Les Hommes de la Miséricorde
(Men of Mercy)
A/N: Hello wonderful readers! Thank you again to all of you for continuing to read this story and giving me your feedback! I'm hoping you'll like this chapter as I'm a bit unsure how it turned out. But do enjoy, and please send me your thoughts!
Chapter 11: Truths and Conversations
Valjean folds his hands.
Then unfolds them.
Then folds them again.
He sits with Cosette on their favorite bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, a bag of petits fours from her favorite bakery open between them; they've been her favorite since childhood, and he thought having something to hold, something to chew, might make this easier.
He has no idea if he's doing the right thing, but knows now that he cannot keep his secrets from her, can no longer hide, not with the threat of the law on his back and chasing after Enjolras, not after Cosette accidentally saved Javert from throwing himself into the Seine, not with the potential that the boys suspect something…and certainly not with a possible proposal from Marius on the horizon.
It's been two days since Enjolras' fever broke, and the infection continues healing, though he's still very, very weak and the other boys have hardly left his bedside, including Marius, who's still very much on the mend himself. His usually near-empty house is full to bursting and despite the tension, despite the grief, it fills him with a sense of purpose; Cosette graciously offered to share her room with Madame Enjolras and Adrienne, Combeferre shares with Feuilly, Grantaire with Courfeyrac and Gavroche, and then Marius and Enjolras are in their own rooms. His house at Rue Plumet at least, has one more bedroom and a larger parlor, and if possible he's thinking of moving their location.
For the first time in memory, he jumps at the feeling of Cosette's hand on his shoulder.
"Papa?" she questions, her voice warm with concern, concern he fears she won't feel in just a few moments. "Are you alright? You don't seem yourself."
He hesitates.
"I'm alright," he replies, turning and taking both of her small hands in his, blood pulsing in his ears. "But I…I did bring you here to speak about something in particular."
"I thought as much," she answers, a smile tweaking her lips. "What with everything we have going on, I didn't think you simply fancied a walk. Though you've done stranger things." Her tone is teasing, but fond.
Memories of her falling asleep with her head in his lap on the carriage ride to Paris from Montfermeil wash over him, and he remembers.
"Will you be like a papa to me?"
"Yes Cosette, this is true. I'll be father and mother to you."
How was I to know at last, that happiness can come so fast. Something, suddenly, has begun…
"Papa?" she asks again, grasping his hands tighter.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, feeling tears gathering at the edges of his eyes and holding them back. "I…I came here to tell you the truth about me. About your mother. About you."
Cosette's eyes widen, a tentative eagerness filling her eyes, but she doesn't let go of his hands.
"You may not think of me in the same fashion," he tells her. "And for that, I wouldn't blame you."
"How on earth can you know that?" she asks gently, but firmly. "You have been my father and my family, and that won't change. I love you."
"I…" Valjean feels emotions swelling and expanding in his throat. He'd told himself he wouldn't do this, told himself he would remain strong for Cosette.
"It's okay Papa," Cosette says, warmth spreading through him as she speaks.
She knows how much he loves her.
"I came from a poor family," he begins, finally looking up to meet her eyes. "And my sister and I were left as orphans. Eventually my sister married and had seven children but was soon left a widow; I did my best to provide for her, did my best to put food in the mouths of my nieces and nephews, but much like now, life wasn't kind to people of our station. I was desperate, and I stole bread from the local baker. But someone heard the shattering of the glass, and I was arrested, given five years for my crime…"
"Five years!" she exclaims, indignant at the injustice. "That's…"
He raises a hand, a silent gesture to allow him to continue or he simply won't have the power. It's not the crime of stealing bread to feed his family that he's ashamed of, it's of who he became while he was in Toulon, of the hate he allowed to spread through his soul and take him over.
"I was angry," he continues. "And so I tried to escape multiple times and was given fourteen years more in the galleys for a total of nineteen until I was released on parole."
He looks up again and sees the tears forming in her eyes; there's no hate there yet, no disgust, but then, she doesn't know the worst of his crimes.
"When I was released I felt as if the world owed me something. I was hateful, Cosette, I was furious, and after many weeks of searching for work and being refused, a kindly bishop offered me his guest room for the night, gave me food, warmth, the first real bed I'd slept in for nineteen years." He stops, averting his eyes from her again. "In the middle of the night I awoke, and I…I stole the bishop's best silver."
