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Valjean never raised his voice. Javert tried to reply with icy dignity, but sometimes his temper swelled and his patience frayed. How had he never known how frustrating it was to argue with a man who would merely stand there – who'd look aside with a wounded expression and the marks of sleepless worry in his face – until Javert spoke too loudly or raised his fist in agitation, wanting to slam the desk or the door. Then Valjean would flinch, ever so slightly, and sourness flooded Javert's mouth.
Javert owed him too much; not any such paltry thing as a debt of life, because what was Javert's life? Useless and misaimed and not half as virtuous as he had dreamed of in his days of peaceful ignorance – but he owed a great debt, which he could not even see the full shape of yet, and as much as the thought of an end to all this malign confusion tempted him, Javert could not leave such unbalanced scales behind. Perhaps that was an odd sort of pride, that he do no such wrong, but it was all he had. Valjean had interrupted his resignation from the world and put demands on him, demands that Javert must acknowledge as fair and accurate. If it was right to quit when trapped between law and justice, when duty clashed with rightness, then he could not do more wrong than to attempt the same with such outstanding debts
So he grit his teeth together until his jaw hurt, and he turned on his heel, and he called for the boy Valjean had hired – though he longed to leave him behind, he did not wish the man himself to follow and fret as he had in the beginning – and they walked out together. Javert with the same stiff stride, his confusion having become anger and his anger having become a physical thing that shook him left him breathless with futile rage. Behind him came the boy, almost always running in these instances, sometimes carrying his forgotten hat or his stick, once or twice still chewing on the food the housekeeper kept slipping him.
One of the early arguments had been of these debts, and in it, Valjean had fettered him even more strongly to this life he had grown to despise. But it was a truth, as undeniable as it was hateful: Javert owed too much to the world, not only to Valjean. He hated that he couldn't clear these debts; he did not even fully know who he owed or where to begin. He hated that his presence set Valjean worrying and gave him nightmares that he failed to hide, but that he would still refuse to send Javert away. He hated that he could neither report the man to the law, nor clear his name, that he could not return to his work when all the obvious paths had closed to him and was stuck in this useless limbo of life. And so Javert fumbled in the dark and his anger padded after him on silent feet, until it jumped onto his back and rode him fully, so that they hissed together and cursed together and spat venom at the one who least deserved it – because it was Valjean's money that fed him, and clothed him, his money that ensured that Javert had a roof over his head and did not have to go back to the gutter he had worked so long to escape, only to discover that the filth hafted far deeper to his mind than to even the dirtiest beggar's rags.
And so Javert spent the summer of 1832 living on charity, stewing with futile rage, and not knowing what to do except long for death.
For he had seen sin where there was none, and committed evil where he had thought to do good, and the world was lawless and lost – and nobody, nobody could guide him into the light of duty again, but the same Jean Valjean who had pulled him into the dark.
Marius disliked visiting his father-in-law. Not that he minded the man himself, not now that he knew the truth of the circumstances surrounding his long and exciting life. No, Monsieur Fauchelevent (or Valjean, or even Madeleine; sometimes Marius thought he should ask which name the man prefered in private but then never found the gumption to do so) was a charming old gentleman, with a kind manner that belied his humble beginnings. Not, Marius hastened to remind himself, that a man's financial state had anything to do with his virtue; he should know, and never let himself forget that truth!
But M Fauchelevent nevertheless composed himself as a man of wide and varying education, and it was a true pleasure to speak to him on the topic of literature. He did not argue stridently, but neither would he back down from his point of conviction until honestly won over to the rightness of his debate partner's opinion.
On the rare occasions matters could not be otherwise arranged, and M Fauchelevent and M Gillenormand began to discuss the topic of politics, Marius would watch with nervous admiration how his grandfather's long-held opinions were politely, succinctly and relentlessly dismantled. If not for the alarming color which would begin to creep upon his venerable grandfather's face, and the doctor's oft-repeated warnings about the frailty of health in a man of advanced age ringing in his ears, the debates would have amused him.
