Prince of Liars 4
The jailor had been well paid; he had unlocked the cell and allowed half a dozen vengeful young men-- armed with canes, and venom-- a private audience with Javert. He was the man they now deemed a symbol of the things they had risen against. A puppet who had sent spies, ordered arrests, and took pleasure in thwarting their purpose at every opportunity. The tables had finally turned, and they intended to repay their troubles, with interest.
"Good evening, Inspector". a youth bowed with feigned respect. A burning torch was propped in an iron brace on the wall so there was light enough to see. "I hear you have a solicitor now, to plea for you."
"I need no one to plea for me." Javert frowned, eyes narrowed in undisguised contempt. "Though I am moved by your interest."
The young men chortled and laughed, one of them pointing the figured hook of his cane at the prisoner.
"There'll be pleas enough when were done, mostly from you."
"That's rather a fancy coat for so black a buzzard". another quipped. "A trophy? From some poor fool who looked at you the wrong way?"
One of their number ripped Valjeans charity from the prisoner's shoulders and tossed it rudely aside.
"Take care, its only borrowed." Javert advised.
"Right you are, sir." promised the boy. "We wouldn't want to get blood on it."
The prisoner knew the sort of anger these young men harbored; a birthright of bullets and barricades left them no better than savages. He could have sworn these same faces had been among the dead, littering the streets when the smoke cleared. Impossible, of course-- those rebels would been buried and forgotten. It must merely be that their kind was closely cut of the same cloth.
"Who are you, then? My executioners?" Javert's voice was almost mocking, showing no hint of fear or even concern.
"Good heavens no, man!" the leader of the group smiled. "We aren't here to kill you, mercy no! That unparalleled delight is reserved for the powers that be. We are simply here to take our sport---- at your expense, of course."
"Think of us as ready to give a lesson, from what we've already learned." another winked.
"Street chattel--" Javert snorted. "How charming. Six little ruffians ready to take on a man in chains. Your courage is indeed worthy of note. Take your sport, then, and be on your way."
His disdain only served to spur them on. Javert would accept his fate at their hands with the unshakeable belief that the law would eventually triumph. The first blow, sudden and violent, was laid across his shins with a stout stick. The prisoner gasped as his legs knocked from under him. His arms jerked hard and painfully with his weight now fully and abruptly on the chain. The pain was so intense that his stomach heaved to no avail.
A youth stood behind him, and seized his damp shirt in both hands. The boy tore it viciously in two, and then from each arm, leaving tattered rags hanging from the prisoners waist. For a moment the assailants studied the bared torso by torchlight. Their victim was as lean and his flesh as unblemished as any of those present, excepting for the darkening bruises from the earlier brutality of his guards.
The figured ivory handle of the walking stick was again leveled, this time in line with the bruise on the victims ribs. Javert had clamped his mouth closed against the agony of the first blow, and clenched his teeth in preparation now for the next.
"That looks like a nasty one." the fellow with the cane observed. To prove his point, he jabbed the wound with his stick. Javert grimaced, and writhed, to the amusement of his tormentors. A second jab, harder, and then a third, caused Javert to lose resolve a moment and open his mouth to gasp for air.
Across his back and broad shoulders the rain of blows soon followed, laid on in angry welts and stripes by canes and sticks. Javert tensed, clenching his eyes with every strike, though he did not-- would not-- cry out. Already weak and exhausted, he was near to losing consciousness when the beating halted. It was not over; his tormentors simply wanted to give the man time to recover. It would not do to beat a man who was in a faint and unable to appreciate their efforts. It was also time enough to pass around the flask and enjoy success.
The visit seemed too short for them; for Javert, each moment was prolonged by the agony.
Jean Valjean was a man possessed, pursuing justice for his cause. Hours passed quickly, lost in filing papers and seeking audience. He and the magistrate finally met in an anteroom of his chambers.
"I've come about the prisoner, Inspector Javert."
"Not Inspector. Citizen Javert. He no longer holds official rank, I'm sure you understand."
Valjean nodded; he certainly understood, but knew full well the man in question would not, nor would he accept any judgment pronounced against him.
"It is a rather urgent matter I come about. I have been to see Citizen Javert, and find him in a severe state of exhaustion, with injuries in dire need of a physicians care."
"You have made this evaluation yourself, have you? What are your medical qualifications?"
"None, sir, but his condition is so grave that even a layman like myself can see it. He has been further abused by the guards, beyond the discipline ordered at trial. I hereby request his release, in order that he may receive medical attention."
"Valjean, you seem to be taking especial care with this creature's well-being. Owing to your prior record, and your numerous acts of kindness, I can only assume it is as a result of your reform. But this is an exceptional case."
"Yes, sir. Which is why I have come forward with my request."
"The court cannot grant him pardon under any circumstances."
"Not a pardon, your honor-- but a temporary reprieve. He would remain under arrest and guarded at all times. Shackled if need be. But in his present situation, it is impossible to adequately treat him."
The magistrate eyed Valjean, as if taking measure of the man. Something about the fellow touched him, perhaps the earnest look in his eye or the lack of guile in his speech. The judge could not see, or know, the mysterious bond that had been forged between those men, anymore than either could explain it. Still, he was tempted to accept the convict's word, and provide him with those things requested.
"I like you, Valjean. You have suffered much, but have come out the better man for it-- perhaps the better man of us all. But I am afraid I cannot release the prisoner unless directly into your care, and yours alone. You would be wholly responsible for him, his attention and survival. Yes, survival, as there are many who wish him the most grievous harm. Under those conditions only, will I agree. You will essentially be his guardian, and keeper, and should the worst occur--- by that I mean should he manage to escape-- you will be held personally responsible, and will take his place in the dock."
