PART XXI
Too Late
"I am glad you were all able to attend, messieurs. As I am sure you are all aware, we must decide the fate of a man who may very well be a murderer."
"He is not a murderer," Controller-General Herriot corrected Magistrate Bastin sharply. Rising from his chair, which earned only a dark glower from Bastin, and addressing the rest of the men seated at the table, "Being that no one has died in this affair, clearly there has been no murder, and therefore no one is being charged for murder."
"However, there was an attempted murder," a deep voice spoke from the other end of the table. Herriot turned his head and looked into the cold face of Inspector Javert. "There are knife wounds on the father to prove this. I have no doubts."
Herriot drew in a deep breath and began, "The son received many more and much severer wounds than the father, and when I entered that house I saw the man brutally attacking his son, who was defenseless and unconscious, as did you, Inspector Javert. I have already considered the evidence, and I have come to conclude that the child acted only in order to defend himself."
"Then," another officer joined in, "are you suggesting that Jacques Enjolras is a murderer? He attacked his own son without cause or reason?"
Before Herriot could reply, another added, "How then do you explain the knife? Why would the boy have been standing over his sleeping father with a knife if he had no intensions of committing patricide?"
"I have come to conclude, Controller-General Herriot," said Inspector Javert, and beneath his seemingly calm manner, there was anger, hatred, "that it was the father acting in defense of himself and the young man attempting to kill him in cold blood."
A fire could been seen smoldering behind Herriot's eyes when he snapped, "I appreciate your input, Inspector Javert, however—"
"Let it be remembered," Magistrate Bastin spoke again, interrupting Herriot and not seeming to notice it, "that this man took part in an uprising in Uzès earlier this winter, in which he encouraged rebellion and deliberately and repeatedly defied an inspector of the law."
"Let it be remembered also," Herriot fired back, "that this boy was nearly beaten to death by his father that night. He ended up in the hospital for over two months with a broken hip and a torn up back, and the injurers are still not healed completely today." The words flew out of his lips like bullets ejaculating from the barrel of a gun. Yet Magistrate Bastin hardly flinched when they hit him in the chest.
"That has nothing to do with this," Bastin replied in a tone and manner void of emotion. "Jacques Enjolras has already been found innocent and cleared of all charges. This court seeks concerns only on the boy." He met Inspector Javert's eyes and nodded in approval and gratitude, as if it had not been for this brave man, Jacques Enjolras—an innocent man—might have been imprisoned with a false charge of attempted murder. Heaven knows how tragic that would have been.
From where he stood toward the middle of the table, Herriot glared at Bastin in utter most ire and disgust. Now suddenly that Herriot said something against Jacques and something that defended his son, it did not matter anymore. If came know obvious evidence proving Jacques guilt and Enjolras's innocence, that would probably not matter to Bastin either! He already knew who he wanted in jail—the young revolutionary—and who he wanted to remain free—the rich, respectable, monarchist. Herriot could feel his body heating in anger, and hatred brewed in his wrathful soul. It was because of selfish and crooked snakes like Bastin that this country was not a place of justice, why it would be just for the Revolution to prevail in France.
"Let us return to the matter at hand," Bastin went on coolly addressing the several police officers seated at this table, and to Herriot, "Controller-General, you may take a seat." Herriot gritted his teeth as he slowly sat into his chair once more. He sat there stiff and ridged, his back straight, his head high, and his eyes bearing into Bastin so intensely it was remarkable that it did not burn Bastin's skin.
They were no longer in Uzès but in the courthouse that stood upon the border land between Uzès and Paris. In a carefully furnished, polished, decorated room and behind closed doors, at a large rectangular table, headed by Magistrate Bastin, many members of the police force of Uzès—constables, inspectors, a controller-general—had gathered by request of Magistrate Bastin, who was somehow informed that a young man named Enjolras tried to murder his father but was being set free with no charges. Herriot had tried to settle the case within a smaller court so that Magistrate Bastin heard nothing about it, but evidently the news somehow reached his ears. Someone of the police in Uzès, someone who was unpleased with the situation, Bastin himself, and thus this meeting was being held now. To decide the fate of a man who may very well be a murderer.
Herriot cast a loathing glare at Inspector Javert, who was seated far away from him at this table, seated at the right hand of Magistrate Bastin. Herriot did not have to wonder. He knew who it was who informed Bastin of this affair. He knew who was to blame for this. He knew who to blame for the fact that a boy, a child, might end up in prison for the rest of his life.
