A Near Miracle

Jean Valjean woke up with the distinct feeling that something was wrong.

The brief glimpse of the ceiling he got after first waking up and before shutting his eyes tightly in the hopes that he could manage to stay awake with his eyes closed while he waited for his body to get used to the idea that it was morning looked familiar so that could not be it.

His leg felt strange. It was not that it was in pain, no, but it was….odd.

And it was too quiet. It was too soft.

He was not going to figure this out lying down with his eyes closed even if no one appeared to be coming to wake him up. It was not something that really mattered, either, but the longer he lay there the more he kept thinking about it.

He pushed the blanket off of him and sat up. The blanket was better than he was used to.

This…was not the salle. It was no surprise that it was quiet since the room was much smaller and, instead of containing hundreds of planks, had just a few beds. Beds. There were beds here. He looked down. He was in a bed! It was surreal.

He should not be in here. Why was he here? He did not remember coming here. He was supposed to be in the cachot.

He took a deep breath and tried not to imagine what the guards would do to him when they found out that he was here. It was not his fault he was here, he was sure of that much, but they would not believe him.

There were other beds in the room and he looked carefully over at them. There were men in them. They might have been guards, it was difficult to say. But they were not prisoners, he knew that much, so they would react badly to his presence here.

He carefully placed one foot on the floor and then another. He had to get out of here. But where was he to go? Back to the cachot? How was he to get in? Surely someone would have noticed him missing! And how could he just obediently enter into that dungeon again? Could he…was it possible…was this a chance for escape? He did not know where he was but he was not in any part of the prison he had seen. This might be a good chance for that. He had decided not to escape again after the way each brief attempt burned away years of his life. If he hadn't escaped at all then Toulon would have long-since been just a bad memory.

He tried the doorknob and it was unlocked. Of course it would be unlocked. Only prisoners were not free to leave any room they wanted whenever they wanted to. He was a prisoner but he was not chained nor in any place that he knew.

He was half-way out the door when a sleepy voice made his heart stop.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Valjean turned around, uncertain of what to say. One of the formerly sleeping men had woken up and was peering blearily at him.

"I don't think the commissionaire will be very impressed if you don't put your uniform on," the man continued.

Valjean frowned. His uniform? The rags he always wore? He always wore them so there was no need to put anything on. He glanced down anyway and his eyes widened. He was not wearing what he had expected but rather some strange night clothes.

The man was looking a little more awake now and laughed. "I know you're eager to do your duty but you'll be much more effective if the convicts don't see you after you've first woken up."

Duty? Convicts? He said that as though Valjean was not a convict. What was going on? Was he asleep still? He was not being treated as a convict so, whatever was going on, it was best to accept it and not make this man realize his mistake. How could he not realize that Valjean was a convict, though? Dressed better or not, convicts looked nothing like normal people.

Valjean returned to the bed and looked around. He quickly spotted a guard's uniform and, with a quick look at the man to make sure that he wasn't doing anything wrong, he put it on. The man eyed him for a moment before turning away and stretching. So it would seem that he was expected to put on this guard's uniform. That was the last thing he had expected. It felt…wrong. Almost like a betrayal but of what he could not say.

Once he was clothed he went for the door again and this time nobody stopped him.

He wandered around for awhile looking for a way out or at least a place that was familiar and he finally found it. He should try to leave and he would soon but first he found his feet turning, almost without his consent, to the cachot. It was risky, he knew. He would likely be caught and put back there and punished for being out in the first place. But he was wearing a guard's uniform and that other man (that guard?) had not acted like he was a convict. What did this mean? What would he find in that cell?

It so happened that, though there were several different rooms down here, only one of them was occupied. Or rather, only one had been occupied the night before. It had been just as well that he was alone because he had had no desire to speak with anyone. Convicts in the cachot didn't always want to talk but there was nothing else to do. The light wasn't good enough to see much and there was no labor to distract. When there were others, they sometimes wanted to speak and wouldn't just shut their mouths no matter how resolutely he ignored them.

He didn't remember which cell he was looking for, having not been fully present when he was led to it, and so he looked into each of them. Finally, one of the cells contained a man.

The man was a stranger though he was not strange. He looked like any other convict, with the red smock and cap, and fierce scowl on his face. He had a dark and unruly beard and he was filthy. Could it be? It had been years since he had seen what he had looked like.

