[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 6c/8 [Les Misérables]
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"Let me attempt to find out the truth!" Javert said, feeling it almost as a physical weight when Enjolras' attention turned to him. "I was born in the abyss, but fought my way out of it. I have worn their uniforms, I have seen good men die while serving a Law ignored by those who wrote it!" He spat on the ground. "Justice is a star in the darkness, but her servants are too often fallible and more wretched than the villains they chase. I wish nothing more than to make up for the evil caused by ignorant soldiers serving ignorant masters!"
"Can we trust you?" Enjolras asked, eyeing his appearance slowly. "Pardon, Monsieur, but I must ask."
This time, Javert had foregone his labourer's disguise, and instead dressed himself as a gentleman slightly down on his luck. A second-hand brown coat of a cut similar to the one Pontmercy had last worn, a grey-chequered waistcoat, and a walking stick considerably more elegant than his police cane. To complete the outfit, there was even a silk cravat around his throat.
The clothes were, by necessity, provided by Valjean. It had pricked his pride to ask for financial assistance, but his friend had been happy to gift them to him and had even suggested commissioning an outfit from a tailor. If Javert had not drawn a firm line at one (used!) set only, he would soon have found himself with a wardrobe too large for his apartment.
"He was with us at General Lamarque's funeral," Combeferre slowly said, his voice gaining surety the more he observed Javert. "I do believe I saw him fire a gun."
"Yes," Courfeyrac agreed, "and for what it's worth, he helped me get away."
"I understand your wariness - I applaud it, in fact. Perhaps if two of us left together we could watch each other? We might even pose as father and son, and so be less likely to be stopped." Javert pretended to look around, then nodded towards Pontmercy, who was still busy fortifying the barricade. "Perhaps that young man there?"
Glancing over to his friend, Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. "You can both carry yourself as gentlemen and with your coats so similar... It will help confuse their eyes. Yes. I shall ask him."
Javert nodded and turned towards Courfeyrac to hide his appearance a little while longer; it would not do for Pontmercy to reveal him with a surprised exclamation.
After a short conversation, Enjolras called him over. He tipped his hat at the two young men while he carefully pulled out a well-folded letter, and only turned around after he held it in his hand. From the wide eyes Pontmercy made upon seeing Javert, the young man recognized him almost immediately. The flash of a white note with a red seal, however, distracted him and his surprised visage turned questioning, even eager.
Is it? he mouthed, to which Javert's only reply was an eyebrow raised in challenge.
For a full week, two lovelorn fools had been sneaking around Valjean's garden, while Éponine indulgently looked the other way and helped distract her father. Then there had been an attempted break-in, foiled only because Dubois had been put to patrol the area each evening. Javert feared the man would ask him to to lay the cards soon, or perhaps augur the outcome of Saturday's dog-fights, but needs must.
That had been the final straw; Valjean spirited his daughters away, not even giving Cosette time to scribble a message and leave at the door.
Since then, Pontmercy had appeared thrice at the police station, inquiring whether the Inspector might know of the Fauchelevent family's whereabouts? He claimed to have something important to return; upon questioning, it turned out to be a handkerchief, not even monogrammed. Even in the midst of the growing tension, most officers took a moment to laugh at the awkward young man badgering Javert - of all people! - about his lady-love.
Despite Valjean's hawk-eyes on them all, for he had not been pleased with Javert's self-defence scheme at all, Cosette had handed him a letter to pass on to Pontmercy. He couldn't understand how she always found the foolish boy, or how her attempts to reach him seemed so favoured by fate; could her mother's spirit stand guard over the girl's dreams?
Regardless of the reason, the damning missive once again escaped detection; just as the housekeeper had demanded Valjean's attention at the right moment, now the attention of Enjolras and his lieutenants were drawn away by Grantaire. He had fallen into an argument with a woman regarding the liberation of a chair, and so, only Pontmercy noticed Javert's signal.
Nevertheless, there was only so far that Javert was willing to push his luck. He promised that they would be careful and dragged Pontmercy away before any complications occurred. The boy made to protest, but fell silent at one little word: Cosette.
"Keep your mouth shut until we are two blocks away, then I'll explain," he whispered, and they passed the barricade unmolested, though Javert though he heard Gavroche make a loud exclamation just as they turned the corner.
As soon as they were out of sight, Pontmercy tore himself loose and whipped out a gun. "What are you doing?"he asked, voice shrill. "If you think I will betray my comrades, even for - How dare you!"
"I do not ask you to betray anyone," Javert said and held up the letter. It had Pontmercy's name on it, written in the elegant hand of a lady, and the youth swallowed convulsively when he saw it.
"Listen, I will tell you the truth." He drew a deep breath; this could make or break him, and Javert did not believe he had strength for many more attempts - if any at all. "I do not believe that you stand a chance. The mood of Paris tonight, the numbers, they all speak greatly against you! This rebellion is too small, and you don't have the populace with you. However! This doesn't mean that you deserve to die." He closed his eyes for a moment, the red, red blood of this young man and all his friends streaming before his eyes; a river's worth of death, so many lives bled dry before their time. "I know you do not trust me, and I wouldn't ask for that. Come, see what I see, and report it truthfully when we return. All I ask is that you allow me to speak to your leader before you reveal me. If I don't tell him I am of the police within the first dozen words we exchange, denounce me! I swear I shall admit everything."
"How can I trust you?" Pontmercy ground out between clenched teeth. "You have already deceived my comrades! And I assume I shall not receive this letter either, until your plan is finished?"
"No," Javert said, "you have waited long enough for me to deliver it." And to Pontmercy's obvious surprise, he handed over both the note and his pistol. "Please. Look at it. This is no forgery. I have deceived, yes, but I have not lied with malice. Give me but one afternoon of trust!"
Pontmercy had torn the seal at once, but now he paused, staring at Javert for a long moment with the half-opened letter in hand. "Why, Inspector?"
Javert considered. "I serve the law and the law should serve the people."
"And when it no longer does?"
"Then it is unjust. And Justice is the first, and greatest, law itself. We can rewrite the laws of men, but we can neither change nor challenge the law of heaven. I do not condone your violent methods, nor do I believe that you are right in every point... but your struggles are inspired by the dream of a fairer world, and I would not see you all die in vain. Not when you could live on and work towards it in other ways," he finished softly. Then he nodded down towards the letter. "Ought you not read that? The young lady was eager for you to receive it. Then we must go."
They walked towards the first meeting point, Javert keeping close to Pontmercy, who was wholly engrossed in Cosette's brief words. Nudging him when he seemed about to walk into a wall was easy, catching him when he almost stumbled on his feet a bit more tricky.
"Pay attention, boy!" he finally grumbled. "How much did she write you, anyway?"
"It is not the size of it," Pontmercy gasped, "but the content which stings me like a flail! Oh, Cosette, my dearest Cosette..." He sank against the wall, and sighed deeply. "I had thought her gone from me, lost forever! In the last words we exchanged before her father hid her away, she spoke with worry about England, and I saw her already on a ship journeying far beyond my reach. But she is here!" He clenched the note in his hand and gave Javert, who was impatiently tapping his cane against the pavement, an anguished look. "I had thought to die tonight, to give my life to her memory! But she lives, she is so near me! How... Now what? My friends... My Cosette... My loyalties tear me in two!"
Thank God he hadn't been returned to a time when he was so young and foolish, Javert thought; still more doubtful that he'd ever been this hopeless, even in his earliest years.
"Then help me," Javert said, choosing not to voice his more cynical thoughts. "Rather, follow me and make your own judgements! If Paris is raging, if Paris revolts, return to your friends and fight with them. If, as I suspect the case to be, only the slums and student quarters are in disarray and the national guard is ready to crush the uprising, we go back to help your friends escape! There is no need for you to die tonight. Live! Fight for your love, fight for your better world, but above all, survive to see them both tomorrow!"
"You are right!" Pontmercy cried, lifting the letter high. "For tomorrow - and for love!"
"Keep your voice down!"
They walked through the alleys towards the nearest outpost of the national guard. Twice they encountered patrols, which Javert dealt with (You brought your police licence to our barricade?), and he made sure to lead them around the blocked streets. When they arrived at their goal, everything was predictably chaotic. Much to Javert's relief, the communication conflicts between the army and civilian law enforcement seemed to have grown lesser when compared to lives past.
Dubois awaited him at the agreed spot, handing over the list tallying the insurgent spots and the guardsmen.
"Who is this, Inspector?" he asked, eyeing Pontmercy carefully, and not voicing the obvious observation that he looked like very much a student.
"This young gentleman is the grandson of none less than the honourable Monsieur Gillenormand," Javert said, before Pontmercy could spill any sensitive information. He ignored the sputtering and continued. "He has been vital in allowing me to gather intelligence - if you see him tomorrow, don't shoot him."
"No, Inspector!"
"How do you know that?" Pontmercy hissed when they were alone. "I have repudiated my family! I do not lay claim to these relations!"
"Then you should change your name, boy. I've heard it is helpful if one wishes to escape one's past!" Javert replied. "But never mind that, we have more important things to do. Here, read this, while I make sure nobody is ordering a massacre."
He spent the next hour arguing, sending messages and reworking plans. There were as always a hundred little changes in each life; this barricade had been moved a block, that sergeant had been replaced by another far dumber and stubborner, and nobody ever did what he told them to do when they ought do it.
Dubois was thankfully well-trained in obeying his orders to the letter. He had the man ride back and forth during the afternoon, until his hair was darkened with sweat and his horse stood with heaving sides at the water-trough. Meanwhile, Javert argued himself hoarse with various military men and politicians, many of whom had never put their well-polished boots on the back streets of Saint Michel.
"Well?" he asked when Pontmercy returned from his excursion. He had sent the boy with Dubois to one of the latest disaster spots, where a barricade had caught on fire. The resulting explosion from fire reaching the gunpowder had near levelled the street, and he hoped it would keep the young man from any suicidal attempts. Though he was not certain how they were to hold the barricade, if they were meant to hold the barricade, Javert considered it critical that nobody blew the damn thing up by mistake!
Pontmercy was pale and tense around the eyes when he returned, but spoke with more resolve than before. "I had hoped this was all an elaborate trick," he said, "but I can see it plain as day. We were too early... there is no general uprising." He had taken a seat in a calmer corner and slumped together now, staring down at the cobble-stones. "They will not join us, will they?"
