A/N: We're back from vacation now! I plan to return to my pattern of updating every other day while I finish off the remainder of the story. Thank you all for your patience; most of the hotels we stayed in had poor (or no) wifi.
As before, some of this dialogue is coming right from the brick.
Hour of the Wolf: The hour between night and dawn. It is the hour when most people die. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fear, when ghosts and demons are most powerful.
Chapter 14: In which comes the hour of the wolf
For a moment, it was utter chaos. The gunshots came nearer, and Javert knew the guardsmen to be advancing on the barricade. There was a high-pitched cry - the boy Gavroche? - followed by more fire. In the next instant, a young student stumbled into the basement room. He was there only long enough to grab the keg of powder, but it was enough for Javert to catch a glimpse of his features. Sourly, the Inspector recognized him as the same young man who had taken after Cosette. He watched silently as the student, Pontmercy, hauled the keg back out into the street.
Then, as the smoke and dust cleared, Javert heard a voice which echoed across the cul-de-sac: "Clear out, or I'll blow up the barricade!" Immediately, Javert guessed what the boy meant to do with the powder keg, and he added "foolhardy" and "has a deathwish" to his assessment of Pontmercy's character. Cosette, he decided, could stand to do better.
Foolhardiness aside, it seemed the man's threat had been taken seriously. There was a break in hostilities as the national guard were presumably engaged in running from the imminent possibility of explosion. A minute later, there was a collective cheer, and then the insurgents retired to the basement room to regroup. A whole crowd of them came pouring in; Javert ignored them passively. Several of them collapsed into chairs, wiping sweat from their brows, and others began unrolling packages of lint to bandage the wounds of their fellows.
Enjolras stood at the head of this crowd and called roll.
"Marius has just joined us. Courfeyrac? Combeferre? Bossuet?"
Each of the indicated men raised a hand.
"Joly? Bahorel? Prouvaire?"
The first two raised their hands, but the third did not.
"Prouvaire?" Enjolras repeated, frowning. "Jehan?"
A low murmur swept the assembly. Heads turned as everyone sought that member of their company, but he was nowhere to be found.
"He is not with the dead," said Joly, who had been to check.
"Nor is he among the wounded," concluded Enjolras. "He must be a prisoner."
One of the students, Combeferre, lifted his head. "They have our friend; we have their officer. Have you set your heart on the death of this spy?" He gestured in Javert's direction, and the Inspector raised his chin a fraction of an inch.
"Yes," said Enjolras, "but less than on the life of Jean Prouvaire."
Combeferre nodded. "I am going to tie my handkerchief to my cane, and go with a flag of truce to offer to give them their man for ours."
Javert kept his face carefully blank, but inside his heart lightened. Perhaps there was a chance for freedom after all, and to not disappoint Valjean with news of his death. Even as he was thinking this, however, Enjolras laid his hand on Combeferre's arm.
"Listen," said the blond.
There was the sound of a great many guns cocking, followed by a single exclamation.
"Long live France! Long live the future!"
There was a flash, and an explosion, and then silence.
"They have killed him!" Combeferre said in horror.
Enjolras turned to Javert, and the look on his face was terrible to behold.
"Your friends have just shot you," he said.
The rebels left, filing out into the street to take up their position once more, and in their absence, Javert sagged against his restraints. He ached everywhere from standing, but that was the least of his concerns. To have felt hope so briefly only to have it extinguished was more painful by far than than any injury the students might do him. It was harder to remain stoically resigned when for an instant he thought he might live to see Valjean's smile again. And what of the student, this Prouvaire? Was it so necessary he be shot? Javert's mouth thinned. It was one thing to act in self-defense, but to shoot a prisoner purely out of spite was surely approaching the realm of brutality.
At that thought, his faintly hysterical laughter took him again. What business did he have troubling himself with the insurgent's fate when he was now guaranteed to go the same way? It would be Javert's good fortune if they consented to kill him quickly. He was in the midst of these considerations when the ridiculous one, whom Enjolras had called Marius, entered. He was examining a letter. Next to the light of Gavroche's candle, he tore open the seal. A phrase murmured aloud startled Javert's attention.
"- be to-night in the Rue de l'Homme-Armé -"
The words took a moment to register, but then the Inspector realized that this of course must be the letter upon which Cosette had employed her blotter. He watched rather attentively as Marius finished reading. He wrinkled his nose when the lad chose to asperge the letter with kisses (for certainly, Javert said to himself, that was bordering on histrionics), and continued to watch as Marius scratched out a response on a page torn from his pocket-book. He wrote another series of quick lines on the book's next page before returning it to his pocket and going to leave.
Inwardly, Javert shook his head. While it was possible that Marius did not recognize the Inspector, for they had only met once some time ago, he had scarcely glanced at the prisoner all evening, and as he was tied up in the very center of the room, Javert decided the man's lack of attention was due likely less to an absence of recognition and more to a sheer determination not to pay attention. Javert cleared his throat. Marius looked up, startled, and his eyes widened when he perceived the Inspector. Grimly, Javert decided that indeed, Marius was about as distracted as was humanly possible. How he had survived the first volley without being shot, the Inspector could not fathom.
