Javert takes thin pleasure in the puzzlement that breaks across the other man's face. Let Javert not be the only one cast adrift.
He thinks he does well in hiding his own surprise. Those were not the words he meant to say.
"The boy?"
"Gavroche." And why has Javert pretended all this time not to know the child's name, if only to himself? "Let me carry him to aid."
"Then take him yourself," he says when Valjean is slow to answer, "Where is your vaulted charity now, while that lad lies bleeding?"
The barb hit homes. Valjean winces and turns away his face. "I cannot. There is another I am pledged to bring home if God allows it."
Javert laughs.
It is terrible to his own ears, but how can he not? Valjean, man of mercy. So very merciful he would allow a little child to die while he busies rescuing another. Javert does not know how the man can stand it, these choices made murky and treacherous. The law offers clarity, but only when it comes to who and how to punish.
There are no rules for this, or at least none that Javert knows. So he makes his own choice in haste. He does not dwell. He acts, and hopes that God will forgive him for it.
He returns to the cafe, and for once it is Valjean who follows at his heels.
There is an outcry when they appear together. A dozen guns turn to point their way, and Javert does not hesitate to put high his hands. His pride has been left behind in the alley, a mangled thing brought low by kindness.
"Hold." They listen when Valjean speaks, though he is a stranger to them. Javert can make men cower and quake, but never has he been able to make them listen as this criminal does. "The Inspector has offered to do something no one else can."
They gather again in a little knot, whispering in terse tones while a chosen few stand guard at Javert's side. He does not try to listen. He can see the boy, and Gavroche...he is pale, those bright eyes closed, his lashes pale upon his sallow cheek.
Time is running short.
It is Courfeyrac who breaks away and approaches Javert.
(Another name he has pretended not to know. But he does know it, knows them all, and how could he not? He has knelt in the midst of them for many an hour, a knotted noose at his throat, and time is slow while a man waits to die. He knows their friendships, their rivalries. Knows the girls they have bedded, the games they have played, the love they hold for their mothers.
He knows who believes in the cause, who drinks in the night and watches another man with wistful eyes. He has watched them turn their faces to the sun, has watched them savor wine made sweeter for the knowledge it will be the last they taste.
And though they are fools one and all, it strikes Javert that he is no longer sure they deserve to die for it. One revelation piled atop another, and even his shoulders must soon buckle beneath such crushing weight. He is so weary, so very weary of it all.)
"Why?" Courfeyrac asks, and Gavroche's blood is a merry stain across his shirt.
Javert falters.
How can he explain what it is he saw in the boy's smile? Would they believe if he said he knew how it was, to be young and alone, how it made one prone to fly to the side of anyone who showed the least kindness? That a child may look wise but is still after all only a child, and to forget it is to do that child a most grievous harm?
"War is a man's game," he says instead to the dead man before him, "You lot have chosen your fate. But the boy...it is my duty as an officer to rescue a victim of kidnapping."
More muttering. The leader, Enjolras, shakes his head again and again. It is suggested that one of the students be given the boy to spirit away, but that plan fares no better than the last time it was brought to table. None will help a rebel...but who would dare turn away Javert?
"I can hardly do him harm," Javert reminds them.
Again Enjolras shakes his head. Javert wishes for his gun.
Courteyrac has not rejoined his comrades. Like Javert he does not listen closely, his eyes focused only on a narrow chest that lifts and falls with the most uneasy life. Quite suddenly he drops down beside Gavroche. Gathers him up, blankets and all, and stands with him cradled like a babe in arms.
He kisses the boy's forehead, and Javert looks away. He feels he has witnessed something holy, something not meant for his wolf's eyes.
"Take him," Courteyrac says, and makes Javert an offering of boney limbs and wild hair.
The boy weighs nothing. A wisp, and Javert despairs.
None protest. They have fallen silent, and when Javert steps forward they part before him. Enjolras stretches out a hand as they pass, resting it briefly on Gavroche's shoulder before he too turns aside.
Valjean walks with Javert into the alley and goes to work dismantling the blockade. He looks to Javert when it is done, and there is an apology in his eyes. That he should leave this to another, that he should not be so noble as he strives to pretend.
Javert looks upon a face as familiar as his own. Just a man after all. No better than any other, but scarcely any worse.
"We will meet again soon," Javert tells him.
It is not a threat. Not a promise. The time for that is done. It is only the way of things, and Javert knows Valjean must be as weary as he. As ready to rest. They have grown old together, and the time is long past for their story to have its ending.
"Yes," Valjean says.
Javert hefts Gavroche higher and walks on.