Only a few days ago, Herriot was in this very courthouse shouting at Bastin, because he would not punish the man who murdered his wife. He was trying to help Enjolras in the small way possible, at least by throwing the murderer of his mother in jail, where he deserved to rot and die. Now, however, such a task seemed irrelevant—only a vague disturbance that was no longer a major threat—and Herriot was doing everything in his power merely to keep a fifteen-year-old child from going to prison as a murder, himself. It was all Herriot could do to protect Enjolras. He would do anything. Everything. He would die before he saw Enjolras in prison.
"Now, Controller-General," Bastin continued. Herriot darkly met his eyes. Bastin was looking at him like an arrogant old man correcting an ignorant child for a foolish mistake. "You have found this man accused of murder to be innocent. Could you please inform the rest of us your reasoning for this ruling?"
"I would be glad to," Herriot muttered in reply, but contrary to the words he spoke he sounded and looked as if he was ready to murder someone, himself.
His eyes quickly passed over the table, the sea of face all looking to him. Every eye was now fixed on him. Every face, serious, stern, cold, beheld him with expectance, allegation. Despite that he was a controller-general and he had authority over every man present in this room except for Magistrate Bastin, Herriot felt that he was a criminal on trial and that he had to prove his innocence or else be called a murderer and tossed in prison himself. He raised his voice so he could be heard by everyone present in the room, "I myself know thisboy"—Herriot was sure to stress that this "murderer" was in fact a boy and not a murderous, revolutionary, mad man like Bastin seemed to be suggesting—"and I know his father, as well. Jacques Enjolras is, himself, a drunkard, and he frequently beat his son and his wife. He is a very rash and reckless man. This is the second time in less than four months that he has almost killed his son. I will inform you also, messieurs, that his wife was found beaten and dead after staying home alone with husband—"
"That has nothing to do with this," Bastin cut him off again. "Please, answer the question asked of you: what makes you believe that this man is innocent?"
Herriot cast a brief glare at Bastin but went on as if he had not been interrupted, "I questioned the boy, myself, and he told me the truth. He was not going to murder his father. This entire affair was merely an unfortunate misunderstanding. Jacques Enjolras awoke from a drunken coma and believed that his son was trying to hurt him, so he attacked him. The boy's actions were strictly in attempt to defend himself."
"How, then, can you explain the knife in his hand? Was he just… innocently standing over his sleeping father with a carving knife in his hand?" Bastin interrogated, and this question earned a murmur of agreement to pass among the men seated at the table.
Herriot drew in a deep breath. He knew this was coming. It was a question he could not avoid. A question he would have to answer. So he was ready for it. "No, Magistrate Bastin," he replied as if indifferent. His face, his eyes, his expression, his thoughts, his emotions were unreadable. He was like a man of marble. "The child never had any intensions of harming his father. He was leaving the room to kill himself."
Here, in a court of law, before a large force of the police, before Magistrate Bastin, Controller-General Herriot did something he had never done before in his career. He lied. It was a sin to lie. It broke one of God's own commandments. However, some sins are greater than others. Herriot perceived it would be a greater sin to allow this boy to go to prison. So he lied to officials of the law. He lied so that a man guilty of a crime would be found innocent. In doing so, he risked his position, his career, his future, perhaps even his freedom. Yet he said it anyway. He blamed himself for the death of Angèle Enjolras. Had it not been for him and his rash plan for her to leave Jacques, she would never have been killed and her son would still have a mother. It was Herriot's fault she was dead. So he owed Enjolras everything he had. He owed Enjolras his life. That is why he risked it for him.
He was leaving the room to kill himself.
At these words, the room stilled. No one was expecting this. It took Magistrate Bastin by surprise. It took Inspector Javert by surprise. Certainly, this came to all of these men as a blow they never saw coming. Silence fell over this meeting. No one spoke. As no one knew what to say.
"Em…" one of the inspectors finally spoke, clearing his throat. "He was going to kill himself?"
"Yes," Herriot answered without hesitation. "After his mother's death and in his grief he felt that his death was the only option. That is why he was walking through the room with a knife. His father awoke when he passed and, seeing him with the knife and still intoxicated by his absinth, thought the boy was going to attack him. This entire incident is in truth a very unfortunate mistake. That is why I found the young boy innocent of all charges, and when he recovers from the hospital he will be set free."
This lie came easily. In fact, it was almost true. Enjolras, himself, admitted that he had planned to kill his father. But Herriot stilled feared that that was not the boy's only intensions with the knife. He knew in his heart, Enjolras planned to kill not one but two people that night. One after the other. First his father, then himself.
Again, Herriot's statement was followed by silence. Everyone seemed to be thinking, considering what had been said, concluding that it did seem reasonable enough. It was very possible that this was true. Even Inspector Javert seemed to be wondering if this could have possibly been true.
