Les Hommes de la Miséricorde
(Men of Mercy)
A/N: Thank you again to everyone for the great feedback, it is much appreciated! And thank you to everyone reading and following this story, you're all awesome. And a very heartfelt thanks to ariadneslostthread and Chaos in Her Wake, because without them this pivotal chapter would probably be a mess. Enjoy!
Chapter 20: The Wolf and the Archangel
Javert arrived in Avignon in the middle of the night and reported to the small jail just outside the city, informing them that he would need to house a prisoner for the following night. He waited until now, until midday before making his way to the Gillenormand home.
He waits, because they won't expect him in the daylight.
They will not expect him now, believing themselves safe in the daylight, free from threats and danger and death.
But the daylight is not free from justice.
He feels something settle in his chest when he rounds the bend of the long driveway and sees the manor house laid out in front of him. The house is still. They do not know he is coming. There are no horses ready, no carriages, no escape plan engineered mere hours before he can find them.
Valjean failed.
He utterly failed at protecting these rebels, and Javert will show him just what that means, will show this man of mercy just how futile his efforts are, have always been.
And yet you still can't arrest Valjean himself, that ever familiar voice whispers. Why is that?
Because arresting Enjolras, breaking those rebels' spirits, Javert silently argues. That will show Valjean how wrong he is. Dragging him back to the galleys will teach him nothing. But arresting Enjolras will put everything right. I will be right. Justice will prevail and the law victorious once more.
He savors the crisp crunch of his boot heels against the gravel with each stride that brings him closer to the house.
To his salvation.
Javert restrains himself as he climbs the few steps leading to the front door, deliberating, deciding on the manner of his entrance, though it takes every ounce of self-control he possesses.
He hears voices from the window immediately to the right of the front door and he diverts his course, hidden by a column of the portico, to look into the room beyond. Javert sees a drawing room of some sort laid out beyond the pane. Enjolras sits in an armchair just behind the glass, entirely unaware and looking weary, a shade of the battle-ready archangel of revolution with righteous fury blazing in his eyes, whose statuesque face plasters the walls of Paris. He is weak, and Javert is strong and resolute but he will not underestimate Enjolras, will not underestimate his friends.
And most certainly will not underestimate Valjean, because he's learned that lesson one too many times.
Javert sees Valjean's face, etched as it has been in his mind for twenty years, turn to Enjolras and sees the fondness, the affection, alight in his kind and quiet gaze. Javert sneers, his own gaze taking in the rebel's eyes, a firestorm of passion even now, which meet Valjean's with a small, tired smile.
Javert will extinguish that storm until it's nothing more than a feeble winter rain devoid of all power.
Because Enjolras broke the law, Enjolras broke more laws than Javert can currently name. Enjolras will die or rot away in prison, and Javert will leave Valjean behind, will leave Valjean to wallow in his failure.
Putting Valjean back in prison, he knows, will have no effect because Valjean apparently has no care for himself anymore; he only cares for protecting and preserving those who do not deserve such shelter. And Javert cannot stand for that when he's spent his life guarding those who are worthy, those who do not break the law.
Valjean shields people like Enjolras, who threatened the security of a nation along with his comrades and like-minded men across Paris.
The faces Javert sees through the glass melt together in his mind, until he can no longer tell one from the other.
But that doesn't matter.
Javert can taste victory.
"I won!" Gavroche cries out, looking at the backgammon board almost in surprise. Valjean smiles fully in return.
"Indeed you did," Valjean says. "Tres bien, an excellent game, Master Gavroche."
Gavroche's eyes narrow in suspicion. "You let me win, didn't you?" He asks, affronted.
"I did not. I assure you. What would be the point in that, how would you learn?"
Enjolras smiles as he watches Gavroche set up the game again, chattering excitedly about the moves he made. He wonders how much Gavroche can read; he certainly has a keen mind, and he used to carry messages for them all from time to time, but Enjolras is unsure whether he'd ever discerned the full contents or meaning in the words he bore.
