Chapter IV
Javert did not answer for a long moment. He just stared back at Enjolras, wearing a face of stone. Then, he took a step closer to Enjolras, narrowing the already thin space between them. Javert opened his lips and began to speak, in a low, dangerous voice. "I want your knowledge."
Enjolras did not take his eyes of Javert. He did not respond.
Javert dropped his eyes from Enjolras as he reached into the pocket of his deep blue coat and pulled out an aged piece of parchment. Just from looking at the dusty, yellow color of this paper, Enjolras could see that it was very old. He watched as Javert unfolded it, revealing a portrait that someone had drawn in black ink. The picture was of a man's face. Who ever drew this picture must have spent a lot of time doing it because the picture was in such perfect detail that it appeared almost lifelike. Enjolras stared down at the parchment, the image on it meaning nothing to him. The man in the drawling had a face that was carved out of stone, hard, cold, hateful, but much of it was covered by a long, shaggy beard, and his head had no hair upon it. Enjolras had never seen this man before.
Looking for an answer, Enjolras looked up at the writing above the image. "Wanted." This must have been a criminal. Then he looked down at the inscription below the picture. "1000 francs to any man that can provide the authorities with information regarding the whereabouts of this escaped convict. 3000 francs to any man that returns this convict to the prison. But beware to any who may attempt to approach this very crafty and highly dangerous man." Below this, in a smaller script, it read: "Prisoner number 24601. Jean Valjean."
As soon as he had unfolded the paper and turned it so Enjolras could see it, Javert had fixed his eyes upon him and had not taken them off of him ever since. He stared at Enjolras, as if studying every hint of an emotion that crossed his face, as if trying to read his thoughts, as if seeking out the truth. "You know this man," Javert said, his voice hard and emotionless.
Enjolras looked up from the image to meet Javert's eyes. "No, I don't," he answered honestly. "I haven't seen this man in my life. I don't know who he is."
Sudden anger flashed through Javert's face. "Liar."
Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "I'm not lying," he answered flatly. And he wasn't.
Javert scolded. "Then let me tell you that this man was at the barricade with you."
This really caught Enjolras by surprise, and he found himself looking back down at the picture, straining his mind to try to match that face with someone he had seen at the barricade. He couldn't. The man in the drawling looked so dark, so hateful, so terrible. He was sure that if he had seen a man like this appear at the barricade, he would not have forgotten it.
Enjolras looked back at Javert. "I don't know this man," he repeated. "He was not at the barricade with us. You must be mistaking him for someone else."
This made Javert's face twist with anger. At the words "you must be mistaken," Javert suddenly took on the appearance of a dangerously furious animal, as if he could not tolerate to hear this revolutionary, a convict, a prisoner, and a murder, tell him, a great, honest, and noble, inspector, who had never once in his life broken the law, that he was wrong. "I am not mistaken," Javert spat.
But Enjolras was unyielding. "I do not know this man."
At his stubbornness and his nerve to refute him, Javert's anger began to rise even fiercer inside of him. "Perhaps, then, I should tell you some more about this man…"
"That would be grand idea, monsieur inspector."
Javert heard the dryness, the mockery, in Enjolras's voice and he could feel his patients being tried, pushed to the edge, and he would not hesitate to cross over it. He let out an angry breath and began, "This man's name is Jean Valjean; I don't know what he told you his name was, but whatever he said was a lie. He is a criminal and a dangerous man, who is running from the law. The man came to the barricade as a volunteer in French uniform. After he shot at some soldiers who were secretly surrounding your hideout, killing one of them before you and your men killed the rest of them, stealing these soldiers' lives in order to save yours, you agreed to give him the spy, who you expected him to execute."
