Chapter Text
Inspector Javert is back. This was the latest gossip, the only topic of note, the words buzzing with a life of their own and spreading like fire among the gamins and gutter dwellers of Paris. The formidable policeman was once again seen patrolling the streets after a month-long absence. There was no mistaking his identity. The man stuck to the same routine: side streets and alleyways at night where illicit activities were likely to transpire, as if the old hound could sniff the scent of crimes ahead of time so he could burst onto the scene fully prepared, with cuffs and gendarmes in tow.
Most of the poor but law-abiding souls among the gutter dwellers did not mind it so much. Inspector Javert never picked fights with the blameless. Better the devil you know, they said. And this devil chased other devils. Those notorious terrorizers who once trampled on their own and exploited the already poor seemed to have vanished after that night when fire devastated the warehouse near the quay. The infamous Thénardier was captured and hanged, or so the rumor went. All Javert’s doing. For several weeks now, fear had struck the hearts of all remaining criminals so that no one had yet dared to step into the power void left behind by the Patron-Minette. One misstep and Javert might come after you, said one hushed voice to another. Pity the unfortunate wretch who fell into the hands of Inspector Javert.
Yet something was different since the inspector’s reappearance, though no one could point a finger to the precise change. He was not any less severe, no: Inspector Javert continued to make arrests and terrify gamins. But when those about to be cuffed fell on their knees and begged for mercy, it was as if the man who once only knew to turn a deaf ear had now learned to listen. Gerard was one such witness to the inspector’s strange behavior. Having stolen a loaf of bread in hope of feeding his family, he had pleaded for mercy in front of an impassive, stone-faced inspector. Inspector Javert arrested him nonetheless. But where Gerard had expected to be sentenced to hard labor, the judge had glanced at the inspector before he turned to Gerard and pronounced only imprisonment. When Gerard returned from prison several months later, he never stole again.
It would be presumptuous to attribute Gerard’s good fortune to the inspector, of course, for Inspector Javert continued to enforce the law with such a fierceness that one would easily be fooled into thinking he was the only agent of the police in the city. And thus after some debate, the gutter dwellers decided that the inspector’s supposed change was simply their imagination. They continued to whisper among themselves, alerting one another of the inspector’s coming and going: Inspector Javert is back.
In the shadows, a small form seemingly made up of all limbs huddled in a corner. She lifted her head—for the matted hair, though unruly, marked her as a young girl—and inclined her ears to the whispered words recounting the fearsome inspector’s arrests. Five young men caught in the act of thievery. Inexplicably, the inspector did not also arrest the gamins unfortunate enough to become associated with the crime by having drawn nigh due to their curiosity. Instead, they received a stern lecture on minding their own business and never approaching the site of a crime. Though shaken, nothing harmful befell these younger boys, though they, too, now regarded Inspector Javert with fear.
The voices droned on, and the girl ceased to pay attention. After all, none of her companions was saying what she did not already know. Inspector Javert is back. The girl smiled. Yes. He was back.
-
Dear Inspector,
Please forgive me for writing to you at the Prefecture, for I do not know where to send this letter to your home. You departed so suddenly a month ago. I had hoped to express my gratitude to you in person. Seeing how this may not be possible in the near future, please accept this letter as my deepest appreciation to you for bringing Cosette home.
JV
Valjean,
Your gratitude is misplaced. You should thank Azelma and Musichetta. Please do not send further correspondence to the Prefecture. It is improper for me to conduct personal business while working. You have no more outstanding issues with the police.
J
Javert,
Where do you live?
JV
-
Jean Valjean stood in front of the coat stand, considering the likelihood of being scolded by Cosette if he were to brave the January weather with only his light yellow coat as outer protection. He felt warm—the hearth inside the house was brightly lit—and tried as he may, Valjean could not become accustomed to living in warmth in this first winter since he had moved from the shed in the garden to his own bed chamber inside the house. He would rather remain inside the shed, but Cosette would have none of it. And now that she had both Musichetta and Toussaint on her side to drown out his protests, Valjean found himself standing by the door, eager for a stroll in the frigid weather to halt the sweat threatening to drench his body. He would go give alms, he decided as his eyes passed over a tableau of snowy white glimmering from outside through the window. He knew he would not find many beggars along the path that he usually walked. But would not those who had nowhere to go be the most deserving of his charity? Thus satisfied with the knowledge that his alms would aide the most helpless, Valjean put on his yellow coat, filled his pockets with gold and silver coins, and stepped out into the cold.
