For those who do not wish to imagine in silence…

Epilogue

The Streets of Paris

It was a great pleasure to Javert to attend church with his wife. Since he had taken a house in the same quartièr as the Beaumonts they now all frequented the same church. To go to church with one's extended family was new to him and Javert had to admit it was a distraction from the act of worship. Philippe Beaumont was not as solemn as he ought to be and Camille and Constantin of course required attention and instruction. But these inconveniences were insignificant compared to the joy of walking into the house of God with Marion on his arm and seeing her seated beside him, all quiet attention and loveliness.

Perhaps it was as well that Philippe was careful not to let Javert hear him whenever he teased his sister:

"I declare, your husband is worse than papa. I feel obliged to sit up straight all through the mass and keep my head up for every sermon, because I am sure he would not scruple to chide me publicly if I were to fidget."

"Well," Marion smiled. "I am glad to have you with us still and at church we are all together, it is like old times."

"Like old times indeed," Philippe laughed. "Where I would get chided because I would fidget and you would get praised, even though you could no more repeat the sermon than I could."

A smile passed across Marion's lips that looked a lot more like Philippe's grin than her own usual sweet smile.

"You should have learned, like myself, how to be absent minded without being fidgety," she replied.

If Javert ever suspected that his wife's interest in the priest's words was not equal to his own, he certainly never doubted her devotion. She clearly took as much pleasure in being by his side in church as he did.

After mass, if the weather was fine, Marion usually persuaded Javert to take her to one of the public gardens. Sometimes they took a walk on the boulevard, occasionally they went to a museum, but they stayed away from the Champs Elysees. It's appearance on Sunday afternoons reminded Javert too much of a fair and the noise was odious to him.

One Sunday when the family made ready to return to their respective homes, where a luncheon would be waiting for them, Monsieur Beaumont asked Javert:

"And where will you and Madame Javert be off to this afternoon? Shall it be the Jardin des Plantes or the Jardin du Luxembourg today?"

"I believe it will be neither," Javert answered. "My wife has expressed a disinclination for taking the air today."

"You are newlyweds yet," Monsieur Beaumont smiled. "And the home must therefore possess equal charms to the outside world."

"Greater charms, I should say," Javert smiled back.

Marion came towards them with Camille and Constantin, followed by Luc and Louisa Beaumont.

"It is extraordinary to me," Marion said, breaking a rather long silence in the drawing room. "That artists are willing to publish a work of their own under another name. An artistic creating, close as it must be to a creator's heart, ought not to be denied it's parentage in such a way."

Javert listened to her reflections on the subject and after offering some of his own he added:

"Was it the formation of these thoughts that has kept you so quiet, ma chère?"

"No indeed," Marion smiled. "I did not feel quite well this morning, but I am much better now."

She glanced out of the window. It was remarkably fine weather for the time of year.

"Do you wish to go out after all?" Javert asked.

"No…" Marion said hesitantly. "I shall not insist upon it, not after wanting to stay in."

Javert smiled.

"I do not dislike our excursions, you know," he said. "I spend my working hours indoors nowadays, while most of my life I had been used to spend the on the streets. It makes it very agreeable for me to walk out with you."

Marion smiled happily.

"Then let's walk out, mon chéri," she said cheerfully. "Will you take me walking past the places where you used to work?"

They had done this once or twice before. Marion had always wished to see more of Paris than she usually had the opportunity to do and, as her husband, Javert might take her wherever he pleased. She also loved to hear him talk of what Javert knew she secretly thought of as his adventures. Javert's inclination for talking about himself was not equal to Marion's curiosity, but he was too fond of her to deny her anything she took such obvious pleasure in.

"I might show you the last place I worked," he replied. "I know you have long wished to see it."

Marion was surprised, she had never asked him to take her to the scene of the rebellion.

"I have," she confessed. "But I would not want to bring you where it is painful for you to be."

"If it is painful for me to walk those streets it is because of my own actions," Javert answered. "And I am not inclined to let my present actions be dictated by phantoms of the past."

Marion still looked concerned, but Javert smiled and asked:

"Do you wish to see it?"

"Very much," she replied.

"Then we will go," he said decisively.

The day continued fine and the sun was still shining when Monsieur and Madame Javert dismissed their coach. They would walk as long as they liked and take a hackney coach to return home.

As Marion took Javert's arm it occurred to him how strange it was to walk these streets with her, who was now the most important person in his life, but of whose existence he had not even known when he walked them last.

Marion looked around, surprised.

"Are we not near the Louvre?" she asked.

"Very near," Javert agreed.

"I…I had not expected it to be so close," Marion confessed, a little disconcerted.

"Is hard to think of art and tragedy sharing a neighbourhood?" he asked.

"A little," Marion smiled. "But it should not be so, after all tragedy is one of the inexhaustible sources of artistic inspiration."

"I do not pretend to understand the ways of artists," Javert smiled. "But I shall take your word for it."

They walked at a very gentle pace, talking quietly to each other and looking around by turns.

These streets are calmer now they used to be," Javert remarked.

"You have never come back here since?" Marion asked.

"I have not," he replied. "I believe I was here last on the 7th of June 1832."

Marion could have smiled and observed that ever his memories were meticulous, but she did not. Instead she held onto his arm a little tighter and listened quietly to his descriptions of events and people. She looked about her placidly. The streets seemed utterly ordinary to her. Perhaps she had expected more, or worse.

A woman carrying a basket of flowers drew near them an then shrank away under Javert's stern look. Marion smiled at her however and the woman was bold enough to curtsy and mumble:

"Bonjour, Madame."