"You are certain of this?" a man finally spoke.
"Of course," Herriot replied. "I would not have set the boy free if I thought he might have been a murderer. As we can all agree, I am sure," Herriot added, and his eyes landed on the dark eyes of Magistrate Bastin, who was looking at with such loathing that comes when one knows he has been bested, "that the just sentence for a murderer is a lifetime imprisonment at least. If a murderer was ever to be set free, it would disgrace the law, this country, and God Almighty, who will judge us all in the end. I can assure you all, messieurs, that my conscience is clear in this ruling, and if I were to die this very day I would not be ashamed to meet my God. If this innocent boy ends in prison, however, I will be afraid to die. I will be too disgraced even to look upon the face of our Lord, Jesus Christ, and in trembling I will beg Him not to thrown me into the pit of hell just as I threw this innocent child into the earthly hell we call jail."
With that, Herriot closed his mouth and fell silent. He was done speaking. He had said enough. Now he folded his hands upon the table and stared at them as he waited for the silence to end and someone to speak. Gazing at him, one would have thought him in deep contemplation or desperate prayer.
"Um… yes, well…" Magistrate Bastin stammered for a moment. Herriot was pleased. His heart began to beat in hope. Perhaps, he had proven his case after all. Bastin sighed and addressed the table, "You have all been present with the evidence prior to this meeting, and em… now you have heard Controller-General Herriot's testimony. I supposed we ought to decide…"
"By vote," one of the inspectors near Bastin finished nodding his head. "That is what it was told before coming."
Bastin flashed a fiery glare at Herriot before he grumbled in a grudging reply, "Yes, by vote."
The same inspector who had just spoken immediately answered, "I vote that the boy is innocent and should be cleared of all charges, like Controller-General Herriot said."
Herriot let his breath heavily. He met the inspector's eyes and nodded in agreement. Gratitude.
"I say innocent as well," the constable sitting beside Herriot spoke. "I was there on the evening of the arrests, and I, myself, saw the father attacking his unconscious son. If justice were to be served in its fullness, in fact, I would say Jacques Enjolras should be put in prison for attacking his son and, it seems to me, murdering his wife!"
"Thank you for your input, constable," Bastin snapped shortly. "But all we need is the vote."
"I vote innocent," the constable repeated himself, as if Bastin needed to be told twice in order for him to comprehend.
"I say he is guilty," said Inspector Javert.
"Ah! Guilty," Bastin replied. His voice was suddenly much higher and lighter, as it seemed to bring him great delight that someone had decided the boy to be guilty. He opened a small book in front of him, dipped a pen in ink, and began to write. "Inspector Javert says guilty…" He paused to muse for a moment, tapping a figure upon the surface of the table. "This ought to be done by rank and authority," he finally decided. "A constable's vote will be worth one, and inspector's vote with two, and as magistrate, my vote will be worth three."
"In that case, Controller-General Herriot's vote ought to be worth three, as well," one of the inspectors who had been silent until now spoke. "He certainly has more authority than a constable or an inspector."
"Very well," Bastin muttered, his eyes flashing. "General Herriot's vote will be worth three and my vote four." He continued writing, muttering as he did, "Inspector Lavoie votes innocent, Constable… constable, what is your name?"
"Evrard."
"Evrard votes innocent… Inspector Javert votes guilty, I vote guilty… So far that mean innocent has a total vote of three, and guilty has a total vote of six."
Hearing this, Herriot let out a sound of protest and outrage. "This is not fair," he cried, abruptly rising to his feet once more. "Every man's vote should count as one. Two men have voted guilty and two men have voted innocent, that should not give a guilty verdict twice as many votes as innocent!"
"That is enough, General Herriot," Bastin barked like an angry dog growling and snarling, baring his teeth, prepared to attack. "I am the magistrate of this court; I am in charge; and this is my decision. It is fair and it is just. The officers of higher rank should have more authority in the matter. That is my final decision."
Fuming, Herriot sat down and glared wrathfully at Bastin as he snapped, "I vote innocent."
"Very well…" Bastin scribbled Herriot's vote down on his paper.
"Innocent," agreed the inspector who pointed out that Herriot's vote should be worth more.
"Alright…" Bastin murmured as he wrote that down. "That makes… eight votes for innocent."
"Let us remember that this boy is a second offender. If not for murder, he deserves to be in prison for rebellion. I vote guilty," said another inspector, adding two more votes to the guilty verdict.
"Eight votes for innocent, eight votes for guilty," said Bastin.
