There were no lights in the houses that lined the Rue Plumet, bar one where two windows were still brightly lit. It was hours past midnight now; Mass was over, the goose had been eaten, the bûche had followed, and all revelers were asleep now, or perhaps dozing in front of a fire over a last bottle of wine in the final house.
It was so quiet that it seemed to Javert that they were the only people still awake in all of Paris. The snow was still falling heavily, swallowing all sound. When they reached the old gate, and Valjean opened it to lock it again behind them, Javert took hold of Valjean's hand. The large house was dark and silent, and he looked at it for a moment before he allowed Valjean to lead them away into the overgrown garden. The thickets of bushes and flowering vines and old, bowed trees that turned the garden in spring and summer into a magical grotto of verdant greens and fertile soil stood still and frozen. The snowfall had turned plants into bizarre statues of white, and the garden seemed to him a fantastical grotto out of a fairytale.
How strange to think that this was where he had stood sweating in the summer, hands and arms dirty with soil as he helped Valjean plant new roses. How strange that here, they had kissed in the autumn, the leaves red and gold and falling around them, like the life in his own veins that felt the slow approach of age. And yet Valjean had caused the sap in his veins to rise, and the gnarled wood of his heart to split. How strange that he had thought this organ in his chest dead wood when the roots had always run deep and true, and had needed little more than the sunshine of Valjean's smiles and the careful tending of his gardener's hands to coax forth that tender, green shoot.
And now, it was winter, and all that grew had fallen into a deep sleep, blanketed by snow. Yet the flower in his heart that Valjean had tended to so carefully bloomed still.
He slowed. Valjean stopped, to see what had made him hesitate, and Javert looked at him, then turned to take in the silent, frozen garden gleaming around them in the light of the moon and the stars. His breath escaped in white clouds. Valjean's head and shoulders were dusted with snow. Javert reached out to brush his fingertips against his cheek, then moved even closer, silently, slowly, as if any sound would destroy the frozen sanctity of their solitary garden.
Their lips met. Valjean's mouth was very warm, and Javert shivered gratefully against him, eyes wide open so that he would remember this forever: the two of them, the perfection of the frozen garden, the thrill of kissing Valjean here, with the snow reflecting the light of the moon so that even without a lantern there was light enough to see everything clearly. For a moment, the frozen garden became a secret, magical place; the world outside had ceased to exist, and what happened beyond the boundaries of the snow-covered walls that surrounded them was of no importance.
This was the kingdom of his heart. Here, amidst the snow and ice, they stood: living, breathing men, warmed by the flame in their hearts.
The aches and pains of a growing heart seemed a small price to pay now, for he could see very clearly that just as Valjean had gently coaxed forth what withered sentiment and capability for goodness had remained shriveled and dormant in his heart, so in turn was the sap than ran thick and warm through his veins now needed to keep Valjean from joining the sleep of trees and flowers here in the garden. Without the warmth of his own unskilled touch, would Valjean not have remained all alone here, baring himself gladly to the heart of winter to join the long sleep of all that was green and living? And when spring would arrive at last, and the first tentative rays of the sun would melt the heavy blanket of white – what chance would there have been for Valjean to wake from his dormancy, and to stretch with new energy, and to reach out for love like a flower reaches out for the sun?
Javert looked at a gnarled tree covered by a heavy burden of snow and knew his answer.
He took another kiss from Valjean as price for this thing that should not be, and which yet might have so easily come to pass.
Valjean indulged him, as he always did, and when he drew back, the lines around his eyes crinkled as Javert received another tender smile for his foolishness. But who of us is the fool, Javert thought with hopeless love. Aloud, he said, "One day there will be children running in this garden, and they will call you grand-père."
The smile vanished from Valjean's face. Instead, his expression was searching. Javert realized that there was no way to retrace his line of thought without sounding like a sentimental fool. Instead, he breathed deeply, and took Valjean's hand once more.
"I am just reminding you not to let the house and the garden fall into disuse too much," he said more gently, and Valjean stiffened a little.
Javert had never brought the topic up before. After all, Valjean's hut was more than adequate. It was twice as large as the small chamber he had rented. He needed little more than that bed they shared there, so often that force of habit now made his feet turn right rather than left when he left the station house to go home.
Home was Valjean.
And yet the way Valjean denied himself all comfort made no sense. Charity and humility Javert understood. They were concepts he fought with, often, but his heart, once woken from its long slumber, could not unsee all that was good and right, and he felt the consequences now in the pangs of pain that accompanied every decision.
But there was no goodness he could see in Valjean's reclusiveness. There was a perfectly good house here. It belonged to Cosette; well! What daughter would want her father to freeze during cold winter nights when the house stood right before him?
Doubt was still new to Javert. And as much as he gave way to Valjean in their frequent conversations about morality and goodness, he never gave in without long discussion. These were concepts that returned night after night to grapple with him, and for every night that he would wrestle a doubt into submission, it would return again the following night.