It could not be. He still did not know what he looked like now (he had more hair than he was used to on his head and far less on his chin) but it did not make sense. How could he be in two places at once? How could he suddenly not be himself? Would this other him or whoever it was, the owner of this body perhaps, know anything?

The man stared expectantly at Valjean. For his part, Valjean tried to figure out what to say. Was this a prisoner? Was this himself? Was it the guard that the other guard had taken him for earlier?

The man eventually rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose you came all the way down here just to stare at me."

"No," Valjean said, finding his voice at last. "I came to see if you were here."

"Of course I'd be here," the man said, annoyed. "Where else could I possibly be?"

Valjean had no answer for that.

"Who are you?" the man demanded. He was dressed as a guard and the people he had passed on his way down here did not think there was anything strange about him wandering around dressed like this so he really must be able to pass for one. Why would this man think otherwise? Guards came and went in prison so, even if he had never seen a guard that looked like Valjean did now, why would he ask who he was?

Valjean tilted his head. "Don't you know?"

The man shook his head. "I don't. Since that's my body right there and this," he gestured to himself, "clearly isn't then I'm assuming that you're me and you must be this convict."

There was no point in denying it. No one would believe it. Valjean himself could hardly believe it and he was the one living it. "And you still don't know who I am."

The man's scowl deepened. "It's too dark to read your number and I don't remember what number it was that was placed in here. 24-something-or-other."

The man thought of a number as his identity, as all the guards did. Valjean was not surprised and he was not going to give this man the means to call him that again, especially with their positions so reversed.

"Are you going to tell me who you are or not?" the man asked impatiently.

"No."

Why did he need to know Valjean's name? He would find out sooner or later and he would not give this guard any more power over him than he had to.

"Well I have no such shame," the man declared. "I am Javert and I am a guard at this prison. I don't expect anybody to believe me when I wear the skin of a convict but it is the truth and you know it as well as I do."

Valjean's eyes flashed. "It is not shame."

Javert's lip curled contemptuously, not even bothering to argue the point.

"What have you done?" Javert demanded.

Valjean drew back, surprised. "What have I done? What makes you think that I did anything?"

"You must have," Javert said matter-of-factly. "I know that I did not do it and, of the two of us, your situation is the one that has improved through this."

He did have a point except for the fact that Valjean had honestly had nothing to do with it. "I do not know that you had nothing to do with it."

"You must have," Javert said again. "Since I did not do it and you did of course you know that I am innocent."

Valjean wanted to argue but he could not find the words and so settled on a simple, "You are wrong."

Javert sighed. "Is that your way of saying that you will not tell me?"

"There is nothing to tell."

Another sigh. "Of course not. This is quite impossible, of course, but there is no point in denying the evidence. Perhaps this is a dream."

"I thought that, too, and already tried to wake myself up but it did not work," Valjean told him.

"As have I," Javert admitted. "But I do not think it means anything. In a dream why couldn't you feel pain? Why should causing your dream-self pain wake you up? That's actually not a very reliable test of being in a dream."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Javert shrugged. "Waiting to see if you wake up or not."

"That does not seem like it will be very reliable either. How long would you have to wait before you were sure?" Valjean asked.

Javert stroked his beard absently. "I suppose if we go to sleep and wake up again then we would be sure we were awake. If we were ourselves again, we wouldn't be sure if this was a dream, though."

Valjean stared at Javert, wondering whether to believe him. Valjean knew that he had nothing to do with it but did Javert not do anything either? Javert was a guard and they could not be trusted. He did not look like he could be trusted either, right now, no matter what he normally looked like.

He knew, vaguely, that that meant that normally he looked like he could not be trusted but he was a convict and so everybody knew that already.

"You will not get away with this," Javert said with quiet certainty.

"Get away with what?" Valjean asked. "I have done nothing."

"This will not last forever," Javert warned him.

"You do not know that," Valjean replied. "Unless you are admitting to knowing what happened."

"It cannot last forever," Javert said again. "You are a convict and I am a defender of the law. You belong in this cage and I belong outside of it making sure you stay there. It is an abomination that this has happened."

Valjean narrowed his eyes at him. It did not seem that way from where he was standing. "Do you even know what I did? Whether I am a murderer or a thief or a forger?"