Now everybody in the entire room seemed to be holding their breath. The tension was so thick that they could feel it building upon around them and pressing down on them like the heart of the sun, the pressure of the ocean. They sat stiff and ridged in their seats. It was a few moments before Herriot realized he was not breathing. He quickly tried to add everything up in his head. Seven men had voted. That meant only two men were left to vote: one constable and one inspector.
The second constable that had been present when Jacques was arrested spoke suddenly. It seemed he had just noticed this same thing himself, and he did not wish to be the last man to speak, the last man to determine the fate of this boy who might have been innocent but might have been a murderer. "Innocent."
Herriot let out a steady breath. Nine votes for innocent, eight for guilty. One man left to vote. An inspector. If he voted innocent, Enjolras would be set free. He would be found innocent with eleven votes to eight. If he voted guilty, then it would be eight votes to ten. Enjolras would be condemned. He would be found guilty. Herriot would have failed. In the next moments, they would be voting not on innocent or guilty but a life in prison or execution.
Then all eyes were on the inspector at the other end of the table. The fate of this young boy was now in his hands. At his mercy. He sat very still, meeting the eyes of no one although he knew every eye was on him, gazing thoughtfully across the room and thinking, contemplating, considering, evaluation, and judging. His expression was impossible to decipher. No one, not Controller-General Herriot nor Magistrat Bastin had any idea what to expect when he finally parted his lips to give his answer.
Herriot's heart froze and his gut twisted into a knot so tight he felt that it would make him vomit as the man turned to Bastin and began to answer.
"This is certainly a difficult situation to judge," he said evenly, emotionlessly. His face was still like stone. "In such a matter, there can be no real evidence. We have one man's word against another's. So whose word are we to believe? On one side, we have a young, ignorant, grieving, possibly mentally-instable boy, who has already defied the law once, who was clearly never on good terms with his father, and who might have even blamed his father for his mother's death… To me, it seems highly likely that the boy would attempt to kill his father."
Herriot's blood turned cold. Now he really was afraid that he would throw up. No! NO! God, no! Please… God! This cannot be happening! This is impossible! God…
The inspector went on, "If what Controller-General Herriot says is true and the boy was, in fact, beaten often by his father, it only seems to give reason for the young man to hate his father and desire to murder him. Also, based on what General Herriot said, if the woman was found dead in her house, even if the father had nothing to do with it, it seems only reasonable for the son to suspect him. I, personally, see a high likelihood that this was in fact an attempted murder."
Good God! Now, Enjolras was going to be found guilty and he would go to prison, and it would be because of Herriot. Herriot informed these people that Jacques hurt Enjolras trying to prove Enjolras's innocence and Jacques's guilt, but in reality this had only condemned the child. Now, Enjolras would go to prison, and it would be Herriot's fault, and Herriot would never forgive himself. He would never be able to live with himself.
A low murmur began to stir around the table, some people nodding in agreement of approval but more people expressing disagreement. They all knew that this was the final vote. This was the verdict.
Acting on impulse, without even knowing what he was about to say or do, Herriot began to rise out of his seat to protest, to do whatever he could.
"Very well," replied Bastin, sounding extremely pleased—wickedly pleaded—with the outcome of this court. "In that case—"
"However," said the inspector, firmly and resolutely. He met the eyes of a very surprised, confused, and irritated Bastin. "Forgive me, Magistrate," he said flatly, "but I had not yet finished."
Herriot let out a sigh from the bottom of his lungs, expelling all of the air out of his body, and he collapsed into his chair once more. Please, God, he was nearly whispering aloud. Please…
"However," the inspector went on, "at the same time, the man Jacques Enjolras is, like General Herriot said, an alcoholic, and he had been drinking the night of the accident, which makes it much likelier for him to believe his son was trying to harm him even if he was not. The boy, in contrast, was sober during the incident, thus if there was some mistake, he would be more likely to know what was really happening. As for Jacques Enjolras, this is not the first time he has attacked his son and severely wounded him. Controller-General Herriot, messieurs la constables, and Inspector Javert were there to witness the man attacking his son, who was already unconscious. This man was clearly, therefore, not acting merely in order to defend himself. Beating a boy who is weaponless and unconscious with broken wine bottles is not defense at all but assault. Finally, I will say this, and I do not mean to contradict your judgment, Magistrate Bastin, but to me it seems that there is high evidence that this man did murder his wife.