"Marius, isn't it?" inquired Javert, unable to make his voice cordial, but at least reasonably sure he had avoided unfriendliness.
"Yes," replied Marius warily, taking a step closer. "You are a spy?"
Javert chose to ignore this, instead inclining his head at the letter clutched in Marius' hand.
"You have a sweetheart," he said.
Marius frowned. "You would know nothing about it."
"Untrue." Javert straightened as much as he could against the post. "I am friends with the girl's father."
The student shook his head. "You are bluffing."
"Am I?" Javert looked down at Marius with something like impunity. "Her name is Cosette Fauchelevent. She has blonde curls, and no mother, and her father has hair whiter than the parchment in your hand."
Marius had, if anything, turned paler still. "How do you know all that?" he asked, his voice quiet and quivering.
Javert approximated a shrug. "It is as I said. Her father and I have known each other since before you were born."
Marius looked around wildly. They were alone. "What are you doing here, then?" he hissed.
Javert gave him a disparaging glance. "I am an Inspector to the police of Paris. Work it out yourself."
"But -" Marius bit his lip. "But how can this be? Cosette and I - we have hid our involvement with one another."
"Poorly."
"I -" The young man hesitated, dragging his fingers through his hair. "I cannot let you go, Enjolras will forbid it!"
"Of course," Javert said dryly. "It is good you are loyal, it is the only point in your favor I have yet seen."
"Monsieur," said Marius, stepping closer, "you must understand, we mean to fight here and die -"
The Inspector scoffed. "Oh, a pretty thing this is," he said derisively. "Are you writing to tell her of your impending expiration, then?"
The rising flush on Marius' cheeks was as good an answer as any.
"Go away," Javert sighed. "If you are such a ninny hell-bent on throwing your life away, then I shall not be the one to talk you out of your delusions."
Marius looked affronted, and was drawing himself up to argue the point when Gavroche entered and accosted him.
"You are wanted outside," said the gamin. This distracted Marius entirely.
"Of course," he said. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything. Without you, I should have been cooked, sure."
"You see this letter?"
"Yes."
Marius pressed it into Gavroche's palm. "Take it. Go out of the barricade immediately, and tomorrow morning, you will carry it to its address, to Mademoiselle Cosette, at Monsieur Fauchelevent's, Rue de l'Homme-Armé, number seven."
Gavroche scratched his ear uncomfortably.
"Alright," he said, though Javert felt the boy's voice had a uniquely suspicious quality to it. He turned around and trotted out.
Marius spared the Inspector a final uncomfortable glance.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but there's nothing I can do."
He bolted before Javert could respond, and Javert was left to recline against the column, while from beyond the Corinth the sounds came of the barricade being repaired. Night had well and truly fallen.
At five o'clock, Valjean was anticipating the Inspector's return. At six o'clock, he ate listlessly alongside a Cosette who had barely spoken a word all day. By eight o'clock he was pacing, and by nine, he was frantic. Again and again, he told himself that Javert was busy - even there in the little house, they were not so far from the fighting at St. Merry, and every so often, he could hear gunfire. Certainly, then, the Inspector had much work to be done.
Toussaint was as worked up as he was, although it seemed her worry was less specific. She made no less than three exclamations to Valjean that there seemed to be a row of some sort in the street before she retired, evidently frightened by the commotion. Valjean could not have slept for anything in the world. He stoked the fire, swept the floor, wiped the dishes with such force that he cracked one of the mugs - anything to keep moving and distract himself. The bell tolled the eleventh hour.
At last, Valjean could think of no single other thing to do. It was late, but he was not tired. In point of fact, he had not felt so wide awake since perhaps one of the last times he had fled through Paris, Cosette's then-tiny hand in his. That evening, they had found shelter in a convent, but Valjean was not sure this night could bring him the same happy ending. Javert's absence was almost a presence in its own right; in the past, Valjean had felt hunted by him, now he felt haunted.
The room was stifling, and he did not think it was because of the fire. Valjean opened the front door; standing half-outside, the sounds of skirmishes were louder. He stepped onto the landing at the top of the front stairs, letting the door swing closed behind him, and took a seat on the first step. If he had hoped for a cool breeze to soothe him, he was disappointed. The air was thick and charged, without even the faintest stirring of wind to relieve it. Burying his head in his hands, Valjean began to pray.
The bell rang out, sending two deep intonations rolling across the city. Much of the gunfire had faded, but Valjean did not dare hope this meant the hostilities were over. And still, there was no sign of Javert. Valjean stood to go back inside, when he spotted a small figure come out of an alley and stand in the street, looking around.