Though it rarely seemed as if M Gillenormand allowed himself to be in the least convinced, Marius thought to note a slow shift in his manner over these past weeks. Where before he had made proclamations and demanded agreement he would now, at times, allow a hint of honest intellectual curiosity to show. It was a subtle but startling change, considering that his first ninety years of life had been spent roaming the plains of certainty, hunting for any dissenters that dared to pollute his life with new ideas. If this did not signify M Fauchelevent's power to spread the soothing light of reason and enlightenment to even the most fossilized mind, Marius did not know what proof one could ask for. It seemed impossible not to be positively influenced by his presence, although there was one glaring exception.
He was the reason why Marius remained so uncomfortable in M Fauchelevent's household, this frequent visitor. Or lodger – Marius could honestly not tell which was the case. He had no guesses as to why the former inspector Javert was so often present, but it was obvious that their visits did not merely coincide; the man knew far too well where extra napkins were kept or which step in the staircase made an unpleasant sound when trod on. He had once even intruded on a afternoon visit, entered wholly unannounced, little Jacques following behind as usual. And if that boy's position was that of a servant or foster child, well, Marius could honestly not tell.
Javert often ignored the child, whereas M Fauchelevent would speak kindly to the boy; he clearly set a great store to him practicing his letters. And yet, when Marius finally asked Jacques what he did, the boy puffed up and proudly announced that he was helping Javert, and received a proper salary for it. With what? He was not at liberty to tell, apparently.
It was all one more mystery, just like the reason for the former inspector to spend so much time there, and though Marius had begun to realize that mysteries seemed to flock around M Fauchelevent like pigeons around a grain heap, this one worried him when he came to think of it.
It was not that Javert's presence seemed to bring any ease of mind to M Fauchelevent either, who seemed to grow more tired and aging every time the Pontmercys came to visit. At first Marius thought that perhaps this was the reason the two old men had banded together – to escape the loneliness of old age, perhaps finding that time had turned a familiar opponent into a friend. But the more he saw of the interactions, especially when Christmas neared and Javert's ill humour changed shape from closed off sureliness, to increasingly agitated argument, he grew doubtful of the veracity of his guess.
Marius could not figure them out, and whenever he accompanied Cosette to her father's house, to discuss the wedding plans or the handling of the quite astonishingly large douwry she had received, the questions rose anew in his mind. What was going on?
They were not friends, but neither did they quite seem to be antagonists. M Fauchelevent was of course unfailingly polite to all and sundry; Javert, while gruffer in tone (especially, Marius recalled, to penniless students) also possessed excellent manners. Though he never seemed particularly happy to meet the Pontmercys, he would inquire about their health, make a stiff remark about the weather and observe all necessary protocol.
But towards M Fauchelevent, he would waver between being brusque in tone, and oddly compliant, even when it was obvious that they disagreed on all points. Javert would ignore him more than was seemly at the dinner table, only to turn a disconcerting stare at him if M Fauchelevent offered any thoughts on Marius work, the political repercussions of the uprising or any similar themes.
In turn, M Fauchelevent, whom Marius might otherwise easily have considered a saint not even familiar with the emotion of anger, would in turn ignore the former inspector – he had once not looked at him for the entire duration of one of Marius and Cosette's visits – or try to draw him into the discussion with more insistence than was seemly. Their debates, if they gathered speed, were passionate; almost violent, one might say, although both men made great efforts to restrain themselves. But the increasingly desperate way with which Javert would attack M Fauchelevent's arguments, and the insistence with which said gentleman would defend his view on mercy, the power of faith and redemption… Marius did not dare to imagine how they might sound without an audience.
Not only Javert could grow vehement with his words; M Fauchelevent had snapped at Javert once or twice, usually over some perceived slight towards Cosette. Though he apologized with, it seemed to Marius, honest regret, nobody could deny that there was a definite tension between the two men.
And yet, when Cosette had delicately inquired why her father spent so much of his time with such a ill-tempered person, M Fauchelevent's face had fallen, as if the weight of years had suddenly caught up with him.
"The Inspector has lost his way," he said, speaking slowly but without hesitation, "just as I did once. It behooves a man to guide others from the wilderness, as he himself was once shown the right path."