The first puff of chill air that greeted him was welcomed, and Jean Valjean breathed in a lungful of icy weather, finding beauty in the bleak landscape of the garden. Beyond the gate, Rue Plumet was undisturbed, still sleeping beneath a blanket of snow. He knew the busier streets of Paris would have been cleared of snow by now, but his purpose was to find the untended streets that would lead to untended hearts, those left to shiver and suffer alone away from society’s conscience. But God knew the poor, the widowed, and the orphans, and Valjean would gladly go where no one was willing to tread. Stepping into the street, he let his feet wander as he occupied his mind with silent prayers. He thanked God for providing for him and his household—a house full of people!—and asked the Almighty to guide his steps to the needy.
He did not know how many turns he made or how many alleys he entered. Before long, his boots were soaked through from clumps of snow clinging to the surface of leather worn thin from years of use. He made no attempt to drain the water out; his boots would only fill up with melted snow again. His feet were kept warmer anyway by swimming in water than if he had put on two pairs of stockings. He recalled the man to whom he had given two gold coins about ten minutes ago. The man was huddled under a broken bridge while claiming he was not cold. He had no shoe.
He passed a juncture point where multiple streets intersected one with another. Deciding against the clean streets that would lead him to gated houses and overpriced cafés, he turned into a humble, snow-covered street that was lined with houses. Tenements for laborers struggling to keep up with their monthly rent. Valjean’s heart ached for the working poor who were but one rent payment away from being thrown out into the streets. They were like the workers in his factory at Montreuil-sur-Mer, when even his generous pay could not free everybody from the mire of poverty. The people living on this street may not need his silver today, but if he returned next week, next month, or next year, would some of them now shivering inside their apartments for refusing to waste a firelog be forced out of their homes to shiver in the open?
His eyes scanned the rows of houses and landed on a figure three buildings away, hidden in the shadows of a side wall but visibly shaking from cold even as the person was trying to be inconspicuous. This person was trying to merge with the side of the building, so cold was he that he seemed to believe he could leech warmth from the wall by imagining fireplace and steaming tea passing through stone to greet him on the other side. The man—for Valjean could see whiskers on this person’s face as he walked closer—was huddled into himself, head buried into a threadbare coat with no hat. He wondered if the man was hungry as well as cold. Had he tried to beg from the occupants of the house he now leaned against?
He reached a hand into his pocket, closing a fist around several gold coins that could perhaps buy the man temporary reprieve. Keeping his steps steady, Valjean approached slowly but openly, letting the sound of snow crunching beneath his steps be signal of his presence. For a brief moment, the man’s back tensed, but he kept his face burrowed inside his coat and did not turn to face him.
“A sou for the poor, Monsieur?” the man spoke into muffled rags.
Valjean shook his head even though he knew the man could not see him. “A sou will buy you nothing,” he said. “I will give you enough to stay out of the cold, perhaps to rent a room until the coldest months are over.”
Hunched shoulders stiffened, and the man seemed to be burying himself further into his coat. Even his words had acquired distance between them. “You are toying with me. I do not want your pity. Leave me alone.”
Compassion swelled Valjean’s heart. Surely this man had not experienced kindness in a long time! He was right to be suspicious, for who would refuse to throw a wretch a morsel of bread only to offer a feast in a mansion instead?
“It is no pity, Monsieur, only a repayment of what someone once did for me when I was equally destitute,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Please, allow me to take you out of the cold and into shelter.”
“No!” the man said, clearly agitated now. “Let me be!”
“Monsieur, you will not survive long in your condition. Let me help you –”
“No!”
