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Two weeks later Marius Pontmercy arrived at his desk in a tizzy, quoting a hidden note and rambling about a secret journey to England. Javert feared for a moment that his greatest nightmares had come true. If Valjean had taken fright, left him behind, left everything –
Then he realized that the boy had been only to Rue Plumet and was unaware that Valjean possessed another apartment in Paris. It put him in a slightly embarrassing position, for he neither wished to lie nor reveal Valjean's whereabouts without his permission. Finally, he promised to make some enquiries and return if he heard anything further.
Once his shift was finished, he hurried to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé and was relieved to find the family present. Valjean had been disturbed by an unknown presence creeping around their home, and decided to evacuate the area completely.
When Javert managed to catch Cosette alone and ask if it had been her suitor or not, the girl blushed crimson, admitting it all without a word. However, she assured him that Pontmercy could not account for all times Valjean had sensed another presence, and that was far more worrying than any youthful indiscretions.
Trying to hide his worry, Javert left the family with some reassuring words and returned to the station. He could see no reason for anyone but the lovelorn student to sneak around Valjean. Was it the missing member of the gang? The police had searched for Montparnasse, but found no trace of the fop, and it had been assumed that he had gone to ground.
Drumming his fingers at the stack of reports, Javert finally took his hat and left for the city jail; something was deeply wrong and he could not sit by and trust the words of others.
When he stormed back in, it was with enough righteous fury that every officer and clerk present at the station glanced his way. One dared ask what was wrong, and quickly came to regret the question; the torrent of curses and verbal abuse Javert heaped over every corrupt official and rotten policeman was as impressive as the volume with which he delivered it.
Finally, when the Prefect himself arrived, Javert was forced to explain his anger.
"They have let them escape! The entire blasted Patron-Minette gang, robbers and murderers every last of them, and they are not there! Oh, don't give me that look!" he snapped at an officer whose scepticism was easy to read off his face. "I know perfectly well what it says in the reports and I am telling you, the reports are falsified! There are four men and a woman in the correct cells, but not one of them is named Thénardier or Jondrette! Bribes! Damned bribes and greedy liars who dare call themselves the law! And now we have had these villains walking freely on the streets of Paris, while the entire police force passes by in ignorance!" He turned to the assembled officers, of which more than one appeared amused at his rage. "If this insult to justice does not bother you, can you not imagine the damage to our reputation? The case might not be ours, but the jails! We'll be the laughing-stock of every thief and gamin; I tell you, the whispers of this have already reached deep into the gutters, and every one of us will come to regret this failure thrice over!"
"Enough now, Javert," Gisquet said, "though I fear you are right in the particulars." His brow was deeply furrowed and the policemen surrounding them nodded darkly as he spoke on. "Tensions are rising in the city; we will need to cooperate with all other arms of the law to keep Paris under control. This disgrace, if it becomes widely known, will surely add to our problems. And if we can not rely on our own reports, on each other, how will we keep the entire institution from trembling when we can least afford it?"
Trying to calm the pulse hammering in his ears, Javert inclined his head to the prefect. "Pardon my temper Monsieur Prefect." Gisquet waved his excuse away, and Javert hurried to continue. "Please, I request to be assigned the case of putting these villains back where they belong. I know we relinquished jurisdiction of the Patron-Minette investigation to the Sûreté, but..."
"You have caught this Jondrette once," Gisquet agreed, "I see no reason you may not attempt catching him again. Once they are brought in, we can discuss who shall interrogate them between colleagues. A greater problem, I believe, is the worm in the prison structure. Inspector Sauveterre!"
"Sir?"
"Make certain that the rest of our prisoners are in place! Then find and deal with whomever saw fit to release the Patron-Minette gang."
The Inspector unfolded his lanky frame from a corner desk and bowed respectfully to the Prefect. "Of course, Sir." He then took his hat and, catching Javert's eye, inclined his head towards one of the filing rooms. "Would you accompany me, Inspector? I believe we might do well to work together in the beginning, so that we might uncover when these robbers were released and learn both who was involved, and where they might have gone."
"Unfortunately, I must decline. I need to alert my sources on the streets I immediately," Javert replied, making his own bow of respect towards the Prefect before he followed Sauveterre. "I shall join you as soon as I can."
"Ah, well," Sauveterre said, "then I shall busy myself with the joyful task of tracking paperwork and jail minutiae until you return."
Javert managed a weak chuckle at that, before he made his farewell and caught a cab towards the third arrondissement. He would alert every snitch and spy he had, in Saint-Michel and beyond, but first he must warn Valjean.
It was not an easy conversation, for Valjean's instinctual decision was to flee Paris. Only when Javert's pleas for him to remain were repeated by Éponine and Cosette's most heartfelt ones, did he consent to remain for another little while. However, Valjean absolutely forbid either girl to get in touch with anyone who knew them from before and gave strict orders to remain inside the apartment.
As Javert was taking his leave, Éponine slipped out with him. "I promised the porter's wife I'd lend her a tablecloth," she called, "please, Papa, the inspector is with me!"
Then she smiled, clutched his arm and attempted to slip a folded note into his hand.
"What is this? I will not go behind your father's back," Javert mumbled.
"Please," she said, lips barely moving, "it is for my sister. She has grown fond of the student who helped us... it doesn't give our address, only reveals that we remain in the city."
"I cannot –"
"Please, Inspector." Éponine turned to him while they were on the final turn of the stairs, where they could be seen neither from the apartment nor the street. "Cosette would not do anything foolish and even you must admit that father is being a bit... overzealous. She only wants this young man to know that we are safe."
Feeling conflicted, Javert accepted the missive. "I will have to read it myself, to reassure myself there is no risk to either of you," he told her sternly. "If I deliver it – I have a great deal of work to do now, I can not run around looking for students and play postman for every lovelorn girl."
"Of course not," she said, sounding far too satisfied. "I'm certain Cosette won't mind waiting for an answer until after you have arrested the, ah, this escaped robber's gang."
"An answer? Mademoiselle, I am not a delivery boy!"
"Éponine?" Valjean called from up the stairs. "Are you coming soon?"
"One moment, Papa!" she answered. With a cheeky smirk, she put a finger to Javert's lips, shushing his further protests. "Please remember that my sister is relying on you, Inspector," she whispered, then ran down and deposited the tablecloth on a chair outside the porter's door.
"Good evening!" Éponine yelled to him as she rushed up the stairs, leaving Javert clutching the first love letter he had been asked to deliver in seventeen lifetimes.
As he walked out, Javert gave a sour look to the skies above. "If this is somehow crucial for my chances of success, I shall... I will not have my fate decided by two silly children, that is all. I absolutely refuse!"
When he noticed that his grumbling at the sky caused two labourers to carefully pass to the other side of the street, his mood plummeted even further. He stuck the note deep into his pocket, and turned his mind entirely towards the problem of finding the Patron-Minette gang.
As he discovered during the following days, it was not an easy matter. The criminals had disappeared thoroughly and none of the sources Javert had access too could give him a solid lead.
On the other end of the case, Sauveterre had only slightly more success in hunting down the person responsible for their disappearance. The jailer who had opened the doors was quickly found, but he provided documents – forged with plenty skill – ordering their release. Thus nothing could be pinned on him. What remained was tedious work: comparing signatures and tracking notes through the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the police.
On June the first, both their efforts came to a complete stop, as did most other open cases. General Lamarque's death had lit the fire beneath Paris' powder-keg, and the police prepared for several rough nights. With rumours buzzing like mad around them, each wilder than the last, tempers rose and internal investigations were pushed to the bottom of the heap.
Javert argued that the outbreak of lawlessness would come at Lamarque's funeral; the fact that most informants agreed with him, coupled with his experience in putting down a large uprising from Toulon, landed him the responsibility of organizing the local police.
Javert surprised his fellow policemen by not only stepping up to the task – few would have expected otherwise from him – but by drawing up several routes for them to take when the uprising began, coupled with surprisingly exact guesses of where barricades would go up. When questioned about it, he first quoted secret sources, then, with some annoyance, explained how this crossing and that back-alley was the only logical place to cut off a certain area, which the riot-prone inhabitants of the slums certainly knew by now. How could they not see that this square could be boxed off with only minimal effort, when any beggar knew that much? A few more examples delivered in this vein, and his orders were obeyed without any further protests voiced; at least not where Javert might hear them.
On the day before the rebellion, almost every able-bodied policeman was gathered in the Palais de Justice to receive orders, passwords and final instructions.
"The signs all point to this being a limited breach of the peace," Javert finished his briefing. "The national guard are close by and ready to move in. However, if we can contain the violence, if we can preserve the peace of the city for one single night, I believe that their spark will wink out and few must die – either soldiers or schoolboys."
"Do you really think we can keep a lid on it?" one of the officers asked with great scepticism.
"Not completely," Javert conceded. "Naturally, our first duty is to the crown and the innocent populace who stand outside any uprising. But, you must remember! We who walk the streets in light and dark, we know Paris. Better than the soldiers, better than those high above... better, even, than some of these young students who think they speak with the voice of the people, when really they only hear the echoes of their own idealism. If we can disrupt their organisation, if we can lead the national guard around the outer barricades and take control of wells and other resources, some will sneak away. Others might allow themselves to be talked down. Much bloodshed can be avoided if we act with cleverness and do not let the label of 'rebels' blind us to the truth; that these dissidents, too, are part of the people we are sworn to protect."
He rolled up the maps and orders and handed them out to the Inspectors responsible for each area. When he gave Sauveterre his, the man remained in front of the desk.
"Yes?" Javert asked. "What is it?"
"Your words today..." Sauveterre shook his head, and his stony countenance revealed very little of what he thought. "Some might consider them bordering on sedition."
"Do you?"
His fellow inspector shrugged.
"Has anyone ever heard of Javert breaking the law?" he asked philosophically. "If we come out of it alive, what harm can it do to attempt to bring some of those foolish young men along? I am making a remark, nothing more, nothing less. But, Inspector? Do take care."
"I have never taken more care in my life," Javert replied. "If tomorrow goes well, ah, if another morning is allowed to begin..." He closed his eyes and seemed, for a moment, immensely weary. Opening them and gazing up at Sauveterre, Javert's voice was low and tired when he answered. "I cannot see the future. I do not know how my orders will be interpreted. But I must voice them even so. I must carry out my duty, for tomorrow is my judgement day."
