Chapter Two: The Cracked Vessel
A knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts, the sharp, no-nonsense rapping of knuckles against wood drawing him out of the black cloud of despair that had settled over his heart. He glanced up at the clock again. Considering the lateness of the hour, it was probably important. There were but one or two other officers at the station, and they rarely disturbed him any more than was absolutely necessary. He sat up, straightening his posture and pausing to adjust his cravat that he might be more presentable.
"You may enter."
The door swung open to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man in his mid to late fifties. He wore a dark green tailcoat over a waistcoat of golden silk brocade with gray trousers and a small gold chain about the collar. But the most striking feature of the gentleman was his graying hair that, in some places, seemed to shine with streaks of silver.
Momentarily paralyzed by the shock of seeing the object of his distress again so soon, the inspector suddenly stood, bowing, for once, out of genuine courtesy despite his unease. It was the first time he had seen the man in person since his recovery from the accident, and he wasn't entirely ready to face the consequences of his actions.
"Monsieur le Maire! I was…not expecting you."
A voice that certainly did not belong to Valjean answered. "Hello Monsieur Javert!"
The inspector glanced down, noticing for the first time the tiny head of blonde hair peeking out from behind the mayor's legs, and inexplicably felt himself relax. He nodded politely. "Mademoiselle Cosette."
The child giggled shyly, returning the gesture with an over exaggerated curtsey.
He returned his attention to the man before him. Although they had not openly discussed the implications of Javert's denial that he recognized the mayor as anyone other than the benevolent Madeleine, the former convict was not so foolish as to believe that the inspector did not know his true identity. Valjean's secret was no longer his own; moreover, if the Prefect ever got wind of the notion that Javert's suspicions had been correct and he had failed to act upon them, it was highly likely Valjean wouldn't be the only one sentenced to Toulon. At the mere thought of returning to that place on the opposite side of the bars—the side he'd been born on—Javert felt his stomach lurch. That he, Javert, should be a criminal—the thing that he abhorred the most, the thing he had always feared he would become, that society had claimed he would always be—was more than he could bear. And yet…was that not what he was? By choosing to release a man who rightfully belonged to the law, he had effectively signed his own arrest warrant, and regardless of whether or not he was caught, he would forever have to live with the shame and guilt of knowing that everyone who had told him that he could not escape his parents' fate—that a gypsy could never be an honest man—was right. He staggered under the weight of the revelation, latching on to the desk for support.
He suddenly felt violently ill….
Cosette frowned. "Are you alright, monsieur? You don't look well."
"I'm fine," he snapped. He took a few slow, deep breaths to disentangle the knots forming in his stomach. "What did you want?" he asked Valjean, his tone suddenly much colder than before.
It did not matter that he was the mayor. Javert had decided that he could not hate the man who had saved his life because of his former crimes…but at the moment he hated him for a different reason—for reminding him of who and what he was.
The ex-convict removed his hat, a gesture that only served to further fuel Javert's anger—not at the mayor, but at himself. Ordinarily, a higher-ranking official did not humble himself so in the presence of an inferior. It was a sign of respect—one that Valjean knew Javert would correctly interpret as the mayor's way of saying that he recognized the power the inspector held over him despite their official roles and that he would not abuse his title or his second chance.
"I just wanted to stop by and personally thank you," he said. "I realize that in assisting my recovery, you went far above and beyond what your duty required of you." He was careful to word his sentences in such a way that a passing listener would have no cause to doubt that the officer's integrity was still intact. "I know that I placed you in a rather difficult predicament—though that was not my intent—but I am very grateful. If there is every anything I can do for you…."
Javert straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and turning away from the mayor. He closed his eyes. "Dismiss me."
"I…I beg your pardon?"
Javert sighed. "You asked if there was anything you could do to repay my…my kindness," he sneered. "I request that you dismiss me."
"But why?"
He whirled to face him. "You know WHY!" he roared.
A tiny gasp drew his attention, and his eyes flickered down to the small girl who had retreated back behind her father's legs. When he spoke again, he had lowered his voice to barely a whisper.
"I have disgraced the uniform," he said quietly. "I no longer deserve to wear it." He gazed at him levelly, aware that the other man understood the necessity of being cryptic. "I have made what some would consider an error in judgment…one that I cannot undo. I do not ask you to correct that judgment…only to understand that someone must pay the price for the injustice that was done. So I ask that you dismiss me…or at the very least send me away. But I cannot continue in this…this farce!"
"And what charges would you have me bring against you, Javert? How could I publicly dismiss the man who saved my life?"
"After you saved mine," he reminded him bitterly.
A blonde head peeked out from behind the gray trousers. "You're going away?" she asked sadly.
"Yes."
"No," countered Valjean.
Javert sent him a withering glare. "It's difficult to explain."
