Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear
Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.
Lord Byron - Stanzas composed during a Thunderstorm
#
The storm had rolled in with sudden force. The clouds in the distance had come closer with a speed that their horse had not been able to outrun; when they grew worried and started to contemplate the need to find shelter, it was already too late.
At first, it grew dark. Clouds towered above them, a mass of swirling darkness that was all of a sudden illuminated by lightning strong enough that for a heartbeat, Madeleine could once more see the path before them as clearly as in brightest sunlight. Javert drew in a startled breath, his hand tightening on the rail of the carriage as if he was fighting the sudden need to take the reins from Madeleine's hands and whip the horse to reach the closest shelter before the wrath of the storm swept them away.
The boom of thunder was so loud that the frightened squeal of the horse was swallowed up by it. More lightning followed, great and terrible slashes that ripped apart the darkness of the sky relentlessly, blinding them, and further startling the horse that once more screamed in fear and reared, then chose escape down the narrow road that led further into the forest.
Madeleine held on to the reins, even though there was no guiding the beast. No matter how he pulled and yelled, the brown gelding he had been assured was a fast and reliable horse had taken the bit between his teeth and now raced down the moss-covered path, flanks shuddering and great eyes rolling as the lightning seemed to pursue them.
Javert clutched at his arm; his mouth opened, but another boom of thunder followed, and Madeleine could not make out the words. In the one heartbeat of blinding light granted by another flash, he saw that Javert's face was white and terrible, and then the man's large hands closed around the reins as well, pulling with all his strength, which, in the end, was not enough to hold a horse that found itself pursued by thunder and lightning challenging even the cannons of Waterloo.
He only realized that the ground beneath them had changed from wet soil to wood when there was the sound of splintering planks in the break between thunder. He yanked on the reins once more, but already it was too late; he tumbled against Javert as the carriage tilted, there was another crash, the horse screamed, and then he fell.
One of the splintered planks of wood broke his fall, and as the carriage turned and then plunged into darkness and roaring water beneath what he now in terror realized was a collapsed bridge, he felt a hand still clutching at one of his arms. With the next flash of lightning, he stared right into Javert's panicked eyes, saw him scrabble helplessly for purchase at a broken beam on which his chest had come to rest while his legs dangled in the darkness beneath the bridge that threatened to swallow him, just as it had swallowed the horse moments ago.
"Javert," he called out, unable to hear his own voice through the sound of wind and thunder. "Don't let go, Javert!" Slowly, painfully, he moved back, pulling Javert with him onto the treacherous planks that still held. He did not dare to look behind him to see if the bridge would carry them both, or dare to check how much further he would have to pull Javert. He could feel the tremor in the wet wood beneath him; one wrong move, he thought, and they would both be plunged into darkness. Later, he would remember that moment, and wonder what his life might have become had destiny swallowed the fearsome Inspector Javert that night – but during those long minutes that seemed as if an age passed in the darkness as he crawled backwards, all his attention was focused on the groaning man that clung to him there on the precipice, and his thoughts held nothing but fear and the instinctive need to survive.
Javert did not speak when he realized at last that he was kneeling in cold mud. If he made sounds, they could not be heard over the roar of the swollen river that still rushed through the darkness before them. But Javert lived; his arms were wet and cold and slick with mud, but they trembled in his grasp, and when he tried to push himself to his feet, they clutched at him, as if even now that the greatest danger seemed past, Javert still thought himself dangling over the grasping hand of death.
Madeleine took hold of his shoulders then, shuddering all over with sudden force when his body as well realized that he, too, had escaped certain death only by the grace of God.
"Stand, Javert," he called out, deafened by the booms of thunder that still resounded around them on this battlefield of nature. It took all his strength to pull Javert up; the usually so stoic man was shivering, and when Madeleine took a step back, encouraging Javert to follow him away from that raging torrent, he cried out and slumped against him, so that Madeleine staggered beneath the sudden weight.
"Javert!" His cry was swallowed by another clap of thunder, but Javert's eyes opened, wide and glazed with pain, and he shook his head as a groan escaped him.