The man’s refusal echoed loudly in the street, like the ringing of his ears in his memory, long after Mayor Madeleine’s hunting rifle had pierced through the woods. “What’s going on? Who’s out there?” a startled female voice came from inside the house. He then heard steps and the creaking sound of a window opening.
Before his mind could process what was happening, Valjean suddenly found himself with his back against the wall, with a hand covering his mouth while another hand was gripping the collar of his coat to hold him in place. The man that he had approached was transforming before him as if a worm into a butterfly, into –
It was just as well that Javert had covered his mouth and kept him from blurting out his name.
“What the devil are you doing here, Jean Valjean?” came the unforgiving hiss, no less venomous in a whisper than if Javert had screamed each word on top of a hill. Valjean could not turn his head; he was staring into pure fury. “Of all the unsavory men that my operation was supposed to attract… have you lost your mind? No, do not answer that. Of course you have. It is a frigid January day. You are a good but utterly foolish man. What better way to waste your time and money than wandering around Paris to give alms?”
He could not speak with Javert still clutching enough collar to choke his neck. He supposed it mattered little. Javert did not seem to be in a state to accept apologies.
He was not fearful, for he knew Javert would never harm him. Instead, a sudden burst of joy seized him with such intensity that it took him by surprise. Javert was alive! In the nearness, he could see Javert’s eyes widening slightly as if he could read his emotion and was confused by it. Valjean did not fully comprehend it as well. If someone were to ask him why the sight of the inspector was drawing a smile to his face, he would not have a ready answer to give.
It was… good to see the inspector again. He knew he had no reason to believe the man to be in peril, but Javert worked in a dangerous job and he had once attempted to take his own life. Not a fortnight had passed by without his heart suddenly overcome with dread and his mind succumbing to the sinister thought: How do you know that Javert is still alive? What if Javert’s death was announced on one of those days when he’d missed his daily reading of le Moniteur? What if there was no one to stop him at the Pont au Change this time, or no Chabouillet to set him back onto his feet after a bout of hysteria? He did not know why he should care. But he did.
Six months of silence had been difficult to bear, six months since Javert failed to respond to his letter. Valjean knew he should be relieved to be finally free of Javert, but instead he had been anxious, and he did not fully realize the extent of his worry until now, when a healthy, living Javert was breathing right in front of him.
A female voice muttered indecipherable words with annoyance and with a loud bang, the window closed. Tension eased around Javert’s eyes. They were no longer in danger of being discovered.
The hand was removed from his mouth. The other hand gripping his collar loosened.
“Javert,” he choked out. Hello. Are you well? Where have you been?
Javert showed no sign of having heard. He stared at him with unreadable eyes. He was every bit the uncompromising inspector by outward appearance. But Valjean thought he saw a hint of that other Javert, the Javert who ate plums and drank coffee with him, who admitted his struggles in understanding goodness and mercy, and who had knelt before him, weeping, only to be lifted to his feet again a stronger man.
That Javert was still here, for by the smallest of measurements, his brows unfurrowed and his expression softened.
“You should have said no. Then I would have left you alone,” Javert murmured.
“No to what?”
“When I asked you for a sou.”
“But that would be uncharitable.”
“That’s what most people would say.”
Valjean supposed he was correct. Javert, who likely had had all the possible scenarios rehearsed, had as usual forgotten to account for charity. Nevertheless, he felt the need to be sure, to hear it from the man’s lips: “You were not truly begging for money, were you? If you are ever in want, you only need to ask –”
Javert barked a laugh. He felt it through the vibration passing from Javert’s hand still connected to his throat. “But of course, you are not most people. Nor are you a criminal. No, I was not really begging, even someone as dense as you should realize by now. The one I was waiting for, he would have answered sous do not come cheap, beggar. You give me a sou. That would have been my signal to capture.”
“Ah,” Valjean said, half comprehending, not understanding Javert’s words save that he had somehow ruined the policeman’s plans.