"But it takes a great toll on you, Father," Cosette said and took his hand in her. "If I can help in any way –"
"No, my dear." Fauchelevent patted her hand, before extracting his own. "I am an old man; there is no better use of my time than to try and show a reluctant old Inspector that other options exist. For you, however, there is an entire life waiting."
Then he caressed her cheek with one finger, before he gave a hasty bow to Marius and turned quickly to return back to his apartment, not giving her the opportunity to properly formulate a response.
"Perhaps," Marius said while they sat in the carriage, Cosette's worry an obvious stain on her otherwise lovely visage, "we should invite both your father, and ins –, ah, former Inspector Javert to a dinner?" He steeled himself. "My grandfather would surely not mind to make his acquaintance."
Marius grandfather would, in fact, surely mind a great deal. While he had taken Cosette to his heart with true affection, and was courteous towards her father, this did not mean that he would enjoy seeing the dinner table invaded by unemployed policemen.
But what did one not do for family?
When the front door slammed open it woke Valjean so suddenly that his book fell out of his lap.
He blinked at the mild lamp-light around him, wondering if the wind had blown closed a door, and if it had been Cosette who had forgotten to properly wedge it open – what might have excited her to that degree? His burgeoning smile faded as he recalled that Cosette was recently married, and any forgotten doors would be left open in a home where he had no space. He clenched his eyes shut when they fell upon the letter that had arrived so recently from her, postmarked in Rome. She and Marius had embarked upon their wedding trip two months ago, traveling through the Italian peninsula to visit the historical sites and cities.
Though Cosette's letters arrived regularly each week, Valjean felt the lack of her spirit in Paris as a bleeding wound in his side. He would not worry for her – that could only invite mishap – and he had taken to portioning out the reading of the letters over the week. They would often consist of two to three pages, sometimes containing little mementoes such as dried leaves, interesting shells and a tile from a roman mural. Whenever they mentioned a place or a sight Valjean was not familiar with, he forced himself to stop reading at that point, only continuing when had researched the topic in his book about the history and culture of the Italian peninsula. In such a way, he could make each letter last until the postman arrived with the next blessed missive, and on a great tray at the dining room table, the little memorabilia of the italian journey lay like silent witnesses to his daughter's continuing health and joy. When his nights were sleepless and his appetite deserted him, Valjean would wake and pad on bare feet to the dining room to fondle the dried sea star, and brush his fingers over the pale quill that had singled down from a blue sky onto Cosette's forehead near Milano. He knew them all by touch now, these little relics of a young life blossoming.
Now, Valjean grasped tiredly for the book, only to have it slip out of his fingers again when Javert pushed open the door to his study, entering with clomping steps and a face like a storm cloud.
He had two little boys caught under each arm, the children squalling and hammering at him with their dirty fists.
Valjean could only stare at him in dumb confusion. Their arguments had fallen to the wayside in the last months, especially since Cosette's marriage, but Valjean had never bothered to investigate whether it was due to Javert's renewed reluctance to engage him in discussion, or if he had properly gained some peace of mind.
At the beginning of the winter, Javert had begun to volunteer at the local parish, assisting with such charitable works that demanded a man of healthy physique. Despite not seeming to take any great pleasure in the work, Valjean had not heard him refer directly to ending his life since Christmas.
Now, Javert looked as furious as any time Valjean could recall, though whom this fury was directed at was hard to pinpoint. He stood the children before Valjean, his large hands on their bony shoulders looking as intimidating as when the Inspector had collared a criminal. The two little ones cringed with a familiar terror that pinched Valjean's heart, and finally woke him from his stupor.
"Javert, what is the meaning of this?" he asked sternly, raising a hand towards the unfortunate children; wishing to shield them or gather them to himself, he knew not which.
"These two were caught sleeping in the church," Javert said, his tone clipped as if he was giving a report. "They have escaped from the poorhouse and I am supposed to return them there." He drew a deep breath, then pushed the slightly smaller boy ahead. "Alphonse." The second child tried to squirm away, but Javert held him fast. "Guillaume. They are children of… they belong to…" He clenched his eyes shut, mouth forming a silent curse. "I saw them with the gamin!"