"Oh, I wager that the morrow will judge us all," Sauveterre replied. "But I think I shall not mind standing next to you, when we learn what the good Lord has planned for us all."
While Javert returned to his work, he considered his choices, trying to weigh them with an objective mind. Had he done the right thing? It was hard to know, and so many of his actions were limited by orders and duty.
No matter how he changed, he could not believe that any just fate wished for him to somehow join the uprising. It was doomed to fail, despite the fervent belief of those involved. The cost in blood if he truly betrayed the law, turned snitch and spy, might grow enormously. It could not be the right choice – and even if it was the one path that might benefit him, it was not in Javert to walk it.
Javert had last seen Valjean on the third of June. Now, though he wished intensely to go to him, to speak to him and find peace for a few more precious hours, he dared not leave his post. While he prepared his own disguise, packing a few necessary items in a secret pocket inside his vest, he found the undelivered letter to Pontmercy. In his eagerness to find Thénardier, he had completely forgotten to have it brought to the young man. Was it a mistake? Could it doom him? Javert weighed the note in his hand for a long moment, before shaking his head and stuffing it back into his coat. He did not know how to act regarding this letter, and his discomfort at even obliquely betraying Valjean was considerable. It was out of his hands now, anyway; Javert lacked the time to search for a rebel presumably hiding in some secret gathering place. If he saw him later, perhaps...
The funeral march progressed as always; Javert waited until the student leader raised his flag, then followed the crowd. He still couldn't reach the young soldier who had fired the first shot in time; wincing, he watched him be brought down by the mob. Then he took hold of a young revolutionary, pulled him away from danger, and a moment later they were all running for the alleys.
Keeping close to the revolutionary leader, he once again volunteered to gather information. It was a daring gamble, for he knew it might anger the man beyond reason, but Javert needed to return to his officers. He must ensure that his orders were carried out despite the chaos and worry that filled the city and influenced the police as well. As important as this one barricade was for him personally, Javert did not wish to walk out into a Paris where the military had massacred every other rebel.
His presence was worthwhile; with structured plans breaking down left and right, fear and thoughts of vengeance poisoned even calmer heads. Here, Javert's foreknowledge and absolute assurance that his information was sound made it easy for him to push events in the best direction. When he returned to the barricade, it was with the hope that they might quench the uprising with only half the loss of life there would have been without his interference.
Finally, his duty was done. What remained was saving his own skin.
Javert hailed the students and was allowed entrance again. This time, instead of speaking lies before them all, he asked for the leader to confer with him privately inside the café.
The young man nodded gravely, and turned to dispense some orders. "Combeferre, keep an eye on things. Courfeyrac, Marius, with me."
Despite his attempt to hide his face, Javert saw both Pontmercy and the little boy react to him. He was recognized, and now had only seconds or less to make his case.
"I am Enjolras, and have taken upon myself to steer our people in this fight," the leader said as the entered the café. "Please, speak. What have you heard?"
He wet his lips, sending up a silent prayer that he would find the right words. "I am Javert, Monsieur. Inspector Javert, of the Paris police."
A beat of silence, then with a snarl Enjorlas reached for his gun. "A spy!"
"No," Javert said, keeping his hands visible, well away from his body. "I came because I wish, above all, for justice to be done and for needless bloodshed to be avoided. I have walked among the people today, on both sides of the barricade and I have tried to see things with an open mind. And I can tell you this: You have no chance."
The barrel of a gun rising to his face interrupted his words. "I will hear no more of this talk," Enjolras said. "We speak for the people, and we demand freedom. If you came to deliver yourself as hostage in our hands, Inspector, I thank you, but I will hear no more of your treacherous words!"
On his right side, a loud click revealed that Courfeyrac had also readied his gun.
"If I had wished to bring you down with propaganda, would I have requested to speak with you in private?" Javert argued. "Please, hear me out! The national guard has been amassed for days already, waiting for this date. The path you have chosen can end only in misery, but it isn't the only way! I know there are great injustices in our land, I know our laws are not the best and fairest, that they protect the rich man more than the innocent –"
"Then why do you heel at their orders, Inspector?" Enjolras asked. He tapped the gun against Javert's forehead, eyes burning with the passion of the prophet. "You have chosen to become a dog of the government, trading freedom and pride against the crumbs of power they hand you. If the law is unjust, what of the man who carries it out? How many lives have you ruined, how many dirty, thieving bourgeois have you helped grow fat on the blood of their fellows? The rich are few! They are pathetic and helpless without men of your ilk to carry out their dirty work!" His voice was rising and curious faces peeked in through the door, Enjolras' intensity filling the room and spilling out on the street. "Each uniform covers an executioner for the government, a wild dog harrying the poor!"
"And what kind of society would we have without any order at all?" Javert interrupted. "If the law is wrong, then it is right to attempt to change it! But if there is no law at all, strength becomes the only rule. Your dream would fail, but even if it didn't your way would only bring back the days of terror!"
"Ah! And do we not live in those days already? Does this world not already speak with tongues of whips, write laws with the cudgel in hand? What can the poor man do but fight back? You speak of law, of order, but we have the law of nature on our side! We are the people. Our will is right!"
A bitter laugh escaped Javert then; he half suspected himself doomed already, and thought no more of guarding his tongue. "Your precious people, how you trust them to come join you tonight... You're wrong, boy, you are always wrong about that. They will not rise. The powerful have the law of might on their side! Their rule will not tremble this day. You boys, with all your fine words and grand dreams have not managed to wake the spirit of the Parisians. This is what I came to tell you! The barricades are falling, for there is no general uprising! Return home and live to fight –"
Not Enjolras, but a different student, dark of hair with a sneer on his face, gave Javert a blow in the side. He staggered, lost his breath, and felt strong hands grab him.
"Maybe he speaks the truth," this man said, "but he forgets the most important thing. Might and right and law and all; it is written by the winners, and only them! If we survive, if we grow strong, the children of our children will chant slogans against us! This endless cycle, this hopeless life – why not drink the wine, and fight the fight, and die merrily beneath a dream?"
"Grantaire, even when your words are right, your intent is misguided," Enjolras said. Then he raised his hand, a young god calling down benediction on them all, and spoke again. "My friends, don't heed their words! It is early yet, and we hear the noise of battle beyond our own barricade, don't we all? This dream is not ended, our message of freedom will never die! We have less intelligence on our enemy than I had wished, but our weapons are loaded and our hearts burn bright! Let us fight together, and show these doubters what a people united can do!"
Amid the general cheering, Javert had to speak twice before anyone paid attention to him. "They will come soon!" he shouted. "You have less than a quarter of an hour." Meeting Enjolras' surprised look, he smirked. "As I said... I did not come to spy, but to warn you. Quarter of an hour. And if you survive that, in the morning the cannons will roll in. Run, hide; expect no support for you will have none. But for God's sake, at least take that child away." He nodded towards Gavroche.
The little boy only scowled at him, clutching the gun tighter in his hands; small, they were, but already calloused and roughened by life. Javert's heart pinched as he remembered his corpse lying on the dirty street.
"Hurry! Man the barricade!" Enjolras called, gesturing to his men. "Return to your posts, everyone!"
"What about him?" Courfeyrac asked. "To shoot a spy is one thing, but..."
"Tie him up, leave him for now. Tomorrow, the people's court shall decide his fate."
"I can do that," Pontmercy muttered. "Jehan, bring me the rope."
While his friends dispersed, Pontmercy remained beside Javert and frowned at him, though he made certain to keep the pistol properly aimed. "What the devil are you doing here, Inspector?" he hissed. "You helped saved my Cosette's sister, could you not keep yourself busy with thieves and brawlers?" He swallowed, suddenly blinking away emotions. "My dear Cosette, who has journeyed beyond my reach..."
"This is not a brawl, then?" Javert muttered. "And I am here for a great many reasons. But, since it seems they are all failing again, I might as well deliver your letter."
"Letter?"
Just then another student returned with a rope and their opportunity to speak was gone. The warning calls of impending attack and his friends' eager pull drew Pontmercy away as soon as he had secured the prisoner.
Javert was left bound, half-choking and helpless, his frustration even worse than the physical restraints. He could do nothing now, could learn nothing new, and his words had made no impression at all.
Only little Gavroche remained, staring at him with a calculating expression. "You ain't the worst sort, Inspect'r," he said, then spat. "For bein' a bleedin copper. Oughtta have stayed home tonight."
"You –" A flicker of hope lit in him. Perhaps, if the boy would listen. He tried to clear his throat. "Did you overhear? Pontmercy and myself?"
Gavroche's smile was sunny and revealed nothing. "Maaaybe. What's innit for me?"
"There's a letter in the pocket of my coat." Gavroche did not look impressed. "And two francs in the other. Just take it all and deliver the damn thing to Pontmercy."
Clever fingers plucked the items from him so elegantly that he barely felt it and then the little urchin had the cheek to adjust Javert's cap.
"Told ya, not so bad for a copper." He leapt away and was almost out the door before Javert recalled that he had one more thing to say.
"Brat! Stay inside the damn barricade!" he cried, knowing that his warning would go unheeded,
unless he could somehow enforce it himself.
Minutes later, he heard the arrival of the national guard. When the first gunshots began echoing through the street, Javert felt himself shake with nerves, sweat dripping into his eyes.
What in God's name was he to do if the gunpowder – Another explosion, another failure, and he could not –
Javert came back to himself only when he realized that the sounds had changed from fighting to arguments; no further shots were fired, a military voice was ordering retreat, and no explosion had sounded. He was shaking in his bonds, drenched with cold sweat, and the noose around his neck was nothing to the coil of fear crushing his insides; terror had held him in its grip, had blinded him utterly. Now, Javert's relief at not having to suffer that death again, to choke on fire while boys torn apart like so much flesh suffered around him, almost brought him to tears.
Oh God, they lived. They still lived!