Cosette approached the desk. "But you can't leave! You said you'd come visit!" She frowned. "You promised!"
"Cosette…" he started.
She kicked distractedly at a pebble on the floor. "That's what Maman said, too." She crossed her arms. "She said she'd come back and get me, but she never did. She just left." She looked down. "Everybody always leaves…."
Perhaps it was the tiny seed of guilt in the pit of his stomach that reminded him of his part in her mother's demise—so many women lied about having a family or children, how was he to know she had been telling him the truth? Or perhaps it was the memory of his own mother disappearing, leaving him behind with a similar promise as she vanished into the night, the fear of being a child alone in the world, in the dark. Perhaps it was simply the look in her eyes—eyes so much like Fantine's—the pleading, imploring desperation of one who was trusting him with her very soul. Whatever the reason, Javert knew in that moment that he could not leave.
He could not run from this mistake…but neither could he turn himself in. For to ruin himself was to ruin Valjean…and that, in turn, would ruin Cosette. And to carelessly condemn the soul of a child would be a far greater sin even in his mind than to live on in freedom with the knowledge of his crime. Perhaps, in a way, this was his punishment—this anguish, this torture of being aware of his misdeeds and unable to act upon it was nearly unbearable. But bear it he would, and bear it he must…for there was no other way that he could see. A coward ran. A just man did not sentence the innocent along with the guilty. There was no other option but to accept the lot that he'd been given and make the most of it.
He sighed heavily. "Very well, monsieur," he addressed Valjean. "Since you will neither dismiss me nor allow me to transfer elsewhere, I will continue in my position here to the best of my abilities."
Cosette perked up.
"I will not remind you of my…error…nor speak of what is past. BUT," he looked pointedly at Valjean, "should a similar situation arise, I can promise you that I will not fail in my duty again."
"Of course," Mayor Madeleine nodded. "I would expect nothing less." He replaced the hat upon his head. "Good night, Inspector."
He offered his hand. It was a gesture of friendship and goodwill, a peace offering of sorts…and yet Javert could not accept it. To do so would put them on the same level; they would be neither mayor and subordinate nor officer and convict, neither French and gypsy nor Roma and gadje—simply two ordinary men, equal in all respects. And although he was uncertain as to which one of them was the inferior of the two, Javert knew that they would never be equals.
He pretended not to notice the gesture and opted for another polite bow instead. "Monsieur le Maire."
Valjean retracted the hand with a slight frown but did not press the issue. "Come, Cosette," he said, reaching for his daughter. "We must leave the inspector to his work."
Cosette wrapped a tiny hand around his fingers and followed him out the door, pausing to look back over her shoulder only once. When she caught Javert watching her, she smiled.
Javert did not smile back.
Trust did not come easily to the inspector. From the very beginning, he'd been taught not to trust anyone or anything besides the law, and now even that had failed him, his one constant anchor cast aside as he drifted farther and farther away from everything he'd ever known…. And yet Fate, it seemed, with her invisible hand—for he dared not refer to that omniscient Being as God—was forcing him to trust Valjean. Their secrets were entwined, and while he did not think it likely that the mayor would be foolish enough to divulge any information that could potentially get himself caught, he did not like the feeling of knowing that another man held his future in his hands. No, Javert did not trust easily at all…but now he was trusting Valjean with his life. He had no other choice.
xxxx
Cosette was silent most of the way home. Inspector Javert was an enigma in her young mind. While she counted him as a friend, the tough outer shell she'd thought she'd broken through had reappeared again tonight. As before, he had been relatively civil but distant and stern. She wondered whether perhaps she had done something to upset him; at one point, he had certainly seemed angry about something. But he was not leaving, so whatever it was that had happened, he must not have been too upset about it. She frowned.
The dark-skinned, long-haired man was different from anyone she'd ever met. He had described himself as a "gypsy," and although Cosette didn't really know what that meant, she had overheard enough conversations during her time with the Thénardiers to know that the word was typically used in conjunction with a long string of curses and other foul words that made her cheeks burn even if she didn't fully understand them. She knew they were bad words because Madame had often screamed them at her when she was angry, and the first time she'd asked her Papa what they meant, he'd nearly fainted out of shock. She had been more careful after that, mentally taking note of words she did not understand but asking only about those she felt were "safe." Thus, Cosette was hesitant to ask her father what a gypsy was and why her new friend had called himself one. She knew it had something to do with the fact that he was darker than most men and that it was something he seemed ashamed of…but what she couldn't understand was why. Why did it matter if someone's skin was light or dark? If their hair was brown or blonde or black? While she admitted that his appearance had frightened her at first, his dark complexion was only half the reason; his lofty stature and piercing gaze alone would have been enough to make even a grown man quiver, regardless of his race.