The figure stepped into the lamplight, and Valjean saw it was a child, a boy perhaps eleven years of age, with a mischievous face. The child walked up to the nearest house and tried the door. It was locked. He tried the window, and found it bolted. This he repeated with the other houses in the row, all to the same effect. Apparently stymied, the boy stopped in the street with his hands on his hips.
"Golly!" he said aloud.
Frowning, Valjean stepped down a level and called out, "Little boy, what is the matter with you?"
Gavroche, for it was he, although Valjean did not know it, looked up. "The matter is that I am hungry," he said. "Little yourself," he added. The boy bent down and picked up a stone from the ground. "You have your lamps here still."
He threw the rock with all his might at the street lamp; the glass shattered, and the light went out. Suddenly it was much darker. Valjean dug through his pocket and withdrew a five-franc coin.
"Poor creature," Valjean murmured. "He is hungry." Then, "Have you a mother?"
"Perhaps more than you have."
"Well," said Valjean, pressing the coin into Gavroche's hand, "keep this money for your mother."
Gavroche examined the coin with some excitement before regarding Valjean suspiciously. "Really," he began, "it isn't to prevent my breaking the lamps?"
Valjean shrugged. "Break all you like."
The child grinned. "You are a fine fellow. Do you live here?"
"Yes, why?"
"Could you show me number seven?"
Startled, Valjean inquired, "What do you want with number seven?"
Apparently seeing he had said too much, the boy ran his fingers through his hair nervously. Then Valjean had an idea, a flash of insight, which led his mind back to Cosette's blotter and the note which she seemed to have sent.
Taking a risk, Valjean asked, "Have you brought the letter I am waiting for?"
"You?" Gavroche frowned. "You are not a woman."
Inwardly, Valjean felt a surge of victory as he replied, "The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, isn't it? I am to deliver the letter to her. Give it to me."
The child stuck his hand in his pocket. "In that case, you must know that I am sent from the barricade?"
"Of course," said Valjean, though he experienced a flutter of fear at the question, for it reminded him of his other concern regarding the Inspector.
Pulling out a paper, the boy saluted. "Respect for the despatch. It comes from the provisional government." Speaking thusly, he handed the letter to Valjean.
Wetting his lips with his tongue, Valjean chanced a more hesitant query. "Is it to St. Merry that the answer is to be sent?"
Gavroche shook his head. "That letter comes from the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and I am going back there. Goodnight, citizen."
So saying, the boy took his leave, disappearing down the alley from which he had arrived. In but a moment, he had vanished entirely, though Valjean did let out something like a chuckle when a minute later, there came again the sound of a glass lamp breaking from the direction of the Rue du Chaume.
"The Rue de la Chanvrerie," Valjean muttered. That was in St. Denis, which was in turn next to St. Merry. Javert had said he was assigned to the latter, but then, it was clear that many barricades had been erected that night, and in all the disorder, who could say where the Inspector had ended up? Valjean stood still in the street for several minutes before he came out of his reverie, recalling the letter in his hand. The street lamp having been put out, Valjean retreated to the interior of number seven and sat down next to the fire.
Cosette had received a reply to her little love-note; while Javert's words had been a comfort the night before, Valjean was now quite alone, and the notion that his daughter might wish to leave him wounded his soul. It was not right to read her letter, he knew this. It had already been transgression enough to find her message in her blotter. And yet, terror gripped him, and Valjean found he had to know one way or another where he stood. With trembling fingers, he unfolded the paper.
Written in a flowing, aristocratic script was the following: Our marriage was impossible. I have asked my grandfather, he has refused; I am without fortune, and you also. I ran to your house, I did not find you, you know the promise that I gave you? I keep it, I die, I love you. When you read this, my soul will be near you, and will smile upon you.
Valjean's hand fell to his lap, astonishment written across his features. He had eyes only for the last two lines - the interfering man was going to die at the barricades, and Valjean had to do nothing to keep him from Cosette. He laughed weakly. It was too much a blessing, but surely it was one which he deserved. He had suffered his entire life, and it was right that he should get to keep Cosette to himself, the one bright point in decades of agony.
Pausing, Valjean skimmed over the letter again. Wasn't it right? He told himself it was so, and yet now a surge of doubt came over him. This man was perhaps dying already, fighting tooth and nail for the future of the people. What business did Valjean have in relishing the death of another? None, he decided, none whatsoever. Then Valjean was ashamed, for he had been delivered a letter in time, maybe, to save the man's life, but for his own selfish reasons had been fully intent on letting him perish.
Rubbing his forehead, Valjean stood and slipped the letter into his pocket. He would go to the barricade, his conscience would allow him no other course of action, and once there... well, he would see. He changed, pulling on the full garb of a national guardsman, and within the hour was prepared to go. If he were lucky, he thought, perhaps he might also find out what happened to Javert. He prayed it was not too late.
Stealing out into the street, Valjean slipped down the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. He carried a musket, and he walked swiftly in the direction of the markets.