Swallowing down the sour taste in his mouth, he attempted to regain his bearings. In the distance, a gun went off, but it appeared that the battle had ended with victory for the students. He strained his ears, but could not make out anything clearly, although it seemed as if the voices grew louder. An indistinct shape grew clearer by the open door, turning into several men trying to navigate something unwieldy into the café.
"Gently, gently!" one of them called.
It was three students carrying a fourth; one of their wounded. Laying him on the rough floor, one of them bent over the wounded man and began removing his stained clothing, attempting to apply pressure. A gurgling moan escaped the victim, and Javert winced. The amount of blood he could see was bad enough, but that sound... this boy was more than halfway into his grave.
When Enjolras walked in behind them, his face was anguished, and he clutched a small cask of gunpowder in his hands.
"Can you do anything, Joly?" he asked. "He saved us all. It ought not be at the price of his own life."
The young man bent over the fallen revolutionary sat back on his heels, hesitating. Only now did Javert get a good look at the fallen boy and he shivered as he recognized him; Marius Pontmercy, his upper chest or shoulder torn apart by a bullet. There was still life in him, for he moved restlessly on the hard floor and soft sounds of pain escaped him, but the sight inspired no hope for survival.
"I have no proper materials," the one called Joly said, "nothing at all." There was blood all over his hands, and despite his words he continued working, sacrificing both his jacket and his waistcoat to try and stem the bleeding.
Enjolras bent his head, shoulders drooping while he stared down at the cask in his hands. His mouth moved silently and, if it had not been for the white-knuckled grip, he might have stood calmly in prayer. Then he nodded once, swiftly, and when he lifted his head there was a terrible light in his eyes.
"We shall avenge him, then, as we avenge all the unjust dead!" he proclaimed. "They shall all bleed in memory of our friends."
"Wait," Javert croaked, "wait, one moment!" Most eyes turned to him and he knew that he was in a perilous position; caught and bound, with these angry boys having no other enemy to vent their frustration on. Nevertheless, he had spoken, and now the dice were cast. "I carry medications. Something to dull his pain, at least."
His words caused a commotion, as more than one revolutionary was hesitant to accept anything from a spy. But Pontmercy continued to suffer, and when Gavroche reported that the Inspector was known for his honesty, their decision was made.
Though he did not seem overly happy with the prospect – You are terribly sweaty, Inspector; it's not something infectious, I hope? – Joly followed Javert's instructions and found the pockets he had sewn to the inside of his vest.
Then, he was upset by discovering the blade, though Javert argued that there was nothing odd about carrying a straight-razor around and the students hadn't searched him for weapons anyway; indifferent to the old jet-beaded rosary; slightly amused by the identification papers definitely making Javert's position as a policeman clear; and finally, disquieted at the implications of two hip-flasks filled with strong tincture of opium.
When Javert made it clear that he was not a laudanum addict but had brought the tincture in case he wished to escape certain death, the boy seemed only more distressed.
Joly knelt down next to semi-conscious Pontmercy and dripped a few drops of laudanum into his dry mouth. The bitter taste brought the young man wholly back to his senses, and after some grateful sips of water, he asked for Gavroche to be sent to him.
When he appeared, Joly squeezed the boy's shoulder for a long moment. Then he bent down, kissed Pontmercy's cheek, and whispered something to him before he left to join the others guarding the barricade.
Pontmercy and Gavroche spoke for a while, their words too low for Javert to hear. When finished, the boy marched over and held up the note he had earlier taken from Javert.
"This from 'is girl?" he asked.
Javert nodded, as much as he could.
"Read it. Loudly! Marius's too dizzy," he wiped his eyes with a grimy hand, but continued in a steady voice, "and I can't read."
Javert read: "M– Monsieur Marius, please know that though we are apart, I wait not far from you. I cannot reveal myself at this time, but rest assured that I will return to you. Keep safe, and trust in me. Your – " He cleared his throat. "Your Cosette."
"Is that all it said?" Pontmercy asked, his voice weak and strained. It was obvious that he had little time left.
"Nah, that wasn't all, the Inspector jus' skipped the mushy bits," Gavroche said, bringing the letter closer until it was almost pressed against Javert's nose. "Go on, no skimping!"
"It finishes," Javert spat out, "with the words 'your loving and faithful Cosette'."
Gavroche continued to stare at him, the letter held before Javert's eyes.
"Oh, for..." he said, squirming with the indignity of it all. "And it opens with the words 'my beloved Monsieur Marius', is that enough? Or do you wish me to recite the fool thing as if it was a poem?"
Managing a wet chuckle, Pontmercy waved a indulgent hand; that should be the laudanum working, then. "It is all fine, Inspector," he said, his head turning laboriously until he could see Javert properly, and he even managed a feverish grin. "Though, you wouldn't have a pen?"
"Right pocket," Javert and Gavroche said simultaneously.
Giving the little gamin a tired look which was answered with a wholly unrepentant shrug, Javert waited until the boy took out his pen. He was becoming quite weary of being manhandled thus, although he dared hope that Pontmercy's wish would help him out of his bonds.
Just as Javert suspected, while the drug offered a moment's relief from the pain, the youth was too weak to write a legible reply. Had there been anyone else with them, things might have gone differently, but only Gavroche was in the café. The gamin cut him loose without much fuss, then threw him the pen.
Though the boy made sure to keep his distance and held his gun trained on the inspector, Javert was essentially free. Before he did anything else, though, he would take the dying man's message. Pontmercy was pale as death, his every breath laboured and heavy, yet he struggled through the letter.
"Will you... Cosette?" he asked, the fresh bloodstains on his lips the only colour in his chalky face.
"The boy will take your message," Javert promised. He helped the weakened youth press the folded note to his lips, waiting to remove it until there was no breath of life left in Pontmercy.
At the moment when the young man's eyes turned dull and his hand grew lax, the river rose up around him; around him the café seemed to waver, the dirty floor turning sheer and revealing a great emptiness beneath. Javert felt the taste of dirty water fill his mouth and the sounds of life – the revolutionaries speaking in the distance, the torch crackling, the gamin sobbing for his friend – drowned in the rush of that hungry stream. He had failed, again, a decade's worth of struggle made worthless with the extinguishing of this single life. As realization came to him, the low light grew dimmer still, and they all seemed to sink into the depths of the Seine; sinful man, mourning child, and dead dreamer taken into the eternal void before his time.
"No," Javert whispered, reaching for the smudged gold of Gavroche's bowed head before he fell over senseless and dead; needing some support and seeing no other light beyond this child. "No, I refuse."
Not again; he could not do it, his entire being rejected the thought of doing it all over again... of losing all he had gained in this world. Pontmercy was dead, but Javert still lived. Valjean and his children were waiting on the other side of this night! Whether this world would lead to his salvation or not no longer mattered to him, for he wished to remain in this time; with all its graces and faults.
Did mortal man walk through the world, his every act calculated to gain access to the heavens beyond the grave? Perhaps the pious monk, perhaps a living saint, but Javert was neither! And he had no aspirations to become one of their sort; he only wished to live out a full lifetime and let whatever happened after take care of itself. It was his right, it was his deepest desire, and he would no more lie down and peacefully die than he had been able to give up the hunt for Valjean all those years ago.
"Gavroche!" His hand shook against the dirty curls, grasped the bony shoulders too tight, but the feel of those skinny arms was his only anchor to life. "You heard Pontmercy! You must deliver his letter – it was his last wish!"
"But where?" the child sniffled. "Dunno the address."
Of course he didn't; only Javert did. Now he saw it clear, how his tiny broken promise, his choice to put one duty 'fore another had led them here, had dumped them all in the river. But he would try to swim, as he had once failed to do; would grab hold and kick against the stream until he was torn apart, rather than sink in peace.
So Javert told the boy where to go, wrote a further message on the back of the note, and watched him disappear into the night. Then he sank back to the floor, feeling the weight of all the years almost physically pressing him to the ground. He covered his eyes with a hand, not wishing to watch the sorry corpse or the empty room, not yet having the energy to act.
Gavroche had taken his gun with him. The students had left no weapons with Pontmercy. Unarmed, alone... Javert might just manage to sneak out through the same back-alley Valjean had once released him through, or even attempt the sewers. But expected nothing but death to wait at the end of either of those paths.
No. It was here, behind this barricade, that his destiny would play out.
Perhaps he might still save a few lives, even if it could not make up for Pontmercy. It would not be possible to speak to the leader now; Javert knew the insidious pain of losing a man one was responsible for and how easily it twisted all thoughts toward vengeance. If Enjolras had some more time, he might come to see reason again, to understand that sacrificing all his friends to avenge one who could no longer care was pointless... but there was so little time for them all.
Javert rose to his knees, feeling the shadow of deaths press against his flesh for a moment; beheaded, drowned, stabbed, burned, strangled, hanged, crushed... He could hardly keep them all apart by now. Oh God, he was so weary, but would not yet allow himself to lie down and die.
One hand in front of another; once, twice, then dragging himself up by the wall, and he was standing. His steps grew stronger; though the room was still drawn in smoke and nightmares, his legs could carry him and the weight of death retreated further back into his mind.
Outside the café, the signs of battle were clear. Blood stained the ground, and from the corner of an eye, Javert spied three further bodies laid to their last rest. He glanced above; the sky was empty, offering no solace, no guiding lights at all.
He spotted a student staring straight at the café. Recognizing him as Courfeyrac, who had professed doubts at killing him, he silently hailed the man.
"Gavroche warned us that you were free," Courfeyrac said as Javert approached. Raising his gun demonstratively, he continued, "I thought you would have the sense to remain inside."
"Why did you not come to tie me up again?"
The gentleness around his eyes surprised Javert; he had thought them all either burning like Enjolras, or too young and idealistic like Gavroche and Pontmercy, but this youth seemed a different type.
"He asked me to read your note too, in case it was a spy's message," Courfeyrac said. "Clever one, he is. But I thought it safe enough to send him on. 'Keep this boy safe, under no conditions let him return to the barricade. Yours in eternal friendship, Inspector Javert', didn't sound like vital information." He cocked his head. "I assume it was not meant for poor Marius' girl?"
"Her father."
"Ah. Still, it will save our Gavroche and that is... that is a good thing indeed." He gestured to an overturned couch. "Have a seat, Inspector, and speak with me. Or go find rest in the café. We will not release you, but we are not barbarians for all that."
