signal with a nasty swipe at his head. But there was a uniformed officer fighting his way through the crowd, another had appeared to support Valjean, and he thought he heard the clatter of steel-shod hooves against pavement. The threatening atmosphere was dispersing along with the unsavoury elements of the crowd and Javert no longer hesitated; he attacked Brujon with all his might, driving him back until he had opportunity to draw his gun.
"Inspector Javert!" the officer on the horse called, waving at him. "Are you safe?"
"Never mind me," he yelled back, never taking his eyes off his quarry. "Grab the leader! Arrest them all!"
With things calmed down, it was the work of moments to cuff his opponent, and Javert looked around to locate Éponine. In the chaos around them, snatching the frightened girl would have been far too easy, and Javert could imagine no worse way to fail.
He need not have worried. Montparnasse lay insensible on the street, having lost a battle against a policeman's horse if the gash in his forehead was any indication. Éponine had wasted no time in liberating his knife and now held it with a trained attitude; one she had certainly not learned from Javert.
When Valjean hurried to her, she blanched and dropped her hand; the noise-level made it hard to be certain, but Javert much doubted that he she had let the switch-blade fall to the street. However, considering the events approaching, he decided to forget what he had seen.
"Inspector!" It was Dubois who rode over, his horse throwing its head as it stepped delicately around Montparnasse.
"Dubois," he acknowledged, tallying up the rest of the band. Brujon was being held by another of his men, and the third had Guelemer on the ground, was just cuffing his hands - but of Thénardier himself, there was no trace. "You certainly arrived in a timely fashion."
Perhaps Thénardier hoped to avoid them by crouching in his hiding-hole? Javert signalled with his hand, and Dubois hurried to get off his horse and follow him, throwing the reins to another officer. They walked into the miserable apartment belonging to Thénardier, but found nothing but rags and a misshapen lump of wood.
"Oof, that was a close one. I thought we'd lost you, Inspector," Dubois said once it was clear the room was empty. "Lord knows where I'd have known to look if you hadn't been here!"
Something about his statement bothered Javert. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, well..." He gave an embarrassed cough and adjusted his hat. "We tend to pass by this square, yes? And I remembered, like, how you'd get the same back home - in Montreuil, I mean."
"Yes, I follow," Javert snapped. "Out with it, we still have witnesses to hear."
"Well, we noticed after a while - me and the other men back home, you see. That when you'd look twice at a place, it's because you've got an eye for detail. But if you kept us all looking more than that," and here Dubois lowered his voice to a conspirational whisper, "something eventually turned up, no? And you'd always know ahead of time. Don't fret now, Inspector, we've all kept mum!"
"Oh, for crying out..." Awkward as it was to know that some of his men thought he possessed the sight, Javert remembered how Dubois had once held far worse delusions; a blessing his mind hadn't wandered down that suspicious path again! It had been partly to keep him from such ideas that Javert painstakingly pulled Dubois along during his career, despite the dolt's continuing issues with gambling. Eventually, he realized the advantage of bringing along a man accustomed to his methods, as well as trustworthy in the matter of the Patron-Minette gang, and had suggested that Dubois too was transferred to Paris. While he'd never become a brilliant policeman, he was a diligent worker and by now a decent observer. Although, Javert realized, these very skills raised some hairy questions about what Dubois might conclude or reveal concerning Valjean, whom he might well recognize on sight.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Javert said, marching back out into the square. "Now get on that horse, and go bring Le Cabuc in. Wait; ride past the station and bring two more men along; we can't know that the rest of them aren't lying low in his home."
"Oh? Oh!" Dubois looked around with wide eyes. "These are members of the Pa -" Javert's glare practically skewered him where he stood. "Indeed, Inspector, on the double!"
With an internal sigh, Javert waved him off.
During the time he had been inside, Cosette had appeared and he berated himself for not immediately making sure that she too was safe. Judging from the way way young Pontmercy hovered near where Valjean comforted his daughters, he had somehow been involved in spiriting her away from danger; a mark in his favour, Javert had to admit.
"Come, Monsieur," he said, straining to keep his voice professional, "this area is not safe for you. Let me escort you to safety, and -" his voice caught when Valjean glanced up, anger and fear warring within his usually gentle gaze. Inside, Javert thanked the high heavens that Dubois' silly words had reminded him about the dangers of gossip, but his voice remained distant and firm. "Then, I must ask for your statement. Trust me, these vermin will soon feel the full weight of the law!"
