Mirror-Blue Night

Why this sudden change of heart, Valjean thought as they rode in the fiacre through the night. He looked at Javert who remained silent and focused on the outside.

Valjean folded his hands, feeling the encrusted dirt and grime upon them. A night of trudging through the labyrinthine sewers of Paris with a wounded boy certainly warranted a cleaning. But that was no longer important. In a matter of time he would occupy a filthy prison cell. He glanced down and realized he had inadvertently tracked sewer sludge and blood from Marius onto the fine upholstery.

He shifted in his seat and noticed that Javert was pressed against the fiacre door in an obvious effort to avoid the occasional brushing of his knee against Valjean's. The small fiacre had become less cramped without Marius, but was hardly spacious enough for the two of them.

The clack of horse hooves against the road was the only sound filling the silence. In the periodic glow of each passing streetlamp, Valjean would study Javert—the distinctive ridges of his cheekbones, his broad forehead, his tight lips locked in a perpetual scowl. He must never smile, Valjean thought. Then, out of some inescapable curiosity, he began to entertain the idea of Javert in a more joyful state.

"Why do you laugh?" came a voice.

Valjean looked up, startled. He did not realize a small chuckle had escaped him, much to the inspector's displeasure.

"My apologies. I did not mean to," Valjean said timidly and then added, "I-I was only thinking."

Javert let out a snort and turned his attention back out the window.

Valjean hoped the inspector would say more. He wished for an explanation for this newly formed leniency. But he knew any such inquiry would be met with hostility.

They crossed over the Seine. Soon they would arrive at their destination.

Valjean found himself continually observing Javert. Could the inspector ever see him in a different light? Valjean himself no longer feared Javert as he used to. In fact, he felt something akin to him. Something unmatched by anyone else he had ever met. He had grown fond of the inspector in some unusual way. Granted, after all his years on the run, Javert was the only one Valjean still knew—an ever-present shadow in his life, one that he could always count on to be there. Was it wrong to love the inspector? Valjean knew the man was only doing is duty, tenacious as he was at it, and he couldn't help but care for him.

Throughout his life, Valjean was aware that he was not well-versed in the ways of love. Yes, he loved Cosette truly, but that was strictly in a paternal sense. Javert was different.

He often imagined himself with a serene version of the inspector, together in a small home, cut off from society. An idyllic plot of land perhaps in Calais, peaceful and alone. He brushed the thought from his mind. It was merely a fantasy, and to even think about professing his love to Javert—he did not know how to attempt this. It was but a transient opportunity and Javert was impossible to confront, obstinate enough to keep his life uniform and no doubt ignorant to compassion. Valjean could only imagine the inspector's reaction to such a confession—unfavorable.

He wished Javert was more than just a pursuer. But that was no longer important. He would be incarcerated soon and unable to tell Javert how he truly felt.

……………………………………..

The fiacre came to a rough halt as they reached the house at Number Seven, Rue de l'Homme-Arme. The inspector briskly pushed open the door of the carriage and stepped out. He stood rigid in the shadows and cleared his throat, an indication for his prisoner to follow.

"I will wait for you here," Javert said flatly as he grudgingly unlocked Valjean's manacles.

Valjean nodded and started toward the house, but remembered something. He turned to the inspector. "The notebook," he said. "Please."

Javert's brow creased as though he did not know what Valjean was referring to.

"The insurgent's notebook," Valjean reminded him.

Javert gave a curt nod and extracted the book from his coat pocket. "Make it quick," he said.

Valjean rapped on the front door and Toussaint opened it partially.

"It is I," Valjean whispered. He smiled and instructed the housekeeper not to trouble herself the rest of the night and sent her back to bed.

Valjean hurried up the stair to Cosette's room and noticed candlelight flickering from her partially opened doorway. Valjean peered in to see if she was still awake. She sat in a chair facing the window, a book in her hand.

Valjean nudged the door open, and the young girl turned at the sound of his foot against the wood floor.

"Father?" She looked at him as though he was an apparition. She stood and embraced him strongly. As she pulled away, her expression turned grim at the sight of his blood-stained uniform. "You're hurt," she observed.

Valjean took her hands in his. "Not me," he said regarding her serenely. And with one look, she understood. Her eyes widened, but she turned away, discomfited that he knew of her and Marius's secret passion.

"Is he--"

"He will be fine," Valjean said noticing tears beginning to collect in her eyes. She sat on the edge of her bed, wringing her hands together.

"Where is he?" she asked quietly.

"The Marais—his grandfather's house," Valjean said and paused. "You know of it?" Cosette nodded. Valjean sat next to her and handed her the young man's notebook. "Will you give this back to him?"

"Yes," she said.

"I cannot stay long," he said and placed a hand on her cheek. "Cosette, you should know that I have always loved you. I always will. But I don't know if I shall return. I…made an arrangement."

"What? What arrangement?" she asked, her voice anxious. "Papa, what are you talking about?"

"There is an officer of the law outside waiting to bring me in."

"Because you were at the barricade?"

Valjean paused. He could easily tell her that Javert was arresting him for traitorous acts and save her the trouble of knowing anything about his troubled past. But he knew dishonesty was not an option. He looked her in the eye. How much she resembled Fantine—such a slight appearance that concealed a spirited and loving individual beneath. She deserved to know the truth.

Vajean removed a crumpled envelope from his coat pocket. Had he died at the barricade and been stripped of his effects, he trusted the envelope would be returned to Cosette. Now that he was here, Valjean handed it to her.

"I haven't been honest with you," he said.

"What is this?" Cosette asked, turning the envelope in her hand.

"A note. Please read it when I am gone. It will tell you all you need to know."

He stood and kissed her head. "I must go. It is best you read the note," he said and walked to the door, but stopped. He suddenly remembered the box in his room that held his and Fantine's few possessions. He looked back at her. "Don't go anywhere, Cosette."

………………..

Valjean pulled the box from the top shelf of his armoire and placed it on his bed. He opened it and took one last look at his and Fantine's possessions. Her pieces of jewelry, his candlesticks and coins—all valuables that would be of great use to Cosette.

As Valjean stepped back into the hallway he found Cosette standing outside her room, the opened letter in her hand, her expression dazed. They both stood in silence before Cosette finally spoke. "You were a convict? Is that true?" she asked.

Valjean nodded. "I'm sorry I had to keep it from you. Forgive me." He handed her the box. "Here is one more thing I cannot keep from you. Inside you will find some of your mother's possessions, as well as mine. They are yours now. Please do what you wish with them, for now I must leave you."

His heart broke as he left the young girl standing there, her eyes filling with tears. Valjean trudged down the stairs, knowing that his fate was sealed by the dogged inspector awaiting him.

Valjean opened the door and a breeze washed over him. He didn't realize how unusually musty the house was as he breathed in the cool night air. It would be his last breath of freedom.

Suddenly, his eye fell upon the deserted street ahead of him. The fiacre was gone. So was Javert.

It took Valjean a moment to register the situation. Was Javert letting him go? But the inspector had come this far, pursued him so long only to leave him now. Valjean couldn't help but feel slighted. He did not understand what was happening.

"What is it Papa?" Cosette asked.

"My dear," Valjean said as the girl hurried down the stairs, "the inspector is gone. I have to find him."

Cosette appeared horrified. "What? No, Papa. Stay here," she pleaded. "Why would you go searching for a man who wants to arrest you?"

Valjean could not ignore the agitation in her voice, but he knew what must be done.

"This I cannot explain," he said. "I don't know what will happen."

Valjean stepped out into the darkness and began to pursue Javert.