There's a small, surprised intake of breath from Cosette, but she still doesn't let go of his hands. In fact, she only holds them tighter. She stays silent, knowing he needs to continue.
"The town police caught me and returned me to Bishop Myriel's home," he says, the memory fresh as ever in his mind's eye. "But instead of taking back his silver and sending me back to the galleys, the bishop…" he stops for moment, the man's face, the face that radiated kindness, all he can think of. "He told them he'd given the silver to me, reprimanded me for leaving the best behind, and they released me. He bid me to become an honest man."
But remember this, my brother. See in this some higher plan. You must use this precious silver to become an honest man. By the witness of the martyrs, by the passion and the blood, God has raised you out of darkness, I have bought your soul, for God…
"The candlesticks," Cosette whispers. "Those are from the bishop."
"Yes, Valjean says, squeezing her hands. "Yes. I knew I couldn't change my life while still on parole, there wasn't a chance the world would allow that. So I broke it, broke it and changed my name. And that's how I found myself in Montreuil sur Mer. It's how I met your mother. And how Inspector Javert found me again; he'd been one of the guards at Toulon."
Before Valjean even knows what's happening Cosette lets go of his hand and throws her arms around him, embracing him with all her might. He feels her tears dripping on his shirt, his heart contracting with shame.
"I'm so sorry to disappoint you," he says quietly, returning her embrace. "I'm so sorry."
"Disappoint me?" she asks, pulling back and looking directly in his eyes. "Papa, no. You are the most generous, thoughtful, selfless person I could have ever known. And this…you took injustices that were done to you, took your horrible plot in life and turned it into something good. How could I ever hate you for that?"
"You…you aren't angry with me?" he asks, unable to hide his shock.
"Only that you didn't tell me before, that you didn't trust me with this," she answers honestly. "Only that you thought I would hate you."
"I'm sorry," he says again, relief flooding through him so forcefully it's painful. Cosette doesn't despise him, doesn't want him instantly out of her life, he hasn't broken her heart…
"I only feared I would break your heart," he tells her.
"I know," she says, touching his cheek. "Inspector Javert, is he…is he the police officer I found by the bridge?"
"Yes," Valjean answers. "He's been on my trail since the day I broke parole, and when I was at the barricade he was there, and I freed him. I suspect that's what led him to the bridge. But I don't know what he'll do, now."
Cosette nods, apprehension in her eyes.
"You said…you said you would tell me about my mother?"
Valjean nods, sharp melancholy striking his heart when he thinks of Fantine, mixing with joy when he looks at Cosette and knowing how proud Fantine would be if she could see her daughter now.
Cosette is the best of his life.
"Fantine was one of the most selfless souls I've ever come across," he says, and now he knows he will be the strong one for Cosette, because it won't be an easy story for her to hear. "But the world…it was cruel to her."
"She left me," Cosette blurts out suddenly, a marked hurt in her voice. "She…why would she leave me with those people, with the Thenardiers?"
"She didn't know the sort of people they were," Valjean answers carefully. "If she had, she never would have left you there. And it was only meant to be temporary. I don't know the circumstance of why your father wasn't present, but he wasn't, and that left your mother completely alone. She hoped, I believe, to make enough money so she could bring you to live with her in better conditions than she herself lived in. She loved you, Cosette, more than I coherently express here in mere words."
Cosette nods again. "What…what happened to her?" She sounds once more like the timid child he'd first met, rather than the hopeful, confident young woman he now knows so well.
Valjean closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply and steeling himself.
"I was mayor of and owner of the women's factory she worked in," he begins. "I tried my best to provide living wages for my workers, but there was an incident one day, a disagreement between some of the women and your mother, and I asked my foreman to handle it. I left, and he fired her without my knowledge, without my knowing her circumstance, and I suspect now, that he was punishing her for some imagined slight. I found her again one night, amongst…"
He pauses, forcing the words forth. "Amongst the prostitutes, because she had no other choice. A man had attacked her, and Javert got involved in the situation. But I refused to let them take her to prison once she told me the story about what happened, about the factory, about you. She tried everything to send money to the Thenardiers to keep you, tried to earn money so she could have you with her, and she was willingly to do anything. She sold her hair, her teeth… She loved you Cosette, more than her own life. And I promised her I would take care of you, would make you happy. It's all she ever wanted."