"With that being said…" The inspector finally fell silent and thought for a moment. "…I must make a decision. Whose word are we to trust, this drunken man or this traumatized boy? As for me…" He was silent for a moment longer, considering his words carefully. Everyone was holding their breath again. God! The wait was tortuous. Why did he make them wait so long? Why couldn't he just say it!? "As for me," he finally decided, "I trust the word of neither. I trust the word of Controller-General Herriot. He is a great officer and a good man, so I trust his judgment. I say the boy is innocent."
Relief fell over Herriot so heavily that it was like an ocean wave falling over his head and body. He leaned back in his chair, as all of the air in his lungs rushed out of his lips. Thank God. Thank God! Thank you, God!
Even the other officers seemed to be filled with relief upon this news. Many of them nodded in agreement, or sighed, or smiled. Despite that there were eight votes for a guilty verdict, only three of the nine men present had voted him guilty. The other six now were relieved for this decision.
The expression on Bastin's face was hideous as it contorted in anger and shock. "Very… Very well," he stammered. "In that case, the vote is eight for guilty and eleven for innocent…" Hating Herriot more and more with every word, he muttered, "The young man is, therefore, declared innocent and freed of all charges."
"Excellent," Herriot said brusquely cutting him off and rising from his chair. "Thank you for your time, messieurs. If that is all—"
"That is not all," Bastin snapped, perhaps only to contradict Herriot. "Please, take a seat, Controller-General."
Herriot huffed loudly and sat once again. "Is there a problem, Magistrate?"
"Yes, indeed. There is still a large problem that is yet to be resolved."
Herriot glowered at him. "And what is that?"
"Being that we have ruled this boy innocent, there still remains the problem that he was indeed going to kill himself."
Again, Herriot's heart turned cold. If this detail caused any trouble for Enjolras now, Herriot would be to blame. It was he who said this without Enjolras confirming it or even mentioning it. It was Herriot's lie. In his heart, he thought it was true, but nonetheless he would blame himself if it caused any harm to Enjolras. Yet what was supposed to say? What else could he say? He had thought and prepared to answer the question, and the only excuse he could come up with was that Enjolras planned to kill himself. This was a lie, in fact, Herriot believed was true.
"What does it matter to this court?" Herriot replied stiffly, speaking through clenched jaws. "He was not going to harm anyone but himself, and he can therefore not be charged with any crime. That matter should be dealt with by a doctor, not by the police." There was a soft mutter of agreement after Herriot said this, but not everyone agreed. Inspector Javert did not agree. Magistrate Bastin did not agree.
"Quite the contrary," Bastin disagreed. "I recall a report in the past declaring the boy was in a state of mental instability due to his mother's death. This situation seems to have confirmed his insanity. It would be my advice, messieurs, that the boy be put in an institution—"
"An institution, no!" Herriot exclaimed, slamming his fist down upon the table. "Are you mad!? Let's just execute him now, why don't we!?"
"Well, Monsieur Herriot, if the boy sincerely intended to kill himself, he is clearly not in his right mind. If he is left unattended, he could end up hurting himself or someone else. It is our duty to protect the people of France by overseeing those who are insane."
"He is not insane!" Herriot was shouting now. He bolted to his feet again, and before Bastin could command him to sit down, he yelled, "I know the boy myself; he is perfectly rational! He is not mad; he is grieving! His mother was just murdered, for God's sake! What the hell is wrong with people!? He grew up mistreated and abused his entire life; at fifteen years old, his mother was murdered by his father!"
"That is a false claim, Controller-General Herriot," Bastin shot back, raising his voice as well. "Jacques Enjolras was found innocent of such charges!"
"I don't care what you and your court decided," Herriot thundered, boldly, strongly, courageously. "I know for a fact that woman was murdered by that man, and if this not be true God damn my soul to hell!"
Silence.
Herriot's voice rang through this room like thunder and cut through every man like a knife. When he finished and the echoes of his fury faded, the room was again consumed in silence. Even Bastin had no reply. Herriot remained standing for a moment before, his face cold and his eyes harsh, he sat down in his chair once more. Bastin was too afraid to ask him this time.
"Well then," one of the inspectors who had voted Enjolras innocent finally had the courage to speak. It was clear at this point that no one else was going to break the silence. He met Herriot's eyes and said gently and reasonably, "I am sure there is a better solution. After all, it is only natural for a child to grieve after the loss of his mother. So…" He turned to Bastin. "Perhaps, he should merely remain in a doctor's care for the next few months until he has recovered fully physically as well as mentally."
Herriot cried out in protest once more, "He does not need a doctor; what he needs is a father! Or a mother! Someone who will look after him, and take care of him, and love him, and not beat him half to death whenever he makes a mistake!"
Bastin stiffened at this advice and sighed heavily. "I am sure you know a son is his father's property, and if he were to be raised by another family member it would require the father's permission and consent."
