Summary: The 'happy ending' of Heroes and Fools. (Part two cannot stand alone, please read Heroes and Fools first!) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to Victor Hugo. And the Salpêtrière really is a hospital in Paris. I also ended up accidentally putting in two references to the musical lyrics. If anyone can find them please do say; I will give you cookies.
Note: Here it is! The happy ending for all of us who really didn't want Javert to die…
Note2: Concerning Javert's first name. Both Eponine-Javert and I thought up this name independently and we think it suits him very well. We are in fact starting a campaign for Names for the First Nameless, see her profile for more details. These characters have brought joy and FanFiction ideas to so many for so long, and yet they don't even get the satisfaction of having more than one name. It is time that changed! Join the campaign to provide names for the first nameless!
Heroes and Fools: Part Two
As conscious thought once more returned, Javert knew that he could not be dead. Surely death would not involve such a great number of aches and pains. He opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings. Bright morning sunlight streamed in through the windows of a large, stark, but adequately clean room. There was a faint buzz of noise, but not so much that he could divine any singular sound. Javert came to the conclusion that he was in a hospital. He looked to his right and saw Soucher sitting slumped in a chair beside him, dozing lightly. Javert rolled his eyes and went to clear his throat before realising that even breathing normally caused his chest to feel as if he was being stabbed by several red-hot rusty daggers. Luckily, Soucher woke of his own accord at this point and he regarded the inspector blearily.
"Javert," the older man groaned, "you are a prize idiot."
Javert ignored this highly subjective comment in favour of addressing a more pressing problem.
"Where am I?"
"The Salpêtrière."
Perfect. Not only was he not dead when every fibre of his body was screaming painfully that he should be, he was in what was regarded as one of Paris's definitive mental institutions. Soucher must have caught his grimace as the desk sergeant gave a macabre smile.
"No, you aren't mad, my beliefs notwithstanding. What with the fracas last night, this is the only place with spare beds."
"Right."
Silence reigned for a moment as Javert continued to drink in the situation, watching the sisters move to and fro between the beds. Presently he noticed his coat and hat hung neatly over the bottom bed post, and he smiled slightly, but this was soon broken when he saw the clean white bandages pinned tightly round his chest.
He sighed, bracing himself to ask a question that he was not entirely sure he wanted answered.
"What happened?"
"You let go, you damned fool." Soucher yawned and leant back in his chair, bracing his boots against the bed frame.
"Yes, I was aware of that," Javert snapped. That was why I was so confused to have even woken up in the first place, he added mentally, too drained to give voice to the thoughts.
"Ah, you mean what happened between your letting go and your unanticipated waking up in the Sally?" said Soucher, closing his eyes leisurely.
"Yes!" Even when incapacitated, Javert was still remarkably impatient.
"Well, where to begin? We chased you three miles down-river before you came within feasible reach and we could pull you out. We brought you here in the cab, and the rest, as they say, is history." He opened one eye and cast it over Javert's bandaged form. "The water pressure cracked a few ribs, or so the doctors say. You'll live."
Javert looked up at the ceiling. He was alive. He was going to live. He had stared death in the face, accepted her, embraced her even. And now, he was going to live. It was a huge thought to try and comprehend, so Javert left it alone for the time being. He turned his thoughts to less incomprehensible but no less important matters.
"And Angélique?" he pressed. "Will she be alright?"
Soucher nodded.
"She will be perfectly fine thanks to you. Both she and her mother are worshipfully grateful, you heroic fool." Finally, Soucher met the inspector's gaze fully. The old desk sergeant's amused expression faded.
"Why did you let go?" he asked mournfully.
Javert didn't know how to reply. How could he adequately describe the feeling that he had received when he had heard death calling and he had known, in his heart, that it was time for him to heed that call. There was a dissatisfied shrug in his voice as he spoke.
"I was too exhausted to hold on," he answered simply. It was the truth, but not the whole truth, and as the words left his lips he heard how false they sounded. Soucher certainly looked less than convinced, but Javert was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of a nurse.