No, they were not. Javert sat down, and felt the seat waver beneath him. All that was dead matter was dissolving into the hungry water, and only the nearness of other living souls seemed to grant some tenuous shield against the void. Sleep, in this starless world? He would not dare, for he did not know which would be worse: slipping unknowing into death or awakening again to this life turned nightmare.
For a moment, they watched each other, the grey Inspector with too many lives behind him, and the fresh-faced student with too few years left.
"Why do you fight?" Javert asked.
He had many more questions, clarifications he wished to add, but this was what it boiled down to. They were young, they gambled so many sweet years on such an awful risk. They were not the poorest, those so desperately downtrodden that they had nothing left to lose, and they did not appear like men who thirsted for violence solely for its own sake.
Javert knew how desperation caused madness that could only be released through violence; he knew what he his informants had told him; but he knew not how these boys justified their actions to themselves. It suddenly seemed strange that he had never before asked.
Courfeyrac took a sip of wine, mulling over the question for a moment, and then he began to speak; of dreams and sacrifices, and the unspoken hope for a better future. His philosophy was far different from Valjean's unspecified kindness. Though it heaved somewhat towards the mindset of checks and balances that Javert himself followed, it contained within it the seed of a far grander thing; it was almost something one might term love, for the nation and the peoples within and without its stricture.
"What is this I hear?" Another smiling youth appeared. "Does our Inspector have a hankering for philosophy? Then let's see if we can't convert him to our cause before the sun rises!"
And this was how, on the threshold of death, Javert found himself discussing the ethics of revolution with the friends of the abased deep into the night.
Much later, when one could almost see the first grey light of morning, the only student awake was one Bossuet, who had drawn the watch. Javert himself was fighting off sleep by pacing back and forth, struggling to keep his eyelids apart, when he thought to hear a scraping sound from the heap of furniture.
Glancing at Bossuet, who was blinking tiredly at his lantern, he made his way towards the edge of the barricade. Javert knew of no plan to launch a sneak attack, but things might have changed during his absence.
While he had come to feel some sympathy, even a grudging respect, for the students, it was impossible for him to take their side against the forces of law. The only thing he could do, if soldiers were coming, was to stand aside and counsel them to mercy towards the revolutionaries.
Again, the scraping sound, some little thing falling loose. Quickly, Javert dared bend down and peek through the barricade. The torch the boys had attached still burned, and he saw the gleam of it reflected in a guardsman's hat; the man appeared to search for handholds. They were coming, then.
Withdrawing on silent feet, Javert walked to the side of the barricade, making as if he was still only pacing aimlessly as he had done for the last hour.
When next he looked, he was shocked to see a silhouette slowly, slowly climb over the barricade. How the man did it with so little noise, how he could even see where to put hands and feet, was a miracle, but what shocked Javert was the sheer gall. To climb a barricade, alone, in full uniform?
If Bossuet turned his head one degree, he'd spot him. His gun was loaded and held ready; the soldier could be dead before he had time to cry out! Javert couldn't believe a man would follow such an order, much less volunteer for the task. Only one driven by a deep personal need might risk...
Biting into his tongue until he tasted blood when realization came, Javert forced himself to remain unmoving, knowing the necessity of utter silence.
When finally the shadow touched ground, the barricade creaked at the loss of his weight. Javert walked swiftly towards Bossuet, heels clattering against the stone and coat rustling around his legs. He asked for some water, received a mouthful and said his thanks; all the time feeling the prickle between his shoulder-blades where a still undetected intruder was watching him. Finally, deeming enough time to have passed, he turned towards the smaller alleys, mumbling something about trying to find a bit of rest after all.
In these deep shadows, among the smell of poverty and refuse, waited Jean Valjean, and for all his anger and all his fear, Javert could do nothing but envelop him in a tight embrace.
"You are free," that dear voice whispered to him, and it was as if all the frightful shadows took wings and left only the mild starlit night. "Oh, it eases my heart to see you so."
"You are a fool," Javert replied. "The greatest fool! What in the world possessed you to come here?" He wished to shake Valjean, to rant and yell at him; he held him even closer instead and drank in the sound of his beating heart.
"You think I would leave you to die? The boy told me..." Valjean hesitated for a moment. "The news was heavy for Cosette. I had not even noticed her love for that poor young man, but I cannot argue the weight of her grief."
"It was my intention that you remain with her, to comfort her," he hissed, then another thought hit him. "And that you keep Gavroche safe!"
Now, it was Valjean's grip which grew tight around him. "How can you imagine I would forget about you? Have no worries for young Gavroche; he raged and screamed at us, but he is locked in safe and Éponine keeps her eye on him."
"And Cosette?"
Voice almost breaking with shared pain, Valjean said, "She has cried. Now, she prays. I wish... Oh God, I wish I could have come earlier, that I could have helped him somehow. It tears my heart apart to see her suffer so, but I could not wait any longer and risk losing you too. I only wish I could bring her beloved back with me as well."
And there it was: the path forward, the solution he had searched for. It bloomed in his mind, but unlike his previous insights, this was no shining rose of hope he saw, but a dried husk of a future.
For Javert's salvation, for the release of all these endless worlds from the cycle of time, Valjean must come to the barricade to save his daughter's beloved; another action underpinned by that mercurial emotion, love, in one of its many hues, leading towards the grace.
But for the next life to bloom, this one must first wither away.
"You should not have come for me," he whispered, even as he clung to Valjean, their bodies pressed together as if they were trying to break down the barrier of cloth and skin and flow together. "You should stay safe, forever..."
"I will not see you die if it is in my power to stop it," Valjean protested, and the outrage in his whisper was so heady that Javert pressed a kiss to his lips. It silenced him, foolhardy gesture that it was. For a few heartbeats, they allowed the dangers of the night to lie forgotten, kindling something beside fear in the silence between them.
"But, how you are free?" Valjean asked a little later, disbelief colouring his voice. "Have the students released you? You have not joined their side?"
"Of course not." Javert allowed himself a crooked grin, lips shaping it against Valjean's cheek so that he might know it even in the dark. "I have been given parole for the night, in exchange for my word of honour to remain here and not lift a finger against them, 'til sunrise at least."
"Parole? You, Javert?" Valjean could not keep his voice from rising in astonishment. "Truly, the world is upside down!"
"Perhaps, Monsieur, but this parole still does not allow for spies to be let inside our lines!" a stern voice called from behind Javert. "Hands in the air, you two, and step forward!"
The light of an uncovered lantern hit them then suddenly. When Javert turned, he saw four students facing him. One held the light, a sickly yellow eye that had found them in the dark and led the hungry waters their way. He saw how the men held their guns at the ready and knew they were cornered, while the rush of doom grew far too loud in his ears.
Slowly, Javert raised his hands, felt sand and cold water flow around each finger. Next to him, he sensed Valjean move, causing ripples in the stream of fate, and he knew at once that he must speak, that it was vital; a scant handful of words all that stood between them and the void.
"He is not a spy," Javert managed through the sand seeming to fill his throat, choking him with its uncaring judgement. "Please, he is..."
"A friend," Valjean said, taking half a step forward – no sands and streams to fetter him – widening his stance as if he was attempting to shield Javert. "I was worried, I came for personal reasons. Pardon my intrusion; there is no ill will behind it."
"He is no soldier, nor a spy," Javert whispered, "I swear. He is not."
"How likely," the one to the left said, the drunkard from his tone, "how common-sense. That we did not see this truth at once!"
Daring another step forward, Valjean stood fully in the light, and his voice was calming when he spoke. "Please, I know it seems unlikely! But I carry no weapon and mean you no –"
A tongue of fire, the bang of a pistol echoing so loud between the houses, and the sharp scent of gunpowder filling their minds. Javert stumbled forward, a scream caught inside him, and then a second gun spoke; a deeper voice, death's bell tolling, and the flash and the rising smoke seemed to laugh at him with the mirth of hell.
A babble of voices –
Oh God!
What are you doing?
Enjolras, it went off in my hands!
I thought, when I heard the shot, that they – !
– light wavering, the lantern falling to the ground –
What happened?
What's going on?
Are they attacking?
It just went off in my hands!
– and Valjean staggered, fell to his knees.
No.
When Javert caught him, he reeled beneath the limp weight, feeling his hands grow wet and slick where they touched Valjean's back. He knelt and lowered him onto his lap, cold mud seeping through his trousers from below while warm blood stained them from above.
God, no.
Perhaps a torch had been lit, perhaps the stars were granting this good man their final blessing, but Javert found that he could see him clearly even as the shadows covered all else. The dearly familiar lines of Valjean's face were twisted by pain, drawn in ashy grey above colourless skin, and only in his eyes remained the last spark of a vibrant soul.
"No," he managed, the word weak and useless against the threatening dark. "Valjean, no." And Javert found a trembling hand, pressed his lips to it, tried to hold it against death and saw that all his efforts meant less than nothing.
I'm sorry, Valjean mouthed, squeezing his hand in a weak reply. He managed one more breath, and with it spoke his daughters' names, and then there was no more light in his eyes.
"No. No, no..."
There were no tears in Javert, there were no thoughts or words or hopes; ashes and mud, all his hope and love growing cold in his worthless hands.
He did not cry when Enjolras offered his condolences and a sober apology for the too hasty actions of his men. He did not cry when he gathered Valjean's head close and spoke the Lord's prayer for him, dead words falling from dead lips, meaningless phrases to speak for one who had long ago stopped needing them. He remained kneeling on the street, tearless and silent with only the cooling body for company until a jaundiced sun swept away the curtain of night.
Then, he arranged Valjean's body; fastened the collar, crossed the stiff arms above his chest, and laid him to rest in the filthy alley.
Javert's notebook was still with him. Though his letters were clumsy and the paper stained with mud and blood, he wrote the address to which to deliver the body; laid his own identification papers there too, so that his words would not be ignored. He wished distantly that he could have shed a tear for Cosette and Éponine, children losing so much in one night, but everything had been burned from him but his miserable life.
When the second attack came, young men fought and fell around him, dying for their ambition of a better world. Javert stood silent and awaited the thunder of the cannons, without even the hope that they would send him to the endless dark.