To fight his own conscience was wearying. And yet, there was always truth in all Valjean had to say, and so each and every day anew, Javert would wrestle with himself once more. It was wearying, but it was also to live, and in the end it only raised his esteem of Valjean, who must have fought a similar fight for so many years and had never, unlike Javert, sought the easy escape behind the rigid walls of cold law that knew neither doubt nor forgiveness.
Valjean was nearly always right. That was a truth that throbbed in Javert's heart, not unlike the sting when he had gripped a rose-stem too tightly when weeding in the spring.
But in this one thing, Valjean was wrong.
Javert knew it as well as Cosette, and maybe better than her, he thought, for she loved Valjean unconditionally, absolutely. Javert loved Valjean as well, but he had not led a life as she had, who trusted in Valjean's choices too much, as perhaps a daughter should.
Javert loved, but he did not trust Valjean to know what was best for him. Valjean would add wood to the fire if Javert joined him in the evening; Javert supposed that Valjean forgot to do so when he slept without Javert pressed to him beneath the blanket. For too long, Javert had ignored the empty house; for too long, he had deferred to Valjean's folly, had thought himself grateful to have his company, his touch alone, and had thought himself in no position to ask for things that were above him.
And yet, the thought that Valjean should suffer cold simply because Javert was suited to a sparse life of little amenities beyond the necessary – that could not be humility. No, Valjean had sought to teach Javert goodness; Javert now used that new knowledge to judge himself, and found himself selfish. It was not enough to spend his nights with Valjean to ensure that Valjean would keep a fire going. There was a perfectly fine house with empty rooms and beds and tables and fireplaces. If Valjean was so humble, then he should also realize that wastefulness was a sin as well.
Javert reached out and smoothed a thumb along a brow dusted with white. More gently now, he said, "It is becoming rather too cold for the idyllic hut. When was the last time Paris had so much snow? Let us make a large fire. I am always stiff with the cold now when I wake in the mornings."
The wariness in Valjean's eyes made way for guilt. "Javert, you should have said-"
Valjean looked helpless. Javert thought, let him wrestle with his own conscience, he who taught me this eternal fight with questions no man can answer. Aloud, he said, for he could not bear the thought of Valjean in pain even now, "It is not so bad. But it is getting colder, and I am getting older. And if I ache in the mornings, so must you. But let us talk tomorrow."
"Yes, let us," Valjean said, his gaze searching and unsettled. "Javert, did you – I promise, I did not think you were in discomfort-"
Javert quieted him with the brush of his lips against his cold cheek, solely for the pleasure to do this out here in the bright light of the moon. "Tomorrow," he said, and took Valjean's hand to lead him inside.
They quickly built a fire. It did not take long until warmth filled the small hut. Javert took note of how Valjean added more wood; perhaps it would be bearable, he thought, to ask for comfort, if that meant that Valjean would be the one to enjoy the same comfort free of guilt. Javert had certainly never dreamed of living in a large house, of having bedrooms, drawing-room, library and kitchen at his disposal; of a garden large enough to wander freely, with walls high enough to do so in privacy, and even now the thought of just demanding such a thing made him uncomfortable.
And then he looked at Valjean, whose cheeks were reddened from the warmth now after the cold, and whose hair curled damply with the melting snow. Valjean would choose to spend the remaining years of his life here in solitude and coldness if left the choice, when he had earned this house and the money that had been used to purchase it for his daughter with the work that had benefited not only Valjean, but saved an entire town from poverty for a few short years.
"Are you happy?" Javert asked softly, then looked startled. He had not meant to ask such a thing. He did not even know where the thought had come from. But now that it was said, he pressed on. "I would be happy anywhere with you. I would gladly suffer by your side through cold and hunger and deprivation; as long as I had your company, I would be happy. But there is no need now for suffering. M. Madeleine earned his fortune with honest work. And even though he gave half his fortune to the town, to the hospital and the school, he would still wear a warm cloak in winter, and dine on the food his housekeeper prepared him, and had a warm house where he could live in comfort."
Javert took a deep breath. He had looked forward to slipping beneath the covers to press himself to Valjean's body and rest there against him in the quiet hours of the morning, but now that these things had been said, he could not take them back.
"It is not charity to deny yourself without reason. No one benefits from your denial. The house is empty and cold and will only fall into disrepair. Your daughter wants you to use it. She would return the gift of this house to you if you would let her, but as you will not, you should at least cause her no more grief."
"Grief?" Valjean echoed softly.
Javert tilted his head. In the light of the fire, he could see that there was a gleam in Valjean's eyes.
"How do you think she would feel to see you like this?" Javert reached out to touch a damp strand of hair that clung to Valjean's brow. His eyes lingered for a moment on the cravat. Valjean had taken off his coat, and now Javert's fingers ached to reach out and undo the knot, and breathe his own adoration against his throat.
"You gave her the house and your entire fortune as a gift, because you wanted to see her happy. How would you feel had she returned all of that to you, or refused to make use of it?"