Enjolras has sufficiently regained strength following his overexertion a few days ago to convince Combeferre to let him out of bed today, although both he and Grantaire stay reassuringly close, they all stay close like a protective barrier around their chief. He rests in an armchair which has somehow become branded as his, bad leg propped up on an ottoman, watching Gavroche learning backgammon against Valjean. The older man is utterly absorbed, delight flashing in his eyes each time Gavroche bests him, though his lips merely quirk into a small, satisfied smile.
It is a pleasant scene, and Enjolras almost dares relax.
Almost.
No one gives it a second thought when Grantaire gets up to answer the door when they hear the firm knock; since Madame Bellard and Toussaint have gone into Avignon to pick up some household supplies, Grantaire volunteers. Valjean doesn't initially react when he sees Grantaire stride out of the room, and then suddenly fear appears in his eyes, a fear of which Enjolras doesn't at first understand the root.
Not until he hears the voice. He's only heard it on one night of his life, but he'll never forget. His body tenses automatically, the muscles contracting painfully.
"Shoot me now or shoot me later, every school boy to his sport! Death to each and every traitor! I renounce your people's court!"
"You are a spy?"
"I am an officer of the government."
"Out of my way."
Inspector Javert.
Valjean bolts toward the door like a shot, nearly toppling over the game of backgammon. Before the rest of them rush out after him, Enjolras tugs on Combeferre's hand, pulling him close and whispering in his ear.
"Whatever happens, protect the others," he says. "They'll listen to you."
"Enjolras…"
"Please, Combeferre," Enjolras interrupts, a very rare pleading in his voice. "Keep them safe. You have to keep them all safe. Promise me. I know it's pained you ever since I asked, but please. It's vital."
"Enjolras," Combeferre tries again, desperate. "I…"
"You have to be willing to let me go," Enjolras whispers, unable to drown the emotion in his voice, because he knows how much this hurts Combeferre, knows how he would feel had Combeferre asked this of him, knows watching Javert drag Combeferre or any of the others off in manacles would rip his very soul from him, all those overwhelming feelings he never quite knows what to do with spilled forth and laid bare.
But that's also the very reason he has to do this, because Javert will not leave this house without him, and he cannot have his friends hurt protecting him, not when they could live, when they could be free, could make others free.
Combeferre hesitates for a moment: Enjolras sees pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes, terror of losing Enjolras himself, mixing with a strange concoction of sadness, pain, and resolve.
"I promise to keep the others safe," Combeferre says, squeezing his hand so tightly as if he's committing the feeling to memory. "I swear to you."
He does not swear to let Enjolras go.
Enjolras lays a hand on Combeferre's cheek, allowing himself a mere moment before they go in behind Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Gavroche, Marius, and Cosette just in time to see Javert shove Grantaire to the floor, and Valjean pushing the door against Javert.
But to no avail.
In what seems like an out of body experience, Enjolras watches Javert slam his truncheon directly against Valjean's chest and knocking the breath from his lungs. Valjean steps forward again, but Javert holds the truncheon under his chin in warning as the ex-convict breathes hard, raising his eyes up to meet his attacker, and there's an anger within them that Enjolras hadn't thought Valjean capable of, a flash perhaps, of the man he'd been before encountering the kindly bishop of whom he's spoken. Their rescuer is absolutely the stronger man, but he stays where is out of concern Javert will harm someone else. The mere presence of these two men is truly something to behold; Valjean broad-shouldered, tall, and muscular, looking very much as he could lift everyone in this room without breaking a sweat, and Javert just as tall, dressed head to toe in black, long, greying hair falling loose from its neat tail and framing his face, eyes mad with intensity.
"I see you finally know your place, 24601," Javert says, surveying Valjean's face with a fiery malice, fury etched into his features. But a marked panic gleams within his eyes when he looks at Valjean, a conflict storming behind them. "You were a fool to think you could hide them from me. Do not even try to beg for mercy on their behalf."
Javert looks up, eyes landing on each of them (although his eyes fail to meet Cosette's) before fixing his gaze on Enjolras.