As Javert spoke, Enjolras felt understanding slam him in the chest. At Javert's words "he came to the barricade as a volunteer in a French uniform," shock was the only thing Enjolras could process. He looked suddenly back at the drawling and stared at it for several moments, and tried to somehow match the cold, hateful face of the hideous man in the picture to the respectable, just face of the gentleman who had saved his life at the barricade. It took him several long moments of denial and doubting before some vague resemblance slowly began to evolve from the picture. This shock was almost greater than the first. The volunteer from the barricade, the man who had saved his life and then let their enemy go, this Jean Valjean, was a convict and the escaped prisoner of Javert.
Then, as Javert said, "you agreed to give him the spy, who you expected him to execute," Enjolras looked back up at Javert, staring at him with a new sort of horror. "The spy" was Javert. Enjolras had given this Valjean Javert, anticipating that he would be executed. But Javert was alive and standing before him. When Enjolras saw Javert's face, his innards froze. It was hideous, terrible, loathing, vengeful, murderous. For that one second, Enjolras was sure that Javert was going to kill him.
But Javert did not. He wanted to, and he would. But not until he first got what he wanted.
Enjolras looked at Javert, keeping his face as passive and indifferent as Javert's. "It is a pity that he let you go. If it had been my decision, I would have shot you."
Javert did not answer, but his eyes grew harsher. His anger brewed hotter, like metal so hot it has melted into liquid, and this liquid was being poured into an iron jar, rising within it, filling it, nearing the top, the point in which it would soon spill over, bringing horror and agony upon anyone it touched.
"I was not the only one who survived," Javert growled.
Enjolras raised his eyes, trying to keep an indifferent expression on his face. Another survivor? At the faint possibility that one of his friends might have also survived, a sudden burst of excitement and anticipation, a sudden flame of hope, was kindled within him. Maybe, Grantaire—no Grantaire was dead, but at the thought that he might see any one of the boys again, Enjolras's cold heart began in swell with longing and joy.
As he tried to keep a straight face, as he waited to hear the name, Enjolras felt certain that Javert was drawing this out on purpose just to torment him. It was only a few seconds but, to Enjolras, it was ages of anticipation.
"Valjean escaped."
Oh. Disappointment. Great disappointment fell upon him and, with it, the heavy burden of despair. Never seeing his friends again seemed even grimmer now that, for just that one moment, Enjolras was tricked into thinking that there was still hope. The pangs that stabbed Enjolras in the heart were bitter and cruel. For that moment, Enjolras felt that he was watching his friends die all over again, watching them slip out if his reach, watching as he lost them all. He missed them so much…
For the moment, Enjolras was lost in grief for his dead friends. He thought of little Gavroche, being killed without hesitation. He thought of Grantaire trying to protect him and getting shot for it. He though of his friends lying on the cold ground, side by side… They were all dead. How foolish Enjolras felt to think, for just a moment, that he might have seen them again.
Lost in his grief, Enjolras did not care about or consider Javert's claim of, "Valjean escaped." Enjolras's eyes fell upon the stone face of Javert, and he suddenly realized, with a start that a man would feel when he is suddenly jerked awake from sleep, that he was still in front of Javert, and, despite his grief for his lost friends, he would have to stay strong. Everything he said and did would determine his fait.
Trying to push his friends out of his head, and trying not to show the pain on his face, Enjolras straightened up to his full height and thought of Javert's words. "Valjean escaped." Escaped. That did not make any since at all. But not denying it, Javert had all but confirmed that, instead of killing him, Valjean had let him go. Yet, if Valjean escaped the barricade, that meant that Javert was still after him. This made no since. Why, then, did Valjean let Javert go if he was not a spy from the French, if he not made a deal to do this in exchange for his freedom, if, by doing so, he had condemned himself? Now, Javert would not rest until he found this prisoner 24601.
None of this made since. Enjolras stared at Javert, no emotion passing over his marble face. "He escaped?" Enjolras repeated, his voice indifferent. "And, you are still fixed on capturing him? That is a fine way to repay the man who spared your life."