Javert eyed him up and down. As he did so, a door seemed to have closed between them, ushering the unmasked version of Javert back into hiding. The hint of an almost-smile was gone, replaced by a frown. “You look like a drowned mongrel. Go home, Valjean.”
The hand released his collar.
He understood the dismissal: Javert was back to being fully the inspector. He had no desire to tolerate his presence longer than necessary. In all the months when he had wondered whether the inspector was hale, the man had likely never spared a thought on him.
“I never thanked you, Javert, for –”
“There is nothing to thank,” Javert cut him off harshly.
He swallowed the rest of his words. Javert wanted no reminder of their past. Was this not the reason he left his home that day, to finally be free from having anything to do with him?
Valjean nodded, feeling resigned. “Very well. Good day, Inspector.”
He could feel Javert’s eyes on him as he walked away. It would be easy to continue down the street, to take himself out of the man’s life and never to see him again. That was what Javert wanted, was it not—Jean Valjean’s file closed forever, no more guilty criminal to bring to justice? But something deep in his heart protested: had he and Javert not moved beyond playing thief and policeman? Had they not held each other’s hands, felt each other’s pulses that day when Javert admitted to feeling lost, the inspector listening to him while he gently admonished him to never again be alone?
Valjean paused and turned around. Javert was leaning against the house again, shivering despite himself. He looked like a hollow shell of his former self, and Valjean was unconvinced that this was all intentional disguise.
Javert had been alone.
Indignation flaring inside him, Valjean marched toward Javert. He did not stop when he was near enough to see Javert opening his mouth to protest. He kept advancing, which silenced the inspector and forced him to take several steps back. Memories of the barricades flashed before his eyes: Javert against the wall, bound by ropes, captured yet unbroken. Here they were again, in the same position. But things would be different this time. He would neither send Javert away nor leave until he received answers.
He was now near enough to see Javert’s breaths turning white in the cold. He could feel those same warm puffs against his face. Javert was the taller man, but Valjean managed to loom over him, letting his displeasure known as he stared downward, fixing a level gaze on wary eyes staring up at him.
“You left,” he said. It was all he could say without the trembling of his voice betraying the emotions that were welling up inside him. It was not as if he needed to specify. They both knew the day he was talking about.
Javert looked away. “Your business with the police ended that day. It is proper protocol to let free citizens enjoy their lives in safety and in the privacy of their homes.”
“Police protocol? Do you truly believe that? Yes, of course you do. But –”
“You’ve gained your freedom. You are reunited with your daughter. You can go about your life as Jean Valjean and no harm will befall you. You have everything you need!”
He felt his eyes narrowing. “Do I, now? And what do you know about me or my needs?”
“What do I need to know? You are no longer a wanted man. You are wealthy. Anything you lack you can now openly acquire.”
“You are not serious, surely? Why would I – no, how would I –”
“You have people around to show you. Cosette might be sheltered, but Pontmercy was born into money. And that Musichetta girl. She is worldly. Ask her how to acquire things.”
The street was silent save their voices, but all Valjean could hear was his mind shouting at him, telling him that Javert was utterly serious and utterly blind. “You did not let me finish,” he began, “what I need –”
“You can buy. Believe me. I have seen the houses of the wealthy. All of their happiness is purchased.”
“Javert!” he exclaimed, exasperated. The inspector’s face was flushed—Valjean didn’t know if he was angry or merely agitated for having his operation further delayed. He wondered if Javert was in the position to understand, if his words would get through. He breathed in deeply, breathed out, then took in another breath.
He spoke when he was certain that his voice would be calm and gentle, “Very well, Javert. Tell me then: how much do you cost? What must I pay to purchase my friend back?”
Valjean could think of no other word to describe the face Javert was wearing, eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, save shocked. A sense of sadness washed over him. After risking their lives for each other, after baring their very souls to each other, Javert still did not understand.
He sighed, straightening his back so he was no longer standing over Javert.