"What?"
"The boy who identified me at the barricade! They were his companions. Most likely, these boys are orphans to the insurgents."
Finally understanding the situation, Valjean nodded and attempted to smile at the clearly frightened children. Catching Javert's eye, he motioned with his hand; while the other man did not relinquish his grip, he eased the hold somewhat.
Clearing his throat, Javert continued: "They have nowhere to go. A poorhouse is not…" He shook his head and frowned, his voice growing harsher in tone. "You did not allow me to clear the debts between us in the way I suggested almost a year ago. I cannot clear my debts to the world, for I do not know who to repay – whom it is I owe. I am not like yourself, who can see the innocent among the guilty, the infallible ones among the failures."
"Javert, I have told you time and again that it does not –"
"But that these children's father died, at that time, at that barricade! The responsibility for their loss lies in part with me. And while I have no money to speak of, and no future prospects of earning much, it would be remiss of me to not ask that you extend your charity to these children so much more deserving of it, than continuing to spend it solely on a failure such as myself."
"You are too hard on yourself," Valjean replied, but he rose and then sank down before the boys, holding out his hand. "Hello. I am Monsieur Fauchelevent."
Both boys bowed clumsily, and Valjean was saddened to note the red rash so revealing of bed-bugs along their necks. He glanced up at Javert.
"What do you propose we do with, ah, Alphonse and Guillaume?"
Javert almost sneered at him, but swallowed it back. "Whatever it is one does with children. Pamper and coddle them, I suppose. You managed to raise that girl to a lady, despite her coming from that family of rats – I am referring to the innkeepers – so I assume that your methods work."
"And you?"
Almost rolling his eyes, Javert jerked his head backwards. "I must go calm Jacques down, before he too takes it into his fool head to run away."
"Jacques? Whyever would he do that?" Though Javert could not be said to ever act overly friendly to the child Valjean had hired as a 'servant' – in reality, of course, a constant witness so that he did not make real of his early threats and end his life – they seemed to have got along amiably enough. It had in fact been young Jacques who had brought Valjean's attention on the growing need for assistance in the parish, and he had apparently spoken very well of Javert's character to the priest.
"If I gather two new boys, why, I am certain his thoughts go to nothing else than to the threat to his own position. He worries constantly that you shall send him away, as you ought to know," Javert said, a frown on his face revealing how ill at ease he felt even discussing the child's worry. "Especially now that you have set me to work and are content to gather dust in your chambers."
"I beg your pardon!" Valjean drew himself up to his full length.
"Does he not have cause for worry then? The child is young but not stupid, he knows I cannot pay him. Thus I cannot reassure him of his future employment, especially as he has not made any headway on becoming a proper valet!" Javert's voice was steadily rising, and the two children huddled together as if fearing that he would turn his temper on them. "Do not look at me like that. Have you even left these rooms since the beginning of March? Have you shown any interest in the boy, or in anything else recently? You, who used to talk to him, badger him about his studies and plans until he would suggest to me, the impertinent brat, that I was in need of a constitutional walk? You who would ask me about my health and temper until I thought I should go mad, now do nothing but stare at those letters and forget to eat! Have you even noticed that you are sinking into melancholia? That the child, your servants and even that meddling old man at the church are worrying about you?"
Valjean felt at loss for words, but shook his head, forcing the first answer that came to mind from his suddenly stiff lips. "I do not see how this is any business of yours."
At that, Javert laughed, horribly and without mirth. "I seem to recall throwing a similar argument at you, and earning nothing at all by it." Then he grew earnest once more. "I am not mocking you, Valjean. I owe you still, more than my life and soul are worth, and I know not how to repay it. But…" He shook his head. "You told me to find the value or life again, for only then would I know the truth of justice. Well, thanks to your meddling, I am still here, looking without properly finding. But it seems to me… it seems to me, you have stopped."