"No," Javert said, and he sat down on a crate opposite Pontmercy. "No, tonight, the world will not change. Except for you and I." They sat in silence for a while, and Javert recalled another life, another student... Paris on the night of rebellion, doubts and dreams and doomed young men; how many times had he trod upon this paths, and how many more times must he do it before the entire world felt false? He forced the thought away; now was not the time to despair.
Time was sand and it ran through their fingers faster every hour. He asked, "What do you choose to do?"
Giving a bleak laugh, the youth took out his letter and unfolded the wrinkled paper. "What can I do? I shall write a farewell to my beloved, asking for her final pardon, then return to my comrades. I am not a traitor."
"What's the use of fighting, if you know you will lose?"
"What's the use of anything, when all die in the end?" he whispered. He kissed the note, and looked up, a trembling smile on his lips. "Inspector, might I trouble you for some writing material?"
"Certainly; however, I would like for you to hold off on sending a message to your young lady until we have returned."
"If you believe I can change Enjolras' mind -"
"That's not what I meant. I saw the little boy there. He is too young to properly understand what he is sacrificing himself for. Use this to send him away, and request that Mademoiselle Cosette keep him with her."
That made Pontmercy pull a wry grin. "Gavroche will curse my name for an eternity if I do that."
Javert sat silent, and in the end Pontmercy gave a resigned shrug. "But at least he will live to curse me, ah? As you suggest, Inspector."
Before they left, Javert handed Dubois a thick package, covered in waxed paper and bound and sealed twice-over. "If I have not returned in two days time, make sure that this reaches the Prefect," he said. Seeing the upset look of his subordinate, he added, "I do intend to return, Monsieur, but we can none of us know our fate."
"But, Inspector -Are you certain, like, that you need personally go back there?"
"What have I told you about trusting second-hand sources? Exactly. Now go to your post."
Dubois straightened into attention. "Inspector." Clutching the package to his chest, he performed a deep bow, holding it far longer than Javert's status demanded. "Thank you, sir, for everything you've done for me. God's grace on you tonight!"
"Just stay away from the damned dice, and you wouldn't have half the trouble you encounter," Javert muttered and touched the brim of his hat. "Take care, man, and keep a close eye on my package."
They traversed the occupied city as fast as they might, neither Javert nor Pontmercy having anything further to discuss until they reached the barricade.
Almost they were by the Café Musain, when Pontmercy asked him to stop. "Inspector," he said hesitantly, "I believe you should remain here."
Javert shook his head and marched off again. He wore no gun and had traded the cane for his usual weighted stick; was it not so likely to get him shot immediately, he would happily have donned his uniform again. "This is my responsibility," he said, "this is my battlefield tonight."
Unhappy, but sensing his determination, Pontmercy trudged after him and they came soon upon the barricade.
"What have you heard?" Combeferre yelled to them while the others made an opening.
"Things are dire," Javert said, "and we have much news... Not all of which is fit to share here." He caught Enjolras gaze and nodded towards the café.
The young leader took in their stances, then nodded, and with his two lieutenants preceded Javert into the empty building.
"Wait! Marius, tell us what you saw!" Joly, it was, tugging at his friend.
Before Javert need interfere, Pontmercy shook him off and followed with his shoulders hunched and head hanging. Whispers spread among the revolutionaries left behind, and he thought he could feel little Gavroche stare at him with eyes older than his years.
"Speak," Enjolras ordered when they had some privacy, "and do not mince your words. We are quite curious..."
"I have first a confession to make," Javert said. "I am Javert, Inspector of the Paris Police. I did not come to spy, nor to do battle, but to warn you - the city lies silent and the national guard is amassing. You will have no revolution. Your friend has witnessed it himself; if he has any sense, he copied the numbers down. If you fight, you stand no chance tonight."
Enjolras looked at him with an angel's smile, then slowly, he began to clap. "Yes," he said, "I see it now. Bravo, Inspector, a clever ruse indeed!"
"It's not a trick, Enjolras," Pontmercy said. "I - damn, I'm sorry, but I recognized him at once. I've met him before and I thought he might try to fool me at first. But the Inspector doesn't lie about this. The barricades are falling one by one, and in an hour, their armies will have reached ours." His eyes glistened with tears and he clasped the letter to his heart. "We have no chance."
"No chance, they say," Enjolras mused, and turned to Courfeyrac. "I see I owe our Gavroche an apology. When I feared we had let a spy take Marius, he warned us that it was something far worse."
Javert pursed his mouth; always, that little... "The gamin recognized me?" he asked.
"That he did," Courfeyrac said, "and we have feared for our friend a great deal today." He gave his friend a pat on the back, and smiled at him with encouragement. "I am glad to see you whole, even if your spirit seems to have taken a thrashing."
"It's not that I don't still believe in the cause," Pontmercy said, turning pleading eyes towards Enjolras. "But they are - they're so many! And we, we are so few left."
"Far worse than a traitor indeed," Combeferre agreed, "for they send us reason and hard logic instead. Crush with numbers, and you won't have to crush with might, eh?"
That was a little too much for him tonight. "I was not sent," Javert spat, resting his stick upon his shoulder, taking note who adopted their stance to be ready for him, and who remained relaxed. "I came here to save your fool lives!"
"Then you have wasted your time, Inspector!" Enjolras laid his hands on Pontmercy's shoulders, pulled him close until they stood brow to brow. "You say you have seen the numbers, my friend," he said, his voice neither seductive nor angry, simply filled with the perfect conviction of faith. "Clearly, they bring you despair. What did you see that you had not expected? Their armies are great? Their cannons are plentiful? Of course they are. The masters up above always hold the whips, and we must stand below, and fight as only a people can fight!"
"But they have not heard us!" Pontmercy cried, and now tears spilled down his cheeks. "Oh, Enjolras, you do not... I thought nothing of death, for life stretched before me like an empty desert! But now I have word of her, of my Cosette. And on the same day, I see all our struggles are in vain. It breaks me apart, but worse is the knowledge that nobody cares for our battle!"
"That is not true," Courfeyrac said, and he too put a hand on the sobbing young man's back. "To live in fear, to stay hidden in their bolt-holes, to weep and pray, and live to fear another day... It has nothing to do with caring for this cause. Marius, think - do you not wish to live now? Have you not found something greater in your heart than the martyr's cause? What of the nursing mothers and the working fathers? What of children tucked in at night, or all other lovers in this city? Are their fears somehow lesser than yours? We all must choose our battles, and we all must weigh the risk."
Combeferre nodded in agreement. "It is not apathy that stays their hand, it is fear! And that is why we who have chosen this path and walk it freely should fight for those who cannot."
"Come what may, the sun rises tomorrow!" Enjolras proclaimed, lifting his hands in a blessing, speaking now to them all. "But it is through our struggle and our fight that it may rise over a better world! Do you think this barricade is built from furniture and rubble alone? Marius! Inspector! You come to us, you warn of death and overwhelming force? What of it? We shall die then, but we shall die fighting and our battle will leave an echo through time. If the people have not heard our song, then let them hear the guns that tear us down, let them lament our loss and remember it when next the winds of change are blowing." He laughed, young and terrible, and Pontmercy's tears were drying forgotten on his cheeks. "There is injustice in our world, and we were born to fight it - why would that mean we were born to end it? What hubris for a man to only walk into battle when victory was guaranteed, and still call himself a warrior. For justice we have lived, for the people we shall die! And for the future that we shape with our blood and our tears and our dreams, we shall never, never give up."
Javert had watched in silence, captivated, when he heard a boyish cheer rise behind him. When he turned, he noticed that the café had filled up. They were here, so many of the young martyrs of the barricade, the women of the café and the inhabitants of the alley; little Gavroche, clapping dirty hands. They were here, and though they were afraid, they would remain.
"And if tomorrow we'll be ghosts, then let the wine flow tonight!" Grantaire said, though his laughter held a bitter edge as he pushed ahead of the others. He waved the flask in Javert's face, spilling wine on his coat, and bowed in mocking apology. "Drink with us, Inspector, for we are all dead men tonight!"
The wine stank of blood, as it had done throughout the decades, and Javert pushed it away in disgust. "You are wrong, you are boys who do not understand. If you stay here, you will not become great martyrs for a cause. The state will shoot you, and the state will bury you -"
"And we will join all the other unmourned dreamers and hopeless fools!" Grantaire took a swig of his bottle, then offered it to Enjolras who only gave him a look of deepest contempt. "We fight, we try, and we keep getting ground down into misery and muck, and yet -" His hand was oddly graceful as it drew a curve down Enjolras face, never quite daring touch his locks; and Javert thought he'd found another almost as tired as himself. "Whatever comes, whatever happens, we dream and dream and dream again... and until all our dreams are dead, no soldiers and no wine will see these fools silenced. Not 'fore the great grave has finally eaten us all."
Enjolras pushed his hand away; not unkindly, but with the marble conviction of one who is beyond the reach of all admonishments. He spoke: "Our dreams go beyond ourselves; our goals are larger than one man. We fight against a king, we fight against injustice - but in truth, we fight for humanity and all the unfilled hopes! To die is not the end, for our calls will be taken up by others; our struggle flows through time until the summit is reached and a new world is born. Fight, Marius, fight with us with a flame in your heart and lightness in your limbs. Fight," he said, and challenged Grantaire with his stance and burning eyes, "and dare dream with a honest heart."
"Or live to fight tomorrow," Combeferre said, stern and gentle, "and leave the dying to those who volunteer." He turned towards the audience and, though his voice was less captivating and his eyes shone less bright, there was no mistaking the conviction in his words. "We do not seek death for death's own sake. I shall stay, and I shall fight, for I agree with Enjolras - no death upon this barricade is wasted in this struggle. But tonight is not our only battle, and martyrdom not our sole weapon. To all who feel the ties that bind them, be they love, duty or regrets... Go, I tell you. Perhaps the Inspector might help you, perhaps you must try to escape on your own. But go, and remember us who die, and never let your dreams fall."
Grimly, Enjolras nodded, and he swept his gaze around the café, catching each watching eye, and challenging them: to live or die, but to serve the cause in each action.