“Javert, you are a friend, and friends maintain contact with each other,” he said gently. “Would you have gone to such lengths to search for a mere convict’s daughter? You may not be willing to admit your kindness toward me in words, but your actions have proven yourself to be my truest ally. And to have stood by me during those darkest days when I thought I had lost Cosette –”
“I abandoned you in the cellar.” The words were forceful, the tone sharp. Javert was angry at himself. “I did not even have the courage to face you! I had to ask Marcel to send you a note.”
He did not think Javert had abandoned him. But Javert’s hands were balled into fists and the mayor in him remembered a very stubborn inspector insisting on being dismissed for a crime he did not commit. Disagreement would only pull Javert tighter like a bow already strung too taut. He needed to calm the man.
“If that is what you choose to think, then please believe me when I say that no harm came out of it.”
He waited. After a long moment, Javert’s shoulders eased by a small fraction. Good.
“I will not insist, but you are welcome in my home at any time. Do not be a stranger, my friend.”
Javert did not answer—he knew that he would not. But no refusal was thrown his way, nor did Javert flinch when he pressed a hand to his shoulder. Valjean took the liberty to interpret this as a yes.
When he walked away this time, his heart felt light. So this was what hope felt like, full of anticipation and certainty. There was no hope in Toulon. At Montreuil-sur-Mer, his hope for freedom as Madeleine was never more than a fear of discovery. He had raised Cosette knowing that he never deserved her, and so he was always prepared to lose her one day, never hoping for anything better. Even when he dared to believe Monsieur le Secrétaire’s words that his pardon would be granted, the glimmer of possibility was no more than an illusion—he had needed to prepare himself for the worst to get through that gut-wrenching month.
But this. This hope was solid, a matter of when, not if. He would not coerce Javert to seek his company. He did not even ask him again for his address. But as the distance between them lengthened, he knew he would see Javert again, and that when they did, it would be a willing meeting between friends, the coming together of equals.
-
Javert glared. He could not believe this—had never conceived of the possibility. It was terrible enough that he had been outwitted. But now he was subjected to a smile and he was powerless to stop it, for it was not his place to demand his superior to cease his display of sentimentality.
The infuriating man, that blasted Jean Valjean, had found a way around his refusal to receive further correspondence sent to him at work. The invitation was sent to the Prefecture—mailed to Monsieur le Secrétaire but addressed to him. Chabouillet had handed him the fancy envelope with amusement in his eyes; he scowled. Of all the ways he imagined Valjean would interact with the police, becoming an ally with the Secretary to the Prefect had never once crossed his mind.
Yet here he was, called into Chabouillet’s office and subjected to an unspoken order that he knew he must obey, inappropriate as it was for his patron to exert his authority over such an absurd matter: go to the wedding.
Javert made no attempt to object. He knew Chabouillet would force a day of leave on him if he were to refuse.
And so on this third Sunday of February, Javert found himself first sitting in the last pew in a church, then later at a far table inside the Gillenormand palace for a celebration so extravagant that it was beyond what he could have possibly dreamed up. Over a hundred guests filled up the great hall—most of whom he was sure were known to neither the bride nor the groom. They were present only in hope of currying favor with M. Gillenormand. Two sets of musicians were hired to provide music for the dancing. One quartet was currently playing something fast paced as the other quartet stood ready to replace the first team should the musicians become weary. And everywhere he turned there was food. Food at two long tables on opposite ends of the great hall; food on his plate at the table, never ceasing to be empty from the five-course dinner that was served; and food walking around the hall on trays and trolleys in an endless stream, coming in and out from the kitchen.
Despite sitting far apart from any crowd, Javert felt all eyes were on him and all bent heads locked in conversation talking about him, whispers of how ill-at-ease Inspector Javert was conducting himself among a higher class of society to which he did not belong. He was alone; the unsavory company he was placed at the same table with had all turned into drunkards and disappeared into some unknown parts of the estate. As if taking pity on him, several of the female workers, all named Nicolette, continually approached him offering champagne, coffee, tea, juice, water… enough to hydrate a desert creature preparing for a month-long journey through scorched land. Several male servers named Basque also walked by offering finger foods in addition to the lavish meal that was served earlier in the evening. He’d politely refused; he had already eaten more than he ought in his attempt to hide his unease, to appear to be doing something, anything, with his hands. And so he sat and pretended to observe the guests dancing at the center of the great hall.