Javert pushed the two children forward and Valjean was surprised by the almost gentle motion with which he patted their shoulders. "I shall speak to Jacques now. If you can –"
"No," Valjean interrupted, raising his hand. "If you are right, then the worry I have caused is mine to repair. And so I shall, immediately. Take instead these two –" he smiled down at the boys, hoping to instill them with some comfort before leaving them in Javert's hands again. "– and provide them with such food and clothing that they need. If they were truly orphaned by your actions, nothing can mitigate that more than that you yourself care for them."
Looking dismayed, Javert tried to shake his head, but Valjean did not wait for his protest. Instead, as he passed him, he clasped Javert on the shoulder and gave his arm a firm squeeze. "Thank you, as well, for your concern. I was not aware I had caused such worry."
While Javert loudly denied harbouring any concern, Valjean made his way out to the hallway, where he did indeed find a worried boy doing his best to polish Javert's boots. Valjean's own boots, he noted with a startle, had gathered dust. He truly had not been outside for some time.
Crouching down next to Jacques before the boy had time to rise, Valjean asked him how his studies were going, then inquired about his hopes for the summer. By the time he made a mention of how much he valued Jacques contributions to the household, especially now that they had two young and probably not properly raised children to care for, the boy was chatting happily with him. As they had not… dear Lord, Valjean realized, as they had not since the week before Cosette's wedding.
It was a revelation to him; while he saw the smile alight on young Jacques face, he thought of the sun illuminating cobwebs in an abandoned attic – only the attic was his mind, and it was his soul's light that had abandoned it to sink into memories of the past.
When they returned to the kitchen, Valjean was faced with two freshly scrubbed children. They were doing their best to empty what Valjean believed might well be the largest pot of porridge ever boiled in his apartment.
Javert sat at the end of the table, nursing a cup of coffee.
"You are out of plum jam," he announced when Valjean entered.
"Is that so?" Valjean nodded thoughtfully when Javert pointed to the jam pot, which was placed exactly between the two boys. While he watched, the smaller boy licked his plate clean then, giving Javert and Valjean each a wary glance, ladled up more porridge and finished his preparations with a sizeable splash of jam. And then two more splashes, of the same quantity.
"Ah, I see," Valjean said mildly. "Jacques, if you wish to have a snack before dinner, you might also take a plate and have some porridge."
One of the boys looked up with wide eyes, then bumped his brother's arm. They shared a glance, and then the other boy – Guillaume, if his memory served – whispered: "M'sieur, should we leave?"
"Stay. Put." Javert rose, swept down the rest of his coffee, and tilted his head at Valjean. "I believe we have some things to discuss?"
"Indeed," Valjean agreed, pushing the boy ahead to take the free chair, "I believe we might."
They had not yet reached the study when Javert announced that he had made a deal with an innkeeper near the gates; for his help in keeping order in the taproom every other evening, he would receive a large discount on the room.
"A discount still implies that there will be a bill," Valjean murmured.
"As it stands, my debts are beyond repaying anyway," Javert admitted with a grumble. "It will be cheaper than housing and feeding me here. It will also be temporary." He turned his gaze away. "Pontmercy sent a letter before they left. His grandfather too." He did not elaborate more until they had both taken their seats. "You will be exonerated or pardoned by the height of summer at latest."
"You did not need to –"
"I did," he interrupted, though less harshly than in earlier times when they had had this discussions. "Valjean, I cannot work as a policeman and knowingly aiding a fugitive from the law. I cannot."
"You will keep the boy with you?"
Javert gave a noncommittal snort, which Valjean took as a yes.
They sat in silence for a while. Tiredness weighed heavy on Valjean but he slowly became aware that it was not the only discomfort that plagued him; hunger, too, was gnawing at him, slowly but stubbornly. He threw a thoughtful look towards the kitchen.
"Javert, tell me… do you believe there is any chance of there being some porridge left?"
Valjean was still tired, and the lack of Cosette pained him in the same relentless way an old broken bone will ache throughout winter. But when Javert allowed himself a small, crooked smile and rose to escort him to the kitchen, where they could hear boyish voices and hesitant laughter, he thought that perhaps, he should not merely spend this week reading Cosette's letter, but draft a reply to her, and express his gratitude to her husband. They would, after all, remain in Rome for a while before returning to Paris. And for the first time in some weeks, Valjean thought he had something to tell them.