Chapter XXXVIII

"What is wrong with him?" Thevenin asked the young man in a low voice. "He was so much stronger the last time I saw him."

The boy turned his head to glance down the dark corridor, which two guards had dragged Enjolras down moments before, taking him back to his cell to suffer and parish. After a moment, the young guard turned back to Thevenin. He spoke in a soft voice that was youthful, a little timid, and almost afraid, as if he thought he might get in trouble for what he said. This guard was merely a boy. Younger even than Enjolras, who was only twenty-two. Though, at times, it seemed that Enjolras's soul was much older than his body, as he was stronger, braver, and wiser than many very old men. Or at least, he once was.

This young boy was the same who had cut Enjolras's hair so long ago. At first, he had felt fear at the sight of the man covered and blood. He felt pity for him as he sad on the floor with only sadness in his eyes. He had suggested to Javert that the prisoner be treated by a doctor. The boy remembered wondering what the man had done to deserve the torture, which he was being forced to endure. He still bore the guilt for when he had accidently cut the prisoner's head, causing him even more pain.

This same young boy had been passing through the corridor as the guards were taking Enjolras's unconscious body back to his cell. As soon as he saw Enjolras he recognized him, at once. One does not forget the face of the man who weighs heavily on his conscience. The boy was terrified to see what a terrible state this prisoner had fallen to. He stopped walking, suddenly unable to go on, and feeling in a daze, he watched the guards drag Enjolras past him. Oh my God, the boy thought in horror. He is going to die…

Thevenin had been watching also, a short distance away. He saw the look of shock, of horror, of regret, and of guilt of this young man's face when he saw Enjolras, and Thevenin called him over, asking for a brief word. He asked him about Enjolras.

"I do not know very much, monsieur," the boy said quietly. "I do not see the prisoners very often once they had been brought to the cells. I have only heard rumors from the other guards…"

Thevenin nodded. "I understand. That is alright. Tell me what you have heard."

The boy glanced down the hall again, before he turned back to Thevenin and asked, "Did you know that there was a boy, a child, I think he was six years old when he came here, being held in this prison?"

A deep feeling of dread filled Thevenin's gut as he recalled Enjolras saying something about a child during their last meeting. "A child?" he repeated, but he did not answer.

The boy slowly nodded, and an utter look of guilt and regret consumed his face. "Yes, monsieur…" He looked down at the stone floor, unable to hold his gaze at Thevenin's eyes any longer. "I do not think many people knew. I only knew because it is my job to prepare the prisoners to be brought to their cells." Then he muttered, "I saw the boy before…before they brought him in… He was crying… He seemed so innocent… I cannot imagine what he ever did to get locked up like that…"

Anxiety and fear began to twist within Thevenin's body, and he could feel his fear beginning to beat faster. He quickly asked, "But what has this child to do with the prisoner Enjolras?"

The boy lifted his face and again met Thevenin's eyes. His own eyes were dark and sad. "I heard that he was watching after the boy… I do not know if it is true, that is merely what I heard…"

"It is true…" Thevenin said as the dread and fear within him rapidly increased. "The boy's name was Luc, was it not? Enjolras talked about the child…"

"Luc?" the boy said quietly. "I did not know that…" He dropped his eyes to the ground again mumbled, "The child is dead now."

"Dead?!" Thevenin suddenly cried out. As soon as the young man had mentioned the child, Thevenin feared—knew—that the child had died, yet now that he heard this pronounced aloud, it still came as a shock. "When? How? How did he die? Was he executed with the other prisoners?" He remembered Enjolras continuously asking him this same question.

He shook his head. "No. He was shot by an inspector."

"What? Why?"

"I do not know for sure… Someone said he was disobeying orders… Another said he was trying to protect that man… Enjolras."

Thevenin felt his heart sinking. "So they shot him? And he died?"

"Yes, monsieur… From what I heard, he died in Enjolras's arms…"

Sadness, despair, heartache, guilt came falling upon Thevenin. He suddenly looked down the dark corridor, although he knew that he was already gone, somehow hoping that Enjolras would still be there, so that he could run to him, try to comfort him, tell him that he did all that could to protect the child, tell him that it was not his fault, tell him that the boy is with God now. But Enjolras was already gone.

Now he understood. Before he had been in the dark, but now he could see things clearly. This explained everything. It was not the illness, or pain, or suffering that had put Enjolras in this state, but the death of the child. Thevenin thought back to the first time he had seen Enjolras. He remembered how desperate Enjolras was to find the child, how panicked he was when he could not get to him, how terrified he was when he thought that the boy would be killed. It was apparent to Thevenin then and now that this child was everything to Enjolras. That without him, Enjolras would be lost. Broken. So now it had happened.

Thevenin turned back to the young guard. "Thank you, monsieur," he said softly. "I must be on my way. God bless you." Then he departed and was gone.

Thevenin quickly left the prison and went to the streets, in pursuit of the man whom he knew had power over Enjolras's life. For much time, searched the streets of Paris until he had sought out who he was looking for. He found Inspector Javert patrolling the streets with two other inspectors, casting dark and watching eyes out upon the city, as if looking for someone dangerous.

When Thevenin found him, he approached Javert immediately, bowed slightly, and said, "Inspector, Javert, I have urgent matters to discuses with you concerning one of the prisoners which you have dealt into my care."

Javert turned his cold eyes and cast an unwavering gaze upon Thevenin, and he stared at him for a long moment, wearing a look of superiority, annoyance, and suspicion upon his feeling-less face. "Which prisoner?" he finally said, his voice cold and indifferent.