At one of the tables closer to the dance area, Azelma met his eyes and waved a hand in greeting. She then turned her attention back to the plate in front of her, piled impossibly high with every delicacy one could imagine. He watched with incredulity as she annihilated the mountain of food as if every morsel threatened to grow feet and run away from her if she didn’t shove them into her mouth in time. Dear God above, the girl must have been starved.
“When I was her age, I could eat a horse,” a familiar voice came up from behind him.
Javert snorted. The sight of Valjean was like a rope tossed to a drowning man. He clutched at it, relieved that for the next while, his presence here would be legitimate. He gestured at the table. “You have your choice of seats. The degenerates all left.”
“Hmm.”
He watched as Valjean drew near and sat down next to him. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and he wondered how many days it must have taken the girl to convince him to go get outfitted, to let Pontmercy spend his money on him. The girl must have gone along to advise him of his selections—he shuddered at the thought of Valjean choosing yellow or some equally gaudy color that the tailor might try to push on him. The forest green of the outer coat fit him. The fabric was heavy but soft. It snugly hugged the shape of Valjean’s broad shoulders and then narrowed at the waist. The tail of the coat draped elegantly over Valjean’s thighs. The waistcoat was an item of luxury as well, with gleaming silver buttons against a backdrop of black that might have been a dark brown under a different light. Underneath the waistcoat was a fine shirt. Most likely silk.
He did not think it proper to observe further down, and so he looked up. The top hat, black and spotless and made of the finest material, covered the mass of white hair that he knew lay underneath. Without the white hair, Javert could trick his mind into believing that they were back at Montreuil-sur-Mer, that both mayor and inspector had merely experienced a nightmare and were now sat shoulder to shoulder at some stranger’s wedding banquet. And Jean Valjean the mayor would continue to bring good fortune to the town because he, Javert, now knew to render every last drop of respect and honor that was due him.
Valjean turned his head, and Javert could see white eyebrows, white tufts of hair beneath the hat, and lines crinkled around Valjean’s eyes as he greeted him, lines that were not there ten years ago. A pang of wistfulness twisted inside him. This was Jean Valjean in Paris. They were at his daughter’s wedding. The past decade had been real.
“Thank you for coming, Javert.”
“You sent the invitation to my superior. I had no choice.”
“Now will you finally tell me where you live?”
Would he?
“Perhaps.”
The smile he was graced with was beautiful. It wasn’t one of those smiles that Madeleine used to cast indiscriminately upon the denizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer. This smile was particular, genuine. It reached his eyes. Javert had only recalled Valjean smiling like this at Fantine and later at Cosette. He felt utterly undeserving to have been given the same grace.
They watched the dancing in companionable silence.
“Did you ever apprehend the criminal you were trying to catch last month?” Valjean asked.
“No.”
“Ah. I’ve ruined your operation.”
He waved a hand. “It is no matter. That person is a smuggler. His livelihood depends on moving merchandises and money around. I will secure a trail to his activities again soon enough.”
The slow dance ended and the quartet started playing a livelier tune. At this, many of the younger revelers joined in the dance. Musichetta, dressed in an elegant wine-colored dress, accepted the hand of a young man. They would dance all night, Javert surmised. This was the lifestyle that Musichetta was born and raised into.
Valjean’s voice floated in over the music. “Will you come visit me, now that Cosette will be gone?”
Gone?
“You do not plan to move into this place?”
Valjean shook his head. “I was born a simple peasant. I do not belong with the bourgeois.”
“Nonsense! Have you forgotten that you were once mayor?”
“And every dinner and party I was forced to go to had been miserable.” He grimaced, as if reliving a past more unpleasant than his time at the bagne. “No, I do not belong with them.”