Continue reading
Two weeks later Marius Pontmercy arrived at his desk in a tizzy, quoting a hidden note and rambling about a secret journey to England. Javert feared for a moment that his greatest nightmares had come true. If Valjean had taken fright, left him behind, left everything –
Then he realized that the boy had been only to Rue Plumet and was unaware that Valjean possessed another apartment in Paris. It put him in a slightly embarrassing position, for he neither wished to lie nor reveal Valjean's whereabouts without his permission. Finally, he promised to make some enquiries and return if he heard anything further.
Once his shift was finished, he hurried to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé and was relieved to find the family present. Valjean had been disturbed by an unknown presence creeping around their home, and decided to evacuate the area completely.
When Javert managed to catch Cosette alone and ask if it had been her suitor or not, the girl blushed crimson, admitting it all without a word. However, she assured him that Pontmercy could not account for all times Valjean had sensed another presence, and that was far more worrying than any youthful indiscretions.
Trying to hide his worry, Javert left the family with some reassuring words and returned to the station. He could see no reason for anyone but the lovelorn student to sneak around Valjean. Was it the missing member of the gang? The police had searched for Montparnasse, but found no trace of the fop, and it had been assumed that he had gone to ground.
Drumming his fingers at the stack of reports, Javert finally took his hat and left for the city jail; something was deeply wrong and he could not sit by and trust the words of others.
When he stormed back in, it was with enough righteous fury that every officer and clerk present at the station glanced his way. One dared ask what was wrong, and quickly came to regret the question; the torrent of curses and verbal abuse Javert heaped over every corrupt official and rotten policeman was as impressive as the volume with which he delivered it.
Finally, when the Prefect himself arrived, Javert was forced to explain his anger.
"They have let them escape! The entire blasted Patron-Minette gang, robbers and murderers every last of them, and they are not there! Oh, don't give me that look!" he snapped at an officer whose scepticism was easy to read off his face. "I know perfectly well what it says in the reports and I am telling you, the reports are falsified! There are four men and a woman in the correct cells, but not one of them is named Thénardier or Jondrette! Bribes! Damned bribes and greedy liars who dare call themselves the law! And now we have had these villains walking freely on the streets of Paris, while the entire police force passes by in ignorance!" He turned to the assembled officers, of which more than one appeared amused at his rage. "If this insult to justice does not bother you, can you not imagine the damage to our reputation? The case might not be ours, but the jails! We'll be the laughing-stock of every thief and gamin; I tell you, the whispers of this have already reached deep into the gutters, and every one of us will come to regret this failure thrice over!"
"Enough now, Javert," Gisquet said, "though I fear you are right in the particulars." His brow was deeply furrowed and the policemen surrounding them nodded darkly as he spoke on. "Tensions are rising in the city; we will need to cooperate with all other arms of the law to keep Paris under control. This disgrace, if it becomes widely known, will surely add to our problems. And if we can not rely on our own reports, on each other, how will we keep the entire institution from trembling when we can least afford it?"
Trying to calm the pulse hammering in his ears, Javert inclined his head to the prefect. "Pardon my temper Monsieur Prefect." Gisquet waved his excuse away, and Javert hurried to continue. "Please, I request to be assigned the case of putting these villains back where they belong. I know we relinquished jurisdiction of the Patron-Minette investigation to the Sûreté, but..."
"You have caught this Jondrette once," Gisquet agreed, "I see no reason you may not attempt catching him again. Once they are brought in, we can discuss who shall interrogate them between colleagues. A greater problem, I believe, is the worm in the prison structure. Inspector Sauveterre!"
"Sir?"
"Make certain that the rest of our prisoners are in place! Then find and deal with whomever saw fit to release the Patron-Minette gang."
The Inspector unfolded his lanky frame from a corner desk and bowed respectfully to the Prefect. "Of course, Sir." He then took his hat and, catching Javert's eye, inclined his head towards one of the filing rooms. "Would you accompany me, Inspector? I believe we might do well to work together in the beginning, so that we might uncover when these robbers were released and learn both who was involved, and where they might have gone."
"Unfortunately, I must decline. I need to alert my sources on the streets I immediately," Javert replied, making his own bow of respect towards the Prefect before he followed Sauveterre. "I shall join you as soon as I can."
"Ah, well," Sauveterre said, "then I shall busy myself with the joyful task of tracking paperwork and jail minutiae until you return."
Javert managed a weak chuckle at that, before he made his farewell and caught a cab towards the third arrondissement. He would alert every snitch and spy he had, in Saint-Michel and beyond, but first he must warn Valjean.
It was not an easy conversation, for Valjean's instinctual decision was to flee Paris. Only when Javert's pleas for him to remain were repeated by Éponine and Cosette's most heartfelt ones, did he consent to remain for another little while. However, Valjean absolutely forbid either girl to get in touch with anyone who knew them from before and gave strict orders to remain inside the apartment.
As Javert was taking his leave, Éponine slipped out with him. "I promised the porter's wife I'd lend her a tablecloth," she called, "please, Papa, the inspector is with me!"
Then she smiled, clutched his arm and attempted to slip a folded note into his hand.
"What is this? I will not go behind your father's back," Javert mumbled.
"Please," she said, lips barely moving, "it is for my sister. She has grown fond of the student who helped us... it doesn't give our address, only reveals that we remain in the city."
"I cannot –"
"Please, Inspector." Éponine turned to him while they were on the final turn of the stairs, where they could be seen neither from the apartment nor the street. "Cosette would not do anything foolish and even you must admit that father is being a bit... overzealous. She only wants this young man to know that we are safe."
Feeling conflicted, Javert accepted the missive. "I will have to read it myself, to reassure myself there is no risk to either of you," he told her sternly. "If I deliver it – I have a great deal of work to do now, I can not run around looking for students and play postman for every lovelorn girl."
"Of course not," she said, sounding far too satisfied. "I'm certain Cosette won't mind waiting for an answer until after you have arrested the, ah, this escaped robber's gang."
"An answer? Mademoiselle, I am not a delivery boy!"
"Éponine?" Valjean called from up the stairs. "Are you coming soon?"
"One moment, Papa!" she answered. With a cheeky smirk, she put a finger to Javert's lips, shushing his further protests. "Please remember that my sister is relying on you, Inspector," she whispered, then ran down and deposited the tablecloth on a chair outside the porter's door.
"Good evening!" Éponine yelled to him as she rushed up the stairs, leaving Javert clutching the first love letter he had been asked to deliver in seventeen lifetimes.
As he walked out, Javert gave a sour look to the skies above. "If this is somehow crucial for my chances of success, I shall... I will not have my fate decided by two silly children, that is all. I absolutely refuse!"
When he noticed that his grumbling at the sky caused two labourers to carefully pass to the other side of the street, his mood plummeted even further. He stuck the note deep into his pocket, and turned his mind entirely towards the problem of finding the Patron-Minette gang.
As he discovered during the following days, it was not an easy matter. The criminals had disappeared thoroughly and none of the sources Javert had access too could give him a solid lead.
On the other end of the case, Sauveterre had only slightly more success in hunting down the person responsible for their disappearance. The jailer who had opened the doors was quickly found, but he provided documents – forged with plenty skill – ordering their release. Thus nothing could be pinned on him. What remained was tedious work: comparing signatures and tracking notes through the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the police.
On June the first, both their efforts came to a complete stop, as did most other open cases. General Lamarque's death had lit the fire beneath Paris' powder-keg, and the police prepared for several rough nights. With rumours buzzing like mad around them, each wilder than the last, tempers rose and internal investigations were pushed to the bottom of the heap.
Javert argued that the outbreak of lawlessness would come at Lamarque's funeral; the fact that most informants agreed with him, coupled with his experience in putting down a large uprising from Toulon, landed him the responsibility of organizing the local police.
Javert surprised his fellow policemen by not only stepping up to the task – few would have expected otherwise from him – but by drawing up several routes for them to take when the uprising began, coupled with surprisingly exact guesses of where barricades would go up. When questioned about it, he first quoted secret sources, then, with some annoyance, explained how this crossing and that back-alley was the only logical place to cut off a certain area, which the riot-prone inhabitants of the slums certainly knew by now. How could they not see that this square could be boxed off with only minimal effort, when any beggar knew that much? A few more examples delivered in this vein, and his orders were obeyed without any further protests voiced; at least not where Javert might hear them.
On the day before the rebellion, almost every able-bodied policeman was gathered in the Palais de Justice to receive orders, passwords and final instructions.
"The signs all point to this being a limited breach of the peace," Javert finished his briefing. "The national guard are close by and ready to move in. However, if we can contain the violence, if we can preserve the peace of the city for one single night, I believe that their spark will wink out and few must die – either soldiers or schoolboys."
"Do you really think we can keep a lid on it?" one of the officers asked with great scepticism.
"Not completely," Javert conceded. "Naturally, our first duty is to the crown and the innocent populace who stand outside any uprising. But, you must remember! We who walk the streets in light and dark, we know Paris. Better than the soldiers, better than those high above... better, even, than some of these young students who think they speak with the voice of the people, when really they only hear the echoes of their own idealism. If we can disrupt their organisation, if we can lead the national guard around the outer barricades and take control of wells and other resources, some will sneak away. Others might allow themselves to be talked down. Much bloodshed can be avoided if we act with cleverness and do not let the label of 'rebels' blind us to the truth; that these dissidents, too, are part of the people we are sworn to protect."
He rolled up the maps and orders and handed them out to the Inspectors responsible for each area. When he gave Sauveterre his, the man remained in front of the desk.
"Yes?" Javert asked. "What is it?"
"Your words today..." Sauveterre shook his head, and his stony countenance revealed very little of what he thought. "Some might consider them bordering on sedition."
"Do you?"
His fellow inspector shrugged.
"Has anyone ever heard of Javert breaking the law?" he asked philosophically. "If we come out of it alive, what harm can it do to attempt to bring some of those foolish young men along? I am making a remark, nothing more, nothing less. But, Inspector? Do take care."
"I have never taken more care in my life," Javert replied. "If tomorrow goes well, ah, if another morning is allowed to begin..." He closed his eyes and seemed, for a moment, immensely weary. Opening them and gazing up at Sauveterre, Javert's voice was low and tired when he answered. "I cannot see the future. I do not know how my orders will be interpreted. But I must voice them even so. I must carry out my duty, for tomorrow is my judgement day."