Nobody spoke for several long moments. Javert heard only the thudding drum of his own heartbeat and the working of Grantaire's throat, for he was attempting to swallow the contents of his bottle in one sweep, his eyes squeezed shut against the world.
"Oh, Combeferre; how is it that in your kindness, it is you who ask too much of us?" Pontmercy finally said. "For dying is a horror... but abandoning a friend is even worse." And he clasped both Enjolras and Combeferre's hands and smiled through fresh tears. "I shall remain, and now I shall go to my end with a calmer heart."
"And so shall I!"
"Aye!"
"For France and her future!"
Around Javert, the Friends of the ABC crowded, each of them touching their leaders, each of them sharing a smile with Pontmercy. And little Gavroche was first of them all, clambering between their legs until Courfeyrac lifted him to his shoulders from where he took up a rousing song.
It hurt to see them so vibrant and shining; it hurt to recall them broken and dead. What should he do? His words could change no minds and though he had prepared for years, none of his choices could ever stop the soldiers approaching. They would not give up. It was this knowledge that had Javert almost stagger over to the wall, sink against it, with the weight of the years pulling him down.
"We still need to plan!" Enjolras finally called, clapping his hands together and demanding order. "Marius' intelligence is important - even if it is hopeless to dream of victory, we shall make our mark in their books, and for that, we must write in blood!"
"Return to your posts," another young man repeated, "they will be coming soon!" And with both honest merriment and heartfelt vows, the revolutionaries took up their arms and returned outside.
He knew not what to do, he knew not where to go, and so Javert remained by the wall, staring at nothing until all but five had left the room: Enjolras, whose clear eyes skewered him like the light of judgement; Combeferre, who kept up a whispered conversation with his leader and Grantaire, and Marius who knelt by Gavroche and looked to be begging him to deliver his letter.
"Inspector Javert," Enjolras said, "it appears none of us are in need of your help."
"No," he agreed, "it appears not."
"You have acted with some measure of honour," he continued, "but it does not diminish the fact that you were, and remain, an oppressor and our antagonist. If we release you, where would you go?"
Go? Where might he turn? Nowhere; everywhere - all directions led to the same end and beginning.
"Inspector?"
"Where? I would return," and die, "and do my duty 'til the last." Javert lifted his head with some effort, and forced a mocking smile when he saw Enjolras' hand closed around a gun. "So much for your talk of mercy, I see."
"We will not kill you without cause," Combeferre assured him. "However, we must fight with all our might... Right now, all stand brave with us. But hearts are weak, and men are but flesh." He lifted his right hand and Javert saw it tremble wildly; that, he had not expected, and he watched the man with a new respect. "When the battle comes, when they know that the tide will drown us, I expect that many will cry and beg for mercy."
"And then you will have value to us! A bargaining chip, and we might exchange your life for our friends'," Enjolras stated. "Now - will you swear cooperation and let me give you parole, or must we bind you?"
Javert shuddered at that question, recalling Valjean's blood cooling in his arms. Parole... never, never again. "No," he managed, "that, I cannot do."
"The rope, then. Gavroche?" Enjolras said, and the boy shook off Marius with obvious relief, before he hurried away.
Javert thought to fight, but weariness had overcome him. He did not understand anything, and when he recalled Valjean's portentous dream and his previous deaths at the barricade, he felt all the more paralysed. He could not change their minds; he could not save a dozen men on his own - not even Pontmercy's life would he be able to guarantee, unless he lied and betrayed and went against everything he believed in. Would he even remain Javert, if he managed to manipulate them so well that he lured Pontmercy away; all for the sake of his own precious neck? As for the rest, their blood would become a river and Javert would live a coward who did not even attempt to save one little child...
Better to remain slumped against the wall, then; better to look at the brilliance of these who still dared to hope for a happy future, and know that Valjean was safe out in the world.
"We have to hold the barricade through the first attack," Combeferre mused. "That is the first step, both to raise our courage and come closer to our goal."
"Oh..." Pontmercy looked up. "I might have an idea for that."
Enjolras gave him a curious glance before his gaze returned to Javert, as steady as the gun in his hand. "Do tell?"
"Yes. Wait, just - " he tried handing Enjolras his guns, realized it was impossible to hold three at once, and so turned to Combeferre instead and unloaded them there. Then, to everyone's great surprise, Pontmercy shrugged off his coat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
"If you are planning to distract them with your stunning body, we'd do better sending Enjolras," Grantaire commented. "And possibly Courfeyrac," he continued with teasing seriousness, "though the devil knows how much wine that would take."
"No, no," Pontmercy said, pulling his shirt apart to reveal a length of thin rope wound around his body. "I have a grenade in my coat pocket too," he added when they only kept staring in confusion.
"Wait," Combeferre said and touched the rope, "is this - Marius! This is prepared fuse line?"
The young man nodded proudly, and pulled out a loose end, beginning to unwind the thread. Though Grantaire, baffled, kept shaking his head, he and Combeferre helped him remove the fuse.
Gavroche returned with the rope, but seeing the three of them already busy he simply plopped down next to Enjolras and watched the spectacle.
"Where did you get this?" Enjolras asked. "I believe I can see your plan... but it is dangerous, Marius, very dangerous."
"Better a fuse than an open flame," he replied. "I took this from a fallen barricade, though I could not get at any further guns. They had an accident with the gunpowder, a grisly thing - I suppose that's why the Inspector sent me there. His man, who was supposed to keep an eye on me, thought he recognized one of the victims and while he was busy..." Marius pulled a face at the memory. "He was trying to put the corpse together, to identify it, and I liberated this. Especially since there's already been an accident tonight, I thought the idea of an explosion might scare them off?"
"Brilliant!" Gavroche crowed, applauding him.
Grantaire laughed, and Javert hoped he had only been made wicked by drink and fear. "Oh, yes, let's blow the bastards sky high and paint the entire world red!"
"No," Enjolras said immediately. "If the barricade falls, we're done for. But the threat of it... Yes, that is a clever idea. We must set up something to protect the powder, but it might just work."
"Please, Inspector," Pontmercy said when he noticed Javert's frown, "don't blame officer Dubois. He asked a soldier to look after me. Unfortunately, the man had to go empty his stomach and when we returned, I sneaked into a closet and hid this more safely."
Javert groaned, familiar irritation pulling him from his lethargy. "Of course he'd trust a weakling! This is why I keep telling him not to delegate unless he knows the man," or had spent twelve years trying to teach him good habits, not that it always helped. "I must admit, I had not expected such resourcefulness from you... nor so strong a stomach."
Pontmercy shrugged, an awkward blush spreading on his cheeks that had both Gavroche and Grantaire grinning at him. "It was in one of the moments when I thought I must live, whatever came, and for Cosette... for Cosette, I would dare everything."
"And we've all had to assist Joly and the other hacksaws when they've been trying to treat the poor," added Grantaire with a shrug. "Chop off a foot or two from some poor bastard screaming at you while the entire room stinks of gangrene and you get over queasiness pretty fast."
Pontmercy nodded. "There is that, too." Finally freed of the fuse, he had begun to dress himself again when he noticed Combeferre and Enjolras take the other rope from Gavroche. "Ah, must we really?"
"We cannot have a knife against our back," Enjolras told him, stern.
"If you will not give us your word after all?" Combeferre asked, looking hopefully at Javert.
"No," Javert said and straightened. "I will not lie, but neither can I go against my principles."
"Principles; the greatest folly of our age." Grantaire shook his head, and took another deep swallow of drink. "But there we have it, Marius! He has principles, so bind him we must."
"Yeah," Gavroche agreed, "ol' bastard's too sneaky to let run free."
They seated him on the floor and tied him to the stairs; not uncomfortably, but thoroughly. No noose around his neck, but he felt a clench of fear inside even so. To Javert, this night was playing out in far too familiar a way.
Their remaining hour grew short, and Pontmercy and Combeferre ran out to set up the trap while Enjolras rearranged his force, Gavroche at his heels. Grantaire muttered something about them all flying to hell before he ambled off, and with his departure, Javert was left alone.
All that remained to him was to wait, then, and hope that young Pontmercy's harebrained scheme would work. To wait - and to pray.
Silence fell around them, and Javert tasted the tension in the air. He thought to feel the tramping of marching feet on the street more than once, but the soldiers failed to appear.
The students waited too, their jokes and songs having fallen silent and the entire night appearing to wait along with them.
Then...
"Have mercy, my Lord," Javert whispered to the empty café. "Have mercy on them all."
Angry voices rang out, demanding the surrender of the students. Defiant slogans and demands for justice were lobbed back. He ought to try to stop listening. Valjean had taught him tricks to escape bonds, there was a file in his sleeve - he would not have an opportunity such as this again. Escape, somehow, perhaps he might hide and gather Pontmercy before the end, and could then hurry to Valjean's side, see him again before the river. A farewell, at least...
Javert did not move. His entire being was focused on listening to that steady marching, on the first shots thundering through the alley, on the sounds of death and the memories of young men in uniforms and cockades dying for no gain at all. He had not the strength to struggle, for more than mere ropes bound him: the years had been too long and he had staked so much on avoiding this dreadful moment that he found himself unable to act when it relentlessly appeared.
Another shot, the call to charge; he heard it then - Enjolras, the shining one, challenging them all to an end in fire and in flame.
Javert's breath hitched and he remembered: death, so much death - the guillotine, the blade, the club, the noose, the gun and the hungry river and the deep sea and the fire of the barricades, these damned barricades! Again this devouring night when men and youths and children would fall; their blood spilled on the stones until only a line of corpses remained; hungry and inescapable, this night of Judgement.
Silence; terrible - made more so by his imagination showing a lit fuse, tiny sparks whispering them all towards the sudden end.
Silence, terrible, as was the gunshot breaking in a wholly different way. Angry yelling, then an explosion sounded, but not the disaster he'd awaited - not their powder flying high in reckless destruction, but still too loud and deadly for a gun. Such distant screams they were (the soldiers, oh God, all those men dying for their duty!), the lack of fire crackling alive, the shallow depth of its thunder. He recognized it then; it was not the powder flying high, but Pontmercy's stolen grenade thrown over the barricade.
Finally, Javert heard the order loud and clear: Retreat! Retreat! They've rigged it to blow!
