Part One

...

"He beheld before him two paths, both equally straight, but he beheld two; and that terrified him; him, who had never in all his life known more than one straight line. And, the poignant anguish lay in this, that the two paths were contrary to each other. One of these straight lines excluded the other. Which of the two was the true one?"

...

1832, Paris

.

A dull light reached Javert's eyes. He felt heavy, as if a great weight pressed down on him from all sides. Was this death? He opened his eyes further. White cotton enveloped him. A dark panic reached up from his heart to his throat. Wildly his eyes glanced round. A hospital. He was bound to a hospital bed. The cold river Seine had betrayed him. It had failed to take his life. Failed to quiet the turmoil of his mind once and for all in its darkness.

A single involuntarily cry of anguish escaped him. A nurse came rushing to his bedside immediately.

"Monsieur, you are awake again," she said in a calm voice, full of kindness.

He looked at her with bewildered eyes.

"Rather more awake than before I see," she said encouragingly. "You are very strong Monsieur, you have survived a great deal."

Javert closed his eyes in defeat. He could not bear the thought of living and yet he lived.

"That's right, Monsieur," the nurse said soothingly. "Rest, I will check on you again soon."

No answer came from the broken man strapped to the hospital bed. Javert was aware that pain seemed to be waking up in the depths of his body, but this suffering was not equal to the suffering of his mind.

His consciousness soon left him again. When the nurse returned he was still and unresponsive as ever he had been. She was hopeful however. His waking moments had become more frequent and the look in his eyes more coherent. At any rate, in many cases such as these time and rest were the only possible restorative, after the first dangers of fatality had been warded off.

…

When Javert woke again it was to the noise of doctors and nurses doing their rounds. He did not know how much time had passed.

"Good morning, Monsieur," a nurse greeted him.

It took all his effort to speak a single, short sentence: "Where am I?"

"You are in the Hôpital de la Charité," she smiled compassionately. "You were dragged from the river by boatmen, very near death."

Javert looked down, at the bonds that fixed him to the bed.

"You have a severe back injury, Monsieur," the nurse said gently. "It is important you lie still."

Javert did not answer. He did not try to move. He did not do anything.

"Can you tell me your name, Monsieur?" the nurse asked.

He remained silent and looked away.

"Never mind, Monsieur," she said kindly. "The doctor will see you soon."

Javert closed his eyes. His mind was clearer now, but no less oppressed. He lived, he was recovering. Life had been forced upon him in the cruellest of ways and he had no power to change it. He did not protest to the doctors' examinations, or the medicines they gave him. Not a word passed his lips, nor any cries of pain. They entreated him to tell them anything he remembered, his name, his address, his occupation. All their questions remained unanswered. Eventually they left him, fearing that his mind had suffered damage beyond their first expectations.

…

"It is good to see you again, Mademoiselle."

"I thank you, Madame Comtois."

Soft footsteps came towards the curtain surrounding Javert's bed.

"Who is the new patient?"

"The man they rescued from the Seine, I am afraid his mind has left him. He has only spoken once since his being admitted here."

Through the greyness of his melancholy mind Javert became aware of the soft voices discussing his person. He recognized one of the voices as belonging to one of the old nurses. The second was unknown to him.

"You are very welcome to sit with him," he heard Nurse Comtois say. "Poor man."

The curtain was drawn aside and a woman in her late twenties or early thirties approached his bed. "Good afternoon, Monsieur," she spoke softly. "Is it alright if I sit with you?"

Javert did not answer, but he did not turn away his eyes. The presence of this lady shocked him. He must call her a lady, for she was dressed in a fine gown. A nurse's apron covered it, but that merely made the fine dark blue silk of her dress seem more splendid. Curls framed her face and the rest of her hair had been twisted up in a heavy braid. She was clutching some books.

She sat down, looking enquiringly at him as he stayed silent. "My name is Marion Beaumont," she said, smiling at him.

He remained silent.

"Will you not tell me your name, Monsieur?" she entreated.

Silence still.

"Would you allow me to read to you, Monsieur?" she said pleasantly. She did not really expect an answer, but he did not avert his eyes and she took this as a sign of at least partial approbation. "I have some beautiful novels here," she continued in her gentle voice. "And a collection of fine essays." She gave him a cheerful smile. "Perhaps a novel would be the pleasantest at present…"

She opened the first of her books and started reading aloud. She kept her voice low, so as not to disturb anyone and she read carefully and clearly. Every so often she glanced at her unresponsive listener, to watch for signs of discomfort or displeasure.

Javert did not feel anything that could be called either pleasure of displeasure. The foremost emotion he felt was confusion. He did not know what this woman meant by sitting in a sickroom and reading. Such attention, he felt, was neither deserved nor wished for by him. Even so, eventually her reading distracted him from his own thoughts.

Javert had never had a love for books. He respected them as vessels of instruction. They were instruments employed to better himself and he had studied them in the few hours of leisure he had formerly allowed himself. This study had not given him any pleasure, however, only the satisfaction of doing what he believed he ought to do. Novels he never read at all. Mademoiselle Beaumont's interest in the novel was evident. Her voice, however low, was animated. She spoke for its characters with conviction and did its descriptions justice. Javert listened and was transported, for a short while, to a place outside of himself.

"Mademoiselle?"

Mademoiselle Beaumont looked up from her book.

"Yes?"

"Your father asks for you," Nurse Comtois said.

"Tell him I shall be with him directly," she answered.

Carefully she closed the book and smiled at Javert, who was still lying unmoving and silent in his bed. She met his eyes, however, and was convinced he was very much awake. "I must go now," she said. "But I shall return some other time and we may continue this book if it pleases you."

Javert watched her rise to her feet and gather her books.

"Good day, Monsieur," she said. "May your recovery be quick." With those words she passed through the slit in the curtain and left the room with quick steps.

Javert wondered again why she had come at all. Had the nurse spoken of her father? Was he a patient or a doctor? Why did she feel she must return? To him. A man too wretched to even be allowed to die. His exhaustion saved him from further thoughts and it carried him off into a deep sleep.

A/N: This is the first fanfic I have put actual care, craft and research into. I really hope you enjoy it! (A hopefully more carefully proofread version of this fic can be found on AO3.)

The Hôpital de la Charité was a real place and in full working order at the time of this story (it closed in 1935). I did some research and found out that it was customary to bind patients with spinal injury to their bed with leather straps to prevent them from moving. That is the state in which I imagine Javert found himself when he woke up.