Posthumous Award
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Les Misérables (2012 film)
Inspector Javert was not quite certain as to why he did it. He only saw the row of dead revolutionaries laid out on the street, the hot-headed fools, so pale, so very young. Someone had taken the trouble of disguising their wounds as much as possible, crossing their arms over their chests, and closing their eyes. At the very end of the row was a child, no older than twelve, his golden hair still bright against the dirty pavement, wearing a tricolor brooch just like his older comrades. Javert paused.
He remembered that boy. This was the clever little urchin who had exposed Javert as a spy, prompting his capture and near execution. He had left the barricade shortly afterward to gather ammunition, and been shot by one of Javert's own fellow officers. Javert did not blame the man; he would have shot the child himself if he had to, to prevent that gunpowder from being used against them by the rebels. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And yet … how very small he looked, this martyr to his cause.
Javert remembered being that age, anxiously picking pockets and stealing from market stalls, waiting outside their lodgings for his mother's "gentlemen friends" to leave so he could bring her his daily spoils. She would stroke his hair and cry, her cheap paint drying in streaks across her face. What's to become of you, Antoine? What's become of us both?
He tried to shut the door on that memory, as he always had before. That was not his life; the real Javert was born on the day he was admitted to the orphanage, to begin a life of honesty, industry and humility that would prove him worthy of his keep. A life of penance for the sins inside his blood. He had locked that other life away so long ago and thrown away the key – so why think of it now, at the sight of that dead child's face?
Looking down, he caught a glimpse of the silver cross and red ribbon, gleaming against his crisp black uniform. He could not bear the sight of it. Who was he, to wear this award as if he deserved it, to keep on masquerading as a champion of the law? In the back of his mind, he had always known this day would come; the day his true colors would come out for all to see; the day he would disgrace his uniform and all it stood for, like the literal bastard he was.
That day was already past: the day he and his comrades, a force dedicated to upholding peace and order, had failed in their duty to such an extent that the streets of Paris ran red with blood. The day a convict had saved his life, thereby shattering every certainty by which he lived, and leaving him with nothing but doubts: If Valjean was a good man despite his crimes, would it be wrong to arrest him? If the system for which Javert had lived, fought and killed was a corrupt system, had he been serving it for nothing all these years? If any sin could be forgiven, was there no such thing as justice after all?
Better to die like this boy, perhaps, he thought. Better to die for your unconditional faith in something – liberty, equality, or any other foolish notion – than to continue living when your life is meaningless. Better to die whole than live broken.
With these ideas still churning in the dark waters of his mind, Javert unpinned his medal. Slowly, almost reverently, he bestowed a posthumous order of merit on a homeless boy known as Gavroche.
May you wear it with honor before your God, as I never could.