Jean Valjean was a man of minimal needs. He wanted nothing more in life than to feel his unfettered limbs push through loamy soil and coax to life all sorts of growth and mystery from Nature's earth. As if enticing him to rebel, Fate relished tossing glimpses of these desires and then wrenching them away like a child with a string of sweets. Repeated constantly, he had grown used to her predictable gameplay.
Nothing however, prepared Valjean for the perplexity that was Inspector Javert. This man never seemed beholden to such whims, charging forward through life as he saw fit. During their years together in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he never paid much attention to the presence of the Inspector, as he always kept himself distant from all inhabitants and pilgrims that sought his advice or patronage. However, this man kept a watchful eye on him, enough that their paths often crossed, evoking a sense of curiosity that sparked within Valjean. Like an accidental splash of water, something sprouted, something that had him observing Javert with the same apprehension of a scientist upon a new species.
Now, Valjean found himself resuming that exploration.
With the exchange and interplay he witnessed between Javert and Police Commissaire Lautrec, he realized he had minuscule twinge of envy for the ease of communication they shared: the kind that allowed playful banter and seriousness within the confines of the work environment. It was something that he never had the pleasure to participate in.
But if he was honest with himself, it wasn't something he purposely sought out.
He looked to his left at the unyielding profile of the Inspector, trying to connect the laughing face of minutes before with this model representation that he always assumed was Javert.
Instead, vague flashes supplanted themselves from the recesses of his memory and floated just out of reach.
A bowed head, his own incredulous laughter, and the knowledge that there was one person who knew him—
"So you had no idea that's what the Commissaire des Chioumes wanted?"
Flustered, Valjean kept up the pace, eyes forward. He waved in between them.
"I told you I didn't read it."
"Why not?"
Luckily, a bag of limbs in glasses interrupted and planted itself in front of the trio. He grinned at Cosette with a small, lopsided smile. Unlike before with the Police Commissaire, she did not hide, but instead showed off her doll to the over-sized boy. A grin burst upon his face.
"Ah, René!"
The boy hoisted himself up, reluctantly.
"Yes, what is it, sir?"
Eyes darting between the bland smile of the Inspector and the burly form of Valjean, René seemed as though he was being set up for some unpleasant task.
"Do you have an idea of homes for let for someone of means?"
Valjean's hand tightened around Cosette's and he shot Javert a glare. That wasn't something he had any right to disclose to strangers.
The Inspector ignored him completely.
"Like what?" René's shoulders loosened and his stance eased a little.
"Our man here needs a place to live; one suitable for a growing child."
Cosette had tugged her hand loose and was presently helping Catherine climb the wood panelling.
"Hmm, I might be able to dig up some information after I get done filing this paperwork on that Millet household robbery."
"How fast?"
"Even you know I can't predict that," snorted René, tapping his spotted face. "A day at most; check back tomorrow."
"So much for wishful thinking," sighed Javert. He tossed a glance towards Valjean, who was currently leashing in a terribly energetic Cosette. "I hope that you do not mind staying at the inn until we get the matter of your housing resolved."
Valjean frowned, chafing at the way everyone seemed to want to control his life. First, Javert evicted him from his own home and now? Now the man wanted to pick out his next place of residence. He lived a majority of his life living where others wanted him: Toulon, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Paris. It was intolerable; he paid his dues. Taking a fortifying breath between clenched teeth, he braced himself.
"I do not mind," granted Valjean, attempting to keep his tone even. "But as it is the matter of our housing, I would like to have a say in this process. I will be present."
"Did I ever say otherwise? There you go, jumping to conclusions as always."
Valjean rolled his shoulders and prepared to deliver a scathing retort, but René interrupted hastily.
"Come around eight the morning, sir, if that isn't too much trouble. The officers at that hour are only-half awake, so the noise and activity level is calmer than other times of the day."
Valjean nodded, cupping Cosette's bobbing head in an effort to calm both of them down before their noon repast.
Javert rolled his eyes at the bouncing child. "Thank you, René. Sometimes I swear you are the most valuable person on in this whole deplorable establishment."
He pushed his lip towards his nose as he considered something. Then he surveyed the empty corridor.
René tensed.