The inspector pointed out, "Surely, if the police decide that this is necessary, the father would be inclined to oblige."
"I suppose so," Bastin finally grumbled. "However, we are unsure if this boy has any family members who would be willing to take him. He is evidently a very rebellious and troublesome young man. I doubt any respectable citizen would be willing to—"
"Magistrate Bastin."
Bastin stopped speaking abruptly and turned his head. He found himself once again looking at Herriot, who had arisen from his seat once more. This time, however, it was not an action of defiance. It was not an action of anger. This time Herriot appeared anxious but reasonable, eager.
"Yes, General Herriot?"
Herriot spoke calmly and surely. "For the best interests of the boy, his father, and all of us, let me care for the boy. Let him stay with me."
Everybody in the room stilled and turned to stare at Herriot.
Bastin was stumped at this reply. He stared as well. "You…" he began frowning in confusion. "You want to take in the boy?"
"Yes," Herriot answered shamelessly, unflinching under so many astonished eyes.
Bastin almost laughed in disbelief and mockery and exclaimed, "You must be joking! You, a controller-general of the police, want to take in this, this criminal boy, this lawless rebel?"
Herriot remained resolute. He never looked away from Bastin's eyes. "I do."
The sneer vanished from Bastin's lips. His face because cold as he realized Controller-General Herriot was not joking in the least. "I… Well… Well, I… suppose…" He stumbled over a reply. This suggestion caught him entirely off guard, and he did not know what to say. At last, he turned to the other faces around this table, which were locked now on him, and muttered, "I suppose we will have to talk it over. In the meantime, General Herriot, could you please, er… step outside."
Herriot nodded once and headed for the door. He did not look back as he went out and the heavy wood fell shut behind him. The corridor was silent. The only sound was his own feet upon the floor and he paced up and down the corridor, unable to remain in one place. He could not even hear the murmur of voices in that room as they discussed the issue. Apparently people were not shouting anymore. Now it was careful discussion in hushed voices and soft whispers.
This moment was everything, Herriot knew. This would decide it all. This was his chance to finally set Enjolras free, to save him from his father, and to be a father to him, himself. At least, he would do the best that he could. He would be good to the boy. He would give him everything that he could. He would give him a home, a friend, a life, perhaps hope, joy, or happiness… perhaps even a father.
Herriot would always blame himself for taking Enjolras's mother. Yet perhaps now, he could give him a father.
Please… he found himself praying again. And again. And constantly. It was only that one word, yet it meant so much. It was a plea of hope and a cry for help, a longing wish and a desperate hope. Please, God. Please…
He waited.
…
It had been three weeks since the arrest of Jacques Enjolras and his son. It was now April 2, 1825. Herriot was still struggling to clear his name. Jacques was freed of all charges and home again, drinking himself away. Enjolras was still in the hospital.
Despite his constant desire to leave the wretched place, a place patrolled and haunted by loathsome memories, he stayed without a word of complain. He stayed, because he knew Herriot cared so much about him, even when he did not care about himself. He stayed, because when he left he had no where to go. He had no where to call home.
It was nearly sunset when Controller-General Herriot arrived at the hospital and burst through the front doors. Without pausing to address or even glance at anyone, he ran inside, up the stairs, down the hall, and into the room where Enjolras was staying. "Enjolras!" he cried as he came through the door, panting and breathless, overcome with emotion. The several people in the room, patients, families, doctors, turned abruptly to stare at him, but Enjolras was not amongst them.
When his eyes anxiously darted to Enjolras's bed, it was cold and empty. The sheets were made, and it was clear that body had lay in this bed for a long time. Yet Herriot saw Enjolras here yesterday; he could not have gone anywhere. They must have simply relocated him to a different room. Herriot turned to Doctor Virkler, who was watching him from the other side of the room.
"Monsieur, where is Enjolras?" he asked urgently. "What room is he in? I need to talk to him quickly. This is important."
"Monsieur Herriot," the doctor replied, obviously surprised to see the police officer. He went on a bit hesitantly, "Young Enjolras is not here."
Herriot frowned and shook his head in confusion and disbelief. Surely this was merely some mistake. "Of course, he is here. I saw him here yesterday, last night in fact."
The old man shook his head slowly. There was an expression of concern upon his wrinkled face. "I am afraid he is here no longer."
Herriot stiffened. Realization like poison began to crawl slowly through his body, inching its way toward his heart, where it would destroy him. Rigidly and coldly he asked, "What do you mean?"
"He left the hospital this morning," Virkler explained.