"You trusted this old fraud and fell right into my hands," he says, releasing Valjean, and out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees Feuilly silently helping up a dazed Grantaire. "Time to extinguish your flame, Enjolras."
"Extinguish my flame all you like inspector," Enjolras says, meeting the man's gaze head on. "You will not extinguish the flame of revolution, of freedom. Of the light of the future."
In a quick and calculated motion, Javert's hand grasps Enjolras' shirt and twists, the fabric tight against his throat and very nearly cutting off his air supply. Javert seizes him so abruptly that Enjolras stumbles, hand grasping his cane in order that he doesn't fall to the floor in front of this man, in front of his friends.
"You do not mock the law, boy," he seethes. "You do not mock me. Don't you know only death awaits you? Barring that you'll face the galleys, and I'm sure Valjean could tell you stories about the horrors awaiting you there. It's the hell where freedom goes to die, if it ever existed in the first place."
"If you take him, you take all of us," Courfeyrac growls, eyes narrowed in a most frightening manner, a manner which Enjolras has never witnessed.
"All of us or none of us," Feuilly agrees, his usually soft voice rough and harsh with anger, fists clenching at his sides.
"You won't take him," Grantaire joins in, an alarming danger emanating off his body, and Enjolras fears Grantaire might just do something rash. "We won't allow it. I won't allow it."
Marius too, looks infuriated, Cosette's hand resting on his arm as if holding him back. One of Marius' hands rests over his wound almost out of instinct, and Valjean physically holds Gavroche back. Javert momentarily lets go of Enjolras, holding out his truncheon and curving it around in a semi-circle at all of them; it's not a threat, it's a promise.
"One of you touches me, one of you tries to stop me," he says, voice hard as steel. "You will regret it. Your precious leader is a symbol of your failed revolution, and he will pay. And when he pays, all of you pay. Less bloodshed, but still all the impact. He can join Jeanne and Geoffrey in their punishments."
"It is not such a failure if the king is so worried about stamping out the insurgent leaders, is it?" Combeferre asks, seemingly unable to stop himself, his voice maintaining a calm that creates a strangely peaceful feeling inside Enjolras, a feeling bolstering his determination, his courage against the frantic beating of his heart.
"He is not a symbol, Javert," Valjean says, side-stepping cautiously so that he partially blocks Cosette. "He is a flesh and blood young man. And so help me God, you will not take him. You will not harm any of them."
Enjolras' heart jumps into his throat when he hears Valjean's words, even as immense gratitude spreads through him. He cannot allow Valjean to defend him, cannot allow him to put himself in danger, not when Cosette needs him and loves him so dearly; he is the only parent she's ever known, and he cannot take that away from her. Valjean is also the sole reason any of them are alive right now, and without him Enjolras doesn't know what will happen to his remaining friends, and they must live. They must live for themselves, must live so that the cause that forged their bonds will continue on, fueled by the memories of those who died into the tomb of the glorious flame of the future.
And Valjean has suffered enough.
Enjolras glances quickly at Combeferre, silently reminding him of his promise, stomach twisting into tangled knots. There is so much they can say to each other without words, and now Combeferre's wise hazel eyes bore into his.
I will go with you. I will share your fate.
Enjolras returns his gaze, his own eyes electrified with the need to protect his friends, to do his duty.
I know. But the others need you.
Combeferre nods, understanding, hating it, but he sees Enjolras' line of reasoning and he will obey this silent imploration, but to Enjolras' eyes, it visibly rips him apart.
I am their leader, Enjolras thinks to himself. And it is my job to protect them. To shield them when I am able. And this is my chance. I knew from the moment I thought of revolution this might be the price I paid.
Enjolras offers his free hand to Javert, holding it out in front of him like a sacrifice.
"If you swear to leave Monsieur Valjean, Cosette, and Gavroche alone, if you swear you won't touch any of my comrades," Enjolras says, looking Javert straight in the eyes, voice completely steady. "Then I will go with you willingly. You have a job to do, after all."