Javert came forward at him so suddenly, that Enjolras was sure Javert was about to strike him again, but instead, anger like thunder in his voice, Javert roared, "Once a man has broken the law, he has fallen. Once a man has fallen, he cannot be redeemed. The law may be hard, but it is just. I am the law. I am justice. I will not allow myself flatter. I will not stumble. I will not fall. In God's name, I will continue to pursue justice and I will stop at nothing until I have found it, no matter the consequences."
Enjolras never looked away from Javert's eyes. He finished speaking and a room fell into a deep silent. Finally, Enjolras spoke in a low voice. "And you think I can help you find this man?"
Javert did not answer for a moment. He studied Enjolras with an intensity so hard, Enjolras wanted to look away. But he did not.
"Yes."
Enjolras shook his head. "Well, I can't. I don't know anything about this man. I don't know where the man has gone. I can't help you find him."
Javert's face did not change. "Maybe, that is true and, maybe, it is not."
Enjolras did not expect this. Javert agreed that maybe, Enjolras did not know anything about Valjean, and yet, he thought that the young revolutionary could still be of use to him? How?
"You may not know anything about Valjean or his whereabouts," Javert began. "But you can still help me, if you are willing. You, who led the revolution, who spent so much time analyzing the streets of Paris, looking for hiding places, escape routs, for the best places to attack, you who knows everyman involved with the rebellion, you who have seen Valjean and everything that he did at the barricade, if you tried to uncover Valjean's motives there, you would be able to."
"I don't know anything," Enjolras protested. "I can't help you."
He had barely finished these words when Javert's hand struck him across the face, hitting him right in the bruised jaw that Javert had struck with his club when Enjolras was arrested in the café.
"Yes, you can!" Javert snarled, pushing his face just inches in front of Enjolras's. Taking a slight step backwards, Javert drew a small leather book and a pen out of the pocket of his uniform.
Enjolras slowly turned his head back to look at Javert, a fresh wave of pain rolling through his head. He said nothing.
Javert opened the book and turned to a new page that had nothing written on it. "You can start by giving me a list of the names of every man who went to the barricade, then tell me all of their family members, where they live, and any connections they might have had to Valjean."
When Enjolras said nothing, Javert glanced up at him and added, "Let me see… You have already given me one name. Grantaire, was it?" Enjolras watched Javert neatly write Grantaire's name in the top corner of the page. "Now, if you could give me the names of anyone he had relations with, where he lived, and anything he did concerning Valjean."
Enjolras did not answer. He stared at Javert, not seeming to understand what Javert wanted him to say. At last he spoke, "You want me to turn in my friends and their families?"
Javert, frowning, looked up from his book to glare at Enjolras.
Enjolras, suddenly furious and disgusted, cried, "You think I'm just going to turn them over to you?! You think I'll just betray the friends who died for me?! You think they meant nothing to me?! You think I'll betray them just to save my own skins?! You think, for just a minuet, that I'll help you?!" Enjolras shook his head, glaring at Javert in disgust. "You murdered my friends!" he yelled. "I'll never help you!" Then he spat in Javert's face.
At once, Enjolras saw a flash of metal as Javert suddenly drew a something out of his pocket. It was a knife.
Javert slowly stepped towards Enjolras and let the cold blade of his knife rest upon Enjolras's throat. The look in Javert's eyes was like that of a wild beast before he devours his prey. He spoke in a low, dangerous tone, "You will help me. You will tell me everything you know. You will lead me to prisoner 24601. …Or I will make you regret that you ever dared to challenge the authority of the law."
Then a knock came at the metal door, and a moment later, it opened. The young guard that Javert had been speaking to had returned. Now, there was another man with him. It was a criminal.
There is a man who is like the metal caught between a hammer and an anvil. When the hammer falls again, and again, in time, it changes the iron, molding it into a new shape, making it hard and impenetrable.