Cosette starts crying again, harder this time, and Valjean pulls her to him, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her back; her tears, he suspects, are not out of anger at her mother, but out of empathy, out of the immense loss she feels at never having really known her, at hearing about the sacrifices she made.
"I love her," Cosette says quietly. "I've always loved her. I just didn't understand."
"I know," Valjean says. "I know."
They remain like that for several minutes, but there's so much left to say and they're so spent that they cannot articulate it just yet.
"Are we going to tell Marius these things?" she asks, pulling back. "Or the other boys?"
"Marius will need to know, in time, the truth about me," he replies. "And something tells me that the other boys already know something isn't quite right; when I rescued them from the barricade I ran into Javert and he let me go with your Marius. I don't know for certain, but I think Grantaire might have overheard our conversation, for lack of a better term. But if you agree, I shall need time to figure out how to approach that. And it is up to you if you wish to share the story of your mother. That I think, will take some time for you to process."
She hugs him again in silent agreement, and after a few moments they rise to leave. She links her arm through his and stays close on the walk home, caught up in her thoughts and he in his. When they're nearly there they stop to let a carriage pass, and Valjean notices yet another poster of Enjolras' face hanging nearby, two police officers standing in front. He can just makes out their voices, and he presses Cosette's arm, a silent request to stop walking.
"No sign of him yet, then?" the first officer asks.
"No," the second replies. "And we're still cleaning up the mess from all the barricades and people are furious at the bloodshed. Almost all the higher ups are out looking for any surviving leaders, but they think they're all dead, except for this one. He escaped, apparently, along with some others," he says, jabbing his thumb at the poster. "There were too many rebels to have proof to charge most of the remaining survivors, so they're focusing on finding the leaders, the ones who were already visibly vocal and causing trouble, whose names they know."
"I heard Inspector Javert's been put in charge of finding Enjolras," the other answers. "And with his perseverance…"
"That boy will almost certainly get caught," the second finishes. "I almost pity him."
Their voices fade and instead Valjean only hears the pounding of his own heart. Cosette looks at him, eyes widening.
"We have to move to the house in Rue Plumet," he says. "We have to move tonight. "
For once, it's quiet when Enjolras wakes. There's no murmur of conversation like there usually is, when every last one of his friends sits by his bedside.
"Well hello there O Sleeping One," Courfeyrac says, hand going almost unconsciously to Enjolras' arm as he helps him sit up.
"It's disturbingly quiet in here," Enjolras remarks. "I thought you were sitting with Marius?"
"I was," Courfeyrac says. "But you've been asleep for about three hours, and I wanted to come sit with you for a bit. Besides, I made Marius go to sleep, because from what his grandfather told me, he hardly slept while he was at home because he was too concerned about us, and really, we don't need another scare around here, you frightened us enough. And, besides it prevents him from fretting over where M. Fauchelevent and Cosette have gotten to."
"They're not here?" Enjolras asks, curious.
"Went out for a bit," Courfeyrac answers. "I think Marius is just interested to know the truth about M. Fauchelevent. We're all grateful to him of course, and whatever he's done he's redeemed himself, but knowing the truth will make it easier on everyone, I should think."
Enjolras nods. "I feel an inherent sense of trust toward him, but I'm still interested in knowing his motivations, myself. I feel we cannot be too careful in our circumstances," he answers, feeling an odd sort of kinship with the older man, mixed with the tiniest bit of trepidation. Enjolras doesn't know what sort of crime Fauchelevent committed, but the man does know what it's like to be a fugitive, and that's something to which Enjolras will have to adjust. "Where is everyone else?"
"Feuilly is keeping Gavroche occupied for a bit," Courfeyrac answers. "Grantaire is downstairs talking with Adrienne, your mother is down in the kitchen with Toussaint, who asked if there's a meal you might actually eat the entirety of…"
"I'm ill!" Enjolras exclaims in response to his friend's teasing. "Of course I'm not going to eat well."
"You hardly make time to eat in general," Courfeyrac argues good-naturedly. "But I suspect your mother will find a way to make you, she's as stubborn as you are."
"Where's Combeferre?" Enjolras asks.