"My leg – I can't..."
Madeleine bit back a curse when another flash illuminated a leg that seemed strangely twisted.
"We need to get away from here!" He flinched when what remained of the bridge shuddered and creaked, and then suddenly fell away into the darkness, as if a giant had reached out for it and torn it away in anger.
"Javert! Lean on me, hold on – we have to get away from here, we are too close to the river!" He did not know if Javert understood his words, for the roar of the water was growing ever louder. But Javert's hands tightened on his arm, so that the man could lean on him as they began to slowly scale a small hill. He fought to drag both of them upwards, bearing most of Javert's weight, away from the river and still fearing that any moment the soil might move beneath their feet to be carried away by the roaring waters.
He did not know for how long he carried Javert through the darkness. Eventually the flashes of lightning decreased in frequency, and the thunder would wait several heartbeats before it came rolling around them, little more now than the sound of cannons in the distance, the great battle passed. The sound of the rain pouring down with unremitting force was all that he could hear, coupled with the breathless groans that came from Javert with every slow step.
It seemed to him that they must have fought their way upwards through the darkness for a long time, but at last, illuminated by another flash of lightning, he saw several large boulders appear through the veil of the rain. There was just enough light remaining that he could see that there was a small opening where several of the boulders leaned onto each other, and with the way the rain continued to fall, it was the best way to pass the night out of the rain. With the bridge torn away by the river and the storm still raging, he did not think that anyone would set out to look for them – if they even knew where to look.
One of Javert's men had accompanied them from Montreuil, but had been forced to stay behind at a tavern shortly after they left Reims when his horse had begun to limp and no other steed could be found in time. Madeleine had silently cursed his misfortune then, for already the entire situation made him grit his teeth. He had never desired to travel in the company of Javert, especially not on this trip into the Ardennes that meant several days of uninterrupted travel with a man who neither smiled nor talked, but sat silent and unmoving for hours by his side in the carriage while Madeleine feared for what secrets such close observation might give away. And yet, the situation was unfortunate enough that there had been no other solution than travel in the company of the Inspector. A man who stole half the money in the town's coffers and ran, only to be caught and imprisoned for interrogation just before he could cross the border to Luxembourg, was an event that called for the personal attention of both the mayor and the inspector, so Madeleine, who had paced for two days after he received the news and come up with and discarded a hundred excuses, had seen no other choice but to travel all the way into the Ardennes in the company of the fearsome Inspector, who had indeed proven to be as forbidding a travel companion as his nature had promised.
"Come, Javert; we can rest here. I will look at your leg," he said as he helped Javert lean against a rock, then knelt to carefully explore the little opening formed by the boulders. The space was small – much smaller than he had hoped, barely sufficient for two men. And yet, his hands encountered only layers of dry leaves, and with the way his body was already beginning to tremble in his rain-soaked clothes, the mere prospect of being able to spend the night out of the rain and the wind was so tempting that he knew he would not be able to take another step.
Javert made another pained sound when he drew him into the tiny cave. There was not enough space to stand, but Madeleine, who was trembling harder now that the rush of danger was past, hoped that what heat their bodies generated would be enough to keep them from freezing.
"You are wet. Come, take off your coat; I will look at your leg once there is light. There is no blood?" He could barely make out Javert's features. Javert shook his head, but the hand he raised to one of the buttons of his coat was sluggish, and dropped back into his lap after a moment, its task left undone. They were pressed so close together in the small space that Madeleine could feel the tremors that made the tall body shudder. He was glad that the darkness veiled his own apprehension and distaste when he unbuttoned Javert's coat, hoping to find the clothes he wore beneath still dry – but both the waistcoat and shirt revealed were wet and cold, so that Madeleine exhaled with weary despair.
"I am sorry, Javert." He could hear the tiredness in his own voice. He had withstood worse storms in his youth, but a young tree-pruner sheltering beneath a spruce tree for a night while a storm passed was quite a different thing than an aging man who had become used to his chamber and his bed forced to hide in a cave all of a sudden, above all if that man had reason to keep as far away from the town's inspector as possible, lest his body gave away the secrets of his past.