This man is a slave that is constantly abused and beaten by his master. The first time the whip falls upon this man's back, he cries out and seeks pity. But pity is never shown to him. Instead, he only receives more lashes. In time, this man learns to hold back his cries and he remains silent. Not only does he hold back his cries, but he holds back all emotion. His face becomes a hard, exterior mask that reveals nothing of what is going on in his head. This man, who does not know the meaning of love because he had never known love, or because too much cruelty has caused him to forget it. This man becomes a man who knows but one thing: darkness. Wickedness, cruelty, evil. He becomes a man of hatred who hates the world for hating him. The man's body strengthens, as his heart hardens, and as his soul darkens.
This was the man that Enjolras saw standing before him. This was all of the prisoners who had been turned to stone by the darkness of these terrible prisons.
The man's head was shaved, like all the other prisoners, and only short bristles or wiry roots remained on his head. Ugly scars, which only could have been what was left from beatings from the police, could be seen etched across the man's head. His face was overgrown with a filthy, tangle of black hair, intermingled with dried clumps of dirt, ash, and blood. Every exposed part of the man's skin, his face, his hands, his neck, was smeared with black grease and dirt. His shirt hung low on his chest, revealing a shaggy mess of hair. The man's clothes were worn tattered, stained, and ripped. It was obvious that he had been wearing the same garments, unwashed, untended to, for years. His shirt was red, which meant that he was a prisoner for life. The man wore chains around his wrists and ankles, which rattled whenever he moved. There was a wood card attached to the chain around the man's and upon it, Enjolras read the numbers 4461.
"Inspector Javert," the young guard said, as he entered the room, bringing the convict in behind him.
Javert turned from Enjolras to face the guard. "Thank you," Javert said, with a curt nod to the guard, who bowed and reply and then left the room, but now before handing something, which Enjolras could not quite make out, to Javert.
Prisoner 4461 then met Javert's eyes. He bowed low, muttering in a voice so soft that it could barely be heard, "Inspector Javert…"
"4461," Javert addressed the prisoner.
Out of spite and hatred Enjolras muttered, "The man has a name."
This comment only earned him another blow to the face from Javert.
"4461, I am in need of your service," Javert said, continuing as I Enjolras had not interfered.
"Yes, Inspector," 4461 mumbled. His voice was thin and raspy, and, again, he could barely be heard when he spoke.
"If you carry out your orders well and without delay, twenty francs will be sent to the house of your family."
The man nodded, not looking up from the stone ground.
Enjolras looked at the man, and felt pity. There was no wondering why this man was what he had become. Being trapped in this prison, doomed to be away from his family for the rest of his life, this man was in a suffering worse than physical affliction. As Enjolras looked at this ruined man, he was glad that he did not have a family.
Javert turned back to Enjolras. "This is your last chance to do things the easy way. If you refuse to talk, then I will make you talk."
Enjolras looked at Javert for a moment longer. He seemed to be considering things in his head. Then he spoke. "I don't know this man, Jean Valjean. I don't know why he came to the barricade, and I don't know where he's gone." Then with, purely out of defiance, Enjolras spat, "And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you."
Javert's face did not change, as if this did not make a difference to him, as if he would get what he wanted one way or another. "Very well. 4461, I you please."
The prisoner, who until this moment, had continued to stare at the ground, glanced at Javert and gave a small nod. Then he went forward, approaching Enjolras. The man kept his gaze fixed on the ground, never once able to meet Enjolras's eyes.
The man must have done this type of "survive" for Javert on several occasions, because just from the words, "4461, if you please," he knew exactly what Javert was commanding him to do.
He started by unwinding the ropes around Enjolras's wrists, freeing his hands so that he could remove his red coat. The slight moment of the coat's fabric sliding across Enjolras's skin made his ribs burn like fire. Next, the man took off Enjolras's shirt, revealing that the entire right side of Enjolras's torso was blackened, swollen, and inflamed. The ugly bruises covering his body were black, purple, and red, and by the swelling bulge, it was obvious that they were filling with fluid.