"Ah, Monsieur is awake I see." She clucked around him as she fluffed pillows and adjusted blankets, and Javert felt heat rush to his face. He was unused to such attention, such helplessness, and for anyone to witness it, least of all Soucher whom he knew and respected, was humiliating beyond measure. He stared off into the middle distance, avoiding the eyes of both Soucher and the sister.
It was then that Javert saw him, clear in the stark light from the windows. Hurrying along the centre of the ward with his daughter on one side and a nurse on the other, his face a mask of worry.
Javert sat bolt upright, or he would have done had the pain from his chest and Soucher's firm hands on his shoulders had not halted him halfway.
"Monsieur, be still!" scolded the nurse. "Your injuries are bad enough as they are, do not exacerbate matters!"
Her voice carried, and the man in the centre of the room looked directly at the inspector. Their eyes met, and there was a moment of mutual recognition before Soucher finally succeeded in pushing Javert back down. The inspector felt light-headed through pain and amazement mingled. As he drifted into slumber again, he reflected. He had just come face to face once more with Jean Valjean.
XXX
It took every ounce of strength in Valjean's aching body for him to remain in the ward and not run in the opposite direction, leaving Cosette alone to ponder his ridiculous actions. L'Inspecteur. Valjean had avoided and evaded him for so long, but then their paths had kept on crossing, through chance or design Valjean did not know. They had just crossed once more, and in this most unlikely of places. What was Javert doing in the Salpêtrière? Had he been involved in the events at the barricade? Valjean had not seen him, but in all the chaos and confusion it was a miracle if one could see a hand in front of one's face, let alone a man one is not looking for and has no desire to find. Valjean shook his head; there had to be a reason, and he had to find it out. He stopped in his tracks, causing Cosette and the nurse to look at him with perplexity before they continued their search for Monsieur le Docteur, who could aid Marius at their home. Valjean pondered his own thoughts. Why did he feel he should find out the cause of his adversary's hospitalisation? What was Javert to him other than the bane of his long existence? Surely he should take comfort in the fact that the inspector would not be dogging his every move whilst he was incapacitated, and he, Valjean, could slip away into the shadows and elude his pursuer once more. No, that would never do. The curiosity would never let him go: he would always wonder what l'Inspecteur had been doing on the night that the barricade fell. He had to find out, for his own peace of mind if nothing else. They always said that curiosity killed the cat. Valjean gave a macabre laugh. This cat was too old and wise to fear death by nosiness, but first, more pressing matters. He hurried after Cosette and the sister, finding his daughter deep in conversation with the doctor. She was handling everything so well, so maturely. The way a wife should properly act in concern for her husband, although she was not yet wed. The notion pained Valjean afresh, every time he thought that he'd got used to the idea of Cosette growing up and no longer being part of his life, it would creep up on him unawares and startle him once more.
The thought made him reckless; if he'd had any reservations about his inquisitiveness before then they were gone now. Soon he would have nothing to live for anyway. Why not dice with death this once? After all, it was not as if Javert was in a position to send him back to the galleys, not in the inspector's current state of health. Thus Valjean's mind was made up, and he waited for Cosette to finish speaking with the doctor before telling her that he would see her at home, that he had something more to do. He hurried back into the long ward where he had seen the inspector and located him quickly. Even when unconscious, Javert's presence in a room was unavoidable. There was no-one with him now, the sister having moved on to tend her other patients and the older sergeant nowhere to be found… Valjean eventually located him at the end of the ward and rushed along after him as quickly as he was able.
"Monsieur," he panted as he caught up to him. "What happened to Monsieur l'Inspecteur?" The sergeant did not seem at all taken aback by this breathless question, after all, who was Valjean to him but a respectable citizen inquiring after the welfare of a known public servant. "Was he at the barricades?"
The sergeant shook his head.