Marion gently let go of Javert's arm and approached her.

"Let me see your wares, good woman," she said kindly.

"Certainly, Madame," the woman replied, showing Marion her flowers.

"What sweet little bouquets," Marion smiled. "I think I will have white one with the blue ribbon."

"Thank you, Madame," the woman said, giving Marion the bouquet.

Marion handed the woman more money than was expected and received a grateful curtsy.

"Thank you, Madame, bless you, Madame," the woman said and she drew quickly drew back again.

Javert hid a smile as Marion took his arm again. She held the flowers in her left hand as he held his cane in his right. They turned into the Rue Mondétour. Javert's face grew graver as they progressed, but Marion was not worried. She had learned by now when to talk to divert his attentions and when to keep quiet and wait. She waited.

"This is the place called Corinthe," he said, nodding in the direction of the wine-shop of sorts.

"And that is where…" Marion began.

"Yes," Javert replied gravely.

He had stopped walking without realising it. Javert's memory was painfully exact and had he wished to do so, he could have pointed out to Marion the exact walls against which the barricade had leaned. He was convinced he could have retraced the exact stones upon which the dead were lined up, but he did not say any of this. He only said this:

"I see their faces still."

Marion was aware of some people looking at them from behind doors and drapes and she was sorry for the pained expression on her husband's face. Gently she tugged on his arm and made him walk again.

As they walked, side by side, both of them considered that if it had not been for the dreadful events that took place here, they would never have met.

"They were very young, were they not?" Marion asked in a low voice.

"Not all of them were, but some of them excessively so," Javert replied.

There was a short silence and then Javert began to talk of the things he had seen as a spy. He quoted some of the words spoken and recalled some particular scenes of insubordination mixed with bravery.

He kept his voice low, but his accent was neither gentle, nor emotional. Javert spoke of what had happened with a certain detachment that came from his conviction of every single person involved in the business being wrong, and that included himself. Perhaps there was one man for whom he was willing to make an exception, but it was an exception made in his mind alone and never spoken out loud. This was not a confession after all. Javert had never talked to Marion to confess, he talked to her because he wished her to know him.

Eventually he fell silent and Marion, who had grown very thoughtful, began to look about her for a place to rest a while. She was not tired, in fact she was a very good walker, but she always took care to feign fatigue long before her husband's legs could start to trouble him.

As they crossed the street her eye fell on the church of Saint-Leu-Saint-Gilles. It's doors were open.

"What a fine looking church," she remarked. "I would very much like to see it and perhaps sit for a while."

"Of course," Javert agreed.

They walked to the church and entered it quietly. As they passed by the altar they bent their heads slightly and then they chose a seat beside a tall column. For a while they sat there in silence. Only one other person was in the church at that moment, an old woman praying in hushed tones.

"Did you ever find out their names?" Marion asked quietly, watching Javert with gentle eyes.

"Of the revolutionaries?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Their names were not published," he said.

"I know this," Marion said, smiling sadly.

Javert looked uneasy for a moment.

"I know some names," he said. "But I have endeavoured to forget them."

"You did not pass them on?" Marion asked.

"What good would it do?" Javert replied. "It would only serve to blacken the names of families who already suffered under the loss of a son."

Marion laid her hand upon his. There was another long silence.

"You are wanting to ask me something," Javert said after a while. "I can tell by the way you slant your head."

Marion looked at him and he smiled.

"You speak of the men behind barricade," she said. "But what of your brother officers?"

Javert did not answer.

"Did many of them fall?" Marion asked gently.

"Not as many as might have," Javert replied. "But certainly too many."

Marion looked at the empty church and sighed.

"There were other barricades," Javert resumed calmly. "Other men…"

Marion nodded gravely.

"Many men on many sides," she said. "Well, they shall share one candle."

She rose from her seat and made her way to the side altar for the virgin Mary. Javert watched her light a candle and followed the elegant movements of her hand as she made the sign of the cross. He joined her by the altar and looked at the little flame flickering among the others.

Silently Marion took his arm and they walked slowly out of the church, back into the determined afternoon sunshine.

"It would be you," Javert said softly. "To light a candle."

Marion looked at him.

"What do you mean by that, mon cher?" she asked with a smile.

"You are moved by every evil that befalls mankind," Javert said. "Regardless of the circumstances. You would cry for my brother officers as sincerely as you would cry for the rebels they fought."

"If I would it would be for reasons you have yourself already admitted to be true," Marion said.

"And what is that reason?" Javert asked.

"That they are all someone's son," Marion replied.

Javert did not smile, but he almost smiled.

"Think of my sentiments what you will, dear husband," Marion said, attempting to sound playful again. "As long as you are assured of one thing…"

Javert gave her an inquisitive look.

"…that my tears for you would have been equal to none."

Javert gave her a look that spoke of his feelings, but he did not put them into words. He looked down and, clearing his throat, said:

"You have misplaced your flowers."

"I have left them on the altar," Marion said gently.

Javert nodded and they kept walking.

"There is another place I would like to show you," Javert said, when they had left the church far behind. "But it is across the river."

"We are not pressed for time, are we?" Marion smiled. "So we may do whatever pleases us."

"Indeed we may," Javert agreed.

So Monsieur and Madame Javert walked the afternoon away, only returning home when the sun began to announce its departure. They were not a lively couple, but one would truly be hard pressed to find a mutual affection equal to theirs.


*sigh*, I just couldn't say goodbye to these characters yet.

Shout-out to my sister who is reading the Brick and suggested that M and Mme Javert might take a walk in some familiar places.

Hope you enjoyed!