"I need a favour."
At this single declaration, the lad threw his overly large stained hands into the air and shook them.
"I knew it! I woke up this morning and said to myself, 'Oh, that Monsieur Javert is going to make me do him a favour, I just know it!' And my sister said I was being absurd, but here we are!"
Javert folded his arms. Immediately, René ceased his mid-air assault, hands plummeting to his sides.
"I'm not making you do anything. I just stated that I need a favour. It's up to you whether or not you want to fulfil that necessity for me."
René just huffed and blustered between his glasses, causing Valjean to reminiscence fondly about another time a man threw a fuss about something similar. His hand went to his collar and he tugged it a bit.
"Fine, what is it? You know you owe me one huge massive list of debts, like the kind that could send you to debtor's—WAIT, it better not—"
"Almanzo? Yes. I need you to pay him a visit," said Javert with an air of nonchalance.
"Holy hell, Javert! You know how much I hate going there! He's...I mean..." René's pallor became tinged with pink, and Valjean strategically positioned his hand to hide his mirth.
"Is there any secret to reigning in that guy?"
Javert cocked a brow, smug.
"Well, I take it you've never paid attention when we questioned him together, hmm?"
René blushed even further, until it seemed his very lenses would mist over. As if reading Valjean's thoughts, the boy pulled them from his face and began wiping them fervently.
"Yes I did, in a matter of fact. But I...there's no way I can do that!"
Javert laughed, the deep baritone wrangling two different reactions: bewilderment on behalf of Valjean, and exasperation from René.
"Are you sure that I could even obtain the information you desire?"
A large hand clamped upon René's shoulder, in that ancient custom of mentor to apprentice. Javert replied solemnly:
"I wouldn't send you there if it would be a waste of both of our time. I told Almanzo ahead of time that I might not make it on account of my caseload, and he understands to only leave a message for my proxy. And that is you."
René looked up at Javert's stern, yet strong expression, and nodded, "I won't let you down, sir."
"Thank you René. I need this information promptly, and it does me good to know I chose the right person."
He took a step back, and mused, "I guess I can start repayment of my debts to you now." He dug into his pocket, pulled a few sous and couple of francs and pressed them into the boy's hand. "Go buy yourself a coffee."
René pulled a face.
"Not at that cafe, I'm not!"
Like stray dogs, Javert deposited Valjean and Cosette at the inn, and left, disregarding any attempts of Valjean's to repay him. Valjean conferred with the ceiling again that night, before falling asleep from exhaustion.
Remembering the Inspector's penchant for preciseness, Valjean had arrived promptly ten minutes before eight, but it was for naught. The Inspector never showed. He felt relieved; though of what, he couldn't fathom. He felt relaxed and antsy; at peace, yet at a loss. It was as if two people were missing instead of one.
René, true to his word, had found some homes, and much to Valjean's surprise, most were tailored to his tastes: out of the main thoroughfares, secreted away in the great metropolis of Paris. Even more shocking was that every suggestion drawn up included a yard. He had never voiced this wish aloud.
The three of them spent the entire day, bundled in a hired conveyance together travelling to and from every home, each one more acceptable than the last. However, it wasn't until they turned upon the Rue du Babylon that Valjean felt something inexplicable. It had him leaning forward in his seat, as he took in the parcels of intricate gardens leading up to the house upon the Rue Plumet.
It was a modest summer-home, but it accommodated the adventurous spirit that had always inhabited Valjean. The stone work protected the dwelling in warm notes of sienna and French grey alongside its vine-clad comrades. The intricate iron gate stood sentinel upon the main thoroughfare, revealing everything and nothing. Valjean could feel its inert strength as he laid his cheek upon the reassuring metal, hands grasping the bars. An acre of riotous growth protected the two-story home with a multitude of shrubbery and trees, suiting Valjean's fondness for secrecy.
But most of all, he felt drawn to a masked door, one decorated with an overabundance of ivy, moss and the grasping tendrils clinging to the warping wood. During the walk-around, René showed no knowledge of its existence, and Valjean did not feel like disclosing his momentous find. Unlike most things he had, this was something was his and his alone.
So he rented this property and settled down with Cosette, in that early summer of 1824.