"No, but his comrade was killed there informing for the Guard." Valjean suppressed a choked gasp of horror. The young man, the spy that Enjolras had shot – he was not only a policeman, he had been one of Javert's men to boot.
"And Monsieur l'Inspecteur?" he finally managed.
The sergeant relayed the tale succinctly, awe apparent in his voice at the inspector's actions, but his face unable to make up its mind whether he thought Javert a hero or a fool for jumping into the Seine at the Pont-Notre-Dame of all places.
"I am just on my way to inform Madame Renoit of the latest proceedings," he said. "She will be grateful not to have lost two men last night."
Valjean nodded his understanding and their courteous goodbyes were said, leaving Valjean alone in the hospital entrance with his guilt. He turned back into the ward and located the inspector once more, standing at the foot of the bed and shaking his head. This peaceful figure in front of him was a creature of so many facets, and he confused Valjean no end. He remembered their many meetings over the years, and the thoughts that had run through his head with each one. Fear, of being caught again. Anger, at being so relentlessly pursued. Wonder, that fate should once more bring them together. And now, here they were again, and Valjean had no idea what to think.
"Oh Monsieur l'Inspecteur," he sighed. "What have you done?"
Against every better judgement, Valjean sat down in the chair beside the bed and waited for Javert to wake.
XXX
When Javert woke for the second time, possibly in more pain than before, he was not at all pleased with the vision now sitting where Soucher had been ensconced before. There were so many things that he wanted to say to Valjean in that moment, none of them pleasant, but all he managed was an irritated 'oh, go away you', which was a decidedly feeble outcome, he thought. He closed his eyes once more in the vain hope that when he opened them again, Soucher would have miraculously returned. When he didn't hear Valjean move, he opened them again and stared at him as coolly as he could. From the hastily suppressed chuckle in the back of Valjean's throat, being horizontal must have detracted from the force somewhat.
"You're still here," he snapped.
"Indeed."
Javert rolled his eyes.
"Typical," he groaned with a grimace as he tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position but failed. "When you at last come to give yourself up, my handcuffs are but six feet away and alas, I cannot reach them."
"Would you like me to fetch them for you?" Valjean asked politely.
"Don't tempt me," growled Javert. However much he would have loved to throw the book at the convict in that moment, he had to accept that when the convict had to throw the book at himself, it was probably not the best time for a policeman to make a collar. "If I yell now," he warned, "Soucher will have you in a cell quicker than you can say Vive Lamarque."
Valjean shook his head.
"He won't, because your sergeant is not here at the moment." There was a pause. "And even if he was, you would not send for him."
"Give me reason not to," Javert snarled.
"For a start, having spent so long in pursuit, you'll be damned if you'll yield at the end of the chase. No, I should imagine that you'd want the satisfaction of arresting me yourself."
Javert's eyes narrowed. Valjean's logic was cruel and completely correct; it would be something of a bathos if he could not feel the cuffs click locked by deed of his own fingers. There was something else however, something that the old man was not saying.
"And secondly, you are as intrigued as I am to know how come Madame Fate keeps bringing us together like this."
"It is not fate, Valjean, it is your conscience. You know you ought to be caught."
Valjean just chuckled amicably, which riled Javert even further.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "In the Salpêtrière," he added hastily, he had no desire to find out Valjean's reasons for sitting at his bedside.
Valjean's politely amused expression fell into one of sorrow, as if he had suddenly dropped the mask of pretence and was revealing his true feelings.
"My future son-in-law," he said. "He almost got himself killed at the barricades."
The flame of Javert's anger and guilt burned hotter as he recalled the events of the evening.
"Your future son-in-law and his friends murdered my sergeant," he growled, a growl that would have been dangerous had it not been for the fact he was unable to follow up on its veiled threat.
"I know," said Valjean. The look in his eyes was mournful and distant, as if he had been there and seen the events in the flesh. Had he been? Javert shrugged inwardly; there was no way of knowing but after all the many years of their acquaintance, Javert knew not to put anything past his nemesis.