His head fell back against the post, cold sweat gathering at his temples and trickling down his back. Another night of life. Perhaps another chance. If only he could stop shaking...
Once more the students walked in, carrying one of their own, and he saw shadows walk along them with a different man in their grip; another lifetime but they bled with the same colour. In contrast to that time, this man did not twist in pain but hung limp in their grip. The young doctor walked at his side and clutched a slack hand; when they laid him on the floor, Javert recognized his pale face. The one they named Bossuet.
It angered him then, that the river would not rise at this proof of his failure. What were the fates, to decide one man's worth above another?
The wounded student seemed to breathe still, if shallowly. They turned him and Javert saw the wound then, the place where a large swath of scalp had been torn off, revealing blood, naked skull and perhaps things even worse. This man would never wake again.
Another student was helped inside. Feuilly, he was called, and could at least walk on his own even if his arm was bent unnaturally, with red creeping through fingers held protectively around the break.
"Joly," Courfeyrac called, tying his cravat tight above the wound, "Joly! You must take a look at this!"
Marius (unharmed and whole; how bitter the reassuring sight) pulled Joly away from the dying man, led him with gentle determination to the one who still had a chance. It was not a doctor but a grey-faced mourner who bound his friend's wound. When he returned to find the first man dead, having slipped away between two breaths, he collapsed to his knees and no words reached him.
Striding inside, Enjolras' presence was captivating enough that all others, even Javert, found their attention drawn to him.
He waited a beat, then announced in triumph: "They've withdrawn! We gave them leave to collect their dead, and in return, have received some food and drink." Enjolras rubbed his hands and gazed towards the morrow while he continued speaking. "They fear we have more explosives, too. None understand where our arsenal comes from, but that only frightens them more. With this advantage, we ought to be able to hold out an entire day! If we succeed long enough, we might even turn the general opinion around!"
"Enjolras..." Courfeyrac jerked his head towards Joly, and the elation faded from the young leader's face.
"We knew we would have to pay a high price for our dreams," was all Enjolras was willing to give, though he inclined his head in respect. Only for a moment, though, and then he stepped over to the pair, sank down on his heels, and spoke quiet words to Joly - not of comfort, but of their goal; words in equal parts uplifting and ruthless.
"At least we gave them a good scare," Feuilly managed, offering a wan smirk. "If we could only get our message out to the populace, like Enjolras said, I'm sure some would come and join us!"
"How are we to sneak through their blockade, though?" Courfeyrac asked. "Their watch is bound to be doubled now!"
He and Marius had sat down on the empty floor next to their wounded friend, leaving Enjolras and Joly in peace. The students seemed to have decided that they would collectively ignore Javert, which suited him at the moment - now that the first danger was passed, his fingers had begun working the file, carefully teasing it out of a seam.
A part of Javert wished that he had brought something to dull pain, for it was clear that despite his surface of good cheer, young Feuilly was in considerable distress. Unfortunately, a gentleman's dress hid far less than a police greatcoat, and he had not wished to risk them investigating him closely until he'd pulled Pontmercy away. Afterwards, he had dared hope that there would be no use for laudanum among these schoolboys.
The three discussed their problems, joined after some time by Enjolras and a still subdued Joly. It was when Feuilly began wistfully speaking about a secret society of teachers in Poland that Pontmercy sprang up with a shout, before running out the café, yelling for Gavroche.
"He's always so enthusiastic, isn't he?" Courfeyrac remarked and the students shared a fond smile.
When Pontmercy returned, he was dragging the struggling gamin along.
"I ain't gonna take your silly letter!" the boy protested, clearly continuing an earlier argument. "Listen, Marius, my place's here tonight!"
Pontmercy ignored him completely, and pushed the boy forward, so that he almost stumbled on top of Enjolras. "Gavroche!" he proclaimed. "Gavroche can sneak out and bring a stack of posters with him!"
"An' I suppose I'll just hafta take the way past your girl too?" Gavroche spat and gave Pontmercy an evil eye. "Think I'm stupid, do ya? I'm not lettin' ya shove me outta the way, just 'cause the Inspector gave ya a fright!"
"Absolutely out of the question!" Courfeyrac's easy manners were gone, and he seemed perturbed at the suggestion. "The last person who should risk going through that line tonight is Gavroche! Marius, don't you understand the danger?"
Enjolras nodded in stern agreement. "This is a man's job, and a man's danger. After the grenade, they will feel vengeful. To be found with revolutionary tracts in the pockets tonight... No, not Gavroche."
"Hang on." The boy frowned. "Y'mean those papers are actually important? That's a diff'rent thing."
"It's too dangerous," Courfeyrac snapped.
"And you wouldn't manage anyway," Enjolras agreed, "unless there is a secret password the Inspector feels like sharing with us."
"Um..." All eyes fell on Pontmercy, who in turn looked thoughtfully at Javert. He scratched his neck and gave an embarrassed smile before speaking. "Ehm, this is a bit silly, but I think I forgot to tell you in all the excitement before... Inspector Javert did bring his police identification."
Cosette's beau or not, Javert could cheerfully have throttled the ninny. "Don't even think it," he snarled. "They'll shoot the boy before he has a chance to identify himself - not that anybody would mistake him for a policeman!"
"No," Enjolras said slowly, rising on light feet and sauntering closer, head cocked and eyes calculating. "But the police does employ young spies from time to time. They know that you are here; if you were hurt, if you needed reinforcements... Marius, did you not mention it, the name of the Inspector's assistant?"
"Dubois," Marius offered, "and I recall another bunch of names to ask for too."
"Aha." Enjolras stroked his chin, nodding to himself. "It would still be dangerous, but so is remaining here. With the right papers, with the right excuse..."
Javert shook his head in silent disgust. This had never been his intention, and he feared for the worst if they actually went through with such a foolish plan.
"No." It was Courfeyrac speaking, and they all heard the plea in his voice. "No, Enjolras, this is madness!"
"I'd do it if ye'll ask," Gavroche said, so foolish and brave. "Just gimme the papers, and I'll get 'em out." He crossed his arms and glared at Pontmercy. "And then I'm comin' right back 'ere!"
"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac went up to his leader, sharing a few private words with him; none too friendly ones, to judge from his tone.
"But if it works, where'm I supposed to take 'em?" Gavroche continued, ignoring the argument taking place a few feet away. "I can't really run round an' hand 'em all out myself, can I?"
"Listen to me before you say no," Pontmercy said and knelt in front of him. He spoke so fast that the words almost tripped over each other, and what he had to say was this: Cosette's father was a philanthropist with connections to the church. He was known among the poor, and though he was an elderly man, everything showed him a determined and resourceful. If Gavroche spoke to Cosette, she would surely convince her father for his, Marius', sake. With the help of this man, their message would have the greatest chance of reaching the population in time.
"An' while I'm there," Gavroche said with a roll of his eyes, "I can take a lett'r to her as well, eh?" He grinned then, and gave Pontmercy a playful punch on the shoulder. "Oh fine! If Enjolras says it's a go, I'll do it!"
The discussion was not ended with that. Both Enjolras and Feuilly questioned the wisdom in trusting so much to a complete stranger and Courfeyrac had several objections to raise, which he did so loudly that more students came to ask what they were arguing about. Pontmercy defended his point, and Gavroche twice pointed out that if he was going, he'd like to get going before the night was over, if they'd please.
Meanwhile, Javert had found the file and doggedly sawed through his ropes. Whether Valjean's presence was vital for him or not, he had no intention of letting a little boy risk his life to bring that about. He rolled his wrists for a few moments, letting the blood flow back into them, and then slowly began to pull his legs under him, hoping he might sneak out before they finished arguing. If he could only get to the back alleys, he could keep away long enough to tear up his identification - it might not stop Gavroche, but at least Javert would have no part in the boy's death.
Just like the agitated young men, he had completely forgotten about Joly, sitting silent by Bossuet's corpse. When he stood up, when he on silent feet snuck backwards toward the exit, it was this youth who looked up, caught Javert's eyes for an endless moment and then yelled out his name, pointed accusingly - Javert began to run before Enjolras had finished turning his head.
He reached the alley, he rounded a corner, and though blood pounded in his ears, Javert was certain he'd make it unless they shot him in the back - and then, at least, he'd have a quick end. Another opening appeared and he recalled it as a way out, when his feet trampled on something soft. Stumbling, he heard a loud grunt beneath, and felt someone grab at his leg.
Cursing wildly, Javert fell hard against the pavement, the impact jarring both knees and skull; before he had managed to free himself, the students were upon him, holding him down while they praised the damned drunk. He snarled and fought, biting the closest hand and tried to reach his papers, thinking to tear them up and grind them to uselessness in the mud, but they were too many and their weight pressed his face into the mud; they'd caught his arms, Grantaire was complaining beneath him, and soon they brought rope and he was caught to their triumph.
At least the interfering drunkard didn't join them in merrymaking; Javert's boots had found several sensitive spots, and Grantaire crawled off and chucked up what sounded like a barrel of wine as soon as he could.
Petty satisfaction perhaps, but when they took his papers and stripped him of coat and waistcoat, unable to find the file but knowing that he'd had one, pettiness was all he had left. Javert was taken back to the café, bound more securely, and his identification was solemnly handed to Gavroche. The coat was cut apart to form an improvised bag for the tracts and, too soon, the boy disappeared in the dark.
"You won't see him again," Javert hissed Enjolras, as the rebel leader tested the bonds trapping him one last time. The noose was back and his arms tightly lashed behind his back; an hour of this, and he'd have been in hellish distress, if he wasn't already burning with anger."You've sent that child to his death, and you've dared used my name to do it!"
"Gavroche might be young, but that does not mean his convictions are lesser than ours," Enjolras replied, wholly the idealist and the butcher in that moment. "Now then, I apologize for any unnecessary suffering, but you've brought it on yourself."
"Go to hell!"
Enjolras bowed. "The world is already there, Monsieur, and that is why we strive to bring this sorry Earth closer to heaven. Have a good night." He walked away and the café was empty; not even the dead man had been left in his company.
Javert ground his teeth and fought his bonds until he'd rubbed his wrists raw. He imagined Valjean trying to sneak past the soldiers in this night - men more upset than in any previous life, sleeping with fingers on the triggers - and he renewed his struggles until he was gasping and choking against the noose.