"Take off your trousers, please – here, I shall help you. I need to see your leg. Does it hurt?"
Javert did not make a move to help him, and he did not speak, but all the same he did not protest when Madeleine, as slowly and carefully as possible, divested him of his mud-stained trousers. There was a large tear in the fabric, but when his fingers traced slowly along the leg, he could feel no blood, no gash in the skin. He could feel a bump, though, as if beneath the skin, something had shifted in a way that it should not have, and when he very carefully felt along that strange rise, Javert at last clutched at his arm. Javert was panting; they were close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath against his neck, and the sensation made him grit his teeth; it was too close; he saw before his mind's eye the tiger breathing onto the neck of its prey.
He drew back resolutely, although there was stone at his back, and he could not escape the press of Javert's body that now seemed to curl in on itself as if to protect the wounded leg.
"I am sorry, Javert," he said at last, forcing his voice to sound even, praying that any residue of fear would be ascribed to their recent escape from death. "I fear your leg might be broken. I shall look at it again tomorrow; it will have to wait for the sun to rise. There is nothing we can do now. We must be lost; they did not mention a bridge in that last village we passed! In the morning, we will find some other way to return. For now you should rest."
The sound of Javert's harsh breathing filled the small space. Madeleine's unease grew. Javert was in pain; and yet, the mere brush of his skin made his body shudder with disquiet. Was it not enough to have saved the life of a man who would show him no mercy in return if he knew the truth? Must he also be forced to make such a man comfortable, even if it came at the price of his own discomfort?
Javert shivered when another gust of wind brought a new chill with it, and Madeleine pressed his lips together. Without a word, he crawled back to the entrance of the small cave, and there took off his own coat. With both of their coats, he was able to fashion a small curtain that would keep out the worst of the wind; his coat, which was of finer quality than what Javert had been wearing, had even kept his shirt beneath dry enough so that there would be no need to explain why he refused to take it off. Javert's shirt, on the other hand...
It was too dark to see much now, especially with their coats keeping out what little light remained. "You are wet, Javert; if you sleep like this you might not wake, or at least catch such a chill that you will succumb to it before we are found."
Javert did not answer, although Madeleine thought he heard a difference in his fast, pained breathing. "There are enough dry leaves here to suffice as bedding. We will not be comfortable, but we will live." He hesitated for another long moment, then reached out with determination. Javert's shirt was heavy and wet as he stripped it from his unresisting body; his skin was very cold to the touch, so that at last, worry took over, and Madeleine forced himself to ignore his own discomfort at the thought of spending a night nearly skin to skin with a man who would sooner see him in chains than have his life saved, if he knew the truth of him. But Javert's shivering was increasing, and there was still no resistance when Madeleine forced him gently to lie down, and then covered the cold, wet body with heaps of the dry leaves. He spread the damp shirt on top, hoping that it might dry until the morn, and then hesitated once more in the darkness until the weariness made him sway.
Quickly, trying not to think about what it was he was doing, he pulled off his own wet, muddy trousers. He kept the shirt – he thought he would rather freeze to death than give Javert the satisfaction of seeing his scars in the morning, and in any case, it was just his sleeves that were uncomfortably damp. He had known worse than discomfort in Toulon. He listened again in the darkness, but there was still no sound from Javert as Madeleine settled down by his side, and then covered his own body with more of the leaves.
Even though the boulders held off the worst of the wind, it was hard to fall asleep when his body was chilled to the bone and the terror of crawling through the darkness on a bridge that threatened to burst apart beneath him still made him shiver every now and then at the realization of just what he had so barely escaped. And while the small cave might suffice to keep them warm enough to live through the night, even with the leaves covering them he still felt miserably cold and wet. Every bone in his body ached with a deep weariness that brought back dark memories of Toulon, of chains, of never-ending toil and damp, foul air.
He slept fitfully. He did not count how often he woke; he thought that he must have spent more time awake than dozing miserably. Javert did not speak or move at first, and apart from the sound of his breathing, Madeleine might have thought himself all alone in this forgotten part of the Ardennes.