"Yes," Valjean agreed. "Come, Cosette, Éponine, it is time for us to leave."
Javert gave some final orders to his men, Pontmercy proved himself smitten yet again, while Cosette blushed fetchingly whenever she glanced in his direction, and Valjean fussed greatly over Éponine's shallow wound.
While the carriage clattered away, Javert's thoughts whirled. They had survived so far, but Thénardier was still at large. He'd have no further access to police information, but would he still be a danger, or would he skip town? Was there a point to the damn man escaping again and again? Or did he simply have the luck of the devil? Had Javert done it all right, had he forgotten...
"Inspector? Javert?" Valjean's touch on his knee was unexpected, and Javert came back to the present with a jolt. "We have arrived," his friend said, "if you would like to come up and join us?"
"Yes, pardon. I was lost in thought."
"Name your worries for what they are, Inspector," Cosette said. "You and Papa both try too hard to shelter us, to your own detriment, I believe. Why, imagine what could have happened today had you not taught us how to avoid a blade!"
At that, Éponine developed a sudden cough while Javert nearly bit his tongue in half. Realizing what she had let slip, Cosette grew pale, and her lips trembled when she slowly turned to face Valjean. Once he dared to follow her example, Javert thought he felt the temperature in the carriage plummet several degrees.
"A blade. How to avoid it." Valjean stated. "Taught them how to avoid a blade." He swallowed, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak. Then Valjean held his breath for a moment, shook his head, and with great effort swallowed again. "Come, Éponine. I shall see to your arm and we shall give thanks for being safely delivered out of that nightmarish situation." he said. "And then... Inspector; dearest daughters of mine, then we will have words."
They had words.
A short time later General Lamarque passed away. Whispers of revolution spread like wildfire; Javert had informants fair falling over each other to report about the secret societies plotting against order. He sent letters, he argued passionately for the least violent solutions, and his reward was the responsibility of organizing the police on the day of the funeral.
Of those members of the Patron-Minette gang that were still at large, no trace could be found, though the police were more ready to snap them than in any previous lifetime. Brujon had cracked under interrogations and coughed up some locations where they stashed their ill-gotten goods, so their funds would be running low. Further, Javert had been able to officially connect Jondrette and Thénardier, with further evidence on its way down from Montfermeil. The net was drawing tight and soon might close... but today, all hands were called to deal with the unrest in the city.
When Javert stumbled home, having had his fill of petty power-struggles with men who would never stand in the line of fire again, it was late enough that the calendar proclaimed the fourth of June already. One day more 'til Judgement Day and he had never been more weary.
The alleys were empty of all but criminals and policemen at this hour; the eternal stars above the only eyes gazing down at him. He ought pray, he thought, but his head was thick like clay and the words languished unsaid in the muck.
Red brick switched off to familiarly cracked plaster, the stench wafted over from the unkempt stall and a crooked window winking at him; Javert's feet led him home by feel while his mind spun empty thoughts. He found the gate, he made to open it, he bumped into the strong arm of Jean Valjean when the gate was pulled open before him.
Javert closed his eyes, repeating the sequence. It was not one he had seen before... it was not one that made sense. Greetings made sense, but he could not recall the appropriate form of address at the moment. "Monsieur?"
"You look like death warmed over," Valjean said, leading him inside by a solid grip along the elbow. "I have called your name thrice over already!"
"Pardon, Monsieur," he said, while they stumbled up the creaking stairs. "I was..." His apartment door, another obstruction in his way. His keys rattled in his hands, then were removed and the door opened as if by magic. Valjean led him inside.
This wasn't a room fit for Monsieur le Maire; too cramped, the bed unmade, the dust thick on the walls- He did not think he would wish to show it to Valjean either, because it reeked too stale of time's prison and he had not seen 24601 in many a year; he had no particular wish to now face him again.
"Why are you here?" Javert finally thought to ask.
"Shush," Valjean said, helping him with coat and shirt, "we can speak tomorrow."
"No," Javert protested, batting his hands away; a break in the pattern, a change in the tune? Always important, and always, he noticed it too late. "Why?"
Lighting a candle, Valjean pushed him down on the narrow bed and began with his boots. "Would you believe I had a dream from long ago?"