Valjean did not give a moments pause to consider it.
"I accept the charge, your honor. I will assume full legal responsibility."
The magistrate took the paper to sign and looked at his visitor one last time.
"I do hope you know what youre getting yourself into."
The guard stood silent outside the cell, turned to stone by the sight. The torch had been left burning when the crowd of boys left, drunk with their victory. By this light, he could see the prisoner hanging limp in his chains. Not a sound, not a moan or a breath came from him. His half naked body was marked by angry stripes, his head was bowed, and face concealed by long black tangles of hair.
He must be dead-- a sacrifice left in the wake of the celebrants. It was not that the guard regretted having let them in, or collecting coins for the favor, or even that the prisoner was likely dead-- but he felt that perhaps he would be held responsible for any indiscretion. He couldn't very well tell his superiors it was suicide.
The soldier remained staring at Javert, half-hoping he would gasp or move-- then he would be able to walk away, assured of some shred of life. He never heard Valjean until the fellow was walking down the corridor toward him.
"Monsieur-- I am here to collect the prisoner Javert." Jean produced the paper as proof to that right. The guard looked at him sheepishly, and then instinctively stepped back. Valjean was momentarily confused by this behavior, and glanced briefly into the cell. Then he jerked his head back, once the gruesome sight registered in his mind.
"My God!" He seized the bars and pressed closer. "Javert!!" Now the convict's accusing glare turned to the jailor guard. "What happened here??"
"I had no choice, sir--- " The man lied, as he edged away. "There were six of them---"
Still clutching the orders for Javert's release, Valjean took the frightened sentinel by the front of his coat, and shook him.
"Six of who? What did they do? Answer me!"
A handful of coins spilled onto the stones as Valjean throttled the guilty party. When he realized the implication, the convict slammed the creature against the bars.
"The keys! If he's dead I swear youll get the same!"
Terrified, the fellow fumbled with his keys, handing them to Valjean and for his trouble was shoved aside. He paused only long enough to gather his money and then rushed away up the corridor, intending to keep himself well away from further harm.
Valjean unlocked the cell and threw the door open, stepping in a few paces. For a torturous moment he stopped and stared in horror. Was this indeed Javert? Dead? It wasn't possible.
Though not anxious to confirm his fear, the convict crossed the remaining distance slowly. Dread clutched him from within, strangling off his breath. The prisoner's body was a mass of welts and bruises. Closer now, he could hear the faint sound of weak breath.
"Javert?"
The man gasped, drawing sharply on the air when hearing the familiar voice. Slowly, he raised his head. Valjean's brow knit in worry at the sight; this ruthless predator was barely alive. He had blood on his lips, which trickled down his chin, and swollen bruises on his cheek. He could not even fully open his eyes.
"Valjean." he croaked hoarsely. "You're late."
There was a moment of silence as a welcome sense of relief filled Jean; not only was Javert still alive, but as caustic as ever.
"What happened here? Who did this?"
"I didn't get their names." Half of a wry smile twitched across the prisoners lips. "Students. Boys--- friends of yours?"
"I'm taking you out of here. The magistrate has signed the orders."
If he had not been so weakened by his ordeal, Citizen Javert would have visibly registered shock. Valjean reached for the manacles, trying three keys in the lock before he found the correct match. Javert's numb arms dropped limply, and he collapsed into Valjeans arms. Though this former Inspector was taller than his companion, supporting his slender frame was no great trial for the convict's strength. He cradled the injured man as gently as possible, as if he was Christ lowered from the cross. The prisoner grimaced and winced at any pressure on his wounds. Still, he did not object to Jean's help or make any attempt to stand on his own.
"Can you walk?" Valjean asked in innocence.
Javert groaned and looked through narrowed eyes at his savior.
"You will have to forgive me, but I am putting all my efforts into staying alive at the moment."
Somewhat clumsily, Valjean reached for the coat that had been tossed aside earlier. Supporting Javert with one arm, he plucked the clothing from the floor with the other. This was hastily wrapped around the invalid's body, and then with one sweep he lifted Javert in his arms like a child.
The man gasped aloud with the pain, clenching his eyes.
"Forgive me." the convict quickly whispered. He was greeted by an oddly amused expression from his charge.
"That's never been in my nature, Valjean. You of all men should know that." Javert rolled his head to the side, finding an anchor against Jean's shoulder. "But perhaps this once."
Fixed on his purpose, Valjean slipped from the cell and up the corridor without hesitation. 'Jean the jack' found this burden easy to bear. Whether from loss of blood, exhaustion or exposure, it seemed Javert was lapsing into delirium. His words started to lose all sensec, and his speech was beginning to slur.
"Death isn't so terrible.... Not like the poets and clerics say. Have you my notes?" He moaned against Jean's shoulder, not as much pained as pleased. "Porter, to the Prefect...."
The shamefaced guard asked no questions, and held wide the jail door to permit the pair to exit. Except for a last angry glare from Valjean, nothing further was exchanged. Up the stairs and at the end of another hall there would be a cab waiting.
Javert's breath, ragged but warm against his neck, assured Valjean that the man still lived, though he was possibly unconscious. It was some slight coughing and a weak chuckle that next attracted his attention as they ascended the steps. The dark voice that had been whispering to Javert proved a source of some secret humor.
".... a bride is carried into her prison, not out of it."
"Try to stay quiet, Inspector, and rest. You'll be well looked after now."