As human beings, we bestowed with a 'traveller's heart': that yearning to see what lies beyond the next task and what ventures lay in store for the oncoming sunrise. Whether it is continued introspection into a beloved friend, the conclusion to a hard day's work, or traversing well-worn paths, all life heeds that call. Because of this, we find comfort in our rituals: the melodic rush of water bathing porcelain, the gentle graze of bristles tingling the scalp, the stroke of sugar as it soothes its way down your throat. Nothing soothes or strengthens the adventurer's soul more than a well-tuned ritual.
And Jean Valjean was no different.
He and Cosette fell into a secure routine, waking every morning to a modest breakfast accompanied by open-hearted patter and honest listening. Though it happened less and less, Cosette would often ask afterwards if something needed sweeping or cleaning, to which Valjean would reply, "Play!"
Not to say that Cosette did not take up cleaning. If any wandering soul managed to walk the Rue de Plumet after noon's repast and look beyond the wrought iron gate, they could chance upon a memorable sight. An older gentleman, with dirty shirtsleeves pushed past brawny arms, would be working at a variety of outdoor chores: scrubbing shutters, wiping windows, or scouring the smooth paving stones. And like a playful stray, a gangly girl could be seen tagging alongside, adult-sized tool in hand as she helped him. While he lifted heavy stones, she swept them. When massive hands yanked out beds of weeds, nimble fingers plucked out spare dandelions. Sometimes the seeds would scatter, accompanied by notes of pure gaiety from the pair. Nothing is more endearing than beholding whimsy of youth and wisdom of age in perfect harmony!
Their afternoons were filled with a dual education for the lonely pair. Valjean taught Cosette necessary things such as her alphabet, writing, maths, and the journeys that lay beyond those strings of symbols. And perhaps, most importantly, Cosette learned how to be a child. She smiled and begged for stories, punished Valjean with little pouts, and ran about, unleashed upon his secluded world. And in turn, she educated him in how to be a father.
Sometimes, when she was too exhausted during the day, he would lay her down for a nap. Often, he would watch her sleep, her face soft in repose.
But on this particular day, something tar black and viscous, residing deep within his self, had begun to stir. All day, it stuck to his lungs, mangling his speech. It clogged his ears, censoring his understanding. It seized his limbs, muddled his thinking, and grappled with his heart.
Seeking the cleansing aura of the garden, he made his way outside, bathing in the calm breath of the dense foliage. They rustled and fanned him slightly: a welcome for their most frequent guest. However, it was the call of that secret door had him walking across vermouth grasses, cool beneath his bare feet.
Valjean opened the secret passage and beheld the tiny capillary that quietly beat within this nondescript piece of Paris. The path was pressed upon all sides by the slate bricks, overgrown with soft earthy moss. A swath of sky sliced through his vision with electric blues and lightning bright clouds. Delicate light shimmered upon the darkened cobbles, concealing shadow.
He bit his thumbnail.
Every day, he sought to taint Cosette by telling her stories from his past, but he felt disgusted with himself. When she asked for a story, he parried with a titillating fiction. When she asked about him, he did the same, stealing Monsieur Madeline's life for his own.
He sucked in a breath which quickly became entangled within his chest.
This cancerous need to inscribe, to convey, to disclose himself to another human being; such an indescribable desire! It was like returning to an additive vice, one that resided within his mind, whispering, insinuating:
You are Jean Valjean.
A convict.
Was it wrong to reside within rose-coloured deceit to spare a child entrusted to him? Or would it be better to drench her with the honest horror of his past?
Of course, his internal echo was the only answer he received.
He removed his foot from the threshold.
A dull murmur rose from the passage as he shut the gate, but it wasn't in a language that he could translate.
Later that week, Valjean and Cosette returned to the prescient, much to the anticipation of the spectators. Valjean even noticed some familiar faces, and much to his discomfort, some of them were civilians. Or worse.
He rushed up to the front desk sergeant, whom he didn't recognize. But strangely, the man already knew who he was.
"Ah! You're Jean Valjean! The infamous criminal Mayor! Ah, you're a regular rebel, aren't you?"