"It does not matter," Javert said. "You broke the law and your crime was such that you were sent here. That is all I need to know."

Valjean might have protested that stealing one loaf of bread and breaking a windowpane was not nearly the same thing as killing a man in cold blood but he did not want to hear Javert say once more that it was all the same and this time to be able to use Valjean's history as an example.

Valjean turned around suddenly and began to walk away.

"What are you doing?" Javert demanded from behind him.

Valjean stopped but did not turn back to face him. "I'm leaving. It has been too many years since I was able to do that."

"You can't." Javert almost sounded agitated.

"Who will stop me?" Valjean asked. "I am a guard now."

"You're a convict!"

"What would you have me do?" Valjean demanded. "Just stay in Toulon and wait to be returned to that cell? Perhaps you think I should join you in there or even let you out. I wonder what your fellow guards would have to say about that."

"This won't last."

"You may be right," Valjean said, trying not to think about it. "So I should really get going and enjoy what time I have."

As he left, he heard Javert cursing in his voice and couldn't help wondering what Javert would do to him for this should he find a way to change them back.

The commissionaire stopped him as he was on his way out. He had been trying to look as casual and natural as he could considering the fact that that could probably be considered another escape and he was really not supposed to leave.

"Ah, Javert, are you going into town?" the commissionaire asked.

Valjean had seen him before, of course, having been in Toulon as long as he had but he had never spoken to the man and had no idea how to do that. How would Javert speak to him? He had no knowledge of the man except that he was a guard with no mercy or kindness in him and that he knew about as much of Valjean as Valjean knew of him. If Valjean had been asked only yesterday if he had ever seen Javert before he doubted he would be able to give a firm answer.

"I am," Valjean said, trying to sound as respectful as he could.

"You are supposed to watch over the prisoners in half an hour," the commissionaire told him.

Valjean dropped his eyes. "I know that. I am not feeling well, though, and so I should see a doctor."

The commissionaire frowned. "It is not like you to admit to being sick, Javert. Is it something serious?"

"I do not know," Valjean said simply. "But I do not think it would be a good idea for me to be on duty."

"Well, God knows that you've certainly earned a day off," the commissionaire mused. "Very well. I want you to go to bed early tonight and do not strain yourself. We shall see how you are feeling in the morning."

After he left, Valjean stood there frozen for a moment, scarcely able to believe his good luck. Good things never happened to him. He tried to think of the last good thing that ever had and was not able to recall. Perhaps it was that he had an older married sister who was willing to take him in after their parents had died but that had the bad luck of his parents dying so soon and it was just too much to think of Jeanne.

He looked around and nobody else was in sight. Even if they were it would not matter because the commissionaire himself had said that he could go! Everyone thought that he was Javert and Javert was not a prisoner.

He began to move towards the outside world, to freedom, but found that it was almost difficult for him to take the steps. He wanted it so much and it was burning inside of him so why was it so difficult? He shook himself of the useless feeling and forced himself forward.

The first ray of sunlight on his face was a blessed thing. It was strange that it should be so welcoming since he spent hours outside working in the hot sun on most days and it was never a good thing then unless it was keeping away the rain they had to work through or the chill. It burned his back and his face and the heat made the work unbearable. The lash made the ceasing of it even more so. He was well-used to the sun and always had been.

This felt different somehow.

He became suddenly aware that he was just standing in front of the prison stupidly. He did not want to have anyone come and ask questions of him even if they would never suspect the truth. He wanted to stay in sight of the prison even less.

His years in Toulon had meant that he was familiar with many parts of the town. He had worked in many different locations, whatever needed heavy labor, and had discovered other places during his vain attempts at freedom but he did not know how well he would remember that. He did not know that he would want to see those places again and be reminded of his failure now that he had finally succeeded.

Well, succeeded to a point. Who knew how long this would last? And to go back after having tasted freedom…he had been through that before. It was harder than simply staying. But how could he not take advantage of this rare and precious gift? He did not think himself capable of it.

He began to walk through town, still in that blue guard uniform. The townspeople looked indifferently at him. It was no different, really, from how they looked upon him when he was at work. But it was better than when they saw him after he had escaped.

