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drcalvinPrevious part
Pontmercy came by, apologetic and useless, to offer him some water. He drank and cursed the man, felt the blood tingle in his hands and cursed him again – and when the youth's face fell in the low light, Javert was swept back to another time. When a bleeding boy had begged him to read out the last greeting from his love; he found he could not curse him further.
He closed his eyes then and forced himself to relax in his bonds, but could not escape the images. Enjolras dead, and Pontmercy broken, and Combeferre and Joly and Grantaire and all the rest of them lying in still rows, and he felt sick to his soul.
Why would they not let him save them? Were their principles so important that they counted their lives useless, so easy to waste?
But, no; in each life, Pontmercy would cry for his love and yet not go to her when he had the chance. The drunk took every opportunity to play the devil's advocate, to hold forth on the pointlessness of their struggle, and still he remained, the nihilist outshone by the dreamer. Combeferre had trembled, had known fear. A vague voice spoke to Javert from the distant past – 'you should've seen them, how they screamed and ran' – some soldier with no compassion and less sense... For they feared, and still remained, each and every one of them, remained in lifetime after lifetime, fighting until their doom.
With fear but no hesitation, prepared to die for what they considered duty. Almost like... Javert gasped out loud in the empty dark, and opened his eyes wide, seeing nothing of the world around him.
They fought for principles, as had he once long ago. He strode into death's shadow often, but never more obviously than when he had gone to play the spy in that first lifetime. And yet Javert had not feared then, had he? Back in the days when he did not know that he would wake and wake and wake again, death had only been the end; failure had been far worse to face.
For principles they fought, and for something greater far than that, as he himself had once fought for the Law – but Javert had seen it revealed hollow and false. And he had given himself over to despair when he understood how his holy Bible was written; not praising justice, not being justice, but raising up the idols of power that rested on cruel subjugation and petty rules, taking all that he knew to be true and good and turning it into mud. From that world, he had cast himself away; better to be swallowed by despair, than live in a lawless land. Now, he watched these boys... They fought wholeheartedly for their republic, but they knew it was made out of fallible men. They had such differing goals, but even when their ideals clashed against each other they could fight side by side; the frictions of their thoughts seeming to be that very thing which granted the dreams the solidity of truth. In Javert's ears, memories of debates had and discussions overheard echoed, so many differing splinters of philosophy yielded in light duels among friends... They went to their deaths, clear-eyed and aware; they died for the revolution of the people, despite knowing how easy it was for the people to turn into the mob, for freedom to become terror, and for power to corrupt in the span of two measly years. They fought, and in the night Javert heard them sing of wine and friendship, and his eyes filled with tears at the depth of their belief: Not in one immense principle, eternal and unchanging; not in a perfect ideal, distant and impossible in its perfection!
No, these schoolboys had the audacity to dream of imperfect man and his imperfect works, they struggled for change itself – not one goal, finished and done with, as the perfect Law which had once broken Javert with its illusion – but simply the hope of humanity's growth.
"Men can change," he spoke to the dusty shadows, though in truth he said it to his own foolish heart. "We can all change, and in our change is the seed of redemption."
And he recalled those he loved, in each of their aspects: Monsieur le Maire, so elegant, so high above Javert. Valjean, his friend and confidant. And the prisoner from long ago, bowed but not completely broken, a man he had so thoughtlessly dismissed; for all that Javert did not miss those years, he wished he'd learned to see the men inside the prisoners when he had the opportunity.
Cosette, the serious little girl in convent dress, the young lady flushed with first love, the child of poverty; soothing, kind Cosette who had inherited her mother's ability to find joy in the details of the world and her father's devotion to all things good. And she who was her sister now; Éponine, with her first father and mother's clever mind and her second father's good heart. She burned with hunger to taste the entire world, yet refused to crawl and beg for her chances. One who had been raised from the gutters like Javert, yet avoided the temptation of condemning all who remained.
There was the town, which could turn against him in hatred or grow homelike over the course of the years, Montreuil-sur-Mer that had broken him so many times and yet comforted him with its blue sky and the faint scent of salt when the wind lay on from the great sea. There was even the familiar reappearance of Pontmercy's silly face, and the knowledge that he, in some inexplicable way. brought joy to Cosette's life... The little girl sweeping with her red, cracked hands; at last she had found a prince, and surely her hands would prove strong enough to save him when the need arose.
A broken laugh escaped him then, for he thought of Enjolras, who led his friends straight into death and whose soul remained pure throughout each life. Finally Javert realized the hidden truth; while he might lead and they might follow, it was each man's dreams that drove him on.
"Foolish, foolish boys," he said, and tears and laughter mingled, for he had known too much death to ever raise it up to glory – but were their dreams not their own? And were they not all the more precious just for their flaws and naivety?
Perhaps he was delusional with worry, perhaps the fall had scrambled his brains, but much as he feared the coming dawn, Javert no longer feared for the students. He would, always, regret their too-short lives. But they had chosen their burdens, and that choice lessened the load even if the weight of dreams pulled them into darkness and bloody death.
As for his own choice... Valjean. The home they were discovering together. The duty that filled his days, the city of Paris struggling around him, the joy in telling Cosette of her mother, the growing response to his careful suggestions at the precinct: a myriad of treasured details that had filled his weary life with relief for these last twelve years. But beyond all else, what he missed in that moment was the swell of love at Valjean's smile, and he thought that he wanted nothing more than to be greeted by it once again.
With such thoughts for company, Javert heard the students go to their rest, and he wished he might join them for one final night beneath the stars.
He could not sleep in comfort in his bonds, but the harrowing emotions had taken their toll. When a disturbance caused Javert to blink awake, he had lost count of the hours. It was still dark outside and his limbs felt stiff and achy. He thought of the mouthful of water he'd been given earlier, and his throat felt all the more parched at the memory.