Then the prisoner turned to Javert, he said nothing but the look on his face seemed to ask Javert, "Is this enough?" A quick shake of the head from Javert told the prisoner that his work was not done, and the man, never once looking at Enjolras's face, proceeded to remove his boots and then, the rest of his clothing. 4461 then used the rope to bind Enjolras to the pole in the middle of the room. After this was done, he retired and went to the corner of the room, staring at the floor, awaiting more orders from Javert.
Enjolras now stood in the middle of the room, his hands bond to the pole in front of him, so that his bare back was exposed to anyone behind him but his face was still doomed to look at Javert, who stood in front of him, nothing between him and Javert except for the metal pole, which he was bond to. Any boldness or pride Enjolras might have had left suddenly left him. Now, feeling very vulnerable and humiliated, it was all Enjolras cold do not to hang his head in shame as he felt Javert's terrible gaze penetrating him like a knife. It was difficult, but Enjolras forced himself to stare back into Javert's face, looking him in the eye.
"Have you anything you would like to reconsider before we begin?" Javert asked flatly.
"No."
"4461…"
Javert then held the object that the guard had handed him when he entered the room. Now, Enjolras could see that it was a long, flexible wooden bow, which was often used for beating prisoners. Without looking up from the ground, 4461 went to Javert, took the bow in his hands and silently moved across the room until he disappeared behind Enjolras.
Javert ordered, "Proceed."
A quick swooshing sound, which was abruptly cut off, and then the impact. Enjolras choked on the pain as the wooden rod cracked over his back. Pain spread across his back, burning like fire, but it was even worse on his already broken ribs. The impact of the blow seemed to have knocked all of the air from him. Enjolras had just managed to pull air back into his lungs, when the rod struck him again. Enjolras felt the same pain again… but this time it was even worse.
Prisoner number 4461 had been working in at the galleys for several years now. The terrible strenuous work that the prisoners were forced to do, had made him very strong and powerful. Ever time his swung the rod, driving into a prisoner's flesh, the impact was enough to make them scream with pain. That was why the inspectors had chosen him to be the one to punish other prisoners. The first time they offered him this job, he had refused, but then, when they offered his family money, what choice did he have? So when ever the police were trying to get something out of a prisoner who would not talk, twenty francs were sent home to 4461's family.
4461 was very strong. As all of the inspectors had come to understand, one strike from him would make a man cry out. Ten strikes would make a man scream. Twenty strikes would have a man begging for mercy. Not many men could endure more than thirty strikes from 4461. Sometimes it took several day and several beatings, but whenever 4461 struck a man, he would eventually give in and tell the police everything that they wanted to know.
Enjolras closed his jaws tightly together, biting down on his lip, tasting blood in his mouth, to keep himself from crying out in pain. After six strikes, his head began to spin and he could feel his limbs giving out, going limp. His fingers began to claw at the metal pole that his hands were bound to, and he leaned against it, trying to hold himself up.
Seven, eight, nine….
Enjolras's vision began to get burly.
Ten, eleven, twelve…
Enjolras felt cold sweat running down his body. He pinched his eyes shut and pressed his head against the cold metal bar in front of him, trying to keep a hold on himself.
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…
Pain chocked him, blinded him. Darkness was closing in over his eyes. He felt like there was a fierce ocean, a stormy sea, raging inside of his head. His chest caved in. He couldn't breath.
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…
He was going to pass out…
Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one…
Enjolras forced his eyes open and looked across the room in front of him. Javert was standing across the room watching him, his hands folded behind his back, his face blank of emotion, his cold, merciless eyes fixed on Enjolras. This was the same face Javert wore when he watched the prisoners suffer as the worked at the galleys.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…
Enjolras closed his eyes and slammed his head into the metal pole, gripping it so tightly with his fingers that they began to bleed. The sound of the bow slamming into his back began to echo through his head, and it sounded like guns going off somewhere in the distance. Guns. The battle. His dead friends… Enjolras watched his friends dying, again, before his eyes. Every time the bow cracked and the pain struck him, cutting through his body like a bullet, Enjolras imagined the bullets that pierce his friends and he saw each one of them drop dead.