When he escaped people went looking for him. Everyone, really. It was nothing to the people of Toulon if a convict got out and ran away but they were paid to care. It was one hundred francs for anyone who could return an escaped convict to prison, if he remembered correctly. One hundred francs was a lot of money. He couldn't even imagine that much though he had already earned more than that in his years here. It was not enough for the years of toil they had wrung out of him but to get all of that money in just one day just for finding a man and bringing him back to Toulon…

If there had been a prison in Faverolles then Valjean knew that he would have been hunting the convicts just as hard as the people of Toulon were. That did not ease the resentment he felt that every face was an enemy and even the ones who said they would help might still betray him. What use did they have for helping him? They risked much and received no reward at all, especially when there were one hundred francs to consider.

But now there was nothing. He could go where he liked and do what he liked and there would be no one even thinking of stopping him. He wanted to leave Toulon but he was not sure what good that would do. Did Javert have any money? Would he leave and then wake up one day back in Toulon with the real Javert miles away?

His feet turned along a path he did not recognize and he soon found himself outside of town and into the wilderness. He had often dreamed of disappearing here. The people might not be looking at him like he was a criminal or hunting him down but he had nothing to say to them and no desire to pretend to be Javert and speak to them. He had no desire to be near the ocean, either, but in Toulon there was only so far away that he could get.

He settled for exploring the forest. It was a good forest. The trees were nice and healthy though they could do with some pruning. The animals were visible and seemed healthy.

He kept fighting the urge to look around for people following him even though he knew that there was no need to be wary. Maybe the commissionaire would ask the doctor about Javert's supposed illness but what concern was that of Valjean's?

He didn't know how much time passed but his feet began to hurt. Perhaps he had been walking for a long time and perhaps Javert was just not used to walking long distances. It did not matter. He took note of the pain and, just as he would have in Toulon, continued through the pain. A little sore feet was hardly the worst injury he had to bear.

When he grew too hungry to ignore it, denied hunger being something he was well-used to even if this body wasn't, he found some sour apples and ate those. It was the best meal he could remember having. He wondered what he would have thought of it if he had not been fed bean soup and bread for years on end but it was what it was and the apples were magnificent. He wished that he had a gun so he could get some meat. Would he still be able to shoot after all these years? But that gun had been what had gotten him into so much trouble at his trial, hadn't it?

He was not charged with poaching and so he hadn't been able to understand why everyone kept talking about it.

He had no gun and if Javert did then he had not seen it, though he had been in a hurry to leave, so he made do with the apples.

He kept walking after that in spite of the way his feet were protesting. They would be fine. It was just walking.

When it got dark he walked a little more and then stopped. He made a fire. He had never dared to make a fire his previous escapes. He had never dared to sleep, either, even during that first one where he had been gone for two days! But no one would be looking for him. Even if the commissionaire or one of the other guards was missing him when he never came back what were they going to do? Javert was free to come and go as he pleased. Perhaps he would lose his job but what did that matter to Valjean? They would not fire a cannon and send the whole world out to find him. He could even sleep and not have to worry about anything more than any other man would.

Any other man. A guard was not any other man, he knew that, but it was closer than a convict could ever be. A man could quit being a guard but how did one quit the fact that they had slaved away in prison? If Valjean ran into anyone right now then it was okay. They could do nothing. They would do nothing. They might even be friendly.

He almost wished he had not been in such a hurry to get away from those people back in town but nothing in this world would impel him to go back.

He stared up at the stars. When was the last time he had seen the stars? It looked so peaceful.

It was perfect. It was warm and he was nearly full and there were stars. It was quiet, or at least there was no human noise or the familiar sounds of Toulon, and no one was chasing him. What more could he want?

He wasn't aware when he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke in the cachots. A quick hand across his face showed that he was himself again.

His peaceful mood shattered instantly. As he had known it would, that brief glimpse of freedom (sweeter than the other attempts and perhaps even going unpunished this time) made the return to Toulon a more horrifically hellish proposition than usual.

What did that mean? Why had it only lasted one day? Did it happen at all?

When he was released from the dungeon and permitted to work again, he sought out Javert. The guard was there but Valjean would have seen him many times in the past even if he had not remembered. Valjean was not certain that his name was Javert but if it was he would have probably heard that, too.

The only way to know was if Javert were to tell him.

But why would a guard admit to such humiliation to a convict? Why would he speak to him at all?

Indeed, Javert never glanced his way.