Javert stares at him, eyes widening slightly before regaining the iron-clad purpose within them.
"Hands," Javert says coldly. "Both of them."
"He can't give you both of them," Combeferre protests. "Please. He can't walk without his cane, his wound…"
"Won't matter for much longer, I am certain," Javert says, pushing Combeferre back as he approaches, preventing him from even touching Enjolras. "And a cane is a weapon. Release it, Enjolras. You are under arrest for high treason against His Majesty King Louis-Phillipe of France."
Enjolras keeps his eyes fixed on Javert because he cannot look at his friends, cannot look at Valjean, at Cosette, at Gavroche. He lets go of the cane, hearing it clatter to the floor with an ominous echo, and stands up straight, offering both hands. Javert kicks it away, pulling Enjolras by his wrists, a vicious pain shooting through his leg at the sudden movement, his shoulder throbbing from being dragged forward. Javert removes the manacles from his belt and locks them around Enjolras' wrists, the metal shockingly cold against his skin.
The minute they lock into place, the room erupts in sound.
"You can't!" Courfeyrac exclaims, taking a single step forward. "You take Enjolras you take all of us, inspector. We were all there, we were all involved. Heavily involved."
"Those aren't my orders, boy," Javert says, moving to stand toe to toe with Courfeyrac. "Back. Down."
Courfeyrac however, doesn't move an inch, and when Javert smacks him in the stomach with the truncheon, Enjolras feels the pain himself. Courfeyrac runs at Javert, but Combeferre grabs him, holding him back as he doubles over from the blow.
"Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac, no," Enjolras hears Combeferre whisper, grabbing his friend by both arms.
"And were your orders to let me go with Valjean when you came across us?" Marius pipes up, Cosette's hand still resting very firmly in his own. "Was that you following the law? Leave Enjolras be, just let us be!"
"We are all culpable," Feuilly says, stepping forward now, before Combeferre, his hands full with a struggling Courfeyrac, can stop him. "We belong together whether that's here or in prison. What is one rebel leader to you, what does it matter?"
Enjolras's heart skips a beat when he sees Javert whip out the pistol from his belt, pointing it directly at Feuilly, who doesn't blink, eyes sealed on the policeman.
It's then when Grantaire steps forward in front of Feuilly, directly in the gun's path. He looks terrified, inhaling air in short breaths.
"You can't take him," Grantaire says, voice rough with unshed tears. "I won't let you."
"You defy me?" Javert asks, bold. "As you wish."
He turns quick as lightning back toward Enjolras.
"On your knees," he hisses. "Now."
Enjolras hates it, despises it with every ounce of his being, but he drops, a thunderous pain running through his leg. And then suddenly he feels the cold, cruel edge of the pistol jammed against his temple, Javert's hand grasping the top of his jacket.
"One more move from any of you," he says, digging the gun hard into Enjolras' skull and glaring at Grantaire. "And I spill his blood right here, in front of all of you. And then I take his body back to Paris, where its display will discourage any further rebellion, will crush any spark you set in those people you claim to care about so much. Those people who did not rise with you. My superiors want him alive, but they'll understand I had to do my duty if the lot of you didn't cooperate."
There's an audible gasp from Combeferre, but then he regains control of his faculties, voice hoarse with anxiety.
"Grantaire, back up," he orders, still gentle somehow, but urgent, removing one hand from Courfeyrac and pulling Grantaire toward him. "Back up."
The mere sight of Enjolras with a gun to his head, the thought of his blood spilling onto the floor right here, is enough for Combeferre's voice to have an effect on Grantaire, a petrified expression overcoming his face as he steps back.
Enjolras sees Valjean move Gavroche into Feuilly's arms, just barely edging away from his place shielding Cosette, eyes locked on Javert.
"Put the gun away Javert," he says, a forced calm in his tone. "Just put it away."
Javert does, hauling Enjolras back up to his feet with another straight shot of pain.
"We're going," Javert says, a note of finality ringing in his voice.
They're almost to the door when a single voice fills the room.