First strike. Eponine.
Second strike. Jehan.
Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet.
Gavroche, Marius, Courfeyrac.
Joly, Combeferre…
….Grantaire….
Enjolras vaguely heard voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He opened his eyes. He watched the world spin for a moment, as if slowly came into focus. His hands were tied above his head, and his body was slumped, handing limply by his wrists. Pain pulsed through his body.
Panic, fear, and confusion took him at once as he suddenly realized where he was. Jolting back into full consciousness, Enjolras gripped the pole with his hands and tried to stand up.
Pain. It hit him so suddenly and so terribly that he almost passed out again. Enjolras tried to suppress the quiet sound of pain that escaped his lips as his legs gave out and he slumped limply against the pole. He heard a deep, cold voice say something from across the room. He raised his eyes and saw Javert.
What used to be Enjolras back, was now a red mess of raw, bleeding flesh. Thirty-seven strikes was the final number of time that Enjolras had been hit. He had passed out at number thirty-five.
This troubled Javert because Enjolras was already hurt, and it had taken this many blows to knock him out. But it troubled him even more because Enjolras never once cried out in pain. But what did it matter? Javert would make him talk soon enough. Enjolras was only a man, and a rather weak man, as far as Javert was concerned. It would not be long before he would not be able to bare it, and he would give in. Javert was certain of this.
"That is enough for now," Javert said to prisoner 4461. "Come with me and I will escort you back to your cell."
"My family gets twenty francs," Enjolras heard the man mutter from somewhere in the room.
"It will be sent to them in time," Javert answered brusquely. Javert turned his eyes to rest on Enjolras, and he added, "Move this man and tie him in front of the post, his hands behind his back."
More pain came as the prisoner untied the ropes around Enjolras's wrists. As soon as his hands were free from the pole and there was nothing to hold him up, Enjolras's body slid limply to the ground and he lied there motionlessly, panting as he breathed in deep breaths, breathing through the pain, his face down, his body pressed against the cold stone floor.
He felt the prisoner's strong hands grasp him under his arms and lift his body of the ground. Pain shot through him and Enjolras let out a quiet moan. The prisoner, still never looking at Enjolras, moved his body so that he was slumped in front of the pole, leaning against it. When the hard metal pole touched his raw back, Enjolras moaned again. The man then bound his hands behind his back, tying him to the pole. This whole time, the prisoner had been handling Enjolras with very gentle care, but even this hurt so bad that Enjolras did not notice.
Javert's back was now turned to these to men and he stood, like a statue, on the other side of the door way.
Enjolras stared, feeling in a daze, at Javert's back, wishing that the man would have shown up a second later, after him and Grantaire had been shot. Then they would have died standing side by side. But now he was here. Grantaire was dead. And Javert was going to torture him until he was dead…
Prisoner 4461 suddenly moved in front of Enjolras, kneeled down before him, and gently used his sleeve to wipe some blood off of Enjolras's lip.
Enjolras looked into the man's face, staring at him utterly lost and confused. For the first time, the man looked Enjolras in the eye, and Enjolras stared back into the pale, cold eyes before him. They were a grey oblivion, void of anything and everything. They were the eyes of a man who is no longer living. Eyes that would have better fit a corpse.
4461 opened his lips and, for the first and only time that every occurred, spoke to Enjolras. His voice was like his eyes, lacking everything. Emotionless, empty, dead.
"My children are starving. I had to do it."
Then, without another word, 446l rose to his feet, turned his back to Enjolras, went out the door, and was gone.