"Ah, I sent him to bed," Courfeyrac says, rolling his eyes.
"You did?"
"Dragged him after forcing a glass of wine down his throat is more what I did," Courfeyrac replies. "Every other time I've tried he's snuck back in here to sit with you and obsessively check your fever, which has totaled about eight hours of sleep in an actual bed for the past two or three days. I told him not come back in here until he's slept for a solid three hours unless there's an emergency."
Enjolras shakes his head, smiling slightly. That's just like Combeferre, running himself ragged out of concern for someone else, out of concern for him. There are many instances in his memory of Combeferre putting food under his nose while he worked furiously on a pamphlet in the Musain and forgot to eat, and in turn he's forced Combeferre to put down his reading and go home to sleep.
"He probably won't sleep the full three hours," Enjolras says, knowing his friend.
"No," Courfeyrac admits. "But if he knows what's good for him he'll sleep at least two." He's quiet for a moment before speaking up again, looking serious, his familiar grin missing. "I need to speak to you about something."
"Of course," Enjolras says. "Is something wrong?"
He regrets his words almost instantly because what isn't wrong at the moment, but Courfeyrac knows what he means. The laughter of all their fellows in the café rings in his head, and he distinctly feels as if four parts of him are missing, parts that are shaped like Prouvaire, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly.
Bahorel's laughter, Jean Prouvaire's melancholy, Joly's science, and Bossuet's sarcasm…
"I spent some time with Grantaire when the doctor thought you might be lost," Courfeyrac says, drawing Enjolras back into the moment. "And he was distraught, Enjolras, I've never seen him that way before; just sobbing on my shoulder, all defenses down, all sarcasm gone. And even now that you've pulled through, he's still anxious. I was hoping maybe you could speak with him, reassure him."
"I've hardly seen him with any drink at all over the past few days," Enjolras says in reply. "Except for when M. Fauchelevent allows all of you to eat your meals up here with me."
"I found him drinking in the wine cellar the night we thought you might die," Courfeyrac answers. "But the only alcohol he's touched since is the wine at meals. I think he wants to make sure he's sober enough to do anything you should need, in case anything should happen. I know it might not make sense to you, but he worships the ground you walk on Enjolras."
Enjolras remembers awakening from his fever dream, remembers Grantaire calming him down, remembers Grantaire practically shielding him when the army general's carbine was pointed directly over his heart, remembers Grantaire's words when his fever broke two days ago.
We almost lost you, Enjolras. We've lost too much…we can't lose you too.
"I think I'm beginning to fully realize that," Enjolras says, looking up at Courfeyrac. "And I did always care about him, did consider him my friend even when he frustrated me. I wouldn't have allowed him in our most secret meetings, wouldn't have given him chance after chance if I didn't. I just…I don't understand him. I just want him to believe in something Courfeyrac, because I know he's capable of it, and I've seen sparks of that ever since the barricade fell."
"He believes in our friendship, and most of all he believes in you," Courfeyrac says, a soft smile returning to his lips. "And that's something my friend. It's a start."
"I suppose it is," Enjolras agrees. "But yes, I will speak to him. Thank you for telling me."
"You're welcome," Courfeyrac replies. "Also you should know…"
But whatever Courfeyrac was about to say is cut off by a series of noises; they hear the front door open hastily downstairs, hear footsteps walking swiftly down the hall, hear one of the guest room doors open, hear muffled words they can't quite make out, and then quite suddenly Combeferre is in the doorway.
"Courfeyrac sent you to sleep," Enjolras says, a reprimand in his tone. "You need sleep too, Combeferre, not just me…"
But Combeferre uncharacteristically cuts him off, albeit gently, and there's anxiety in his best friend's eyes that unnerves Enjolras.
"There's no time right now," he tells them. "M. Fauchelevent's just told me that we have to move to his house in the Rue Plumet tonight, as soon as darkness falls. Inspector Javert's been put on our case."
Enjolras' eyes widen slightly.
Spy, we are judges, not assassins…
The man he'd thought killed at the barricade.
The people will decide your fate Inspector Javert!
The man who'd accosted M. Fauchelevent outside the sewers after Fauchelevent had obviously given him back his life.
The law is inside out the world is upside down…
The man who'd then let Fauchelevent go free with Marius.
And the man who knows what every last one of them looks like.