When he saw who entered the café, wearing a familiar greatcoat and carrying a police-issued lantern, all thoughts of his discomfort flew from him. Javert could not refrain from making a noise of surprise, choking it back immediately; he shivered then, at the shadow of a time before.
Valjean, for it was indeed him, hurried closer with the coat sweeping around his legs. He fell to his knees next to Javert and his hand was living and warm, a balm upon his soul.
"How are you here?" he croaked.
"How could I not be?" Valjean replied. He began to saw through the ropes, a tedious task with only his pocket-knife as a tool.
It turned out that Gavroche had not needed Javert's papers, for he was clever enough to sneak through the lines of the soldiers on his own. He had found Valjean, delivered the tracts and his message and then left – it had been a mad rush for Valjean to catch him on the stairs, once he had actually read the full content of the letter. And even then the boy might have snaked his way out of the grip, if their shouts hadn't woken the girls. They had came down, demanding an explanation, and helped Valjean restrain his little prisoner.
"I am here for Cosette's sake," Valjean said, "but also for my own." And he squeezed his shoulder, and Javert felt fear and elation grip him anew.
On the way to the barricade, he had stopped by Javert's apartment, had borrowed his hat and coat, thanking the darkness of the night that nobody noticed how poorly it fit him. Then Valjean had made his way to the police headquarters to find out which barricade he must find; Gavroche had refused to tell him, though he'd loudly offered to guide his way.
"Providence guided me," he continued with a smile, "for the first man I encountered recognized me as Monsieur Madeleine, and was eager to help me. But... he also gave me dark news."
This was the last barricade standing, Valjean said, and the national guard had them encircled. They were bringing in heavier cannons from outside of Paris and had emptied the surrounding quarters. Come noon at the latest the plan was to blow the entire block to cinders rather than let the rebels remain.
"I have not spread the message, despite promising the boy I would," Valjean confessed. "At this time, it would only mean death to any who came."
Free at least, Javert moved his arms and grimaced at the pain of blood rushing freely once again. "It doesn't matter. This rebellion, these boys, were always doomed to fail. They simply will not see it – or rather, they have other cares." He tried to rise, but his legs were all pins and needles, and Valjean caught him with a silent chuckle, pushing him to the floor again.
"Patience," he whispered, "only young Marius has noticed my arrival. And he said he would look the other way if I tried to spirit you away."
"But you won't, will you?" Javert asked, and wasn't even disappointed when Valjean shook his head. Instead, he threw discretion to the wind, and told him what to do; they were at the brink, and he would fight the hungry river with all he knew.
"There is a standing order to attempt snipers before a full attack," Javert explained. "If they have not come yet, the light is too bad... perhaps they fear to hit the barricade too. They think it is rigged to explode. Find a gun and watch the roof. You might earn their trust with a well-placed shot."
"And you will wait here?" Valjean asked.
"I cannot walk easy yet," Javert admitted, "and while they might look away from a stranger in the dark, I don't think they could miss me in their midst." He managed a smile and found Valjean's hand. "Though I admit I do not like letting you out of sight tonight."
"In that, you are not alone." Then, with barely a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, Valjean caught him against the pole and kissed him deeply.
Javert tried to protest, knowing the danger that threatened, but when those familiar lips pressed close and his tongue begged entrance, he found himself burying his hands in the grey locks and they kissed and kissed until their hearts ached with the wonder of it all.
"Don't die," Javert whispered, tasting his lips again. "Oh, Lord above protect you, please don't die tonight."
Valjean's only reply was a further kiss, fire flaring up between them until he had to stumble back, looked away, and murmured, "A gun. Must find a gun." He slipped the coat off his back and walked out on half-steady steps.
Fools and dreamers, every last man at this barricade tonight. As he pulled on the familiar blue fabric, Javert had never been prouder to count himself one of them; with Valjean's kisses, with Valjean's words, hope had somehow returned to him.
He stretched away the worst of his aches, rubbed his circulation back to weary life, and dared go out the back in search of a gun; a futile attempt. Rather than risk being seen and rousing the students again, he went back inside and climbed to the second floor to avoid detection. That he might keep watch over Valjean from the window had no influence on his choice, though it was a comfort during the hours of waiting which followed. Even if he was only a shadow among shadows, Javert could recognize his gait. He saw Valjean arm himself with a musket, have words with someone (hopefully Pontmercy), then take up a post beneath an outcropping of the barricade. A sensible and strategically sound position, even if it was too close to the front-line for his comfort.
And so they waited again, waited apart for the neverending Judgement to fall upon them and finish this long night, and their silent prayers mingled beneath the sky.
At long last morning approached; the stars faded and the night folded back to a grey dawn. No red in this sunrise, as if the sun knew it could never match the blood that would soon spill upon the streets on this fine summer day.
The students stirred. Javert fought with the knowledge that they would see him unless he withdrew from the window; but to look away now, when so much hinged on one shot?
He need not have worried, for Valjean's gun thundered them all awake and his cry – "Marksman on the roof!" – made certain that all attention was aimed above. Hurrying downstairs, Javert heard several more shots ring out, and he reached the doorframe to see a student fall bleeding onto the street.
The snipers withdrew under fire. In the general hubbub, nobody seemed to question too deeply where Valjean had appeared from; they had scarce time to do it in, because the beat of marching feet and rolling cannons soon sounded through the slums.
"Get the Inspector!" Enjolras ordered, and two students hurried to obey.
They were not pleased to find Javert waiting for them, free of all bonds and dressed in his official long-coat, but the time for interrogations was short indeed. He caught Valjean's eyes, silently asked him to be cautious and patient, and then he was prodded towards the barricade by their guns. Combeferre bent down and grabbed Javert's arm, pulling him up to stand between him and Enjolras. Joly clambered up behind them and took a firm hold again. Unmoved beside them, Enjolras remained on guard; his gun raised and his eye trained on the enemy.