Continue to next part
"Let me attempt to find out the truth!" Javert said, feeling it almost as a physical weight when Enjolras' attention turned to him. "I was born in the abyss, but fought my way out of it. I have worn their uniforms, I have seen good men die while serving a Law ignored by those who wrote it!" He spat on the ground. "Justice is a star in the darkness, but her servants are too often fallible and more wretched than the villains they chase. I wish nothing more than to make up for the evil caused by ignorant soldiers serving ignorant masters!"
"Can we trust you?" Enjolras asked, eyeing his appearance slowly. "Pardon, Monsieur, but I must ask."
This time, Javert had foregone his labourer's disguise, and instead dressed himself as a gentleman slightly down on his luck. A second-hand brown coat of a cut similar to the one Pontmercy had last worn, a grey-chequered waistcoat, and a walking stick considerably more elegant than his police cane. To complete the outfit, there was even a silk cravat around his throat.
The clothes were, by necessity, provided by Valjean. It had pricked his pride to ask for financial assistance, but his friend had been happy to gift them to him and had even suggested commissioning an outfit from a tailor. If Javert had not drawn a firm line at one (used!) set only, he would soon have found himself with a wardrobe too large for his apartment.
"He was with us at General Lamarque's funeral," Combeferre slowly said, his voice gaining surety the more he observed Javert. "I do believe I saw him fire a gun."
"Yes," Courfeyrac agreed, "and for what it's worth, he helped me get away."
"I understand your wariness - I applaud it, in fact. Perhaps if two of us left together we could watch each other? We might even pose as father and son, and so be less likely to be stopped." Javert pretended to look around, then nodded towards Pontmercy, who was still busy fortifying the barricade. "Perhaps that young man there?"
Glancing over to his friend, Enjolras nodded thoughtfully. "You can both carry yourself as gentlemen and with your coats so similar... It will help confuse their eyes. Yes. I shall ask him."
Javert nodded and turned towards Courfeyrac to hide his appearance a little while longer; it would not do for Pontmercy to reveal him with a surprised exclamation.
After a short conversation, Enjolras called him over. He tipped his hat at the two young men while he carefully pulled out a well-folded letter, and only turned around after he held it in his hand. From the wide eyes Pontmercy made upon seeing Javert, the young man recognized him almost immediately. The flash of a white note with a red seal, however, distracted him and his surprised visage turned questioning, even eager.
Is it? he mouthed, to which Javert's only reply was an eyebrow raised in challenge.
For a full week, two lovelorn fools had been sneaking around Valjean's garden, while Éponine indulgently looked the other way and helped distract her father. Then there had been an attempted break-in, foiled only because Dubois had been put to patrol the area each evening. Javert feared the man would ask him to to lay the cards soon, or perhaps augur the outcome of Saturday's dog-fights, but needs must.
That had been the final straw; Valjean spirited his daughters away, not even giving Cosette time to scribble a message and leave at the door.
Since then, Pontmercy had appeared thrice at the police station, inquiring whether the Inspector might know of the Fauchelevent family's whereabouts? He claimed to have something important to return; upon questioning, it turned out to be a handkerchief, not even monogrammed. Even in the midst of the growing tension, most officers took a moment to laugh at the awkward young man badgering Javert - of all people! - about his lady-love.
Despite Valjean's hawk-eyes on them all, for he had not been pleased with Javert's self-defence scheme at all, Cosette had handed him a letter to pass on to Pontmercy. He couldn't understand how she always found the foolish boy, or how her attempts to reach him seemed so favoured by fate; could her mother's spirit stand guard over the girl's dreams?
Regardless of the reason, the damning missive once again escaped detection; just as the housekeeper had demanded Valjean's attention at the right moment, now the attention of Enjolras and his lieutenants were drawn away by Grantaire. He had fallen into an argument with a woman regarding the liberation of a chair, and so, only Pontmercy noticed Javert's signal.
Nevertheless, there was only so far that Javert was willing to push his luck. He promised that they would be careful and dragged Pontmercy away before any complications occurred. The boy made to protest, but fell silent at one little word: Cosette.
"Keep your mouth shut until we are two blocks away, then I'll explain," he whispered, and they passed the barricade unmolested, though Javert though he heard Gavroche make a loud exclamation just as they turned the corner.
As soon as they were out of sight, Pontmercy tore himself loose and whipped out a gun. "What are you doing?"he asked, voice shrill. "If you think I will betray my comrades, even for - How dare you!"
"I do not ask you to betray anyone," Javert said and held up the letter. It had Pontmercy's name on it, written in the elegant hand of a lady, and the youth swallowed convulsively when he saw it.
"Listen, I will tell you the truth." He drew a deep breath; this could make or break him, and Javert did not believe he had strength for many more attempts - if any at all. "I do not believe that you stand a chance. The mood of Paris tonight, the numbers, they all speak greatly against you! This rebellion is too small, and you don't have the populace with you. However! This doesn't mean that you deserve to die." He closed his eyes for a moment, the red, red blood of this young man and all his friends streaming before his eyes; a river's worth of death, so many lives bled dry before their time. "I know you do not trust me, and I wouldn't ask for that. Come, see what I see, and report it truthfully when we return. All I ask is that you allow me to speak to your leader before you reveal me. If I don't tell him I am of the police within the first dozen words we exchange, denounce me! I swear I shall admit everything."
"How can I trust you?" Pontmercy ground out between clenched teeth. "You have already deceived my comrades! And I assume I shall not receive this letter either, until your plan is finished?"
"No," Javert said, "you have waited long enough for me to deliver it." And to Pontmercy's obvious surprise, he handed over both the note and his pistol. "Please. Look at it. This is no forgery. I have deceived, yes, but I have not lied with malice. Give me but one afternoon of trust!"
Pontmercy had torn the seal at once, but now he paused, staring at Javert for a long moment with the half-opened letter in hand. "Why, Inspector?"
Javert considered. "I serve the law and the law should serve the people."
"And when it no longer does?"
"Then it is unjust. And Justice is the first, and greatest, law itself. We can rewrite the laws of men, but we can neither change nor challenge the law of heaven. I do not condone your violent methods, nor do I believe that you are right in every point... but your struggles are inspired by the dream of a fairer world, and I would not see you all die in vain. Not when you could live on and work towards it in other ways," he finished softly. Then he nodded down towards the letter. "Ought you not read that? The young lady was eager for you to receive it. Then we must go."
They walked towards the first meeting point, Javert keeping close to Pontmercy, who was wholly engrossed in Cosette's brief words. Nudging him when he seemed about to walk into a wall was easy, catching him when he almost stumbled on his feet a bit more tricky.
"Pay attention, boy!" he finally grumbled. "How much did she write you, anyway?"
"It is not the size of it," Pontmercy gasped, "but the content which stings me like a flail! Oh, Cosette, my dearest Cosette..." He sank against the wall, and sighed deeply. "I had thought her gone from me, lost forever! In the last words we exchanged before her father hid her away, she spoke with worry about England, and I saw her already on a ship journeying far beyond my reach. But she is here!" He clenched the note in his hand and gave Javert, who was impatiently tapping his cane against the pavement, an anguished look. "I had thought to die tonight, to give my life to her memory! But she lives, she is so near me! How... Now what? My friends... My Cosette... My loyalties tear me in two!"
Thank God he hadn't been returned to a time when he was so young and foolish, Javert thought; still more doubtful that he'd ever been this hopeless, even in his earliest years.
"Then help me," Javert said, choosing not to voice his more cynical thoughts. "Rather, follow me and make your own judgements! If Paris is raging, if Paris revolts, return to your friends and fight with them. If, as I suspect the case to be, only the slums and student quarters are in disarray and the national guard is ready to crush the uprising, we go back to help your friends escape! There is no need for you to die tonight. Live! Fight for your love, fight for your better world, but above all, survive to see them both tomorrow!"
"You are right!" Pontmercy cried, lifting the letter high. "For tomorrow - and for love!"
"Keep your voice down!"
They walked through the alleys towards the nearest outpost of the national guard. Twice they encountered patrols, which Javert dealt with (You brought your police licence to our barricade?), and he made sure to lead them around the blocked streets. When they arrived at their goal, everything was predictably chaotic. Much to Javert's relief, the communication conflicts between the army and civilian law enforcement seemed to have grown lesser when compared to lives past.
Dubois awaited him at the agreed spot, handing over the list tallying the insurgent spots and the guardsmen.
"Who is this, Inspector?" he asked, eyeing Pontmercy carefully, and not voicing the obvious observation that he looked like very much a student.
"This young gentleman is the grandson of none less than the honourable Monsieur Gillenormand," Javert said, before Pontmercy could spill any sensitive information. He ignored the sputtering and continued. "He has been vital in allowing me to gather intelligence - if you see him tomorrow, don't shoot him."
"No, Inspector!"
"How do you know that?" Pontmercy hissed when they were alone. "I have repudiated my family! I do not lay claim to these relations!"
"Then you should change your name, boy. I've heard it is helpful if one wishes to escape one's past!" Javert replied. "But never mind that, we have more important things to do. Here, read this, while I make sure nobody is ordering a massacre."
He spent the next hour arguing, sending messages and reworking plans. There were as always a hundred little changes in each life; this barricade had been moved a block, that sergeant had been replaced by another far dumber and stubborner, and nobody ever did what he told them to do when they ought do it.
Dubois was thankfully well-trained in obeying his orders to the letter. He had the man ride back and forth during the afternoon, until his hair was darkened with sweat and his horse stood with heaving sides at the water-trough. Meanwhile, Javert argued himself hoarse with various military men and politicians, many of whom had never put their well-polished boots on the back streets of Saint Michel.
"Well?" he asked when Pontmercy returned from his excursion. He had sent the boy with Dubois to one of the latest disaster spots, where a barricade had caught on fire. The resulting explosion from fire reaching the gunpowder had near levelled the street, and he hoped it would keep the young man from any suicidal attempts. Though he was not certain how they were to hold the barricade, if they were meant to hold the barricade, Javert considered it critical that nobody blew the damn thing up by mistake!
Pontmercy was pale and tense around the eyes when he returned, but spoke with more resolve than before. "I had hoped this was all an elaborate trick," he said, "but I can see it plain as day. We were too early... there is no general uprising." He had taken a seat in a calmer corner and slumped together now, staring down at the cobble-stones. "They will not join us, will they?"