"Oh, I wager that the morrow will judge us all," Sauveterre replied. "But I think I shall not mind standing next to you, when we learn what the good Lord has planned for us all."
While Javert returned to his work, he considered his choices, trying to weigh them with an objective mind. Had he done the right thing? It was hard to know, and so many of his actions were limited by orders and duty.
No matter how he changed, he could not believe that any just fate wished for him to somehow join the uprising. It was doomed to fail, despite the fervent belief of those involved. The cost in blood if he truly betrayed the law, turned snitch and spy, might grow enormously. It could not be the right choice – and even if it was the one path that might benefit him, it was not in Javert to walk it.
Javert had last seen Valjean on the third of June. Now, though he wished intensely to go to him, to speak to him and find peace for a few more precious hours, he dared not leave his post. While he prepared his own disguise, packing a few necessary items in a secret pocket inside his vest, he found the undelivered letter to Pontmercy. In his eagerness to find Thénardier, he had completely forgotten to have it brought to the young man. Was it a mistake? Could it doom him? Javert weighed the note in his hand for a long moment, before shaking his head and stuffing it back into his coat. He did not know how to act regarding this letter, and his discomfort at even obliquely betraying Valjean was considerable. It was out of his hands now, anyway; Javert lacked the time to search for a rebel presumably hiding in some secret gathering place. If he saw him later, perhaps...
The funeral march progressed as always; Javert waited until the student leader raised his flag, then followed the crowd. He still couldn't reach the young soldier who had fired the first shot in time; wincing, he watched him be brought down by the mob. Then he took hold of a young revolutionary, pulled him away from danger, and a moment later they were all running for the alleys.
Keeping close to the revolutionary leader, he once again volunteered to gather information. It was a daring gamble, for he knew it might anger the man beyond reason, but Javert needed to return to his officers. He must ensure that his orders were carried out despite the chaos and worry that filled the city and influenced the police as well. As important as this one barricade was for him personally, Javert did not wish to walk out into a Paris where the military had massacred every other rebel.
His presence was worthwhile; with structured plans breaking down left and right, fear and thoughts of vengeance poisoned even calmer heads. Here, Javert's foreknowledge and absolute assurance that his information was sound made it easy for him to push events in the best direction. When he returned to the barricade, it was with the hope that they might quench the uprising with only half the loss of life there would have been without his interference.
Finally, his duty was done. What remained was saving his own skin.
Javert hailed the students and was allowed entrance again. This time, instead of speaking lies before them all, he asked for the leader to confer with him privately inside the café.
The young man nodded gravely, and turned to dispense some orders. "Combeferre, keep an eye on things. Courfeyrac, Marius, with me."
Despite his attempt to hide his face, Javert saw both Pontmercy and the little boy react to him. He was recognized, and now had only seconds or less to make his case.
"I am Enjolras, and have taken upon myself to steer our people in this fight," the leader said as the entered the café. "Please, speak. What have you heard?"
He wet his lips, sending up a silent prayer that he would find the right words. "I am Javert, Monsieur. Inspector Javert, of the Paris police."
A beat of silence, then with a snarl Enjorlas reached for his gun. "A spy!"
"No," Javert said, keeping his hands visible, well away from his body. "I came because I wish, above all, for justice to be done and for needless bloodshed to be avoided. I have walked among the people today, on both sides of the barricade and I have tried to see things with an open mind. And I can tell you this: You have no chance."
The barrel of a gun rising to his face interrupted his words. "I will hear no more of this talk," Enjolras said. "We speak for the people, and we demand freedom. If you came to deliver yourself as hostage in our hands, Inspector, I thank you, but I will hear no more of your treacherous words!"
On his right side, a loud click revealed that Courfeyrac had also readied his gun.
"If I had wished to bring you down with propaganda, would I have requested to speak with you in private?" Javert argued. "Please, hear me out! The national guard has been amassed for days already, waiting for this date. The path you have chosen can end only in misery, but it isn't the only way! I know there are great injustices in our land, I know our laws are not the best and fairest, that they protect the rich man more than the innocent –"
"Then why do you heel at their orders, Inspector?" Enjolras asked. He tapped the gun against Javert's forehead, eyes burning with the passion of the prophet. "You have chosen to become a dog of the government, trading freedom and pride against the crumbs of power they hand you. If the law is unjust, what of the man who carries it out? How many lives have you ruined, how many dirty, thieving bourgeois have you helped grow fat on the blood of their fellows? The rich are few! They are pathetic and helpless without men of your ilk to carry out their dirty work!" His voice was rising and curious faces peeked in through the door, Enjolras' intensity filling the room and spilling out on the street. "Each uniform covers an executioner for the government, a wild dog harrying the poor!"
"And what kind of society would we have without any order at all?" Javert interrupted. "If the law is wrong, then it is right to attempt to change it! But if there is no law at all, strength becomes the only rule. Your dream would fail, but even if it didn't your way would only bring back the days of terror!"
"Ah! And do we not live in those days already? Does this world not already speak with tongues of whips, write laws with the cudgel in hand? What can the poor man do but fight back? You speak of law, of order, but we have the law of nature on our side! We are the people. Our will is right!"
A bitter laugh escaped Javert then; he half suspected himself doomed already, and thought no more of guarding his tongue. "Your precious people, how you trust them to come join you tonight... You're wrong, boy, you are always wrong about that. They will not rise. The powerful have the law of might on their side! Their rule will not tremble this day. You boys, with all your fine words and grand dreams have not managed to wake the spirit of the Parisians. This is what I came to tell you! The barricades are falling, for there is no general uprising! Return home and live to fight –"
Not Enjolras, but a different student, dark of hair with a sneer on his face, gave Javert a blow in the side. He staggered, lost his breath, and felt strong hands grab him.
"Maybe he speaks the truth," this man said, "but he forgets the most important thing. Might and right and law and all; it is written by the winners, and only them! If we survive, if we grow strong, the children of our children will chant slogans against us! This endless cycle, this hopeless life – why not drink the wine, and fight the fight, and die merrily beneath a dream?"
"Grantaire, even when your words are right, your intent is misguided," Enjolras said. Then he raised his hand, a young god calling down benediction on them all, and spoke again. "My friends, don't heed their words! It is early yet, and we hear the noise of battle beyond our own barricade, don't we all? This dream is not ended, our message of freedom will never die! We have less intelligence on our enemy than I had wished, but our weapons are loaded and our hearts burn bright! Let us fight together, and show these doubters what a people united can do!"
Amid the general cheering, Javert had to speak twice before anyone paid attention to him. "They will come soon!" he shouted. "You have less than a quarter of an hour." Meeting Enjolras' surprised look, he smirked. "As I said... I did not come to spy, but to warn you. Quarter of an hour. And if you survive that, in the morning the cannons will roll in. Run, hide; expect no support for you will have none. But for God's sake, at least take that child away." He nodded towards Gavroche.
The little boy only scowled at him, clutching the gun tighter in his hands; small, they were, but already calloused and roughened by life. Javert's heart pinched as he remembered his corpse lying on the dirty street.
"Hurry! Man the barricade!" Enjolras called, gesturing to his men. "Return to your posts, everyone!"
"What about him?" Courfeyrac asked. "To shoot a spy is one thing, but..."
"Tie him up, leave him for now. Tomorrow, the people's court shall decide his fate."
"I can do that," Pontmercy muttered. "Jehan, bring me the rope."
While his friends dispersed, Pontmercy remained beside Javert and frowned at him, though he made certain to keep the pistol properly aimed. "What the devil are you doing here, Inspector?" he hissed. "You helped saved my Cosette's sister, could you not keep yourself busy with thieves and brawlers?" He swallowed, suddenly blinking away emotions. "My dear Cosette, who has journeyed beyond my reach..."
"This is not a brawl, then?" Javert muttered. "And I am here for a great many reasons. But, since it seems they are all failing again, I might as well deliver your letter."
"Letter?"
Just then another student returned with a rope and their opportunity to speak was gone. The warning calls of impending attack and his friends' eager pull drew Pontmercy away as soon as he had secured the prisoner.
Javert was left bound, half-choking and helpless, his frustration even worse than the physical restraints. He could do nothing now, could learn nothing new, and his words had made no impression at all.
Only little Gavroche remained, staring at him with a calculating expression. "You ain't the worst sort, Inspect'r," he said, then spat. "For bein' a bleedin copper. Oughtta have stayed home tonight."
"You –" A flicker of hope lit in him. Perhaps, if the boy would listen. He tried to clear his throat. "Did you overhear? Pontmercy and myself?"
Gavroche's smile was sunny and revealed nothing. "Maaaybe. What's innit for me?"
"There's a letter in the pocket of my coat." Gavroche did not look impressed. "And two francs in the other. Just take it all and deliver the damn thing to Pontmercy."
Clever fingers plucked the items from him so elegantly that he barely felt it and then the little urchin had the cheek to adjust Javert's cap.
"Told ya, not so bad for a copper." He leapt away and was almost out the door before Javert recalled that he had one more thing to say.
"Brat! Stay inside the damn barricade!" he cried, knowing that his warning would go unheeded,
unless he could somehow enforce it himself.
Minutes later, he heard the arrival of the national guard. When the first gunshots began echoing through the street, Javert felt himself shake with nerves, sweat dripping into his eyes.
What in God's name was he to do if the gunpowder – Another explosion, another failure, and he could not –
Javert came back to himself only when he realized that the sounds had changed from fighting to arguments; no further shots were fired, a military voice was ordering retreat, and no explosion had sounded. He was shaking in his bonds, drenched with cold sweat, and the noose around his neck was nothing to the coil of fear crushing his insides; terror had held him in its grip, had blinded him utterly. Now, Javert's relief at not having to suffer that death again, to choke on fire while boys torn apart like so much flesh suffered around him, almost brought him to tears.
Oh God, they lived. They still lived!