There was a ruefulness in that voice that caused Javert to look, to truly see the man before him. The proud father at the wedding ceremony had been glowing with happiness; a more blissful man he could not have found when the priest pronounced Marius and Cosette man and wife. But talks of leaving Cosette seemed to have cast a shadow on him, and Valjean suddenly looked weary. Old.
“Musichetta will still be at the house, with Toussaint to look after me. I shall be fine, Javert.”
“And what will you do? Read the Scriptures everyday until you are forced to eat? Give alms until you spend your very last sou? Sleep the day away? Do not try to fool me, Valjean. Your life until now has been fixated upon the girl. You will fare much better to continue to live near her.”
“But she is married now. She no longer needs me.”
“She very much still needs you! Besides, that dolt of a husband of hers owes his very life to you. At the least, he should open his home to you.”
Valjean did not respond for a long moment. Javert almost believed that he had convinced him. But then Valjean shook his head, and he was forced to acknowledge how weary Valjean had become. There was a heaviness in the movement, as if his head weighed too much. “I do not want to impose…”
“Impose! I will have you know, Jean Valjean, that you have never imposed anything but kindness onto others. And your kindness is no imposition at all.” He sought Valjean’s gaze and held it. The uncertainty staring back at him told him that Valjean did not believe a word he had said. He sighed. “It is your decision, of course. If you choose to remain at the Rue Plumet, then at the least I hope those two will have enough heart to visit you.”
“Javert!”
He glared at his target across the hall. Marius was dressed in fine clothes and glowing in happiness. Yet he still managed to look like an imbecile. “Forgive me for not having the highest regard for your son-in-law,” he scoffed.
Valjean smiled. “I know.”
Nicolette passed by, offering more wine. They both declined.
“And will you visit, Javert?”
He could feel Valjean’s eyes on him as he considered the question. Would he? Why would Valjean want him in his home?
“I suppose I must. It would be hypocritical of me to stay away after accusing Pontmercy for not having a heart.”
“Javert, this isn’t about debt.”
“Then why?” he asked, finally giving words to what he wanted to know for a while now. “You call me friend, but when have I ever been a friend to you? I have hunted you across the years. You say this is in the past. Very well. Then let us speak of the present. My search for your daughter was duty. Beyond duty, I can offer you nothing.”
Valjean held his gaze. The lighting in the great hall cast a soft glow on his face, drawing out the kindness he had come to know so well. But beneath the kindness there was a hint of ruefulness, and his heart twisted. Why must he always disappoint Valjean?
“Do you truly not know?”
He shook his head.
“Javert, you have known me for over thirty years. You knew me at my worst. And then you knew me again at Montreuil, when I was struggling to be good. You are the only one who can look at me and see both a thief and a pardoned man, neither condoning one nor spurning the other. I cannot say the same for anyone else.
“Since Toulon, I have been living as a man without a past. I have been Madeleine, Urbaine Fabre, Ultime Fauchelevent… and at one point Marius and his friends used to call me LeBlanc. To Cosette, I am Father. These are all false.” He held up a hand, stopping Javert’s protest. “I know what you want to say: I am Cosette’s father by care if not by blood. Perhaps. But do you not see? I do not have a claim to her. She may consider me a father, but like everything else, this too was built upon a lie.
“Why won’t I move into this place, you asked? It is because I am tired of pretending. I no longer want to live as a man without a history. And so I shall live in my own place and bear the full burden of Jean Valjean. I am not yet alone, of course. But one day Musichetta too will marry and Toussaint will become too old to serve me. When that time comes, I think… Javert, I think it will be good to see you, so I can remember who I am. You offer knowledge and memory. Yet you offer them without condemnation. I am grateful.”
Valjean appeared as fragile as his voice was brittle, and Javert was suddenly back to that night at the Pont au Change, gazing down into the water and seeing both Jean Valjean and Madeleine, one indistinguishable from another. He knew the many faces of Valjean. He knew Valjean, then and now, and Valjean knew him.
Do not be alone.
He swallowed the lump forming at his throat. Valjean had said those words to him once. He wondered if they weren’t now more suitable for a father grieving at his daughter’s wedding.