"Your life for an hour's respite," Combeferre told him softly, when Javert had found his footing. "That will give us time to send away all who have dependants at home."
"You have realized the futility of your plans?" Javert asked, speaking equally low. "I would try and help you all, if..."
"We shall die freely, and we shall die well!" Enjolras replied instead, still not looking his way. "But those who have children left at home, those whose obligations bind them; without dishonour, we shall send them on. In this final hour, they must withdraw, and as you offered, you might try and lead them away. The world of tomorrow shall be built on the bodies of we who are free to remain."
What could he answer, what could he do but accept?
They all looked over the barricade, towards the coming soldiers. The muzzle of Combeferre's gun rested at his temple while the red flag, held proud in the revolutionary's other hand, rustled softly in the morning breeze. Enjolras was serene, his rifle so steady and his focus so perfect that one might wonder if his spirit had left this world already, rushed ahead and become one with the avenging angels. Half a step behind them stood Joly, his grip on Javert's arm more of a warning remainder than a true restraint; a warning, like his rifle rested against the thick fabric of the police coat. Nevertheless, these were all trivial details. Today, death approached from ahead, not behind.
In a formation as sharp as on a parade field, the national guard approached the small barricade and the men waiting on it. Their colourful uniforms created a bright wall of force and Javert took note of the spear-like mass of bayonets and guns, thought of the cannons surely waiting around the corner and how heavily they outranged the pistol held as a threat against him.
The officer stepped forward and raised his sword in a showy greeting. Javert frowned at the gesture. It was familiar to him, but he could not connect it to his memories of this day; where, then, might he have seen it... What had caused this difference?
"Hear me, you rebellious little worms!" the officer called, too pompous and too rude; wholly different from past times. "You are outnumbered, you have no chance! Give up and face your punishments like men!"
No – no, it couldn't be! The wrong man; why here, why now? Why such a change?
"Wait!"
Enjolras began to answer, far too proud and ignorant of the character of the man facing him, and Javert reached for him; to warn, to interrupt, he knew not even quite what he wished to do. Either way the students would not let him voice anything; Joly restrained him as soon as he tried to interrupt, while against his face, Combeferre's gun slid down to press warningly into the flesh beneath his jawbone. Knowing failure was only seconds away, Javert tried to finish his warning before all his struggles were blown apart along with his brains. "No! I know of this man!" he protested. "He won't negot –"
The first line of soldiers fell to their knees, then flat on their stomachs, and they revealed their fellows bent behind them, bent over nasty little cannons all lit and ready.
"Down!" Javert cried and, without looking or considering even one moment more, he pushed backwards and let himself drop; heedless of the risk of bruises and cracked skulls, he threw himself away from the barricade while kicking out hard. Combeferre's grip could not hold him against the pull of the earth, the man behind stumbled at his weight, the rubble shifted – they fell.
Guns fired and the cannons roared, not heavy pounders these but evil little things that spewed deadly grapeshots instead. At first Javert knew not whether the pain in his back was from the firing or the hard landing. Then Valjean yanked him upright and he found he could still breathe, though his head spun wildly.
"No! No, Combeferre!"
"Fire! Fire all you've got!"
"Get the bastards!"
"To death!"
Looking up, Javert saw a heartrending sight; Enjolras still stood, grimly trying to fire though the side of his coat was darkening with blood. But his trusty second had been caught completely by the salvo; Combeferre's remains hung on the barricade, the grisly violence having peeled his chest almost open. His face seemed stunned by the speed of death and the gun was still clasped in his hand.
"Run!" Valjean screamed into his ear; had been screaming for some time already? With death raining all around them, he could hardly argue. Javert bent to grab Joly, whom he had half landed on, shaking the boy when his head lolled; a thin line of blood was trickling down his neck from where he had smashed into the paving stoned, but he managed to stumble along while they all ran for cover.
After only a few steps, Valjean suddenly stopped, nearly giving Javert an apoplexy as he thought for a moment a bullet had caught him; but then he turned back and cupped his hands. "Marius!" he yelled, "Marius, come away!"
The young rebel appeared not even to hear him, screaming in anger and firing his guns at a rapid pace. He was far from the only one; all around them, the students were shooting, filling the air with the stench of powder and cries of defiance. Then, the cannons roared again. Splinters and pieces of furniture flew around them while more and more men fell; all was chaos and death, and still Valjean wouldn't move! Javert coughed at the acrid smoke, memories of deaths and fires dancing so vivid in front of his eyes that he hardly knew what was real and not. Realizing finally that his friend could not follow while Pontmercy remained at the front, and that Joly was swaying where he stood, Javert squeezed Valjean's hand, closed his eyes for one timeless moment of prayer and then let go, continuing ahead on his own. He pushed Joly into the mouth of the rambling alleys – "The sewers! Make for the sewers, boy!" – and turned back to the barricade.
Whatever happened, Valjean would not die alone beneath that traitorous fire.
They near stumbled into each other when Javert ran back, for Valjean was dragging another wounded boy towards the café; he helped him at the task. This student's leg was full of shrapnel, and his life ran through their hands in the short time it took them to lift him inside.
"Marius," whispered Valjean, staring down at the corpse as if he could already see his daughter weeping over the body of her love. When he rose, turning towards the opening, Javert took hold of his hand. No, he wished to say, no, do you not hear it? The shooting and the thunder and the rushing of the river that awaits us? And though his mind was all jumbled, with prayers and curses flowing into each other, with nightmares and mirages deluding him with terror, at the root of it was this one simple truth.
"Not you."