Swallowing down the sour taste in his mouth, he attempted to regain his bearings. In the distance, a gun went off, but it appeared that the battle had ended with victory for the students. He strained his ears, but could not make out anything clearly, although it seemed as if the voices grew louder. An indistinct shape grew clearer by the open door, turning into several men trying to navigate something unwieldy into the café.
"Gently, gently!" one of them called.
It was three students carrying a fourth; one of their wounded. Laying him on the rough floor, one of them bent over the wounded man and began removing his stained clothing, attempting to apply pressure. A gurgling moan escaped the victim, and Javert winced. The amount of blood he could see was bad enough, but that sound... this boy was more than halfway into his grave.
When Enjolras walked in behind them, his face was anguished, and he clutched a small cask of gunpowder in his hands.
"Can you do anything, Joly?" he asked. "He saved us all. It ought not be at the price of his own life."
The young man bent over the fallen revolutionary sat back on his heels, hesitating. Only now did Javert get a good look at the fallen boy and he shivered as he recognized him; Marius Pontmercy, his upper chest or shoulder torn apart by a bullet. There was still life in him, for he moved restlessly on the hard floor and soft sounds of pain escaped him, but the sight inspired no hope for survival.
"I have no proper materials," the one called Joly said, "nothing at all." There was blood all over his hands, and despite his words he continued working, sacrificing both his jacket and his waistcoat to try and stem the bleeding.
Enjolras bent his head, shoulders drooping while he stared down at the cask in his hands. His mouth moved silently and, if it had not been for the white-knuckled grip, he might have stood calmly in prayer. Then he nodded once, swiftly, and when he lifted his head there was a terrible light in his eyes.
"We shall avenge him, then, as we avenge all the unjust dead!" he proclaimed. "They shall all bleed in memory of our friends."
"Wait," Javert croaked, "wait, one moment!" Most eyes turned to him and he knew that he was in a perilous position; caught and bound, with these angry boys having no other enemy to vent their frustration on. Nevertheless, he had spoken, and now the dice were cast. "I carry medications. Something to dull his pain, at least."
His words caused a commotion, as more than one revolutionary was hesitant to accept anything from a spy. But Pontmercy continued to suffer, and when Gavroche reported that the Inspector was known for his honesty, their decision was made.
Though he did not seem overly happy with the prospect – You are terribly sweaty, Inspector; it's not something infectious, I hope? – Joly followed Javert's instructions and found the pockets he had sewn to the inside of his vest.
Then, he was upset by discovering the blade, though Javert argued that there was nothing odd about carrying a straight-razor around and the students hadn't searched him for weapons anyway; indifferent to the old jet-beaded rosary; slightly amused by the identification papers definitely making Javert's position as a policeman clear; and finally, disquieted at the implications of two hip-flasks filled with strong tincture of opium.
When Javert made it clear that he was not a laudanum addict but had brought the tincture in case he wished to escape certain death, the boy seemed only more distressed.
Joly knelt down next to semi-conscious Pontmercy and dripped a few drops of laudanum into his dry mouth. The bitter taste brought the young man wholly back to his senses, and after some grateful sips of water, he asked for Gavroche to be sent to him.
When he appeared, Joly squeezed the boy's shoulder for a long moment. Then he bent down, kissed Pontmercy's cheek, and whispered something to him before he left to join the others guarding the barricade.
Pontmercy and Gavroche spoke for a while, their words too low for Javert to hear. When finished, the boy marched over and held up the note he had earlier taken from Javert.
"This from 'is girl?" he asked.
Javert nodded, as much as he could.
"Read it. Loudly! Marius's too dizzy," he wiped his eyes with a grimy hand, but continued in a steady voice, "and I can't read."
Javert read: "M– Monsieur Marius, please know that though we are apart, I wait not far from you. I cannot reveal myself at this time, but rest assured that I will return to you. Keep safe, and trust in me. Your – " He cleared his throat. "Your Cosette."
"Is that all it said?" Pontmercy asked, his voice weak and strained. It was obvious that he had little time left.
"Nah, that wasn't all, the Inspector jus' skipped the mushy bits," Gavroche said, bringing the letter closer until it was almost pressed against Javert's nose. "Go on, no skimping!"
"It finishes," Javert spat out, "with the words 'your loving and faithful Cosette'."
Gavroche continued to stare at him, the letter held before Javert's eyes.
"Oh, for..." he said, squirming with the indignity of it all. "And it opens with the words 'my beloved Monsieur Marius', is that enough? Or do you wish me to recite the fool thing as if it was a poem?"
Managing a wet chuckle, Pontmercy waved a indulgent hand; that should be the laudanum working, then. "It is all fine, Inspector," he said, his head turning laboriously until he could see Javert properly, and he even managed a feverish grin. "Though, you wouldn't have a pen?"
"Right pocket," Javert and Gavroche said simultaneously.
Giving the little gamin a tired look which was answered with a wholly unrepentant shrug, Javert waited until the boy took out his pen. He was becoming quite weary of being manhandled thus, although he dared hope that Pontmercy's wish would help him out of his bonds.
Just as Javert suspected, while the drug offered a moment's relief from the pain, the youth was too weak to write a legible reply. Had there been anyone else with them, things might have gone differently, but only Gavroche was in the café. The gamin cut him loose without much fuss, then threw him the pen.
Though the boy made sure to keep his distance and held his gun trained on the inspector, Javert was essentially free. Before he did anything else, though, he would take the dying man's message. Pontmercy was pale as death, his every breath laboured and heavy, yet he struggled through the letter.
"Will you... Cosette?" he asked, the fresh bloodstains on his lips the only colour in his chalky face.
"The boy will take your message," Javert promised. He helped the weakened youth press the folded note to his lips, waiting to remove it until there was no breath of life left in Pontmercy.
At the moment when the young man's eyes turned dull and his hand grew lax, the river rose up around him; around him the café seemed to waver, the dirty floor turning sheer and revealing a great emptiness beneath. Javert felt the taste of dirty water fill his mouth and the sounds of life – the revolutionaries speaking in the distance, the torch crackling, the gamin sobbing for his friend – drowned in the rush of that hungry stream. He had failed, again, a decade's worth of struggle made worthless with the extinguishing of this single life. As realization came to him, the low light grew dimmer still, and they all seemed to sink into the depths of the Seine; sinful man, mourning child, and dead dreamer taken into the eternal void before his time.
"No," Javert whispered, reaching for the smudged gold of Gavroche's bowed head before he fell over senseless and dead; needing some support and seeing no other light beyond this child. "No, I refuse."
Not again; he could not do it, his entire being rejected the thought of doing it all over again... of losing all he had gained in this world. Pontmercy was dead, but Javert still lived. Valjean and his children were waiting on the other side of this night! Whether this world would lead to his salvation or not no longer mattered to him, for he wished to remain in this time; with all its graces and faults.
Did mortal man walk through the world, his every act calculated to gain access to the heavens beyond the grave? Perhaps the pious monk, perhaps a living saint, but Javert was neither! And he had no aspirations to become one of their sort; he only wished to live out a full lifetime and let whatever happened after take care of itself. It was his right, it was his deepest desire, and he would no more lie down and peacefully die than he had been able to give up the hunt for Valjean all those years ago.
"Gavroche!" His hand shook against the dirty curls, grasped the bony shoulders too tight, but the feel of those skinny arms was his only anchor to life. "You heard Pontmercy! You must deliver his letter – it was his last wish!"
"But where?" the child sniffled. "Dunno the address."
Of course he didn't; only Javert did. Now he saw it clear, how his tiny broken promise, his choice to put one duty 'fore another had led them here, had dumped them all in the river. But he would try to swim, as he had once failed to do; would grab hold and kick against the stream until he was torn apart, rather than sink in peace.
So Javert told the boy where to go, wrote a further message on the back of the note, and watched him disappear into the night. Then he sank back to the floor, feeling the weight of all the years almost physically pressing him to the ground. He covered his eyes with a hand, not wishing to watch the sorry corpse or the empty room, not yet having the energy to act.
Gavroche had taken his gun with him. The students had left no weapons with Pontmercy. Unarmed, alone... Javert might just manage to sneak out through the same back-alley Valjean had once released him through, or even attempt the sewers. But expected nothing but death to wait at the end of either of those paths.
No. It was here, behind this barricade, that his destiny would play out.
Perhaps he might still save a few lives, even if it could not make up for Pontmercy. It would not be possible to speak to the leader now; Javert knew the insidious pain of losing a man one was responsible for and how easily it twisted all thoughts toward vengeance. If Enjolras had some more time, he might come to see reason again, to understand that sacrificing all his friends to avenge one who could no longer care was pointless... but there was so little time for them all.
Javert rose to his knees, feeling the shadow of deaths press against his flesh for a moment; beheaded, drowned, stabbed, burned, strangled, hanged, crushed... He could hardly keep them all apart by now. Oh God, he was so weary, but would not yet allow himself to lie down and die.
One hand in front of another; once, twice, then dragging himself up by the wall, and he was standing. His steps grew stronger; though the room was still drawn in smoke and nightmares, his legs could carry him and the weight of death retreated further back into his mind.
Outside the café, the signs of battle were clear. Blood stained the ground, and from the corner of an eye, Javert spied three further bodies laid to their last rest. He glanced above; the sky was empty, offering no solace, no guiding lights at all.
He spotted a student staring straight at the café. Recognizing him as Courfeyrac, who had professed doubts at killing him, he silently hailed the man.
"Gavroche warned us that you were free," Courfeyrac said as Javert approached. Raising his gun demonstratively, he continued, "I thought you would have the sense to remain inside."
"Why did you not come to tie me up again?"
The gentleness around his eyes surprised Javert; he had thought them all either burning like Enjolras, or too young and idealistic like Gavroche and Pontmercy, but this youth seemed a different type.
"He asked me to read your note too, in case it was a spy's message," Courfeyrac said. "Clever one, he is. But I thought it safe enough to send him on. 'Keep this boy safe, under no conditions let him return to the barricade. Yours in eternal friendship, Inspector Javert', didn't sound like vital information." He cocked his head. "I assume it was not meant for poor Marius' girl?"
"Her father."
"Ah. Still, it will save our Gavroche and that is... that is a good thing indeed." He gestured to an overturned couch. "Have a seat, Inspector, and speak with me. Or go find rest in the café. We will not release you, but we are not barbarians for all that."