"No," Javert said, and he sat down on a crate opposite Pontmercy. "No, tonight, the world will not change. Except for you and I." They sat in silence for a while, and Javert recalled another life, another student... Paris on the night of rebellion, doubts and dreams and doomed young men; how many times had he trod upon this paths, and how many more times must he do it before the entire world felt false? He forced the thought away; now was not the time to despair.
Time was sand and it ran through their fingers faster every hour. He asked, "What do you choose to do?"
Giving a bleak laugh, the youth took out his letter and unfolded the wrinkled paper. "What can I do? I shall write a farewell to my beloved, asking for her final pardon, then return to my comrades. I am not a traitor."
"What's the use of fighting, if you know you will lose?"
"What's the use of anything, when all die in the end?" he whispered. He kissed the note, and looked up, a trembling smile on his lips. "Inspector, might I trouble you for some writing material?"
"Certainly; however, I would like for you to hold off on sending a message to your young lady until we have returned."
"If you believe I can change Enjolras' mind -"
"That's not what I meant. I saw the little boy there. He is too young to properly understand what he is sacrificing himself for. Use this to send him away, and request that Mademoiselle Cosette keep him with her."
That made Pontmercy pull a wry grin. "Gavroche will curse my name for an eternity if I do that."
Javert sat silent, and in the end Pontmercy gave a resigned shrug. "But at least he will live to curse me, ah? As you suggest, Inspector."
Before they left, Javert handed Dubois a thick package, covered in waxed paper and bound and sealed twice-over. "If I have not returned in two days time, make sure that this reaches the Prefect," he said. Seeing the upset look of his subordinate, he added, "I do intend to return, Monsieur, but we can none of us know our fate."
"But, Inspector -Are you certain, like, that you need personally go back there?"
"What have I told you about trusting second-hand sources? Exactly. Now go to your post."
Dubois straightened into attention. "Inspector." Clutching the package to his chest, he performed a deep bow, holding it far longer than Javert's status demanded. "Thank you, sir, for everything you've done for me. God's grace on you tonight!"
"Just stay away from the damned dice, and you wouldn't have half the trouble you encounter," Javert muttered and touched the brim of his hat. "Take care, man, and keep a close eye on my package."
They traversed the occupied city as fast as they might, neither Javert nor Pontmercy having anything further to discuss until they reached the barricade.
Almost they were by the Café Musain, when Pontmercy asked him to stop. "Inspector," he said hesitantly, "I believe you should remain here."
Javert shook his head and marched off again. He wore no gun and had traded the cane for his usual weighted stick; was it not so likely to get him shot immediately, he would happily have donned his uniform again. "This is my responsibility," he said, "this is my battlefield tonight."
Unhappy, but sensing his determination, Pontmercy trudged after him and they came soon upon the barricade.
"What have you heard?" Combeferre yelled to them while the others made an opening.
"Things are dire," Javert said, "and we have much news... Not all of which is fit to share here." He caught Enjolras gaze and nodded towards the café.
The young leader took in their stances, then nodded, and with his two lieutenants preceded Javert into the empty building.
"Wait! Marius, tell us what you saw!" Joly, it was, tugging at his friend.
Before Javert need interfere, Pontmercy shook him off and followed with his shoulders hunched and head hanging. Whispers spread among the revolutionaries left behind, and he thought he could feel little Gavroche stare at him with eyes older than his years.
"Speak," Enjolras ordered when they had some privacy, "and do not mince your words. We are quite curious..."
"I have first a confession to make," Javert said. "I am Javert, Inspector of the Paris Police. I did not come to spy, nor to do battle, but to warn you - the city lies silent and the national guard is amassing. You will have no revolution. Your friend has witnessed it himself; if he has any sense, he copied the numbers down. If you fight, you stand no chance tonight."
Enjolras looked at him with an angel's smile, then slowly, he began to clap. "Yes," he said, "I see it now. Bravo, Inspector, a clever ruse indeed!"
"It's not a trick, Enjolras," Pontmercy said. "I - damn, I'm sorry, but I recognized him at once. I've met him before and I thought he might try to fool me at first. But the Inspector doesn't lie about this. The barricades are falling one by one, and in an hour, their armies will have reached ours." His eyes glistened with tears and he clasped the letter to his heart. "We have no chance."
"No chance, they say," Enjolras mused, and turned to Courfeyrac. "I see I owe our Gavroche an apology. When I feared we had let a spy take Marius, he warned us that it was something far worse."
Javert pursed his mouth; always, that little... "The gamin recognized me?" he asked.
"That he did," Courfeyrac said, "and we have feared for our friend a great deal today." He gave his friend a pat on the back, and smiled at him with encouragement. "I am glad to see you whole, even if your spirit seems to have taken a thrashing."
"It's not that I don't still believe in the cause," Pontmercy said, turning pleading eyes towards Enjolras. "But they are - they're so many! And we, we are so few left."
"Far worse than a traitor indeed," Combeferre agreed, "for they send us reason and hard logic instead. Crush with numbers, and you won't have to crush with might, eh?"
That was a little too much for him tonight. "I was not sent," Javert spat, resting his stick upon his shoulder, taking note who adopted their stance to be ready for him, and who remained relaxed. "I came here to save your fool lives!"
"Then you have wasted your time, Inspector!" Enjolras laid his hands on Pontmercy's shoulders, pulled him close until they stood brow to brow. "You say you have seen the numbers, my friend," he said, his voice neither seductive nor angry, simply filled with the perfect conviction of faith. "Clearly, they bring you despair. What did you see that you had not expected? Their armies are great? Their cannons are plentiful? Of course they are. The masters up above always hold the whips, and we must stand below, and fight as only a people can fight!"
"But they have not heard us!" Pontmercy cried, and now tears spilled down his cheeks. "Oh, Enjolras, you do not... I thought nothing of death, for life stretched before me like an empty desert! But now I have word of her, of my Cosette. And on the same day, I see all our struggles are in vain. It breaks me apart, but worse is the knowledge that nobody cares for our battle!"
"That is not true," Courfeyrac said, and he too put a hand on the sobbing young man's back. "To live in fear, to stay hidden in their bolt-holes, to weep and pray, and live to fear another day... It has nothing to do with caring for this cause. Marius, think - do you not wish to live now? Have you not found something greater in your heart than the martyr's cause? What of the nursing mothers and the working fathers? What of children tucked in at night, or all other lovers in this city? Are their fears somehow lesser than yours? We all must choose our battles, and we all must weigh the risk."
Combeferre nodded in agreement. "It is not apathy that stays their hand, it is fear! And that is why we who have chosen this path and walk it freely should fight for those who cannot."
"Come what may, the sun rises tomorrow!" Enjolras proclaimed, lifting his hands in a blessing, speaking now to them all. "But it is through our struggle and our fight that it may rise over a better world! Do you think this barricade is built from furniture and rubble alone? Marius! Inspector! You come to us, you warn of death and overwhelming force? What of it? We shall die then, but we shall die fighting and our battle will leave an echo through time. If the people have not heard our song, then let them hear the guns that tear us down, let them lament our loss and remember it when next the winds of change are blowing." He laughed, young and terrible, and Pontmercy's tears were drying forgotten on his cheeks. "There is injustice in our world, and we were born to fight it - why would that mean we were born to end it? What hubris for a man to only walk into battle when victory was guaranteed, and still call himself a warrior. For justice we have lived, for the people we shall die! And for the future that we shape with our blood and our tears and our dreams, we shall never, never give up."
Javert had watched in silence, captivated, when he heard a boyish cheer rise behind him. When he turned, he noticed that the café had filled up. They were here, so many of the young martyrs of the barricade, the women of the café and the inhabitants of the alley; little Gavroche, clapping dirty hands. They were here, and though they were afraid, they would remain.
"And if tomorrow we'll be ghosts, then let the wine flow tonight!" Grantaire said, though his laughter held a bitter edge as he pushed ahead of the others. He waved the flask in Javert's face, spilling wine on his coat, and bowed in mocking apology. "Drink with us, Inspector, for we are all dead men tonight!"
The wine stank of blood, as it had done throughout the decades, and Javert pushed it away in disgust. "You are wrong, you are boys who do not understand. If you stay here, you will not become great martyrs for a cause. The state will shoot you, and the state will bury you -"
"And we will join all the other unmourned dreamers and hopeless fools!" Grantaire took a swig of his bottle, then offered it to Enjolras who only gave him a look of deepest contempt. "We fight, we try, and we keep getting ground down into misery and muck, and yet -" His hand was oddly graceful as it drew a curve down Enjolras face, never quite daring touch his locks; and Javert thought he'd found another almost as tired as himself. "Whatever comes, whatever happens, we dream and dream and dream again... and until all our dreams are dead, no soldiers and no wine will see these fools silenced. Not 'fore the great grave has finally eaten us all."
Enjolras pushed his hand away; not unkindly, but with the marble conviction of one who is beyond the reach of all admonishments. He spoke: "Our dreams go beyond ourselves; our goals are larger than one man. We fight against a king, we fight against injustice - but in truth, we fight for humanity and all the unfilled hopes! To die is not the end, for our calls will be taken up by others; our struggle flows through time until the summit is reached and a new world is born. Fight, Marius, fight with us with a flame in your heart and lightness in your limbs. Fight," he said, and challenged Grantaire with his stance and burning eyes, "and dare dream with a honest heart."
"Or live to fight tomorrow," Combeferre said, stern and gentle, "and leave the dying to those who volunteer." He turned towards the audience and, though his voice was less captivating and his eyes shone less bright, there was no mistaking the conviction in his words. "We do not seek death for death's own sake. I shall stay, and I shall fight, for I agree with Enjolras - no death upon this barricade is wasted in this struggle. But tonight is not our only battle, and martyrdom not our sole weapon. To all who feel the ties that bind them, be they love, duty or regrets... Go, I tell you. Perhaps the Inspector might help you, perhaps you must try to escape on your own. But go, and remember us who die, and never let your dreams fall."
Grimly, Enjolras nodded, and he swept his gaze around the café, catching each watching eye, and challenging them: to live or die, but to serve the cause in each action.