He extended a hand to cover Valjean’s. “I shall visit you, Jean Valjean. Do not forget: you still need to show me how to make jam. Since I own neither garden nor fruit trees, I must go to you.”
When Valjean smiled at him this time, he could not stop his mind from comparing the hope emerging from sadness to the sight of stars after a storm, barely visible behind fading clouds but would go on to shine even brighter, lighting up the darkest sky.
-
Javert was a thorough and efficient harvester, Valjean decided as he sat on the garden bench, passing his gaze over branch after branch that had been denuded of fruits. Only moments ago, apples had bowed the trees’ arms low toward the ground, and now they were raised once again toward heaven. They had just entered the apple harvesting season. If Javert continued his diligence in working the garden each time Chabouillet forced several days of leave upon him—by now such a regular occurrence that even the inspector had resigned himself in acceptance—then they would have an overabundance of apples of different varieties to send to Cosette and Marius by the time they reached the end of autumn.
“Come visit when you are on leave again, Javert. Your company would be most welcome.”
“You have already shown me how to make jam.”
“Then I will show you other things. Summer has begun. We shall tend to the strawberries. Then in the fall, there will be apples. There are many uses for apples.”
“Should we not first wait for the fruits to grow?”
“Have you forgotten what I used to be, Javert?”
“What you used to be? I thought –”
“Pruner, Javert. I was once a pruner. Trees bear more fruits when they are well tended. It is as our Lord once said, we shall bear much fruit when we allow him to tend to our souls.”
“You don’t need to turn everything into a sermon, you know.”
“So you will let me show you how to prune trees? If we begin this month with the apple trees, then they will grow strong over the summer.”
“And afterwards? Fruits take months to grow.”
“Then we shall tend to the strawberries.”
It was perhaps appropriate that he and Javert should develop their rapport over the ripening of apples, a late-season fruit. Neither was young anymore. He did not yet think of Javert as old, although the man with graying hair and patches of white near his temples was a far cry from the stern young guard who had distinguished himself in Toulon and thereby distinguished himself to a formerly hateful convict. Now, Javert would turn to meet his eyes and Valjean would smile. The warmth in his heart would spread into his limbs. It was like the last of the summer heat that was warming the garden today, the sunbeams nurturing and gentle where they had once been harsh and unforgiving during the height of summer.
Javert tossed an apple his way and he caught it easily, the inspector’s aim precise and the pruner’s hand sure in taking hold of the fruit of his labor. He bit into the fruit’s sweet flesh and swallowed a burst of juice. This year’s apples had a particularly healthy glow to them. He understood the allure of a perfect fruit. Once upon a time, the first man and woman had bitten into the forbidden fruit and had their eyes opened to know good and evil. He took another bite of the apple, allowing his heart to be opened to know sweetness. He felt a lightness inside him, a vitality that no longer whispered of loneliness. Javert’s presence had brought joy into this final chapter of his life.
He locked eyes with Javert as he took a third bite, which for unknown reasons had rendered the man paralyzed. The crook of Javert’s left arm was full of apples, and Valjean worried for several seconds that some of them might fall onto the ground. But the apples remained as still as Javert. He had the thought that he would always remember the sight before him, that it was even now being seared into his memory. He must be smiling, for the inspector’s lips twitched upward as if in response, and the small smile, more than anything, flooded him with warmth.
“We will make applesauce with half of the red ones and bake bread and cake with the green ones,” he said when Javert came near. “The remaining red ones we shall eat and cook with them.”
“No apple jam?” Javert asked.
“That will be for later rounds of harvest. Patience, Inspector. There will come a time, quite soon I suppose, when you will see so many apples that you will long for the day when the pears become ready.”
Another small smile. “I look forward to it.”
Valjean answered with his own curve of lips. When the pears ripened, not if. He looked up at Javert and warmth once again filled his heart. Winter would arrive soon enough. But even when the garden would turn gray, there would still be trees and beauty and life.
And he and Javert would welcome the cold together.