"You're a coward!" Gavroche shouts fighting against Feuilly's grasp, but he cannot quite free himself. "A bloody, spineless coward."
"Inspector please." It's Cosette now, speaking, pleading for the first time. "Just let Enjolras go. You were so kind to me that night on the bridge, I…please."
Enjolras doesn't miss the barest flicker of regret in Javert's eyes at Cosette's words, but as soon as he looks back and forth between Valjean and Enjolras again, the hard, unforgiving glint returns.
Then everyone starts shouting, specific voices drowned out in the tumult, and Enjolras' fingers push so hard into his palms that there are fingernail indentations in his skin.
They cannot do this, they cannot do this or Javert will shoot them all on the spot, will arrest them.
He can't let that happen.
"Enough!" he shouts, his voice overcoming all the rest, even Valjean's. "Enough."
His face is turned away from them, but no one misses the words, even amongst the din of noise. He's capable of bringing silence over a room, that much is clear. It's harsh, he knows, but they have to stop, and he is the only one capable of making them.
The room goes deadly silent in a moment, and Enjolras stares at the floor, a single tear sliding down his cheek.
His friends don't see.
Valjean doesn't see.
But he knows Javert does, can feel the inspector's eyes on him.
"As I said, we're going," Javert says again. "We leave for Paris in the morning, boy," he continues lowering his voice. "I hope you'll enjoy your night in the Avignon jail."
Javert opens the door and Enjolras does not look back because it will kill him, he's certain, only hears Valjean's voice once more, broken as shattered glass, but he's trapped, because if he makes one misstep trying to save Enjolras, it may mean the potential loss of them all.
"Javert," the older man tries one more time. "Please."
The inspector doesn't respond, pushing Enjolras out in front of him. There's a scuffle, the sounds of Combeferre and Courfeyrac holding Grantaire back, the sound of Combeferre's barely restrained sob as he tries reasoning with Grantaire.
The door slams shut behind them, the sound of Grantaire screaming his name ringing in Enjolras' ears.
He won't ever forget that sound, that awful, agonizing sound.
But he keeps walking, trying not to limp even though excruciating pain seizes every inch of his leg, because he will show as little weakness to this man as possible, because now that his friends are out of direct danger, Enjolras fears nothing.
Especially not Javert.
Soon they are in the carriage, Enjolras' leg throbbing wildly, and Javert signals to the driver. Enjolras sits across from Javert, feeling helpless with his arms manacled in front of him, useless. The silence between them lays thick, tense, and solid, but Enjolras senses Javert has words for him, senses a strange sort of struggle within the man; he's chased Valjean for years and yet now leaves him free, nearly jumped off a bridge, so Cosette told them all, and yet here he is, still on the job. Something in Javert's mind broke that night, Enjolras thinks, and he can see it brimming in the man's eyes.
"You were foolish to think I wouldn't find you," Javert finally says. "Valjean falters in his old age."
"Is that why you left him alone?" Enjolras asks, treading carefully, because he doesn't want Javert changing his mind and going back for Valjean.
"It's none of your business why I left him," Javert says, unmoved, but Enjolras doesn't miss the flash of disquiet in the policeman's expression. "You should be concerned about your own fate at the moment. So it would serve you best to be quiet."
But Enjolras won't be silenced.
"Have you ever read Rousseau's Social Contract, inspector?" he asks. "Do you even know the basis of what we were fighting for?"
"I have no appreciation for books, but I read because I must," Javert answers, eyes narrowing. "So yes, I have read your precious Social Contract in order that I might know how to better guard this existing society from the likes of you."
"So you will remember the passage," Enjolras continues, "that says 'the people, being subject to the laws, ought to be their author; the conditions of the society ought to be regulated solely by those who come together to form it?' How can you not agree with that as someone who claims to practically worship the law?"