"What?" Herriot cried, startling the doctor with this sudden outburst. "He left? He was supposed to stay here! I, myself, told him to stay here! He did not even tell me before he left!?"
"Well, monsieur, he asked to see you, but when we sent someone to the station, they told us that you were not in Uzès today."
Herriot's breath froze in his chest and mouth. He stared at the doctor as if he did not understand what had been said to him. "Where did he go?" he finally breathed. "Not… Not back to his house?"
"Well… yes, monsieur. That is where he lives…"
"God!" Herriot cursed furiously and loudly, shocking and startling the doctor.
"Is… Is everything alright, Controller-General Herriot…" the old man began nervously, but Herriot did not answer. Without even a farewell or a word of explanation, he turned his back on the doctor and rushed from the hospital. He ran out into the street and told the coach driver to start moving before he was even in the carriage.
"Go! Now! Quickly!" The coach jolted to a start, and Herriot collapsed back against the seat. His heart was racing in his chest, and he could hear himself breathing deeply and heavily. He gazed out through the dusty windowpane and watched the red sun sink over Uzès.
God, he thought grimly. Desperately. Jacques was in that house. The last time he saw his son, Enjolras cut him with a knife and Jacques beat Enjolras unconscious. Now, when they were to meet again, Herriot had no idea what to expect. He knew Jacques would be angry. He would be furious and vengeful. Drunk and wrathful, he would probably attack. As for Enjolras, Herriot did not even know what to expect. The boy had expressed repentance for his actions, but if Jacques started hitting him again, in his hatred and grief, Enjolras might strike back. Even if only to defend himself. After that… Herriot did not even want to imagine what would happen after that.
God, please…
It seemed hours before the carriage arrived at the home of Jacques Enjolras, but in reality it had been only minutes. Herriot crash out of the carriage before it stopped and, without stopping, ran to the house. His eyes searched madly over the building as he approached. He did not see any blood on the windows, nothing on the door… He landed at the front door and pounded loudly upon it with his knuckles. He waited only a few seconds before he knocked again. It knocked a total of four times before the door finally opened.
The sour face of Jacques Enjolras appeared glaring at him from inside.
One look at him and Herriot knew he had been drinking heavily. His face, aside from wearing an expression of irritation pushed to fury, was pale. His lethal blue eyes, steal eyes like the silver blade of a sword, the same eyes of his son, were red and wet, as if in sweat, from consumption of alcohol. Perspiration dampened his clothing and neck. His chin and mouth was rough, as it appeared he had not bothered shaved in a long time. He wore a baggy and rather unclean shirt, and one sleeve of it was cut off to reveal a muscular arm dressed heavily in blood-stained bandages. Herriot's eyes darted to the man's right fist, which furiously gripped the edge of the door. It had been over three weeks since he had last seen his son and his wife was dead. Until tonight, he had been alone in this mansion. Yet, somehow, the back of his hand was swollen, his knuckles were already bruising.
Herriot's heart stopped.
When Jacques recognized the controller-general who had him arrested, his face contorted in hatred. He spat out his words in revulsion, "What do you want?"
Herriot stepped toward the man as if ready to strangle him with his bare hands. They were so close to each other now that Herriot could have very well reached out and grabbed his throat. However, this provided the same option for Jacques Enjolras. "Where is he!?" Herriot shouted.
Jacques's face only darkened and his eyes narrowed. His glare became even more hideous. He did not answer.
"Damn it, Jacques, where is he!?" Herriot nearly screamed, as he slammed a fist into the doorframe. "If you hurt him, I swear to God, you will not live another day without suffering—"
"Jesus Christ!" Jacques cried, silencing Herriot. "You have not changed at all: accusing and punishing a man for a crime he is innocent of! And you think yourself so righteous, so just. Well, I will tell you this—"
"God damn it, Jacques! I have no time for this! I will have you arrested if you do not answer me! So tell me! Where is he!? Let me see him!"
Jacques frowned. After pausing a moment to think about this request, he muttered, "Who?"
"Your son, and you know very well! I need to see him now. So bring him to me or I will come in and find him myself."
Jacques was silent for a moment longer. At last, his expression unchanging, he answered flatly, "You cannot see him."
Again, Herriot's heart momentarily stopped beating. He immediately feared the worst. Just like his mother, Enjolras had been murdered. Now he was dead. Now it was too late.
"Why not!?" Herriot cried, his voice cracking in fury and in terror.
"He is not here," Jacques replied calmly.
"What do you mean, he is not here? He left the hospital this morning and came here. I know he was here!"
"He was here, yes," Jacques agreed. "But no longer."