Javert shook his head, a little bewildered. He did not know how to phrase these things so they would make sense to Valjean. "I am out of place at the Gillenormand Réveillion, and yet I went. I accept a glass of champagne from someone I call Monsieur le Baron – I do not belong in that house and that company, and yet I go without protest, because it would cause you grief to sit next to your daughter and eat foie gras and goose stuffed with chestnuts and thirteen different desserts and know me alone and freezing in my small chamber. Do you see?"
Valjean slowly shook his head, clearly baffled. "No, I do not," he admitted after a moment. "Or perhaps I do. Javert, I'm not..." He fell silent, and Javert watched him try to gather his thoughts.
At last, very softly, he said, "Javert, whatever you might think, I am no martyr. You think too well of me now, as does Cosette. Perhaps that is only natural: I saved her from that place. I saved you from the Seine. But I am not a saint, nor was I ever truly that M. Madeleine who had all those things you listed. You of all people should know that."
"Yes, yes," Javert said, impatient now. "That was not your name, but everything else was true. I see it now: you were the same man then as you are now. You give, and it was only circumstance then that forced you to retain some comfort for yourself, for no one will do business with a mayor who chooses to freeze in a hovel in winter. Well then. Now you are the father of Madame la Baronne. You cannot reject your daughter's love, so this is who you are now. If you can give money to the hospital and the school, and yet live in your warm house in Montreuil, then you can also live here in this house that is waiting for you, in the warmth and the comfort you above all people deserve, and keep giving your coin to every gamin and beggar you encounter. Who benefits from denial now? The house is empty and unused. And I would go live with you in your apartment in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, if you would rather have that, but I have grown used to the garden, and I think you would miss it, too."
Valjean had been beautiful in the moonlight that had filled the frozen garden. Here, inside, in the light of the roaring fire, he looked older, worn in a way the gentle light of moon and stars had hidden from sight. Javert studied the lines around his eyes, the way the knuckles of his hand were still red from the cold when he reached out.
"I..." Valjean began, then fell silent again for a moment. When he continued at last, his voice was trembling a little. "I did not think it would cause pain to you or Cosette. But you know who I am. You of all people, who has seen me in chains, who knows that even now, I should be wearing the green cap, should not sleep safely here in my bed with you warm against my skin, but should shiver on a hard plank with the weight of iron oat my ankle – Oh, Javert, how can I pretend and go and live in that house as if I were the master of it? To go to that Réveillion and drink and smile and yet know that everyone who shakes my hand would back away in revulsion, were they to see me in the chaingang? Can you, who has seen Toulon, not also see that this, this small hut with its bed and its fireplace and its garden, is so much more already than I deserve?"
Javert made a sound of anguish. He did not know how, but he found himself pressed against Valjean without thought, could not even remember moving towards him, embracing him. Valjean's heart beat fast against his chest, his mouth was soft and warm as Javert pressed desperate kisses to it.
"Never, never!" he said, aching and groaning in dismay as he gripped Valjean's shirt so tightly that he feared it might tear. "Ah, good God, Valjean, I – no, no, never! I'd rather go and see you live with Cosette than remain in this cold hut, even though it would break my heart not to be- But here, you see, I am selfish; I am terrible still! Am I the one who is keeping you here with my greed for your love and your touch and your kisses? How can you think I can look at you and see-"
He choked at the very thought. To imagine Valjean thought him capable of such a thing! And worse, to imagine Valjean remembering that time, day in and day out, that time that should have never been, and telling himself that he deserved such torment rather than the love of his daughter and the comfort he had worked so hard for?
"If I could lift this burden from your shoulders, I would!" Javert said at last, and there was despair enough in his voice that Valjean cupped his face in his hands and held him so close that their breath mingled.
"You love me too much, Javert!" Valjean laughed, although the sound was sad. "And how strange to say such a thing, and mean it! Yet it is true. You love me too much, as does Cosette."
"Love is not earned, it is given!" Javert drew back a little then; Valjean's hand remained in his hair, pulled free a few strands from the ribbons that had held it bound back. Javert shook his head impatiently, then reached back to pull the ribbon free, the long, damp hair settling messily on his shoulders. "You gave me mercy and forgiveness, and I learned that such a gift cannot be denied. It can only to be accepted. And see, it is the same with love!"
He was agitated and flushed; he was embarrassed by the words that spilled free in a rush of overwhelmed emotion, loosened by the wine that even now warmed his limbs. But better to speak now and make a fool of himself than to think of Valjean remembering the chain and the shame he should never have suffered.
"We cannot love too much. We love."
Valjean looked at him for a long time in the light of the flickering fire. At last, he reached out, and buried his hand once more in Javert's hair. His eyes softened with affection. "And to think that you, Javert, are lecturing me now on love. No, do not make such a face. I am not mocking. Yet how strange the paths we have walked until God brought us here to this place, where we have each other!"