At last, when he woke once more, enough of the sparse moonlight fell in through the gaps between the boulders above that he could see Javert's face. Somehow, during his sleep the man had moved closer. There was not much space – not enough space for two grown men, in truth – but even so, where unease had before made them try to keep modestly apart, now Javert rested against him. His skin was very warm, but Madeleine could feel shivers run through the body that half covered his own. In what little light there was, he could see that his eyes were closed tightly, though his skin gleamed with sweat.
For a long moment, he did not move. He was frozen, aware of every single part of his body that felt the press of hot skin against his – the heaviness of Javert's chest resting on top of him, the roughness of mud-caked hair against his cheek, a leg long and hard with muscle pressed against his own.
Javert was warm, and that alone was almost enough to draw his exhausted body back into sleep. For the first time that night, the dull ache deep in his bones had left him, so that all he felt was a great tiredness, and the temptation of mindless sleep. And yet.
He could feel Javert's breath against his skin. The air he exhaled was warm, too, and he could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took. He could feel the heat of his skin, the heaviness of muscle, the roughness of his hair; could feel the small tremors that ran through the tall body, the way his fingers curled almost imperceptibly against his own chest with every breath.
It did not seem right. It was terrifying, to imagine that a man who had never been anything but the embodiment of injustice, who was the inflexibility of stone, the coldness of an automaton without soul, could shiver and tremble and hurt, could curl into another person, fully human at last in that instinctive search for warmth and contact. Worse: to imagine him waking in the morning, shedding all that was human again with the same ease with which he would put on his coat once more, and then regard Madeleine with cold distrust, weighing every word and every action, as if every single act of kindness or compassion were one more mark added against Madeleine on a tally into a secret ledger.
At last, there was a soft groan. Javert felt almost too warm and heavy now, despite the chill of their small cave, and when Madeleine, still reluctant, pressed his fingers to his brow, he found that his skin was burning from within. A fever, he thought as he used his still-damp sleeve to wipe some of the sweat away. A fever, but there was no doctor to call, no portress to bring tea or soup or cold towels – he had not even any cup or bowl to go and fetch Javert water.
His fingers lingered reluctantly against the damp skin. It had been a long time ago – so long ago that it felt now as the life of another person, something he remembered only from the recollections of an observer. But he remembered how a fever would come and go with sudden force, heat the small limbs of a child while his sister would sit awake all night with fear, praying silently as she pressed a cold, wet rag to a fever-flushed forehead.
Javert was no child. Javert was a grown man, strong enough to withstand whatever chill he had taken. And yet, what if there had been a wound after all? What if it was not a chill, but the broken leg? He had no light, no water, not even a towel or a bed to make Javert more comfortable. If Javert died here, he could return to Montreuil and be safe, he thought in despair. And yet, if Javert died here, would he not spend the rest of his life bearing part of that guilt? The Bishop had given him food and a bed for the night without asking any questions. He would have given comfort to any man on his doorstep, to a beggar, a convict, or a man wounded and weary, no matter who that man was, no matter what that man might do.
"Don't go."
The words were spoken very softly, little more than breath given voice as the air brushed against his skin. Javert's eyes were open, but even in the sparse light of the moon Madeleine could see that they were glazed with fever, seeing not him but a dream. Javert shivered and moved, then moaned softly at the pain. One of his hands moved to Madeleine's arm, clutching at him, and though the grip of his fingers was weak, Madeleine froze with terror for a moment, imagining himself caught.
"Don't... leave me. Don't – the bridge–"
Madeleine shuddered, watching as Javert moved even closer, eyes wide with terror. Another pained moan, and then Javert's eyes closed again, his head came to rest against his shoulder, and Madeleine felt the tremors that racked the tall body. He swallowed.
"You are safe, Javert. Sleep," he said, knowing that the man was lost in a fever dream and could not hear him. He kept his hand on his brow, then closed his eyes and bowed his own head, praying softly all through the night, alone with God and his memories, and a man to whom both were a mystery.