There was something in that gaze that felt empty…almost sad. Those silver eyes were as hard as steel and cold as ice, his bushy brows knit together in such a way that he seemed to wear a perpetual scowl, giving the impression that he was always in foul mood wavering somewhere between righteous anger and a deep sort of melancholy that stemmed from self-loathing. She wondered if the man knew how to smile. She had seen a hint of one here and there, but even then it had been tinged with sadness, a small, slightly upward turn of the corner of the lips that more closely resembled a feral snarl than an actual expression of joy, as if he were hesitant to show that he was capable of feeling, afraid of being happy for too long.
When he spoke, it was in clipped tones, short replies that required as little effort on his behalf as possible. His voice was gruff and commanding, never soft and gentle like her Papa's. Even his best attempts to sound non-threatening still felt indifferent and cold.
He did not like to touch. While Papa held her hand and hugged her often and kissed her cheek as she fell asleep each night, the inspector had tolerated the crying child latching onto him with about as much comfort as he would have regarded a starving leech. But he had tolerated her—something neither of the Thénardiers would have done. And he had saved her Papa—something that by itself was enough to make him the sun, moon, and stars in her eyes. He was a good man—of that, she was sure. But he was not a loving man. And it was this contradiction that confused her the most.
"Cosette, you've been awfully quiet since our visit with the inspector." Valjean fumbled for the keys in his pocket. "Is everything alright?" He unlocked the door and motioned for her to go inside.
Cosette sighed. She was debating whether or not to ask him what a gypsy was when another question popped into her mind. "Papa, why is Monsieur Javert so angry all the time?"
Valjean blinked in surprise. Whatever question he had been expecting, it hadn't been that. "What do you mean?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. He just…never seems happy. Like he doesn't know how to be. Why is that?"
The older man was quiet for a moment, taking a seat on the couch that still bore the bloodstains from where he had lain injured while Javert had tended to his wounds. "Cosette, come here for a moment." He patted his leg. "I want to show you something."
The girl readily complied, climbing up onto the sofa and scooting herself closer until she had wriggled underneath one of his arms and was seated comfortably in his lap. She looked up at him expectantly.
Valjean smiled. "Do you see that lamp on the table, Cosette?" He inclined his head in the direction of the coffee table in front of them.
Cosette nodded.
"How long do you think it would it burn without any oil?"
The girl scrunched up her face in a frown. "Not very long. The oil is what keeps it burning, isn't it, Papa?"
"That's right, Cosette. Without a supply of oil, the wick would be burned up very quickly. You see, Cosette, the lamp cannot give off much light without a source of fuel to keep it going. Love is a bit like that. It's something that cannot be given away without the source having first been received. An empty oil lamp is capable of giving light, but it must be filled with oil before that potential can be realized. God is the source of the continuous flame of love that burns within our hearts, but He depends on us to temporarily feed the flame in others. For people who have received but little love in their life, it is hardly a wonder that their lamps no longer burn; it is not entirely their fault. Sometimes even when we do give love away, it is not enough. Sometimes the vessel has been cracked, and it seems as though it will never be full again—but God calls us to continuously try to refill it anyway. Do you understand?"
She nodded slowly. "I think so…." She frowned. "So…if someone's vessel is cracked…does that mean their heart is broken?"
Valjean considered her words. "I…suppose that's one way of looking at, yes."
She bit her lower lip, concerned. "Does it hurt?" she asked.
Her father frowned. "Does what hurt, Cosette?"
"Having a broken heart." She cocked her head. "When you break an arm or a leg, it hurts," she explained. "Is having a broken heart like that?
"In a way," he answered. "It's not the same kind of hurt, but it can cause a person to be in a lot of pain. I should know." He smiled gently. "I had one once."
"No wonder he's always so crabby," she mumbled.
Valjean chuckled softly.
Suddenly she looked up, hopeful. "But it can be fixed, right? I mean, yours was, wasn't it?"
"Only after many years of struggling with it, and only when I allowed it to be. Mending a heart is not like mending a sock, Cosette. It takes a lot of time, and sometimes the person may not allow anyone to do the mending because they have become so accustomed to living with that pain that they're afraid of what might happen if they let it go."
Cosette looked sad. "Monsieur Javert helped you when you were sick. Can't we do something to help him?"
"You are doing something, Cosette. By showing concern for him and being nice to him, you're being a good friend. But I'm afraid that's the most we can do. That and pray. The rest is up to him."
From that moment forward, Cosette came to accept Javert as he was under the impression that there was something fundamentally wrong with him, an illness of sorts that prevented him from loving—a malady which increased both her pity for him and her determination to help seal up the cracks and pour out her heart until his was full. If she had known just how long the road to his recovery would be, she might have hesitated. But she was young and optimistic and believed that he would thank her once he had been rescued from his plight. She did not understand that a drowning man who does not cry out may not want to be saved.
