Mademoiselle Baptistine carefully picked her way through the Digne graveyard on a cool, damp November afternoon. It had not rained in several days, but the sky was grey and ominous, threatening a storm that did not come. This weather made her bones ache and she longed for the relief that the storm would bring.
As she walked, bent by age, she took each step with great caution, placing her cane and testing that its footing was firm before taking the next step. She was in no hurry but she did not wander. The route to her destination was one she took without hesitation.
Although her clothes were faded and worn, there was an air of elegance that clung to her frail frame. She wore a shawl of knitted homespun draped over her shoulders and it covered a much washed, once fine woolen dress. The fabric of the dress was of high quality with finely spun thread and in a tight weave, but the blue dye had faded to a nondescript grey and it had been almost two decades since the simple cut that hung straight from her shoulders had been fashionable.
Truth be told, she had thought about not coming at all today. She was feeling a bit off and the thought of staying at home and resting by the warmth of the fire had been a pleasant one. With all these years gone by, her brother would not mind. She tired so easily these days. What if it were to start to rain while she was out? After the fall last month, the doctor had warned her of the danger to her hips should she fall again. Charles would understand if she missed her visit this week.
However, today was the feast of St. Andrew and Father Luc, curé of the small church of St. Michael she attended on the outskirts of Digne, had delivered an uninspiring sermon which had left her feeling empty and unfocused. She found it baffling, how anyone could botch such a simple story of humility and devotion to the Lord, but Father Luc had rambled and even knowing the story she had left confused. She longed for her brother to take the pulpit again, to speak in his soft, persuasive voice about sharing Christ's burden and walking in Christ's footsteps. But there was no one like Charles Myriel. Certainly the new Bishop of Digne, a great puffed up oaf with aspirations of wearing Cardinal's red, knew little of living a life in Christ.
Walking slowly through the graveyard in the patchy afternoon sun, she made out his grave along the path ahead. Where the other Bishops of Digne were buried with grand monuments over their remains, her brother had insisted on something far simpler. On his last day, he had taken her hand in his, pitifully weak and cold. His sightless eyes had burned with a quiet intensity.
"There will be money from Rome for my funeral," he had told her. "Please, no grandrequiem. No fancy monument. Just a plain slab. Our Lord's grave was a cave. My grave should be no more than that."
"Of course," she had agreed with him.
"Use the money," he had told her, "for the poor. Make a place for them to go and pray for their loved ones."
She had lost the battle on the mass, but she had prevailed on the stone. After weeks of pressure from the Archbishop of Marseille, she had relented and let them carve his name and a passage from Mark on it. "He came not to be served but to serve." That was it. No obelisk, no cherubs. The rest she had used to have a small flower garden planted near the potter's field, and to put a bench among the flowers.
Walking up to the grave, she was unsurprised to see someone visiting it. Although her brother had been dead nearly three years, there were those who remembered him and loved him dearly. It was not uncommon to find small offerings on his grave – flowers, an apple, a letter, or a few coins. She left most of the offerings, but when she found coins, she would take them and give them to a family who needed it, or to the hospital.
The visitor was down on one knee and he was hard to see between the gravestones. He had doffed his cap and she could see his bald head bent in prayer. As she made her way up, she was breathing with a bit of a wheeze and he looked over at her.
"My apologies for disturbing you, monsieur," she said.
"It is nothing," the man, a fisherman she guessed from the knit of his sweater, replied as he stood. He put the cap on his head, pulling it down firmly over his ears. "I was just going."
"Nonsense," Baptistine said. "I have disturbed you. Please. Stay."
The man looked at her with an expression she could not quite make out. Her sight had become less clear over the last year and it sometimes bothered her that she could no longer read peoples' faces.
Baptistine lowered herself onto a stone bench near her brother's grave with relief. The walk had been more difficult than usual and she murmured a soft prayer of thanksgiving as she sat. Often the bench was in the sun on her afternoon visits and she would enjoy its warmth, but today it was cool. She adjusted her walking stick, resting it on her knees, and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders.
"Did you know my brother?" Baptistine asked the man. He had one hand thrust deep in his trousers's pocket and he seemed to be fiddling with something.
"Not really, my good lady. I met him once and he made quite an impression."
Baptistine smiled. "I know what you mean."
The man reached down to gather his sack.
"Are you leaving?" she asked.
He nodded. "I need to be in Tallard by dark and I should be going."
"That is too bad. I was hoping that you would sit with me so we may remember him together."
The man looked at the grave and then back at her considering. He took a step over to the bench and sat next to her. "Perhaps for a few minutes," he said.
She smiled warmly at him, twisting so she could half face him. "Would you tell me of the time you met him?"
"It was some years ago. I was in a bad way. He gave me a meal and a place to sleep when I needed it."
Baptistine laughed softly, quoting, "'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.' My brother was very fond of that verse of Matthew."
The man looked over at the grave, his eyes distant. "He was good to me at a time when I was truly one of the least of his brothers."
She laid a hand on his leg. "Well, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur."
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Jean Valjean looked over at the grave from his seat on the bench next to the old woman. The bishop's sister apparently. He had a dim memory of two women in the bishop's house that night. One had been short and plump, the other tall and thin. This, he supposed, was the thin one.