"Is that why you threw yourself into Seine?" the convict asked quietly.
Javert started. Did this man truly believe that he could be driven to suicide by the death of a colleague?
"I did not 'throw myself' into the Seine, as you so eloquently put it," he replied vehemently. "I jumped in with an express intention. Which was not that of ending my life."
"I know," said Valjean, although his face remained sad. "Your desk sergeant told me everything."
Javert rolled his eyes; he would have to have words with Soucher when he returned. Not that Soucher had known that Valjean was a wanted criminal, of course. Oh, it was a terrible burden being the only one in possession of the truth.
"But," Valjean continued, "would you have done it if it had been anyone other than Mademoiselle Renoit? If it had been a stranger?"
Javert stared up at the ceiling, wishing that Valjean would go away. He felt so horribly exposed; not only was he having a conversation with a convict whilst wearing little more than blankets and bandages, that same convict was forcing him to look at areas of his psyche that he had been desperately trying to avoid. The exact same question that Valjean had asked had already occurred to him, and he had pushed it to the back of his mind. The simple reason was that he honestly didn't know. He knew that when he had made the decision to save Angélique, he was doing it not only to rescue her but also to spare her mother the torment of losing two loved ones in one night. Would he have risked his life in the angry waters beneath the Pont-Notre-Dame if it had been anyone else? A man with no personal connections or someone who he knew had not suffered tragedy already that night?
Javert did not reply to Valjean's question. He feared giving a concrete answer. Presently a soft laugh next to him caught his attention and he turned to Valjean, who had evidently given up hope of receiving a response to his query.
"Yes?" he snapped.
"Your name," said Valjean, turning over the soggy card on the nightstand that Javert recognised as having been in his shirt pocket before.
"Is there something strange about it?" he asked icily
"No, not at all," said Valjean. "I had just never thought of you as having a first name before."
"Well I was hardly likely to have been christened 'Inspector', was I?" Javert closed his eyes, wishing Soucher back more than ever. If a miracle had allowed him to survive, then surely a miracle would allow Valjean to disappear. The irony bit hard, that when Valjean was finally within his reach, there was nothing that Javert wanted more than for him to be several miles away, and they had still not worked out precisely why they kept crossing paths like this.
His respite from the world around him did not last long, however.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur! Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" The high, girlish shout was unmistakeable, and Javert could not decide whether to smile or grimace in reaction.
"Gélique!" Madame Renoit's scolding tone betrayed her quiet mortification with her daughter's behaviour. "Hush Gélique, this is a hospital, not a circus!"
Her mother's words had no effect whatsoever and Javert opened his eyes to see Angélique Renoit running down the ward towards him.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur!" she cried once more as she reached him, and Javert failed to suppress a hiss of pain as she threw her arms around him, flinging her weight against his injured chest.
"Bonjour Made'selle Renoit," he replied through gritted teeth. He looked over her head and saw Madame Renoit, Soucher and the sister hurrying towards them.
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, you saved me! You are a hero!" said Angélique dramatically. "How can I ever repay you?"
"You… can… get… off… me…" said Javert, his voice strained.
Angélique released her grip immediately.
"Pardon Monsieur," she apologised meekly, before tracing her delicate fingers over his bandages with a child's morbid fascination and cheerful disregard for propriety. Javert was nigh-on powerless to stop her, and cast a glance askance at Valjean, but the man had vanished. Javert's brow furrowed. Had he even been there at all, or was he becoming delirious thanks to his time in the Seine? The inspector shook his head as the others approached. Fate had brought them together so many times in the past that he was certain their paths would cross again in the future.
For now though, it was time to focus on the present. Whether he was a hero, as Angélique so vehemently believed, or a fool, as Soucher was convinced, Javert was alive, and he was thankful for it.
FIN
Note3: Well, I hope you enjoyed my happy ending! I certainly liked writing it.