Valjean only held Javert's gaze, pleading without words, and it was this that broke him; for Valjean would not use the strength of his arms against one he loved, nor would he try to convince with words of logic. He would only look, and he would only love, and Javert thought of a world where he might stop Valjean from saving his daughter's heart... and he swallowed down his fears and inclined his head, and then they returned to give what help they could.
Outside was death, and more death piled upon it. Javert saw an overeager soldier stabbed in the throat by Grantaire, the sour drink in him having transformed into liquid fire as he fought his way up the barricade. They both saw youths shot apart, soldiers falling for a king who cared not a whit for their plight, and dreams broken and stabbed by canons and bayonets. The entire barricade shook once more, the heavy cannons punching it apart, relentless and unfeeling. Splinters large as an arm flew past them, while feathers danced incongruously on the air and the taste of iron and gunpowder made every breath a chore to draw; slowly, beneath the weight of this onslaught, the barricade of dreams was crumbling once again.
And still Valjean would not withdraw – "Marius!" – not without his daughter's heart. At least the fool boy had taken cover, was kneeling in the shadows. When Javert spotted a large spark falling from his hands, he understood why, and fear rushed through him like the torrent of the blackest river.
"RUN!" he hollered to any who might hear, "The fuse is lit! Run!"
"For freedom!" With that yell, Marius hefted a pistol and ran along the hissing fuse, ignoring both Javert and Valjean calling for him. He climbed the barricade and managed a shot before he fell to responding fire.
The fuse sizzled and burned, disappearing beneath the heap of rubble, taking the clamour of battle with it.
A signal blown, soldiers backing down, revolutionaries holding up – all waited, all feared, united in this final moment before death. A sizzle, a sputter, and... silence.
"It was a bluff!" a soldier crowed, and now the bayonets came properly into play, now all the soldiers swarmed up the barricade before their officers need even give the order. Death was no longer distant gunfire, but eyes meeting eyes before knives cut or pistols snuffed out all light in them.
Valjean took the fallen Marius, hefted him on his back and ran; much as Javert wished to follow him, his feet carried him forward instead, for he saw Courfeyrac clawing himself away from the carnage with tears and blood streaming down his face, leaving crimson trails at his right side.
Safety, he thought wistfully, safety with Valjean; but Javert still recalled a night spent speaking beneath the unlit stars and a dreamer too young to taste death.
The boy was heavy to drag, bled all over his coat and slowed him down; and the soldiers were approaching fast now, the tide of battle turned decisively in their favour.
"Inspector!" he heard in a moment between barrages, and he looked up, surprised by hearing his title in this place. It was Grantaire who had called out, no longer speaking sardonic banalities, his smile no longer mocking, but achingly sincere. Run, he mouthed – and in his distant face there was such a cold cheer, that Javert didn't think twice of hefting Courfeyrac upon his shoulder, then sprinting away, knowing that this was the river of death lapping at his feet.
If he had remained and watched, this he would have seen: Enjolras lying insensible on the barricade, gun and flag still clutched in each hand. Grantaire's hand closing around his gun, then gently, so gently, lying down above his shining friend as if they went amiably to their rest. He aimed the gun not at a soldier but down, into the secret place that was reached by no fuse. He whispered a final word to one who could not hear him, then fired into a barrel of gunpowder protected by nothing but waxed paper; Grantaire smiled and shut his eyes, and let the flames devour them together.
The explosion threw Javert flat; when he got up with ringing ears and shaking legs, Courfeyrac had passed out. He had to try twice before he got a grip which allowed him to stagger along with the boy. Instinct led him not into the café, but to an alcove in the alley near it, and there Valjean pulled him out of sight, pressed a kiss to his forehead and mouthed a blessing against his skin. Marius was in his arms, and Joly slumped against the other corner looking grey and wan.
They looked none too healthy, none of them, but they lived for now. He could not feel the canon-fire sending tremors through the street; the barricade had fallen, but for a short time the echoes of its fall would hold back the next attack. So had these lost dreamers stopped the soldiers at last; not with furniture nor stones, but with the blazing fire of broken hope.
When Valjean spoke to him, he could only shake his head, sounds distorted and hard to differentiate. His friend then grabbed the boy thrown over Javert's shoulder, gestured to his wounds and understanding came. They managed to fashion a pair of hasty tourniquets from Courfeyrac's flag, binding up the very worst of the wounds.
"Whereto?" Javert then asked. "There's nothing more we can do!" His own voice still echoed strangely in his his ears, but the need for escape was driving him on. With this officer directing the battle, after all this death, he dared not risk remaining and attempt speaking to the soldiers.
Valjean nodded and took the lead as they continued their escape. They each carried a man and pushed Joly ahead of them, for the young man seemed to have lost his senses. Quickly, they reached the reeking hatch and Javert hesitated; he had gone down into the filth once before, but he had walked deeper inside the maze of streets first and had found a proper grate to enter through. And, he realized as Valjean laboured to open the hole, it had been far simpler to wade into that filth when his life was broken and he wished nothing beyond oblivion for himself.
Somehow, it helped when Joly protested, when he moaned and tried to back away. Valjean was busy opening the way, so it fell to Javert to shake him, berate him, to push Courfeyrac's unconscious body into his arms and point back to the smoking ruins – where gunfire and screams were taking up again, the horror not yet ended, though scarce more than rubble remained of the fighting spirit now.
"Do you want us all to die?" he finally growled, and Joly shook his head; no. Though he trembled and he wept, he helped push his friends into the hole, went to his knees and crept after them, slid with a terrified cry down into the filth – until finally, there was only Javert left.
He did not look back towards the fallen barricade; would not allow himself to regret, even with the hail of death fallen upon so many. They had chosen, as had he, and Javert knew that no amount of blood would diminish the splendour of their choice.
Bloodied, battered, but alive, Inspector Javert left the barricade behind and crawled into the darkness. Towards life.