Herriot's jaw tensed as did every muscle in his body. He spoke in a low and dangerous tone, "What do you mean by that?"
"That is what I mean!" Jacques snapped, now growing tired of this. "He is gone. He left."
Herriot stilled. He felt like his throat was being constricted by snakes. "He left?" he repeated at last. His words were thin and breathy, disbelieving but at the same time afraid at this was true.
"Yes," Jacques grumbled in annoyance. "The bastard came home, took his things, and just left. He is long gone now." As if speaking to Enjolras, himself, he cried in disgust, "Well good riddance! I am glad to be rid of you!" He spat on the ground at Herriot's feet.
The controller-general did not flinch. Striking without warning like a snake hidden in the grass, he seized Jacques by his the front of his shirt and yanked him toward him, immediately retaking the man's attention. "Why should I believe you!?" Herriot snarled in Jacques's face. "How am I to know your son is not lying on the floor somewhere in that house dead!? How do I know you did not murder your son the same way you murdered your wife!?"
"Get the hell off of me!" Herriot roared. His eyes were suddenly ignited with the fires of hell as reckless wrath took over him. In this moment, he was capable of killing. He forcefully rammed his elbow into Herriot, knocking the man off of him. Herriot grunted as the blow caught him in the gut and forced the air from his chest. Before he could regain his breath, Jacques drew away from the doorway and back up into his house. "You do not believe me!? Fine! Come in! Come see for yourself! Rip apart the entire damn house! Look for bodies hidden in the walls! Knock down this whole place, and then waste every sou you have to rebuild it! I tell you, he is not here! He left! He is long gone now!"
Herriot remained where he stood beyond the entrance, staring through the doorframe and into the dark house where Jacques stood flailing his arms like a man insane. When he finished speaking, Jacques's eyes of blue fire met Herriot's gaze. Herriot's mind was flying. He did not know what he was to do or what he was to believe. Yet, when he looked into the eyes of Jacques Enjolras—this liar, this monster, this murderer—he saw something he had never seen in the man before. For the first time, he saw something behind those clear blue eyes that he saw also in the eyes of his son, Enjolras. For the fist time, he saw truth. He knew Jacques was telling the truth.
At last Herriot spoke quietly. "Where did he go?"
"What?" Jacques snorted, obviously not expecting this reply.
"Where did he go?" Herriot repeated himself, raising his voice this time.
"I've no idea," Jacques answered shortly. "He did not say. All I know is that he is gone, and he is not coming back."
Herriot hesitated. He did not know what to do. Yet whatever he did, he would have to do it quick, before it was too late. His mind was racing. Where would Enjolras have gone? If he just got his things and left, where would he have gone? Where could he have gone?
Herriot suddenly knew. The answer struck him like bullet in the chest. Of course! It was obvious. He should have realized it long ago. He knew where Enjolras was going.
Paris.
"How long ago did he leave?" Herriot asked Jacques suddenly and anxiously.
"I do not know," Jacques grumbled, and this was true because the man was drunk and unconscious for most of the day. "A long time ago…" He squinted at the fading light outside of his doorway. "It is sunset now?"
"Yes," said Herriot at once.
"It was morning."
"God," Herriot sighed bleakly as his hopes sank deeper into the void of impossibility. He knew that he was too late.
"If you are trying to find him before he leaves Uzès, you are tricking yourself," Jacques said coldly. "You will never catch him. He is long gone now."
Perhaps Jacques was right. Yet Herriot did not care. He had to find Enjolras. He had to talk to him. He had to see him. At least once more. At least once more so he could say goodbye. "Thank you," he muttered curtly to Jacques. He was already turning to leave. Without looking back, he ran back to the carriage waiting for him in the street, but this time he did not get in. Addressing the driver, he said in a vital tone like a commander of the military giving orders to his army, "Monsieur, how much must I pay you to borrow one of your horses?"
"Monsieur?" the driver was surprised.
"I need to take one of these horses; this is important," Herriot answered. "I will pay you whatever you want, but please I must make haste. This is extremely important."
The old man hesitated for only a moment longer before he jumped down from his seat at the front of the carriage and began to untie one of the horses. "Take him, General Herriot," he said. "I do not need any money."
As the bloody sun set over Uzès and sank beneath the horizon, as darkness began to close over the earth, as night wrap it's cold hands around France, a man upon the back of a white horse raced through Uzès, flying like the wind that rushed past his face and whipped in his ears. Herriot stared at the empty road ahead, and, like the fading sunlight, his heart sank into darkness.
God, he thought. I will never make it. I will never find him. It is too late.
God.
Please…