As I stood on the bridge, looking down at the Seine, I was tortured by thoughts of Valjean. The man I had hunted for so long. The man I always knew as a dangerous criminal, more animal than man. He broke the law. He has to pay.
Then another thought entered my mind; maybe he is a good man. There is evidence for that. He gives to the poor. He is selfless. But is that just part of his act? How could a gutter rat become a respectable and honorable member of society? I was a gutter rat, too.
"Papa!" I would exclaim as my father returned home. He would say nothing, but instead would pick me up in his arms. "Mama has dinner ready," I would tell him as he would carry me to the table. Even when I was only three or four years old, I already had known that people were either good or bad. There was no in between. Papa would lecture me on that every night. Being a police inspector, he would know.
While we ate, Papa would tell Mama and I stories of the criminals he had dealt with that day. I would listen intently, as I always would when he talked about work. His real-life stories of the law triumphing over the lawless instilled the desire to be just like Papa when I grew up. I thought there was nothing more rewarding than giving those sinners what they deserved. Mama would listen with less interest than I, nodding occasionally while my eyes would light up.
After we would finish eating, Papa would sit on his chair by the fire and let me sit with him. We would discuss his stories from dinner and analyze what the convict had done wrong, how he had strayed from God. I cherished those nights, sitting his side as he taught me about the fight of good versus evil. Then he would tuck me into bed and retire to his study to pour over some of his case files. On more than one occasion, I would wake up during the night and find him sleeping at his desk, files spread out in front of him. Being an inspector is time-consuming I would think. But it is the most rewarding job in the world.
I would take the blanket I had with me and wrap it around his shoulders as I snuggled up next to him for the rest of the night. That's how Mama would find us in the morning. She would wake us up and I would help Papa get ready for work.
At breakfast, no one would talk, except the occasional request to pass the eggs. Then he would leave for work and I would feel so proud of him. Many times I have tried to go with him, but Mama wouldn't allow it.
I smiled to myself as I recalled the happier times with my father. Before the pain. Before the suffering. Before Jean Valjean.