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Pontmercy came by, apologetic and useless, to offer him some water. He drank and cursed the man, felt the blood tingle in his hands and cursed him again – and when the youth's face fell in the low light, Javert was swept back to another time. When a bleeding boy had begged him to read out the last greeting from his love; he found he could not curse him further.
He closed his eyes then and forced himself to relax in his bonds, but could not escape the images. Enjolras dead, and Pontmercy broken, and Combeferre and Joly and Grantaire and all the rest of them lying in still rows, and he felt sick to his soul.
Why would they not let him save them? Were their principles so important that they counted their lives useless, so easy to waste?
But, no; in each life, Pontmercy would cry for his love and yet not go to her when he had the chance. The drunk took every opportunity to play the devil's advocate, to hold forth on the pointlessness of their struggle, and still he remained, the nihilist outshone by the dreamer. Combeferre had trembled, had known fear. A vague voice spoke to Javert from the distant past – 'you should've seen them, how they screamed and ran' – some soldier with no compassion and less sense... For they feared, and still remained, each and every one of them, remained in lifetime after lifetime, fighting until their doom.
With fear but no hesitation, prepared to die for what they considered duty. Almost like... Javert gasped out loud in the empty dark, and opened his eyes wide, seeing nothing of the world around him.
They fought for principles, as had he once long ago. He strode into death's shadow often, but never more obviously than when he had gone to play the spy in that first lifetime. And yet Javert had not feared then, had he? Back in the days when he did not know that he would wake and wake and wake again, death had only been the end; failure had been far worse to face.
For principles they fought, and for something greater far than that, as he himself had once fought for the Law – but Javert had seen it revealed hollow and false. And he had given himself over to despair when he understood how his holy Bible was written; not praising justice, not being justice, but raising up the idols of power that rested on cruel subjugation and petty rules, taking all that he knew to be true and good and turning it into mud. From that world, he had cast himself away; better to be swallowed by despair, than live in a lawless land. Now, he watched these boys... They fought wholeheartedly for their republic, but they knew it was made out of fallible men. They had such differing goals, but even when their ideals clashed against each other they could fight side by side; the frictions of their thoughts seeming to be that very thing which granted the dreams the solidity of truth. In Javert's ears, memories of debates had and discussions overheard echoed, so many differing splinters of philosophy yielded in light duels among friends... They went to their deaths, clear-eyed and aware; they died for the revolution of the people, despite knowing how easy it was for the people to turn into the mob, for freedom to become terror, and for power to corrupt in the span of two measly years. They fought, and in the night Javert heard them sing of wine and friendship, and his eyes filled with tears at the depth of their belief: Not in one immense principle, eternal and unchanging; not in a perfect ideal, distant and impossible in its perfection!
No, these schoolboys had the audacity to dream of imperfect man and his imperfect works, they struggled for change itself – not one goal, finished and done with, as the perfect Law which had once broken Javert with its illusion – but simply the hope of humanity's growth.
"Men can change," he spoke to the dusty shadows, though in truth he said it to his own foolish heart. "We can all change, and in our change is the seed of redemption."
And he recalled those he loved, in each of their aspects: Monsieur le Maire, so elegant, so high above Javert. Valjean, his friend and confidant. And the prisoner from long ago, bowed but not completely broken, a man he had so thoughtlessly dismissed; for all that Javert did not miss those years, he wished he'd learned to see the men inside the prisoners when he had the opportunity.
Cosette, the serious little girl in convent dress, the young lady flushed with first love, the child of poverty; soothing, kind Cosette who had inherited her mother's ability to find joy in the details of the world and her father's devotion to all things good. And she who was her sister now; Éponine, with her first father and mother's clever mind and her second father's good heart. She burned with hunger to taste the entire world, yet refused to crawl and beg for her chances. One who had been raised from the gutters like Javert, yet avoided the temptation of condemning all who remained.
There was the town, which could turn against him in hatred or grow homelike over the course of the years, Montreuil-sur-Mer that had broken him so many times and yet comforted him with its blue sky and the faint scent of salt when the wind lay on from the great sea. There was even the familiar reappearance of Pontmercy's silly face, and the knowledge that he, in some inexplicable way. brought joy to Cosette's life... The little girl sweeping with her red, cracked hands; at last she had found a prince, and surely her hands would prove strong enough to save him when the need arose.
A broken laugh escaped him then, for he thought of Enjolras, who led his friends straight into death and whose soul remained pure throughout each life. Finally Javert realized the hidden truth; while he might lead and they might follow, it was each man's dreams that drove him on.
"Foolish, foolish boys," he said, and tears and laughter mingled, for he had known too much death to ever raise it up to glory – but were their dreams not their own? And were they not all the more precious just for their flaws and naivety?
Perhaps he was delusional with worry, perhaps the fall had scrambled his brains, but much as he feared the coming dawn, Javert no longer feared for the students. He would, always, regret their too-short lives. But they had chosen their burdens, and that choice lessened the load even if the weight of dreams pulled them into darkness and bloody death.
As for his own choice... Valjean. The home they were discovering together. The duty that filled his days, the city of Paris struggling around him, the joy in telling Cosette of her mother, the growing response to his careful suggestions at the precinct: a myriad of treasured details that had filled his weary life with relief for these last twelve years. But beyond all else, what he missed in that moment was the swell of love at Valjean's smile, and he thought that he wanted nothing more than to be greeted by it once again.
With such thoughts for company, Javert heard the students go to their rest, and he wished he might join them for one final night beneath the stars.
He could not sleep in comfort in his bonds, but the harrowing emotions had taken their toll. When a disturbance caused Javert to blink awake, he had lost count of the hours. It was still dark outside and his limbs felt stiff and achy. He thought of the mouthful of water he'd been given earlier, and his throat felt all the more parched at the memory.