Javert stretched out, groaning with pleasure at finally laying horizontal. "What dream?" he asked, aware the words were badly slurred, not caring enough to repeat them. He managed to turn his head and looked at Valjean through half-closed eyes. "Tell."
"A vision came to me tonight," Valjean said, beginning to remove his own clothing. "It was of the day I received my parole. But it was not exactly that day - I was not there in body, you see. In my stead, you stood in chains. Before you was a jailer far more awesome than any I have ever seen, in stature and expression both; his eyes were great and dark, and though he was clearly a man, he seemed immense, a soldier greater than the mountains themselves. And he handed you your papers, only they shone like gold."
"Your time is up and your parole's begun," Javert whispered.
"Yes; those are the words he spoke. But you..." Sitting down on the bed, Valjean bent over him. It only now occurred to Javert that he seemed highly upset; the candle-light was flattering, but its flicker still revealed lines of worry. He reached out a hand, a vague thought of wiping away all worry animating him.
"You did not answer as I did."
"Yes... it means..."
"I am free," Valjean finished, and he closed his eyes as if in recollection of that long-ago day. After a moment, he shook his head and the frown on his forehead deepened. "Instead, you asked if today was your execution day."
"Judgement," Javert mumbled.
"No." His kiss was swift, but Valjean did not withdraw far once he had delivered it, and Javert let his hand curl around that dear head. "I heard it clearly, and I feared for you then."
"Did he answer?"
"That, I could not hear," Valjean admitted, brushing their lips together once again. "He replied, and his voice was loud like the rumble of stones cracking and falling; yet I could not hear him properly. A moment later the sea broke in over us all and in the manner of dreams, the entire prison was swept away in a single movement. The waves, the weight of that parole, your ominous words; it all flowed together and became a dark river swallowing us all... I awoke in my bed, then, cold with fear. It was already late, but I knew I must see you soonest. My dear," and here, Valjean's grip grew possessive and harsh, "what exactly are you doing tomorrow? They whisper of uprisings, they talk of violence in the streets - what will your role be in all this?"
He wished to answer, Javert honestly did; but his tongue was useless and his eyelids made of lead. Instead he wrapped heavy arms around Valjean's warmth, and a sleepy breath must suffice to carry his love, for he was too caught in Morpheus' thrall to speak further.
The night felt short, but their dreams were deep and peaceful, so that when they awoke in the morning, the fear of midnight seemed to have left them.
Instead, there was another urgency between them. Valjean's ministrations in the night had stripped them to their breeches; now they made quick work of the rest. While the morning sun drew eddies in the dust, they met skin to skin and mouth to mouth, and their final oaths were sworn in a language older than words. Valjean's hands found his secrets without shame, teased moans and curses from him. When it was time to repay, Javert drank him down to the root and delighted in his cries, trying to etch the sights and sounds into his soul.
They allowed themselves this languid morning, let themselves laugh over the squeaking bed which complained more loudly with every hour. It was narrow as well, fitting two men only if they did not mind elbows bumping and sweat mingling - fitting them well, if it kindled desire instead of disgust. They might enjoy it, even, if desire burned still brighter when they slid off the mattress, pulling one puny blanket along and forgetting the hard floor beneath.
Though it left them no time for breakfast, they chose to feast upon each other again rather than break bread together and, bitter as the thought was, Javert knew he'd find no sweeter last meal if such was fate's judgement. A bruised back and embarrassing splinters he found a small price to pay, made even lighter by Valjean's merriment at his grumblings.
As to the question of what Javert would do in the coming days, he dared not speak of it yet, risk upsetting fate with a careless word. But at the same time, it would be an abuse of truth to claim he would do no more than on a regular day; the coming events went beyond his usual duties in more way than one. Instead, Javert chose the other truth: he asked Valjean in plain words to not inquire further.
Valjean looked at him with worry in his eyes, but trust won out; he bent his head, finally, accepted and kept his silence, and they sealed this with a kiss behind the closed door.
Once down on the street, there was no handshake, no fake acquaintanceship played up between them; neither Javert nor Valjean inclined to such charades today. When they then parted ways, in silence, they walked with steady steps, and the farewell between them hung honest, silent, and golden like a prayer.
It was the fourth of June. In the winding alleys, children and old Inspectors alike dared dream of freedom, while Paris prepared to bleed.
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