Valjean did not know how long Javert had been gone, but he had returned in due time, slowly closing the door behind him. The young man was dressed in splendid uniform-gone was the greatcoat soiled with his blood, the thin boots, the shabby hat that had been cared for so carefully. Instead he stood as if he had grown several inches, a marvelous new greatcoat swirling about him in mysterious eddies, his hat and boots gleaming. Every button on the uniform glittered in the unremarkable light, as if they had been polished that very morning. They probably had been. The face of the Gypsy was still drawn, still ashen, and there were dark circles under his eyes that were rather worrying, but he looked far better than he had since Valjean's thwarted escape. For all these details, however, it was the insignia that had caught the attention of the convict as it gleamed heartlessly upon his chest-
"Captain of the Guard," Valjean exhaled in a wretched whisper. "But Monsieur Renaud-"
"Monsieur Renaud has been reassigned," Javert replied, once again catering to the obvious. His eyes were cold and steady as they gazed at Valjean, only the faintest flicker of inquiry betraying himself as a man. "Do not tire yourself with matters that do not concern you. You will rest, and you will eat."
Valjean glanced to Javert incredulously, only to have him nod at the end table near him. A dry section of bread had been deposited, a glass full of water. "Did you bring it to me?" he questioned vaguely, not able to reconcile the image of Javert in bright uniform carrying bread for a convict.
"Eat," Javert ordered briskly. It was as if he hadn't heard.
Valjean obeyed under that merciless stare, taking a small bite of the bread. It was like gnawing into a stone. He hesitated, unprepared, or unable to accept even this rudimentary kindness, like a dog that had been kicked too often and too well.
"Why feed me?" Valjean hazarded mildly. "You know that I cannot work-"
"Are you irrevocably stupid, Valjean?"
Valjean looked up to him, eyes wide. Javert had thought the expression at the insult, not considering that the convict had heard many and much worst insults in his time. He had not even realized the slip his tongue had made.
Valjean slowly shook his head in reply.
"Good," Javert stated. "You must build up your strength."
"For what purpose?" Valjean replied, irritated, his gaze locking with that of the phantom. "You, who do nothing without reason, have saved the life of a man whom you deem irredeemable. You consider that he is damned forever by his actions, and that nothing else can come from him but perfidy and lies-"
The mask of Javert had loosened briefly, and for an instant Valjean was struck by the expression in his eyes, honest and cold-but it was as if the floodgates had opened and nothing could stay him-
"-And yet you change the fate of a man who had accepted his fate," Valjean went on relentlessly, "you bring him into a place of protection and give him warmth, food, a roof over his head-for what purpose Javert? What exists in you save the cold hand of the Law? Was it the grace of the Law that has spared me? Or you?"
Javert tightened his jaw. "Justice is better served with you alive-"
"So you have saved me from death for a greater fall-"
"-24601, you broke the Law-"
Valjean paused for one terrible instant. When his voice came again, it was barely a whisper.
"Not only that, Javert, I broke your law."
At these penultimate, damning words, the dark eyes shattered all their defenses, the pain in them had deepened into an agony that he could never comprehend or express. For the first time, Valjean had been clearly granted a view into the heart of Javert and he thought he understood. He saw a boy that had been beaten. He saw himself in the reflection of that mirrored gaze, and thought that he knew the manner of this man, this man who was as good as he professed, and as misguided as he was certain.
Javert gazed at the convict, unable to tear his eyes away. Those eight horrific words professed the Law and himself to be separate, and his purpose to be a lie. Torn, confused, and desperate, he silently asked the convict the same question that had bound them on this journey-he knew not where.
Why did you not kill me, the dark eyes asked, helplessly, hopelessly, and Valjean knew only one answer, the answer that was true.
Because you are Javert.
Why did not leave me, the convict's wide brown gaze questioned, beyond pity, beyond anger, as the young man before him fought to keep his composure, a young boy in splendid uniform trying to deny so desperately that he had anything so human as a heart, anything so pedestrian as pain. The Gypsy struggled and he lost, and whilst his mind proclaimed each act committed in the name of Justice, those guileless dark eyes reflected the truth.
Because you are Valjean.
For another instant their gaze held.
It was Javert who looked away.