When he saw who entered the café, wearing a familiar greatcoat and carrying a police-issued lantern, all thoughts of his discomfort flew from him. Javert could not refrain from making a noise of surprise, choking it back immediately; he shivered then, at the shadow of a time before.
Valjean, for it was indeed him, hurried closer with the coat sweeping around his legs. He fell to his knees next to Javert and his hand was living and warm, a balm upon his soul.
"How are you here?" he croaked.
"How could I not be?" Valjean replied. He began to saw through the ropes, a tedious task with only his pocket-knife as a tool.
It turned out that Gavroche had not needed Javert's papers, for he was clever enough to sneak through the lines of the soldiers on his own. He had found Valjean, delivered the tracts and his message and then left – it had been a mad rush for Valjean to catch him on the stairs, once he had actually read the full content of the letter. And even then the boy might have snaked his way out of the grip, if their shouts hadn't woken the girls. They had came down, demanding an explanation, and helped Valjean restrain his little prisoner.
"I am here for Cosette's sake," Valjean said, "but also for my own." And he squeezed his shoulder, and Javert felt fear and elation grip him anew.
On the way to the barricade, he had stopped by Javert's apartment, had borrowed his hat and coat, thanking the darkness of the night that nobody noticed how poorly it fit him. Then Valjean had made his way to the police headquarters to find out which barricade he must find; Gavroche had refused to tell him, though he'd loudly offered to guide his way.
"Providence guided me," he continued with a smile, "for the first man I encountered recognized me as Monsieur Madeleine, and was eager to help me. But... he also gave me dark news."
This was the last barricade standing, Valjean said, and the national guard had them encircled. They were bringing in heavier cannons from outside of Paris and had emptied the surrounding quarters. Come noon at the latest the plan was to blow the entire block to cinders rather than let the rebels remain.
"I have not spread the message, despite promising the boy I would," Valjean confessed. "At this time, it would only mean death to any who came."
Free at least, Javert moved his arms and grimaced at the pain of blood rushing freely once again. "It doesn't matter. This rebellion, these boys, were always doomed to fail. They simply will not see it – or rather, they have other cares." He tried to rise, but his legs were all pins and needles, and Valjean caught him with a silent chuckle, pushing him to the floor again.
"Patience," he whispered, "only young Marius has noticed my arrival. And he said he would look the other way if I tried to spirit you away."
"But you won't, will you?" Javert asked, and wasn't even disappointed when Valjean shook his head. Instead, he threw discretion to the wind, and told him what to do; they were at the brink, and he would fight the hungry river with all he knew.
"There is a standing order to attempt snipers before a full attack," Javert explained. "If they have not come yet, the light is too bad... perhaps they fear to hit the barricade too. They think it is rigged to explode. Find a gun and watch the roof. You might earn their trust with a well-placed shot."
"And you will wait here?" Valjean asked.
"I cannot walk easy yet," Javert admitted, "and while they might look away from a stranger in the dark, I don't think they could miss me in their midst." He managed a smile and found Valjean's hand. "Though I admit I do not like letting you out of sight tonight."
"In that, you are not alone." Then, with barely a glance over his shoulder to make sure they were alone, Valjean caught him against the pole and kissed him deeply.
Javert tried to protest, knowing the danger that threatened, but when those familiar lips pressed close and his tongue begged entrance, he found himself burying his hands in the grey locks and they kissed and kissed until their hearts ached with the wonder of it all.
"Don't die," Javert whispered, tasting his lips again. "Oh, Lord above protect you, please don't die tonight."
Valjean's only reply was a further kiss, fire flaring up between them until he had to stumble back, looked away, and murmured, "A gun. Must find a gun." He slipped the coat off his back and walked out on half-steady steps.
Fools and dreamers, every last man at this barricade tonight. As he pulled on the familiar blue fabric, Javert had never been prouder to count himself one of them; with Valjean's kisses, with Valjean's words, hope had somehow returned to him.
He stretched away the worst of his aches, rubbed his circulation back to weary life, and dared go out the back in search of a gun; a futile attempt. Rather than risk being seen and rousing the students again, he went back inside and climbed to the second floor to avoid detection. That he might keep watch over Valjean from the window had no influence on his choice, though it was a comfort during the hours of waiting which followed. Even if he was only a shadow among shadows, Javert could recognize his gait. He saw Valjean arm himself with a musket, have words with someone (hopefully Pontmercy), then take up a post beneath an outcropping of the barricade. A sensible and strategically sound position, even if it was too close to the front-line for his comfort.
And so they waited again, waited apart for the neverending Judgement to fall upon them and finish this long night, and their silent prayers mingled beneath the sky.
At long last morning approached; the stars faded and the night folded back to a grey dawn. No red in this sunrise, as if the sun knew it could never match the blood that would soon spill upon the streets on this fine summer day.
The students stirred. Javert fought with the knowledge that they would see him unless he withdrew from the window; but to look away now, when so much hinged on one shot?
He need not have worried, for Valjean's gun thundered them all awake and his cry – "Marksman on the roof!" – made certain that all attention was aimed above. Hurrying downstairs, Javert heard several more shots ring out, and he reached the doorframe to see a student fall bleeding onto the street.
The snipers withdrew under fire. In the general hubbub, nobody seemed to question too deeply where Valjean had appeared from; they had scarce time to do it in, because the beat of marching feet and rolling cannons soon sounded through the slums.
"Get the Inspector!" Enjolras ordered, and two students hurried to obey.
They were not pleased to find Javert waiting for them, free of all bonds and dressed in his official long-coat, but the time for interrogations was short indeed. He caught Valjean's eyes, silently asked him to be cautious and patient, and then he was prodded towards the barricade by their guns. Combeferre bent down and grabbed Javert's arm, pulling him up to stand between him and Enjolras. Joly clambered up behind them and took a firm hold again. Unmoved beside them, Enjolras remained on guard; his gun raised and his eye trained on the enemy.