No, they were not. Javert sat down, and felt the seat waver beneath him. All that was dead matter was dissolving into the hungry water, and only the nearness of other living souls seemed to grant some tenuous shield against the void. Sleep, in this starless world? He would not dare, for he did not know which would be worse: slipping unknowing into death or awakening again to this life turned nightmare.
For a moment, they watched each other, the grey Inspector with too many lives behind him, and the fresh-faced student with too few years left.
"Why do you fight?" Javert asked.
He had many more questions, clarifications he wished to add, but this was what it boiled down to. They were young, they gambled so many sweet years on such an awful risk. They were not the poorest, those so desperately downtrodden that they had nothing left to lose, and they did not appear like men who thirsted for violence solely for its own sake.
Javert knew how desperation caused madness that could only be released through violence; he knew what he his informants had told him; but he knew not how these boys justified their actions to themselves. It suddenly seemed strange that he had never before asked.
Courfeyrac took a sip of wine, mulling over the question for a moment, and then he began to speak; of dreams and sacrifices, and the unspoken hope for a better future. His philosophy was far different from Valjean's unspecified kindness. Though it heaved somewhat towards the mindset of checks and balances that Javert himself followed, it contained within it the seed of a far grander thing; it was almost something one might term love, for the nation and the peoples within and without its stricture.
"What is this I hear?" Another smiling youth appeared. "Does our Inspector have a hankering for philosophy? Then let's see if we can't convert him to our cause before the sun rises!"
And this was how, on the threshold of death, Javert found himself discussing the ethics of revolution with the friends of the abased deep into the night.
Much later, when one could almost see the first grey light of morning, the only student awake was one Bossuet, who had drawn the watch. Javert himself was fighting off sleep by pacing back and forth, struggling to keep his eyelids apart, when he thought to hear a scraping sound from the heap of furniture.
Glancing at Bossuet, who was blinking tiredly at his lantern, he made his way towards the edge of the barricade. Javert knew of no plan to launch a sneak attack, but things might have changed during his absence.
While he had come to feel some sympathy, even a grudging respect, for the students, it was impossible for him to take their side against the forces of law. The only thing he could do, if soldiers were coming, was to stand aside and counsel them to mercy towards the revolutionaries.
Again, the scraping sound, some little thing falling loose. Quickly, Javert dared bend down and peek through the barricade. The torch the boys had attached still burned, and he saw the gleam of it reflected in a guardsman's hat; the man appeared to search for handholds. They were coming, then.
Withdrawing on silent feet, Javert walked to the side of the barricade, making as if he was still only pacing aimlessly as he had done for the last hour.
When next he looked, he was shocked to see a silhouette slowly, slowly climb over the barricade. How the man did it with so little noise, how he could even see where to put hands and feet, was a miracle, but what shocked Javert was the sheer gall. To climb a barricade, alone, in full uniform?
If Bossuet turned his head one degree, he'd spot him. His gun was loaded and held ready; the soldier could be dead before he had time to cry out! Javert couldn't believe a man would follow such an order, much less volunteer for the task. Only one driven by a deep personal need might risk...
Biting into his tongue until he tasted blood when realization came, Javert forced himself to remain unmoving, knowing the necessity of utter silence.
When finally the shadow touched ground, the barricade creaked at the loss of his weight. Javert walked swiftly towards Bossuet, heels clattering against the stone and coat rustling around his legs. He asked for some water, received a mouthful and said his thanks; all the time feeling the prickle between his shoulder-blades where a still undetected intruder was watching him. Finally, deeming enough time to have passed, he turned towards the smaller alleys, mumbling something about trying to find a bit of rest after all.
In these deep shadows, among the smell of poverty and refuse, waited Jean Valjean, and for all his anger and all his fear, Javert could do nothing but envelop him in a tight embrace.
"You are free," that dear voice whispered to him, and it was as if all the frightful shadows took wings and left only the mild starlit night. "Oh, it eases my heart to see you so."
"You are a fool," Javert replied. "The greatest fool! What in the world possessed you to come here?" He wished to shake Valjean, to rant and yell at him; he held him even closer instead and drank in the sound of his beating heart.
"You think I would leave you to die? The boy told me..." Valjean hesitated for a moment. "The news was heavy for Cosette. I had not even noticed her love for that poor young man, but I cannot argue the weight of her grief."
"It was my intention that you remain with her, to comfort her," he hissed, then another thought hit him. "And that you keep Gavroche safe!"
Now, it was Valjean's grip which grew tight around him. "How can you imagine I would forget about you? Have no worries for young Gavroche; he raged and screamed at us, but he is locked in safe and Éponine keeps her eye on him."
"And Cosette?"
Voice almost breaking with shared pain, Valjean said, "She has cried. Now, she prays. I wish... Oh God, I wish I could have come earlier, that I could have helped him somehow. It tears my heart apart to see her suffer so, but I could not wait any longer and risk losing you too. I only wish I could bring her beloved back with me as well."
And there it was: the path forward, the solution he had searched for. It bloomed in his mind, but unlike his previous insights, this was no shining rose of hope he saw, but a dried husk of a future.
For Javert's salvation, for the release of all these endless worlds from the cycle of time, Valjean must come to the barricade to save his daughter's beloved; another action underpinned by that mercurial emotion, love, in one of its many hues, leading towards the grace.
But for the next life to bloom, this one must first wither away.
"You should not have come for me," he whispered, even as he clung to Valjean, their bodies pressed together as if they were trying to break down the barrier of cloth and skin and flow together. "You should stay safe, forever..."
"I will not see you die if it is in my power to stop it," Valjean protested, and the outrage in his whisper was so heady that Javert pressed a kiss to his lips. It silenced him, foolhardy gesture that it was. For a few heartbeats, they allowed the dangers of the night to lie forgotten, kindling something beside fear in the silence between them.
"But, how you are free?" Valjean asked a little later, disbelief colouring his voice. "Have the students released you? You have not joined their side?"
"Of course not." Javert allowed himself a crooked grin, lips shaping it against Valjean's cheek so that he might know it even in the dark. "I have been given parole for the night, in exchange for my word of honour to remain here and not lift a finger against them, 'til sunrise at least."
"Parole? You, Javert?" Valjean could not keep his voice from rising in astonishment. "Truly, the world is upside down!"
"Perhaps, Monsieur, but this parole still does not allow for spies to be let inside our lines!" a stern voice called from behind Javert. "Hands in the air, you two, and step forward!"
The light of an uncovered lantern hit them then suddenly. When Javert turned, he saw four students facing him. One held the light, a sickly yellow eye that had found them in the dark and led the hungry waters their way. He saw how the men held their guns at the ready and knew they were cornered, while the rush of doom grew far too loud in his ears.
Slowly, Javert raised his hands, felt sand and cold water flow around each finger. Next to him, he sensed Valjean move, causing ripples in the stream of fate, and he knew at once that he must speak, that it was vital; a scant handful of words all that stood between them and the void.
"He is not a spy," Javert managed through the sand seeming to fill his throat, choking him with its uncaring judgement. "Please, he is..."
"A friend," Valjean said, taking half a step forward – no sands and streams to fetter him – widening his stance as if he was attempting to shield Javert. "I was worried, I came for personal reasons. Pardon my intrusion; there is no ill will behind it."
"He is no soldier, nor a spy," Javert whispered, "I swear. He is not."
"How likely," the one to the left said, the drunkard from his tone, "how common-sense. That we did not see this truth at once!"
Daring another step forward, Valjean stood fully in the light, and his voice was calming when he spoke. "Please, I know it seems unlikely! But I carry no weapon and mean you no –"
A tongue of fire, the bang of a pistol echoing so loud between the houses, and the sharp scent of gunpowder filling their minds. Javert stumbled forward, a scream caught inside him, and then a second gun spoke; a deeper voice, death's bell tolling, and the flash and the rising smoke seemed to laugh at him with the mirth of hell.
A babble of voices –
Oh God!
What are you doing?
Enjolras, it went off in my hands!
I thought, when I heard the shot, that they – !
– light wavering, the lantern falling to the ground –
What happened?
What's going on?
Are they attacking?
It just went off in my hands!
– and Valjean staggered, fell to his knees.
No.
When Javert caught him, he reeled beneath the limp weight, feeling his hands grow wet and slick where they touched Valjean's back. He knelt and lowered him onto his lap, cold mud seeping through his trousers from below while warm blood stained them from above.
God, no.
Perhaps a torch had been lit, perhaps the stars were granting this good man their final blessing, but Javert found that he could see him clearly even as the shadows covered all else. The dearly familiar lines of Valjean's face were twisted by pain, drawn in ashy grey above colourless skin, and only in his eyes remained the last spark of a vibrant soul.
"No," he managed, the word weak and useless against the threatening dark. "Valjean, no." And Javert found a trembling hand, pressed his lips to it, tried to hold it against death and saw that all his efforts meant less than nothing.
I'm sorry, Valjean mouthed, squeezing his hand in a weak reply. He managed one more breath, and with it spoke his daughters' names, and then there was no more light in his eyes.
"No. No, no..."
There were no tears in Javert, there were no thoughts or words or hopes; ashes and mud, all his hope and love growing cold in his worthless hands.
He did not cry when Enjolras offered his condolences and a sober apology for the too hasty actions of his men. He did not cry when he gathered Valjean's head close and spoke the Lord's prayer for him, dead words falling from dead lips, meaningless phrases to speak for one who had long ago stopped needing them. He remained kneeling on the street, tearless and silent with only the cooling body for company until a jaundiced sun swept away the curtain of night.
Then, he arranged Valjean's body; fastened the collar, crossed the stiff arms above his chest, and laid him to rest in the filthy alley.
Javert's notebook was still with him. Though his letters were clumsy and the paper stained with mud and blood, he wrote the address to which to deliver the body; laid his own identification papers there too, so that his words would not be ignored. He wished distantly that he could have shed a tear for Cosette and Éponine, children losing so much in one night, but everything had been burned from him but his miserable life.
When the second attack came, young men fought and fell around him, dying for their ambition of a better world. Javert stood silent and awaited the thunder of the cannons, without even the hope that they would send him to the endless dark.