He continued to babble despite Valjean's hurried attempts to interject and obtain permission to see his parole officer. When the officer decided to bring Cosette into his rambles, Valjean directly aborted his process with a simple, "That's enough."
Upon seeing his criminal mask affixed to his normally bland features, the officer sputtered and promptly averted his eyes, screwing them to the desk. Blindly searching about for a pencil, his fumbling fingers knocked into one, sending it skittering across the marked wood. Snatching it up, he hastily scribbled out a pass and pointed Valjean down the corridor he had traced many times before.
Officer Baudot was sitting at his desk and as usual, he did not rise to greet Valjean when he entered the disordered office. Instead he opened his arms wide, as if lifting a wine cask and belted:
"Well, there's my main man! Welcome back!" He fell back into his chair.
"I have to say, did he get to you first?"
Valjean cocked his head, the closed door framing his confusion.
"With the news?" tried Baudot.
"What are you talking about?" asked Valjean.
"Ah, so that's how we roll around here, sprinkling information where we see fit, but not where it's required."
He chucked out a coarse laugh.
"Well, you see my friend, you have been ripped out from under my nose. You're no longer my man!"
Valjean started.
"You now belong to that scoundrel Javert," barked Baudot. "That man's always sniffing about for something more to do, I'm surprised he hasn't keeled over from work!" Angling his head upwards toward the ceiling, he mumbled something unintelligible.
Valjean's lips thinned. Cosette stilled her treatment of his wrinkly vest when he pulled her closer and pressed her against his hip.
"I see that you're as unhappy as I am," muttered Baudot. He tucked himself behind his hand and stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk, labelled Coypel in very smudged handwriting.
"How interesting."
His bristled brows hunched over narrowed eyes as he wrestled his thoughts. Once he was finished, he stuck his square face into his other hand and considered Valjean over the desk.
"Well, Monsieur Valjean, there really isn't much you or I could do here. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away and all that nonsense," he gestured madly to the air, as if swatting a plague of flies.
He blew a puff of air out the corner of his mouth. "Can't argue with the top, eh?"
He closed his eyes and chuckled softly to himself. When they reopened, however, they were transfigured, dark and blunting in their intensity.
"But if anything goes wrong with your new…officer, don't be afraid to come calling, you hear?" he stated.
"Thank you, and yes, I will," said Valjean, quietly. Head bowed he left, and walked down the darkening corridor. A few lamps were lit, but otherwise it was still gloomy, so he didn't see Javert when he passed by his office.
"So I take it you finally received the news?"
Valjean turned. Javert stood, one hand on the doorjamb, exposed with the single light of a candle, residing deep within his room. But he could voice only one single thought.
"Why?"
The Inspector shifted.
"You're not being articulate, Valjean. What exactly do you want to know?"
"Why did you do it?"
"Ah, so you think it's all about me, I'm touched."
"Javert," said Valjean, tugging at his ear. "Why exactly did my parole officer change?"
"So now you're demanding answers, when normally you would barrel through with your own conclusions."
Javert looked back into his office.
"Do you have the time?"
He then rested a shoulder against the dark wood of his half-open entrance.
"Will you stay a while?"
Valjean staggered back a few steps. Cosette followed his lead, hand gripping the loose ends of his shirt.
"I cannot." His throat was dry.
"It's late, and I have not hired a housekeeper yet, so I must stay with Cosette."
He swallowed. Fleetingly, Javert's throat mimicked the action.
"I see. Take care, Jean Valjean."
He walked away, fighting the magnetic pull to turn and inquire as to what Javert meant. An inebriating mix of apprehension and curiosity kept his limbs in forward motion, but deadened them. Each step further felt like Valjean was about to snap a tenuous thread of rubber, ready to recoil and strike.
Despite his determination to remove himself from the fearful presence of the Inspector, some beguiling siren's call insinuated itself around him, urging him to look back.
And he did: just a passing glance over his shoulder.
Javert had remained leaning against the doorway, his broad hands tucked under his arms. That single glance snapped their eyes together, with the force of well-honed trap. Salty sweat seeped into the cuts on Valjean's hands, incinerating them. He escaped, but not before the burn burrowed, beaten into the crevices of his body with every pulse of blood.