Nobody spoke for several long moments. Javert heard only the thudding drum of his own heartbeat and the working of Grantaire's throat, for he was attempting to swallow the contents of his bottle in one sweep, his eyes squeezed shut against the world.
"Oh, Combeferre; how is it that in your kindness, it is you who ask too much of us?" Pontmercy finally said. "For dying is a horror... but abandoning a friend is even worse." And he clasped both Enjolras and Combeferre's hands and smiled through fresh tears. "I shall remain, and now I shall go to my end with a calmer heart."
"And so shall I!"
"Aye!"
"For France and her future!"
Around Javert, the Friends of the ABC crowded, each of them touching their leaders, each of them sharing a smile with Pontmercy. And little Gavroche was first of them all, clambering between their legs until Courfeyrac lifted him to his shoulders from where he took up a rousing song.
It hurt to see them so vibrant and shining; it hurt to recall them broken and dead. What should he do? His words could change no minds and though he had prepared for years, none of his choices could ever stop the soldiers approaching. They would not give up. It was this knowledge that had Javert almost stagger over to the wall, sink against it, with the weight of the years pulling him down.
"We still need to plan!" Enjolras finally called, clapping his hands together and demanding order. "Marius' intelligence is important - even if it is hopeless to dream of victory, we shall make our mark in their books, and for that, we must write in blood!"
"Return to your posts," another young man repeated, "they will be coming soon!" And with both honest merriment and heartfelt vows, the revolutionaries took up their arms and returned outside.
He knew not what to do, he knew not where to go, and so Javert remained by the wall, staring at nothing until all but five had left the room: Enjolras, whose clear eyes skewered him like the light of judgement; Combeferre, who kept up a whispered conversation with his leader and Grantaire, and Marius who knelt by Gavroche and looked to be begging him to deliver his letter.
"Inspector Javert," Enjolras said, "it appears none of us are in need of your help."
"No," he agreed, "it appears not."
"You have acted with some measure of honour," he continued, "but it does not diminish the fact that you were, and remain, an oppressor and our antagonist. If we release you, where would you go?"
Go? Where might he turn? Nowhere; everywhere - all directions led to the same end and beginning.
"Inspector?"
"Where? I would return," and die, "and do my duty 'til the last." Javert lifted his head with some effort, and forced a mocking smile when he saw Enjolras' hand closed around a gun. "So much for your talk of mercy, I see."
"We will not kill you without cause," Combeferre assured him. "However, we must fight with all our might... Right now, all stand brave with us. But hearts are weak, and men are but flesh." He lifted his right hand and Javert saw it tremble wildly; that, he had not expected, and he watched the man with a new respect. "When the battle comes, when they know that the tide will drown us, I expect that many will cry and beg for mercy."
"And then you will have value to us! A bargaining chip, and we might exchange your life for our friends'," Enjolras stated. "Now - will you swear cooperation and let me give you parole, or must we bind you?"
Javert shuddered at that question, recalling Valjean's blood cooling in his arms. Parole... never, never again. "No," he managed, "that, I cannot do."
"The rope, then. Gavroche?" Enjolras said, and the boy shook off Marius with obvious relief, before he hurried away.
Javert thought to fight, but weariness had overcome him. He did not understand anything, and when he recalled Valjean's portentous dream and his previous deaths at the barricade, he felt all the more paralysed. He could not change their minds; he could not save a dozen men on his own - not even Pontmercy's life would he be able to guarantee, unless he lied and betrayed and went against everything he believed in. Would he even remain Javert, if he managed to manipulate them so well that he lured Pontmercy away; all for the sake of his own precious neck? As for the rest, their blood would become a river and Javert would live a coward who did not even attempt to save one little child...
Better to remain slumped against the wall, then; better to look at the brilliance of these who still dared to hope for a happy future, and know that Valjean was safe out in the world.
"We have to hold the barricade through the first attack," Combeferre mused. "That is the first step, both to raise our courage and come closer to our goal."
"Oh..." Pontmercy looked up. "I might have an idea for that."
Enjolras gave him a curious glance before his gaze returned to Javert, as steady as the gun in his hand. "Do tell?"
"Yes. Wait, just - " he tried handing Enjolras his guns, realized it was impossible to hold three at once, and so turned to Combeferre instead and unloaded them there. Then, to everyone's great surprise, Pontmercy shrugged off his coat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
"If you are planning to distract them with your stunning body, we'd do better sending Enjolras," Grantaire commented. "And possibly Courfeyrac," he continued with teasing seriousness, "though the devil knows how much wine that would take."
"No, no," Pontmercy said, pulling his shirt apart to reveal a length of thin rope wound around his body. "I have a grenade in my coat pocket too," he added when they only kept staring in confusion.
"Wait," Combeferre said and touched the rope, "is this - Marius! This is prepared fuse line?"
The young man nodded proudly, and pulled out a loose end, beginning to unwind the thread. Though Grantaire, baffled, kept shaking his head, he and Combeferre helped him remove the fuse.
Gavroche returned with the rope, but seeing the three of them already busy he simply plopped down next to Enjolras and watched the spectacle.
"Where did you get this?" Enjolras asked. "I believe I can see your plan... but it is dangerous, Marius, very dangerous."
"Better a fuse than an open flame," he replied. "I took this from a fallen barricade, though I could not get at any further guns. They had an accident with the gunpowder, a grisly thing - I suppose that's why the Inspector sent me there. His man, who was supposed to keep an eye on me, thought he recognized one of the victims and while he was busy..." Marius pulled a face at the memory. "He was trying to put the corpse together, to identify it, and I liberated this. Especially since there's already been an accident tonight, I thought the idea of an explosion might scare them off?"
"Brilliant!" Gavroche crowed, applauding him.
Grantaire laughed, and Javert hoped he had only been made wicked by drink and fear. "Oh, yes, let's blow the bastards sky high and paint the entire world red!"
"No," Enjolras said immediately. "If the barricade falls, we're done for. But the threat of it... Yes, that is a clever idea. We must set up something to protect the powder, but it might just work."
"Please, Inspector," Pontmercy said when he noticed Javert's frown, "don't blame officer Dubois. He asked a soldier to look after me. Unfortunately, the man had to go empty his stomach and when we returned, I sneaked into a closet and hid this more safely."
Javert groaned, familiar irritation pulling him from his lethargy. "Of course he'd trust a weakling! This is why I keep telling him not to delegate unless he knows the man," or had spent twelve years trying to teach him good habits, not that it always helped. "I must admit, I had not expected such resourcefulness from you... nor so strong a stomach."
Pontmercy shrugged, an awkward blush spreading on his cheeks that had both Gavroche and Grantaire grinning at him. "It was in one of the moments when I thought I must live, whatever came, and for Cosette... for Cosette, I would dare everything."
"And we've all had to assist Joly and the other hacksaws when they've been trying to treat the poor," added Grantaire with a shrug. "Chop off a foot or two from some poor bastard screaming at you while the entire room stinks of gangrene and you get over queasiness pretty fast."
Pontmercy nodded. "There is that, too." Finally freed of the fuse, he had begun to dress himself again when he noticed Combeferre and Enjolras take the other rope from Gavroche. "Ah, must we really?"
"We cannot have a knife against our back," Enjolras told him, stern.
"If you will not give us your word after all?" Combeferre asked, looking hopefully at Javert.
"No," Javert said and straightened. "I will not lie, but neither can I go against my principles."
"Principles; the greatest folly of our age." Grantaire shook his head, and took another deep swallow of drink. "But there we have it, Marius! He has principles, so bind him we must."
"Yeah," Gavroche agreed, "ol' bastard's too sneaky to let run free."
They seated him on the floor and tied him to the stairs; not uncomfortably, but thoroughly. No noose around his neck, but he felt a clench of fear inside even so. To Javert, this night was playing out in far too familiar a way.
Their remaining hour grew short, and Pontmercy and Combeferre ran out to set up the trap while Enjolras rearranged his force, Gavroche at his heels. Grantaire muttered something about them all flying to hell before he ambled off, and with his departure, Javert was left alone.
All that remained to him was to wait, then, and hope that young Pontmercy's harebrained scheme would work. To wait - and to pray.
Silence fell around them, and Javert tasted the tension in the air. He thought to feel the tramping of marching feet on the street more than once, but the soldiers failed to appear.
The students waited too, their jokes and songs having fallen silent and the entire night appearing to wait along with them.
Then...
"Have mercy, my Lord," Javert whispered to the empty café. "Have mercy on them all."
Angry voices rang out, demanding the surrender of the students. Defiant slogans and demands for justice were lobbed back. He ought to try to stop listening. Valjean had taught him tricks to escape bonds, there was a file in his sleeve - he would not have an opportunity such as this again. Escape, somehow, perhaps he might hide and gather Pontmercy before the end, and could then hurry to Valjean's side, see him again before the river. A farewell, at least...
Javert did not move. His entire being was focused on listening to that steady marching, on the first shots thundering through the alley, on the sounds of death and the memories of young men in uniforms and cockades dying for no gain at all. He had not the strength to struggle, for more than mere ropes bound him: the years had been too long and he had staked so much on avoiding this dreadful moment that he found himself unable to act when it relentlessly appeared.
Another shot, the call to charge; he heard it then - Enjolras, the shining one, challenging them all to an end in fire and in flame.
Javert's breath hitched and he remembered: death, so much death - the guillotine, the blade, the club, the noose, the gun and the hungry river and the deep sea and the fire of the barricades, these damned barricades! Again this devouring night when men and youths and children would fall; their blood spilled on the stones until only a line of corpses remained; hungry and inescapable, this night of Judgement.
Silence; terrible - made more so by his imagination showing a lit fuse, tiny sparks whispering them all towards the sudden end.
Silence, terrible, as was the gunshot breaking in a wholly different way. Angry yelling, then an explosion sounded, but not the disaster he'd awaited - not their powder flying high in reckless destruction, but still too loud and deadly for a gun. Such distant screams they were (the soldiers, oh God, all those men dying for their duty!), the lack of fire crackling alive, the shallow depth of its thunder. He recognized it then; it was not the powder flying high, but Pontmercy's stolen grenade thrown over the barricade.
Finally, Javert heard the order loud and clear: Retreat! Retreat! They've rigged it to blow!