"Your life for an hour's respite," Combeferre told him softly, when Javert had found his footing. "That will give us time to send away all who have dependants at home."
"You have realized the futility of your plans?" Javert asked, speaking equally low. "I would try and help you all, if..."
"We shall die freely, and we shall die well!" Enjolras replied instead, still not looking his way. "But those who have children left at home, those whose obligations bind them; without dishonour, we shall send them on. In this final hour, they must withdraw, and as you offered, you might try and lead them away. The world of tomorrow shall be built on the bodies of we who are free to remain."
What could he answer, what could he do but accept?
They all looked over the barricade, towards the coming soldiers. The muzzle of Combeferre's gun rested at his temple while the red flag, held proud in the revolutionary's other hand, rustled softly in the morning breeze. Enjolras was serene, his rifle so steady and his focus so perfect that one might wonder if his spirit had left this world already, rushed ahead and become one with the avenging angels. Half a step behind them stood Joly, his grip on Javert's arm more of a warning remainder than a true restraint; a warning, like his rifle rested against the thick fabric of the police coat. Nevertheless, these were all trivial details. Today, death approached from ahead, not behind.
In a formation as sharp as on a parade field, the national guard approached the small barricade and the men waiting on it. Their colourful uniforms created a bright wall of force and Javert took note of the spear-like mass of bayonets and guns, thought of the cannons surely waiting around the corner and how heavily they outranged the pistol held as a threat against him.
The officer stepped forward and raised his sword in a showy greeting. Javert frowned at the gesture. It was familiar to him, but he could not connect it to his memories of this day; where, then, might he have seen it... What had caused this difference?
"Hear me, you rebellious little worms!" the officer called, too pompous and too rude; wholly different from past times. "You are outnumbered, you have no chance! Give up and face your punishments like men!"
No – no, it couldn't be! The wrong man; why here, why now? Why such a change?
"Wait!"
Enjolras began to answer, far too proud and ignorant of the character of the man facing him, and Javert reached for him; to warn, to interrupt, he knew not even quite what he wished to do. Either way the students would not let him voice anything; Joly restrained him as soon as he tried to interrupt, while against his face, Combeferre's gun slid down to press warningly into the flesh beneath his jawbone. Knowing failure was only seconds away, Javert tried to finish his warning before all his struggles were blown apart along with his brains. "No! I know of this man!" he protested. "He won't negot –"
The first line of soldiers fell to their knees, then flat on their stomachs, and they revealed their fellows bent behind them, bent over nasty little cannons all lit and ready.
"Down!" Javert cried and, without looking or considering even one moment more, he pushed backwards and let himself drop; heedless of the risk of bruises and cracked skulls, he threw himself away from the barricade while kicking out hard. Combeferre's grip could not hold him against the pull of the earth, the man behind stumbled at his weight, the rubble shifted – they fell.
Guns fired and the cannons roared, not heavy pounders these but evil little things that spewed deadly grapeshots instead. At first Javert knew not whether the pain in his back was from the firing or the hard landing. Then Valjean yanked him upright and he found he could still breathe, though his head spun wildly.
"No! No, Combeferre!"
"Fire! Fire all you've got!"
"Get the bastards!"
"To death!"
Looking up, Javert saw a heartrending sight; Enjolras still stood, grimly trying to fire though the side of his coat was darkening with blood. But his trusty second had been caught completely by the salvo; Combeferre's remains hung on the barricade, the grisly violence having peeled his chest almost open. His face seemed stunned by the speed of death and the gun was still clasped in his hand.
"Run!" Valjean screamed into his ear; had been screaming for some time already? With death raining all around them, he could hardly argue. Javert bent to grab Joly, whom he had half landed on, shaking the boy when his head lolled; a thin line of blood was trickling down his neck from where he had smashed into the paving stoned, but he managed to stumble along while they all ran for cover.
After only a few steps, Valjean suddenly stopped, nearly giving Javert an apoplexy as he thought for a moment a bullet had caught him; but then he turned back and cupped his hands. "Marius!" he yelled, "Marius, come away!"
The young rebel appeared not even to hear him, screaming in anger and firing his guns at a rapid pace. He was far from the only one; all around them, the students were shooting, filling the air with the stench of powder and cries of defiance. Then, the cannons roared again. Splinters and pieces of furniture flew around them while more and more men fell; all was chaos and death, and still Valjean wouldn't move! Javert coughed at the acrid smoke, memories of deaths and fires dancing so vivid in front of his eyes that he hardly knew what was real and not. Realizing finally that his friend could not follow while Pontmercy remained at the front, and that Joly was swaying where he stood, Javert squeezed Valjean's hand, closed his eyes for one timeless moment of prayer and then let go, continuing ahead on his own. He pushed Joly into the mouth of the rambling alleys – "The sewers! Make for the sewers, boy!" – and turned back to the barricade.
Whatever happened, Valjean would not die alone beneath that traitorous fire.
They near stumbled into each other when Javert ran back, for Valjean was dragging another wounded boy towards the café; he helped him at the task. This student's leg was full of shrapnel, and his life ran through their hands in the short time it took them to lift him inside.
"Marius," whispered Valjean, staring down at the corpse as if he could already see his daughter weeping over the body of her love. When he rose, turning towards the opening, Javert took hold of his hand. No, he wished to say, no, do you not hear it? The shooting and the thunder and the rushing of the river that awaits us? And though his mind was all jumbled, with prayers and curses flowing into each other, with nightmares and mirages deluding him with terror, at the root of it was this one simple truth.
"Not you."
