The air was crisp and cold as they left Saint-Sulpice. In the church, the organ was still playing; the square in front of the church was slowly filling with people, now that midnight mass had ended.
They had lost Cosette and Pontmercy in the crowd when they tried to make their way out together; or rather, he thought, Valjean had sought to escape from the crowd, while Cosette and her husband wold seek out friends and acquaintances to press hands and kiss cheeks and exchange well-wishes.
He did not mind that Valjean had led them out with disregard for such courtesies. His heart was still full of the music and the weight of his thoughts. It was good to stand here in the cold air, beneath a sky that was black and filled with bright stars, and listen to the organ within and the melody of the ringing bells of Saint-Sulpice, and hear in the distance the answering bells of Notre-Dame, of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, of Saint-Séverin.
Valjean was silent and distant, but distant in a way that made him turn towards Valjean and look at him with wonder and the humble helplessness that always arose when he contemplated this man and what he had borne. To kneel by his side now and bend his head in prayer was more than he deserved. There were moments when he thought that he could see the light shine from Valjean's eyes; the goodness that was within him. He looked at him the way Valjean looked at the altar, and the statue of the Virgin that stood shining within the Lady Chapel, surrounded by light. Valjean could kneel and pray for hours, could lose himself in it. Javert, who had understood the laws of the church, who had always known it for an institution which had to be awarded the same respect as any superior, and which ought not to be questioned by the likes of him, still found himself beholding the cross and the priest with baffled disbelief. How was it that he, who had never shown mercy to anyone, was now shown compassion and grace?
It seemed beyond him. He could kneel and bow his head and contemplate what he had been given, as well as contemplate all the wrong he had done. But what Valjean found here was something else, and he wondered, when he watched Valjean raise his head, his soft, white locks shining in the light of the thousand candles that lighted Saint-Sulpice, what it was this man saw.
They had often talked in the evenings; Valjean was glad to read the Bible to him, and happier still to engage in long discussion, and even though those more often than not left Javert baffled and frustrated at his own lack of understanding, even greater was the frustration at the many, many years of error, and the deep despair at the realization that nothing could make up for wrongs that had been committed over a lifetime. And still, Valjean was glad to clasp his hand, and keep him close, and grace him with that slow smile that only now was beginning to give away its secrets to him: the deep weariness that hid beneath, the sadness.
In such a way, he had grappled with faith and mercy as Valjean had grappled with it long ago; and where another might read The Lives of Saints, he read the life of Valjean, soaked it up from his lips, read it with his fingertips in the scars that lined Valjean's skin, read it from the way he watched Valjean unfailingly give of himself.
How could he now despair at the things he had wrought in his past when it was Valjean who should have despaired long ago, but who walked this path of pain and loss God had set him with unfailing kindness and goodness?
Javert listened attentively to the priest's words. He sang praise with Valjean, and the gloria in excelsis deo rested heavy in his heart. There they would remain, he thought, so that in time he could contemplate the words and pull them out for consideration with care during the long hours of meditation when he tried to make new sense of this life he had been given. And yet, when he looked at Valjean lost in prayer, he always felt that true understanding still eluded him. How could one win such grace? He doubted that even the priest had Valjean's understanding of goodness. But Valjean's grace was won through pain and grief; the parish priest, a gaunt, balding older man with a thin voice, who was kind as priests went, and who sometimes had moments of transcendence when he beheld the pulpit from which a predecessor had once proclaimed a refusal of the Civil Constitution of the Clergy, was still but a man, and lacked that inexplicable light Javert found in Valjean's face.
Valjean looked at the cross; Javert looked at Valjean. So each had found a way to fill their heart with faith, and he was not unhappy. It was a puzzling thing, but then, so was the entirety of this new life he had been given. The old clarity and purpose was gone, but as the new confusion was accompanied by the blessing of Valjean's presence and guidance, it was a state he had slowly learned to accept, and now cherished the time they spent in discussion of a sermon or psalm as much as he cherished the brush of hands or lips.
The church bells were still ringing through the cold, clear air when a flushed and breathless Cosette finally found them, Pontmercy, as always, close behind. She took Valjean's head, and, laughing, kissed his cheeks, then nodded her head at Javert.
"Come now, the Réveillon awaits! Certainly you will accompany us, Monsieur Javert? Our first Christmas together; all of us together, and healthy; oh, what a joy it will be!"
Javert found himself nodding when faced with such cheerful happiness. In truth, he would have much preferred the cold solitude of this winter night, shared only with Valjean by his side. And yet, through circumstances that still seemed impossible to him, he, who had been born outside society, and lived outside society, and should have died outside it, now had friendship; and had through that friendship acquired that beloved companion's family as well.
It baffled him still. Often, it frightened him; he of all people should have no place at the table of a bourgeois in the Marais! And yet, his life now revolved around this man, and through this man, his family. On this night of all nights, he could not take such company away from him, although he was certain that Valjean himself would have preferred to flee what promised to be a boisterous gathering.
"You must try the goose at least, monsieur, and the desserts! Thirteen desserts! For the twelve apostles, as is custom in the south. And I would not be happy if I knew that dear papa and Monsieur Javert had gone to bed without the bûche de noël tonight!"
Valjean was smiling at the two children. There was a helplessness in him as well, there always when when he was faced with Cosette's determination to share her joy, and Javert was glad that Valjean did not know how to say no to his daughter. Certainly they could bear an hour or two of food and wine, and then they would walk back home, and breathe freely in their shared solitude at last.
Cosette studied him thoughtfully, and Javert bent his head again, suddenly abashed. "It would be a great pleasure, Madame la Baronne."
Valjean did not know of it, but he had talked at length with Cosette, once he had recovered from the rapids of the Seine, and once Valjean had been forced out of his self-imposed misery. Javert had talked to Cosette about her mother, for he knew that Valjean would not – not about the parts that Javert needed her to know. Although he had spared Cosette much of the terrible events that had befallen Fantine, he had not spared himself. Cosette now knew that it was he who had ultimately been responsible for her mother's death, and unlike Valjean, whose unlooked-for mercy still left him feeling strangely unsettled at times, Cosette was not so quick to forget.
Strangely enough, it was a relief to find himself watched. He did not fully trust himself; neither did Cosette, and he was glad to know that he was being observed and judged, who had so long judged himself and yet done wrong all his life. Cosette would not allow him to do wrong by Valjean.
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The Réveillion was a great and baffling vision of shining crystal and candles and platters of food after food, of glasses filled with wine and yet more wine, of laughter and cries of delight and conversation that rose in volume and happiness the more bottles were brought to the table.
As the hours passed, both Valjean and Javert in turn grew more silent when the din and excitement of the feast that surrounded them proved more wearying than the wine.
They stayed for the bûche de noël, an immense creation of chocolate rendered a stunning replica of a large log, down to the rough creases of the bark and leaves of colored marzipan, which rested on a bed of snow-white powdered sugar. The bark melted in the mouth with bitter sweetness. There had been wine enough that by this point, the feast around them had dimmed, and all he saw was Valjean, and all he felt was overwhelmed gratitude to have lived to be by his side.
He sought out Valjean's hand beneath the table and pressed it gently. For one moment, their fingers intertwined, and they ate their dessert and smiled at each other, two old men who did not belong in such a place and such a company, and were still learning grateful acceptance at such unexpected grace.