His head fell back against the post, cold sweat gathering at his temples and trickling down his back. Another night of life. Perhaps another chance. If only he could stop shaking...
Once more the students walked in, carrying one of their own, and he saw shadows walk along them with a different man in their grip; another lifetime but they bled with the same colour. In contrast to that time, this man did not twist in pain but hung limp in their grip. The young doctor walked at his side and clutched a slack hand; when they laid him on the floor, Javert recognized his pale face. The one they named Bossuet.
It angered him then, that the river would not rise at this proof of his failure. What were the fates, to decide one man's worth above another?
The wounded student seemed to breathe still, if shallowly. They turned him and Javert saw the wound then, the place where a large swath of scalp had been torn off, revealing blood, naked skull and perhaps things even worse. This man would never wake again.
Another student was helped inside. Feuilly, he was called, and could at least walk on his own even if his arm was bent unnaturally, with red creeping through fingers held protectively around the break.
"Joly," Courfeyrac called, tying his cravat tight above the wound, "Joly! You must take a look at this!"
Marius (unharmed and whole; how bitter the reassuring sight) pulled Joly away from the dying man, led him with gentle determination to the one who still had a chance. It was not a doctor but a grey-faced mourner who bound his friend's wound. When he returned to find the first man dead, having slipped away between two breaths, he collapsed to his knees and no words reached him.
Striding inside, Enjolras' presence was captivating enough that all others, even Javert, found their attention drawn to him.
He waited a beat, then announced in triumph: "They've withdrawn! We gave them leave to collect their dead, and in return, have received some food and drink." Enjolras rubbed his hands and gazed towards the morrow while he continued speaking. "They fear we have more explosives, too. None understand where our arsenal comes from, but that only frightens them more. With this advantage, we ought to be able to hold out an entire day! If we succeed long enough, we might even turn the general opinion around!"
"Enjolras..." Courfeyrac jerked his head towards Joly, and the elation faded from the young leader's face.
"We knew we would have to pay a high price for our dreams," was all Enjolras was willing to give, though he inclined his head in respect. Only for a moment, though, and then he stepped over to the pair, sank down on his heels, and spoke quiet words to Joly - not of comfort, but of their goal; words in equal parts uplifting and ruthless.
"At least we gave them a good scare," Feuilly managed, offering a wan smirk. "If we could only get our message out to the populace, like Enjolras said, I'm sure some would come and join us!"
"How are we to sneak through their blockade, though?" Courfeyrac asked. "Their watch is bound to be doubled now!"
He and Marius had sat down on the empty floor next to their wounded friend, leaving Enjolras and Joly in peace. The students seemed to have decided that they would collectively ignore Javert, which suited him at the moment - now that the first danger was passed, his fingers had begun working the file, carefully teasing it out of a seam.
A part of Javert wished that he had brought something to dull pain, for it was clear that despite his surface of good cheer, young Feuilly was in considerable distress. Unfortunately, a gentleman's dress hid far less than a police greatcoat, and he had not wished to risk them investigating him closely until he'd pulled Pontmercy away. Afterwards, he had dared hope that there would be no use for laudanum among these schoolboys.
The three discussed their problems, joined after some time by Enjolras and a still subdued Joly. It was when Feuilly began wistfully speaking about a secret society of teachers in Poland that Pontmercy sprang up with a shout, before running out the café, yelling for Gavroche.
"He's always so enthusiastic, isn't he?" Courfeyrac remarked and the students shared a fond smile.
When Pontmercy returned, he was dragging the struggling gamin along.
"I ain't gonna take your silly letter!" the boy protested, clearly continuing an earlier argument. "Listen, Marius, my place's here tonight!"
Pontmercy ignored him completely, and pushed the boy forward, so that he almost stumbled on top of Enjolras. "Gavroche!" he proclaimed. "Gavroche can sneak out and bring a stack of posters with him!"
"An' I suppose I'll just hafta take the way past your girl too?" Gavroche spat and gave Pontmercy an evil eye. "Think I'm stupid, do ya? I'm not lettin' ya shove me outta the way, just 'cause the Inspector gave ya a fright!"
"Absolutely out of the question!" Courfeyrac's easy manners were gone, and he seemed perturbed at the suggestion. "The last person who should risk going through that line tonight is Gavroche! Marius, don't you understand the danger?"
Enjolras nodded in stern agreement. "This is a man's job, and a man's danger. After the grenade, they will feel vengeful. To be found with revolutionary tracts in the pockets tonight... No, not Gavroche."
"Hang on." The boy frowned. "Y'mean those papers are actually important? That's a diff'rent thing."
"It's too dangerous," Courfeyrac snapped.
"And you wouldn't manage anyway," Enjolras agreed, "unless there is a secret password the Inspector feels like sharing with us."
"Um..." All eyes fell on Pontmercy, who in turn looked thoughtfully at Javert. He scratched his neck and gave an embarrassed smile before speaking. "Ehm, this is a bit silly, but I think I forgot to tell you in all the excitement before... Inspector Javert did bring his police identification."
Cosette's beau or not, Javert could cheerfully have throttled the ninny. "Don't even think it," he snarled. "They'll shoot the boy before he has a chance to identify himself - not that anybody would mistake him for a policeman!"
"No," Enjolras said slowly, rising on light feet and sauntering closer, head cocked and eyes calculating. "But the police does employ young spies from time to time. They know that you are here; if you were hurt, if you needed reinforcements... Marius, did you not mention it, the name of the Inspector's assistant?"
"Dubois," Marius offered, "and I recall another bunch of names to ask for too."
"Aha." Enjolras stroked his chin, nodding to himself. "It would still be dangerous, but so is remaining here. With the right papers, with the right excuse..."
Javert shook his head in silent disgust. This had never been his intention, and he feared for the worst if they actually went through with such a foolish plan.
"No." It was Courfeyrac speaking, and they all heard the plea in his voice. "No, Enjolras, this is madness!"
"I'd do it if ye'll ask," Gavroche said, so foolish and brave. "Just gimme the papers, and I'll get 'em out." He crossed his arms and glared at Pontmercy. "And then I'm comin' right back 'ere!"
"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac went up to his leader, sharing a few private words with him; none too friendly ones, to judge from his tone.
"But if it works, where'm I supposed to take 'em?" Gavroche continued, ignoring the argument taking place a few feet away. "I can't really run round an' hand 'em all out myself, can I?"
"Listen to me before you say no," Pontmercy said and knelt in front of him. He spoke so fast that the words almost tripped over each other, and what he had to say was this: Cosette's father was a philanthropist with connections to the church. He was known among the poor, and though he was an elderly man, everything showed him a determined and resourceful. If Gavroche spoke to Cosette, she would surely convince her father for his, Marius', sake. With the help of this man, their message would have the greatest chance of reaching the population in time.
"An' while I'm there," Gavroche said with a roll of his eyes, "I can take a lett'r to her as well, eh?" He grinned then, and gave Pontmercy a playful punch on the shoulder. "Oh fine! If Enjolras says it's a go, I'll do it!"
The discussion was not ended with that. Both Enjolras and Feuilly questioned the wisdom in trusting so much to a complete stranger and Courfeyrac had several objections to raise, which he did so loudly that more students came to ask what they were arguing about. Pontmercy defended his point, and Gavroche twice pointed out that if he was going, he'd like to get going before the night was over, if they'd please.
Meanwhile, Javert had found the file and doggedly sawed through his ropes. Whether Valjean's presence was vital for him or not, he had no intention of letting a little boy risk his life to bring that about. He rolled his wrists for a few moments, letting the blood flow back into them, and then slowly began to pull his legs under him, hoping he might sneak out before they finished arguing. If he could only get to the back alleys, he could keep away long enough to tear up his identification - it might not stop Gavroche, but at least Javert would have no part in the boy's death.
Just like the agitated young men, he had completely forgotten about Joly, sitting silent by Bossuet's corpse. When he stood up, when he on silent feet snuck backwards toward the exit, it was this youth who looked up, caught Javert's eyes for an endless moment and then yelled out his name, pointed accusingly - Javert began to run before Enjolras had finished turning his head.
He reached the alley, he rounded a corner, and though blood pounded in his ears, Javert was certain he'd make it unless they shot him in the back - and then, at least, he'd have a quick end. Another opening appeared and he recalled it as a way out, when his feet trampled on something soft. Stumbling, he heard a loud grunt beneath, and felt someone grab at his leg.
Cursing wildly, Javert fell hard against the pavement, the impact jarring both knees and skull; before he had managed to free himself, the students were upon him, holding him down while they praised the damned drunk. He snarled and fought, biting the closest hand and tried to reach his papers, thinking to tear them up and grind them to uselessness in the mud, but they were too many and their weight pressed his face into the mud; they'd caught his arms, Grantaire was complaining beneath him, and soon they brought rope and he was caught to their triumph.
At least the interfering drunkard didn't join them in merrymaking; Javert's boots had found several sensitive spots, and Grantaire crawled off and chucked up what sounded like a barrel of wine as soon as he could.
Petty satisfaction perhaps, but when they took his papers and stripped him of coat and waistcoat, unable to find the file but knowing that he'd had one, pettiness was all he had left. Javert was taken back to the café, bound more securely, and his identification was solemnly handed to Gavroche. The coat was cut apart to form an improvised bag for the tracts and, too soon, the boy disappeared in the dark.
"You won't see him again," Javert hissed Enjolras, as the rebel leader tested the bonds trapping him one last time. The noose was back and his arms tightly lashed behind his back; an hour of this, and he'd have been in hellish distress, if he wasn't already burning with anger."You've sent that child to his death, and you've dared used my name to do it!"
"Gavroche might be young, but that does not mean his convictions are lesser than ours," Enjolras replied, wholly the idealist and the butcher in that moment. "Now then, I apologize for any unnecessary suffering, but you've brought it on yourself."
"Go to hell!"
Enjolras bowed. "The world is already there, Monsieur, and that is why we strive to bring this sorry Earth closer to heaven. Have a good night." He walked away and the café was empty; not even the dead man had been left in his company.
Javert ground his teeth and fought his bonds until he'd rubbed his wrists raw. He imagined Valjean trying to sneak past the soldiers in this night - men more upset than in any previous life, sleeping with fingers on the triggers - and he renewed his struggles until he was gasping and choking against the noose.
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