"You naïve, privileged idiot," Javert laughs, the sound escaping him similar to a barking dog. "You cannot trust the people to make laws just as you cannot trust them to obey them. Because so many of these people you fight for? They are dishonest scum. Criminals without an ounce of good or justice in them. But you high and mighty students, you think you know about this world, about the people in it…"
"We are not all students," Enjolras interrupts, feeling the rage building within him. "There are workers among us, people who have suffered things I can only imagine, and they stand alongside us for that better world because they have seen the horrors and the dishonesty you mention first hand. But they still fight, they still believe in the good of humanity. And we might be students, we might not have been raised in that world, but we have learned about it, have gone down into it, because those people are just as human as anyone else. It takes a varied group of citizens to create laws that serve everyone, not just a king with a constitution he doesn't follow. That is not the voice of the people."
"Again with the people!" Javert snarls, wolf-like, and Enjolras notices the man's self-controls slipping with every second. "Let me tell you something about those poor, oppressed people your friends on the barricade died for, Enjolras; most of them will cheat you as soon as look at you, and they must be dealt with by the firm hand of justice. You say they steal because they are poor, because the government doesn't help them, that the wealthy landowners don't care. Well, I was born into that very world, to parents from the gutter, and I needed no one's help, especially not from some idealistic fools on a barricade. Those people will not rise for you, for some ridiculous dream of freedom."
"They have risen before and induced change," Enjolras argues. "Or did you miss the French Revolution? Or the July Rebellion just two years ago? These people need help, all across the world they need help," he says, thinking of Feuilly and his passion for the well-being of nations aside from just his own France. "It is against divine and natural law for one man to rule exclusively over many. The formation of a republic worked in America; they fought for their independence from King George, and they won. They have elected officials who are voted in by the people themselves."
"You think yourself aware of the goings on in other countries, do you?" Javert says, the mocking clear in his tone. "America is but a child of a nation; that republic will fall and it will fail, you mark my words."
"I know a great deal about the American Revolutionary War," Enjolras bites back. "My maternal grandmother was an American colonist who moved here after she married a French soldier. And it will not fail. It might falter, but it will not fail."
"It will, because allowing people, allowing the dregs that make up the majority of humanity to have power, makes that inevitable," Javert says, hands grasping his own knees in ire. "These people need to learn to obey the law. They need to learn their place. But they won't. You should let go of your pathetic dream. "
"There is not a single ill-doer who could not be turned to some good," Enjolras says, reciting Rousseau once more, frustrated with Javert's refusal to listen even the tiniest fraction. "'In a well-governed State there are few punishments not because there are many pardons, but because criminals are rare.' How can you expect to bring about justice, inspector, when France decays before your eyes?"
"You are blind," Javert snaps, temper rising, hair nearly crackling with his rage. "And you know nothing of the world or how it works. Now quiet! I don't want to hear any more of this ridiculous nonsense."
"I know more than you think," Enjolras persists, very conscious of the blood pumping through his veins. "You guard this corrupt society with its corrupt government and corrupt laws because you…"
"Silence, you God-forsaken brat!" Javert shouts. "You will regret one more word, I promise you."
"…are afraid to be a part of that society," Enjolras says, voice still even, still firm. "Are afraid to admit that maybe you could have used help from some 'idealistic fools', fools who would have helped create a country where it might not have been so hard for a child like you. And that's why you chased Valjean for all these years, because you couldn't stand seeing your black and white views born out of self-hatred thwarted in a man who was a poor criminal turned into a kind, merciful servant of the people. That's why you were so desperate to arrest me, because I fight for everything he represents and everything you despise, and yet you can no longer bring yourself to arrest him because deep inside you know he's right. You know I'm right."
The hard, stinging slap across his face stuns Enjolras, the ring Javert wears on his right hand leaving what he's sure will turn into a bruise. Javert is a large man and the force of the blow sends Enjolras reeling against the side of the carriage, the sudden pain in his cheek reminding him of another slap he'd received on behalf of his beliefs, on behalf of this cause.
The slap that came from his father the last time he'd laid eyes on him, a blow bestowed by a man who had never once shown a penchant for physical violence until that moment.
