CHAPTER FOUR
M'sieur
Fauchelevant, grey-haired patriarch, patron saint to every poor
person who came across his beneficent path, loving father,
prize-winning gardener, paragon of virtue and escaped convict was
staring.
The
rotund apple of a man bobbing before him with a paper clutched in one
over-sized perfumed hand seemed unaware of his victim's sudden dead
silence.
If
he had been the observant type he would have noticed a blank paleness
stealing across Fauchelevant's features. A kind of disbelieving
shock accompanied by a glassy stare that would have made the
smelliest dead cod proud.
"….one
would suppose that a poor fisherman would be able to pursue his
picturesque and romantic task without the indignity of state
official's bodies turning up in his path. Really, M. Fauchelevant!
I have a mind to write to the paper about this,,,'
Fauchelevant
nodded vaguely. "He must have already been mad…" he said.
"After all, he let me go." He nodded to the little man with the
air of one who has summed up matters quite to his satisfaction, and
walked briskly away.
xxxxx
Valjean
walked back to his house with a brisk, un-hurried stride. He even
hummed a little, something he had not done for many months. He took
the steps two at a time, surprised Cosette pretending to dust in the
hallway, and breezed through into the kitchen where he set about
gathering together vegetables for lunch.
Five
potatoes. –mmmhmmm- Two onions. –pompompom- three bunches of
oregano –diddlepom- and a couple of bright orange carrots.
It
was true then, he thought to himself calmly. It was all over.
Finally.
He
began to chop, the blade of the knife making an easy rhythmical noise
against the chopping board.
And
he wasn't distressed at all. Why should he be? Nothing to do with
him –Pompompom-
Pot.
Water. Vegetables.
More
chopping.
Nothing
at all to do with him. Just madness in the night and a bridge coming
together in the inexorable way these things have.
More
chopping.
Something
large and wet dropped onto the chopping board.
"Papa!"
Cosette… in the doorway. More chopping. Something else splashed on
the board. Was there a leak in the roof? "You're… crying!"
Ah.
That was it. Valjean half-turned and offered her a reassuring smile.
"It's nothing my dear. Just these onions."
Perhaps
it was something in his face, for Cosette nodded and left the room.
She didn't even pause to point out that the chopping board was
covered in the mutilated remains of five perfectly healthy potatoes.
xxxxxx
When
had it sunk in? Valjean didn't know. For a while, he'd tried to
believe that he was relieved. That he'd only been out looking for
the Inspector to end the horrible sense of apprehension hovering over
him like a flaming sword.
But
somehow his thoughts kept on returning to that
night.
And the idea of the Inspector disappearing from his doorstep to
reappear in the Seinne terrified him.
He
paced the floorboards that evening, up and down and up again, trying
to understand why he couldn't sleep for dreams of drowning bodies.
Trying to work out why the words 'public servant… irreproachable
record… Point au Change…' revolved in his head over and over
again.
Three
times he returned to bed, swearing that he had finished with it. No
more… I am free! Why argue?
Three
times he found himself on his feet again, pacing.
Why?
What could have driven the inspector from the house of the man he had
so relentlessly pursued and sent him tumbling towards the Seinne? How
did that happen?
Valjean
knew many people who were possible suicides. He knew a few more who
would do the world a great favour by taking a late-night stroll and
bath. But of all the people in France, the one man who was least
likely was surely Javert.
His
head hurt.
"Putain
de merde." Valjean realized he was grinding his teeth. "What the
hell were you thinking??" A small voice at the back of his head
pointed out nervously that it wasn't a fantastic idea to swear at
the Inspector. Another smaller voice added that it didn't think
Valjean should call Javert 'tu' either.
Valjean
ignored them. After spending more time chained to a bench in Toulon
than he cared to remember, he had become intimately acquainted with
his inner voices… his demons and his angels. He had never been able
to turn them off again, but sometimes…
Just
sometimes, they weren't worth listening to.
"Javert?"
He planted his feet and glared up at the ceiling. "What the bloody
hell were you thinking??"
He
never knew where it came from, but at that moment he saw in his minds
eye the thin shadow he'd fought so long to avoid. That rough
charcoal sketch, only half done by an artist in too much of a hurry,
eyes and chin the only details treated with care. The head seemed to
be turned in his direction, and suddenly Valjean knew that every
half-formed suspicion was true.
It
had been because of him.
Surprisingly,
his first reaction, the first feeling that chased after the shock was
pure fury. How dared Javert do this to him?? How dared
he shirk his responsibilities and leave all the guilt to fall on
Valjean's shoulders? The insufferable nerve
of the man!
He
had done it on purpose. Yes, Valjean could see it now. Javert was
sitting somewhere in hell - or possibly in heaven, he grudgingly
allowed – chuckling at the ultimate trick he'd played on his old
foe. The trump card that no one could beat.
"You
just had
to win, didn't you?" Valjean shouted furiously, not really caring
whether Cosette heard him or not. His voice had reverted to the old
burr, deserting his carefully polished accents for its home country.
"You had
to have the last laugh! Couldn't let me be, no, you had to go one
better and leave me with all the guilt! You calculating
bastard!"
Every
imprecation he knew, he flung Javert that night. Patiently and
methodically he covered the Inspector's parentage, occupation,
personal defects, and sexuality. His voice rose and fell again,
sometimes booming like the thunder and then hissing like an
over-excited teapot.
Finally
he stopped, his chest heaving madly. "Damn you, Javert." His
voice was reduced to a whisper. "Damn you." He slumped to the
floor, exhausted.
The
thought entered his mind that one day he would have to try to
remember what he had said so he could confess it to the priest. No
doubt his conscience would help… sometime after midnight for a
week.
It
was all the Inspector's fault, anyway.
In
the darkness of his room, Valjean was surprised to realize that he
really was angry. After everything he had done for the stupid big ….
– his mind bit it's tongue out of a sense of economy. No need to
bother the priest any more than he was already going to – it was
the height of ingratitude to then pass all the responsibility back
onto Valjean's shoulders while the Inspector swanned merrily off
into the afterlife!
Just
for once Valjean had been looking forward to ending it, finishing the
loose ends of his life and making good all his wrongs. He hadn't
wanted
to return to prison… but he had wanted peace. It had been a long
time since he had known peace.
And
Javert had to ruin it all. Instead of the knowledge that he had
finished his tasks, Valjean was going to be left with the guilt of
his pursuer's death on his conscience.
Valjean
snatched a half-empty cup off the floor and flung it at the wall. As
the murky brown liquid slowly dribbled down the whitewash, a thought
dawned on him, sudden and stunning in clarity.
"My
God. That's what I did to him!"