As he sat, the metal of the shackle in his pocket dug into his thigh. He ran his fingers along the surface, trying to adjust its position so it did not press so hard on his leg. The metal was warm against his skin and sharp where the blacksmith had broken the rivets.
Four days ago it had been around his ankle. Despite his careful preparations for escape, he had been half resigned to wear it for the rest of his life. He figured he had a better chance this time but he still knew the chances of him succeeding in escape were slim.
The blacksmith had offered to take the shackle, to melt it down into something else, but Valjean had kept it. At the time, he had not been sure why.
After three months in the chain, his limp had returned. As he had walked north, reveling in the freedom of putting one foot in front of the other, of stopping to rest when he wanted, of picking a wrinkled winter apple still on a tree and eating it, he had tried to even his step.
He had walked with his head down, turning the shackle over in his hands, studying it. Any number of times, he had almost stopped and hefted it to throw deep into some farmer's field where it would rust and return to the earth. But, with his arm half cocked, he had stopped and walked on.
This morning, there had been a road sign for Digne and it had occurred to him that it would be good to visit Digne and pray at the Bishop's grave. Before the old woman arrived, he had been holding the shackle in a tight, white-knuckled grip when something came over him. Let it go, Jean, he had heard. Cast your burden upon the Lord. Suddenly he had realized why he was here.
However, with the old woman here, he hesitated. He did not want to be seen. He feared being recognized, of once again feeling the chains of the Digne police on his body. This had been a terrible idea. He should have left it with the blacksmith.
His thoughts were interrupted abruptly when the woman slurred, "M'sieur…" as she slumped forward. Valjean reacted automatically, reaching out in time to catch her, to convert her fall to a graceless slide off the bench to the damp ground below.
Valjean followed her, coming to his knees next to the crumpled figure of the woman. Oh, dear god! Carefully, he placed his cheek over the woman's mouth and a wave of relief washed over him as he felt breath stir.
He shook her shoulder gently, "Madame? Madame?" but she did not respond.
Sitting back on his heels, he tried to decide what to do.
He had planned to come through Digne quickly, to stop at the grave and be on his way. Although the odds were small, it was a chance he was taking, being here at all. Not six months ago, three different police inspectors from Provence had testified at his trial. He had planned to be leagues from here by nightfall, out of the region altogether tomorrow, but he could not leave this gentle woman like this.
He leaned over to check her breathing again.
Propriety be damned. He tied his sack over his shoulder and bent to pick her up.
It was the fourth Sunday of Advent, just three days before Christmas. It was the first time Baptistine had made it back to Mass after her collapse in the cemetery nearly a month ago. Today the Gospel had told of the birth of Jesus, and even Father Luc could not fail to make an uplifting story of this tale.
She sat in the pew as the parishioners left. The altar was decorated in deep purple, the echoes of the final hymn still hung in the air. When the church was nearly empty, young Raphael walked over and stood by her shoulder. Over the last month he had taken to coming by and checking on her and Madame Magloire. He would leave a pile of split firewood by their door, refill the water bucket, or help Magloire bring in the heavy winter quilts that she had been airing. They had nothing to pay him, but he just shrugged and came back another day. She looked up at him and smiled. "Hello, Raphael."
He ducked his head. "Hello, mademoiselle," he replied. "Would you like me to walk you home?"
"Oh, Raphael, how generous! But, I had it in my mind to not go directly home. It is a fine day and I would like to visit my brother first. Would you walk with me to the cemetery before taking me home?"
He nodded. "That would be fine with me, mademoiselle." He offered her a hand.
"I do not walk fast."
"I do not have anywhere to be."
As they walked with his strong arm steadying her steps, she wondered what had happened to the man whom she had met in the cemetery the last time she had been here. Magloire had told her of the bald man who had carried her home. Magloire had pressed him to stay, to have dinner, at least until the doctor came, but he had demurred and left.
As they approached the grave, Raphael gestured at the bench, "Mademoiselle, would you like to sit?"
"In a moment, Raphael," she replied. She carefully made her way up to stone and laid her hand on it, closing her eyes in prayer. The stone was cold and rough under her fingers and the smell of the air, promising rain later today, made her think of her brother kneeling in his garden, gently loosening rocks from the dirt and setting them aside to make the windy little edges he was so fond of. Soon, brother, soon we will be together, she thought.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that some of the usual offerings were on top of his stone. A small cake that had been nibbled on by mice, a piece of quartz, a few coins. But what was this? She reached out and picked it up. It had once been metal ring, hefty and coarsely made, but now it was twisted and broken. It was bigger than a bracelet but it seemed too small for use with farm animals, not that she knew much of animal husbandry. Perhaps it was a piece of a cart? On one side were a couple of stubs of metal that were sharp under her fingers and beginning to rust. She turned it over in her hands, wondering what it was, and why it had been left here. Puzzled, she put it back down and turned to young Raphael.
"Help me to the bench, my boy? I would like to rest a few minutes before we go back."
There is an incredible piece of art that was made for this story by threadbaremillionaire. If you search for this story on AO3 you will find the link, but I can't figure out how to put the link here! Argh!