Out of reflex he raises a hand to touch his cheek, wincing at the tingling feeling of needles pricking his skin. He regains his composure quickly however, looking back at Javert with a gaze that could burn holes into the other man's skin.
"I arrested you because those were my orders," Javert says, breathing hard, a thunderstorm of unchecked wrath raging in his eyes. "And my duty. And because I detest anything to do with the word rebellion."
Enjolras doesn't answer for a moment, hearing Combeferre's voice in his head, the voice telling him to back off, to save himself anymore physical hurt, anymore danger.
So when he speaks again, it's with a tempered tone.
But he speaks nevertheless.
"Man is born free and yet everywhere he is in chains," Enjolras says, repeating the Rousseau he knows so well, that one sentence that lit the flame in him, the flame that will never stop burning. "And that's your trouble, inspector, the difference between you and me; I am willing to break the laws of this country in order to help better it, but you are content to live within the limitations of a monarchy because doing otherwise would mean infringing upon the law. You refuse to acknowledge those chains your views create for you. And until you do that, you will never be free."
Javert leans in until they are almost nose to nose, and just for a moment, Enjolras feels the power of the man's intimidation.
"I do believe it is you who will never be free," he taunts, voice soft and dangerous. "Because for you, there is no life about to start when tomorrow comes. You are done, Enjolras. And so is everything you fought for."
"You are wrong," Enjolras says, almost whispering now. "And you always have been."
An odd look passes across Javert's features at his words, and they fall into silence for the remaining five minute distance to the jail. Enjolras cannot step out of the carriage on his own with manacled hands and a bad leg without falling into the dirt, forcing Javert to help him down, seizing his elbow tighter than necessary and allowing him to lean on his arm for the shortest of moments. But even with the assistance, without his cane walking causes sharp pains with every step. Javert still grips his elbow but moves as far away as possible while still maintaining his grasp. This must be a small holding jail, Enjolras thinks, a temporary prison until they send the accused to one of the larger prisons in Avignon proper.
Or in his case, to Paris.
They enter the front door, and Enjolras sees two cells and what looks like an office, one guard sitting inside, eyes flitting instantly toward Enjolras.
"Find who you were looking for inspector?" he asks.
"Yes," Javert answers crisply. "Which cell, sergeant?"
"That one works fine," the other man responds, jabbing his thumb at the cell nearest the wall. "Do you need me to check on the house where you found him? On anyone living there?"
"No," Javert says. "It's taken care of. And we'll be out of your hair in the morning; I couldn't get another stagecoach to Paris any sooner than that."
He takes the offered keys from the officer, pulling Enjolras along and into the cell, the door slamming shut with an echoing clang.
But the rusty key scraping in the lock sounds a thousand times worse.
"Hands," Javert says again, stoic once more.
Enjolras obeys, putting his chained hands through the bars, watching Javert unlock them, and instinctively reaching up to rub the raw skin on his wrists once they're free.
"You can go and rest up if you like inspector," the other officer says. "I can watch him for a while. Doesn't look like much, anyway."
"Thank you," Javert says, eyes meeting Enjolras' own. "But I'll keep watch on him tonight…he's more than he seems, believe me." He reaches up, rubbing the back of his head almost without realizing it, then turns away, leaving Enjolras alone.
Enjolras gazes around the small cell, exhaustion overcoming him swiftly and without warning, but he knows he cannot sleep now, so instead he lays down on the wooden structure he supposes must serve as a cot, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of his friends, Combeferre's restrained sob, Grantaire's scream, Courfeyrac's emotion-ridden anger, Feuilly's pledge that they should always be together, Marius' pleading, Gavroche's shout. He pushes away bright-colored images of them running headlong into the prison, shackled and thrown into his cell.
But they are safe now, and that's what's important, even if they are without him, safe to continue the cause that created their bonds.
Safe with Valjean and Cosette.
Safe with each other.
Safe to live on.
And right now, though he aches for missing them already, aches for missing their friends who died, he contents himself with that knowledge, holding fast to the sounds of their laughter that last night in the Café Musain.