Valjean only held Javert's gaze, pleading without words, and it was this that broke him; for Valjean would not use the strength of his arms against one he loved, nor would he try to convince with words of logic. He would only look, and he would only love, and Javert thought of a world where he might stop Valjean from saving his daughter's heart... and he swallowed down his fears and inclined his head, and then they returned to give what help they could.
Outside was death, and more death piled upon it. Javert saw an overeager soldier stabbed in the throat by Grantaire, the sour drink in him having transformed into liquid fire as he fought his way up the barricade. They both saw youths shot apart, soldiers falling for a king who cared not a whit for their plight, and dreams broken and stabbed by canons and bayonets. The entire barricade shook once more, the heavy cannons punching it apart, relentless and unfeeling. Splinters large as an arm flew past them, while feathers danced incongruously on the air and the taste of iron and gunpowder made every breath a chore to draw; slowly, beneath the weight of this onslaught, the barricade of dreams was crumbling once again.
And still Valjean would not withdraw – "Marius!" – not without his daughter's heart. At least the fool boy had taken cover, was kneeling in the shadows. When Javert spotted a large spark falling from his hands, he understood why, and fear rushed through him like the torrent of the blackest river.
"RUN!" he hollered to any who might hear, "The fuse is lit! Run!"
"For freedom!" With that yell, Marius hefted a pistol and ran along the hissing fuse, ignoring both Javert and Valjean calling for him. He climbed the barricade and managed a shot before he fell to responding fire.
The fuse sizzled and burned, disappearing beneath the heap of rubble, taking the clamour of battle with it.
A signal blown, soldiers backing down, revolutionaries holding up – all waited, all feared, united in this final moment before death. A sizzle, a sputter, and... silence.
"It was a bluff!" a soldier crowed, and now the bayonets came properly into play, now all the soldiers swarmed up the barricade before their officers need even give the order. Death was no longer distant gunfire, but eyes meeting eyes before knives cut or pistols snuffed out all light in them.
Valjean took the fallen Marius, hefted him on his back and ran; much as Javert wished to follow him, his feet carried him forward instead, for he saw Courfeyrac clawing himself away from the carnage with tears and blood streaming down his face, leaving crimson trails at his right side.
Safety, he thought wistfully, safety with Valjean; but Javert still recalled a night spent speaking beneath the unlit stars and a dreamer too young to taste death.
The boy was heavy to drag, bled all over his coat and slowed him down; and the soldiers were approaching fast now, the tide of battle turned decisively in their favour.
"Inspector!" he heard in a moment between barrages, and he looked up, surprised by hearing his title in this place. It was Grantaire who had called out, no longer speaking sardonic banalities, his smile no longer mocking, but achingly sincere. Run, he mouthed – and in his distant face there was such a cold cheer, that Javert didn't think twice of hefting Courfeyrac upon his shoulder, then sprinting away, knowing that this was the river of death lapping at his feet.
If he had remained and watched, this he would have seen: Enjolras lying insensible on the barricade, gun and flag still clutched in each hand. Grantaire's hand closing around his gun, then gently, so gently, lying down above his shining friend as if they went amiably to their rest. He aimed the gun not at a soldier but down, into the secret place that was reached by no fuse. He whispered a final word to one who could not hear him, then fired into a barrel of gunpowder protected by nothing but waxed paper; Grantaire smiled and shut his eyes, and let the flames devour them together.
The explosion threw Javert flat; when he got up with ringing ears and shaking legs, Courfeyrac had passed out. He had to try twice before he got a grip which allowed him to stagger along with the boy. Instinct led him not into the café, but to an alcove in the alley near it, and there Valjean pulled him out of sight, pressed a kiss to his forehead and mouthed a blessing against his skin. Marius was in his arms, and Joly slumped against the other corner looking grey and wan.
They looked none too healthy, none of them, but they lived for now. He could not feel the canon-fire sending tremors through the street; the barricade had fallen, but for a short time the echoes of its fall would hold back the next attack. So had these lost dreamers stopped the soldiers at last; not with furniture nor stones, but with the blazing fire of broken hope.
When Valjean spoke to him, he could only shake his head, sounds distorted and hard to differentiate. His friend then grabbed the boy thrown over Javert's shoulder, gestured to his wounds and understanding came. They managed to fashion a pair of hasty tourniquets from Courfeyrac's flag, binding up the very worst of the wounds.
"Whereto?" Javert then asked. "There's nothing more we can do!" His own voice still echoed strangely in his his ears, but the need for escape was driving him on. With this officer directing the battle, after all this death, he dared not risk remaining and attempt speaking to the soldiers.
Valjean nodded and took the lead as they continued their escape. They each carried a man and pushed Joly ahead of them, for the young man seemed to have lost his senses. Quickly, they reached the reeking hatch and Javert hesitated; he had gone down into the filth once before, but he had walked deeper inside the maze of streets first and had found a proper grate to enter through. And, he realized as Valjean laboured to open the hole, it had been far simpler to wade into that filth when his life was broken and he wished nothing beyond oblivion for himself.
Somehow, it helped when Joly protested, when he moaned and tried to back away. Valjean was busy opening the way, so it fell to Javert to shake him, berate him, to push Courfeyrac's unconscious body into his arms and point back to the smoking ruins – where gunfire and screams were taking up again, the horror not yet ended, though scarce more than rubble remained of the fighting spirit now.
"Do you want us all to die?" he finally growled, and Joly shook his head; no. Though he trembled and he wept, he helped push his friends into the hole, went to his knees and crept after them, slid with a terrified cry down into the filth – until finally, there was only Javert left.
He did not look back towards the fallen barricade; would not allow himself to regret, even with the hail of death fallen upon so many. They had chosen, as had he, and Javert knew that no amount of blood would diminish the splendour of their choice.
Bloodied, battered, but alive, Inspector Javert left the barricade behind and crawled into the darkness. Towards life.
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