"Enjolras," Thevenin replied at once.

Javert's face did not change, but at Enjolras's name, he suddenly became more intrigued. He did not let this show. "What about him?" His voice was unchanged, as well.

"He is deathly ill, Monsieur," Thevenin told him. He tried to keep his voice flat and indifferent, but even still Javert could detect the concern in his tone, see it on his face and in his eyes. "He has suffered significant injury from being beaten, from abuse from the guards, and from the bullet. Now, his wounds are terribly infected. Aside from this, MonsieurInspector, he has fallen fatally ill from disease. Pneumonia infects his lungs, he struggles to breathe, he has a lethal fever that will not subside, he is too weak to move, he does not eat, he cannot drink, he is starving and dehydrated, he is at the verge of death. If will not be long before all of these things kill him."

Javert looked at Thevenin for a long moment, his face unreadable, before he asked in a low tone, "How long?"

"I cannot say for certain, Monsieur. It could be days, but I think not. He is in such treacherous condition. Pneumonia is unpredictable, he has many other illnesses on top of that, and his fever alone could kill him. It is very possible that tonight will be his last."

"Very well," Javert said emotionlessly. "Thank you for this report, Monsieur le Doctor."

Thevenin hesitated for a moment. "But…but, monsieur… Monsieur, I think it would be in the best interests to temporarily remove this man from the prison so that he can be cared for in a hospital. He cannot receive adequate care in the jail, and if he stays there he will die. But in a hospital, with a clean bed and constant attention, we might still be able to save him."

Javert did not answer for a moment. Then he spoke. "No."

Now, the concern and even fear, was apparent on Thevenin's face, "But…but, monsieur! He will die in this prison! He is too weak…"

"Why would it matter, MonsieurThevenin?" Javert interrupted. "He is a convict, a revolutionary, a traitor, and a murderer. Does he not deserve to die?"

Thevenin opened his mouth to speak, but not words came. What was he to say? Yes, that Enjolras deserved to die? He did not believe that this was true. But what else could he say? Javert did not fail to see this. "Not…not like this, monsieur," Thevenin finally said. "Execution, yes, that is just. But no man should have to endure what he is currently suffering."

"That is foolish," Javert objected, his voice emotionless, his eyes dark, his face and his heart like stone. "We will not waist time, money, and care for the likes of him. Better to spend our care for good men, who deserve it. Better to help our nation's soldiers who are wounded in battle, rather then the traitors that are wounding them."

"Yes, I understand that, MonsieurInspector," Thevenin said. "Convicts though these people may be, we are all men not animals. Dare I say, we must be warned not to behave as the latter. I say we would be as but heathens to treat any man this way. He is, after all, a fellow human being, a fellow brother created in the image of the same God. If we simply let him suffer like this then we are—"

"That is quite enough!" Javert suddenly snapped. Then countering Thevenin's statement about God, which had made Javert furious, he quickly retorted, "Just as the angels were created holy beings, some of them fell and became demons. Lucifer became Satan. It is the same with men. They choose their own fates."

Thevenin hesitated a moment. His face straight and soldierly, his voice fat and solemn he answered, "I do not think so, Inspector. I think God governs our fates." At these words, Javert's face became disgusted, as if those were the most repulsive words that he had ever heard uttered. Thevenin went on, "I think was should live to please Him—"

"I hardly think leading a rebellion and murdering honorable men and soldiers would be pleasing to Him, do you, Monsieur le Doctor?" Javert shot back at him, a suspicious, almost accusing tone about his words.

"No, I do not," Thevenin replied. "But nor do I think leaving a man to suffering and die in this way would be pleasing to Him, MonsieurJavert."

"I have heard enough!" Javert snarled, as he pierced Thevenin with a dark, hateful glare. "I think it in your best interests to keep your beliefs to yourself. The prisoner will remain in his cell. That is all." Then Javert turned his back on him.

"But, monsieur!" Thevenin objected a final time. "Have you not seen him?! He is in dreadful suffering, torment, pain… He will die!"

"Then so be it," Javert answered flatly without so much as turning his head to glance at Thevenin.

Thevenin stared at Javert, shocked and disgusted. He could barely believe the things that he had seen today. So much seemed to be changing every second. His entire outlook on the world was changing. He did not understand how so much could change so fast. Everything suddenly seemed so wrong, so backward, so upside-down. It was suddenly apparent to him that either the world had changed greatly or he, himself, had changed greatly.

Only a short time before, Thevenin had seen justice as the absolute law and authority. But now he did not know what justice was. He had seen Inspector Javert as an extremely honorable and noble man of righteousness. But now he did not know who this man before him was. This man was like stone. Cold, hard, and heartless. It seemed to him that this man abused his power and that he hid behind a distorted image of what he called justice. And it seemed to him, just for a moment, that Javert was the monster and that Enjolras was the better man.

Thevenin tore his eyes away from Javert and glared at the ground. Then, under his breath he growled, "This is not justice. It is an abomination, and it is disgusting."

Javert abruptly turned his head and rounded on Thevenin so that he was staring into his eyes. "What is that you say?"

Thevenin looked straight back into Javert's eyes, not ashamed, not afraid, and he boldly proclaimed, "I say that what you are doing to the boy Enjolras is horrid and sickening. I say that it is a sin, and I say that you are responsible for it. I say that one day you will have to face God for this."

Javert's face began terrifying and hideous as it twisted with outrage and fury. "And now you have had your say!" Javert roared, his voice booming like thunder. "This is none of your concern! Stay out of this and mind your own interests! This matter is in my hands! This prisoner belongs to me! I will decide his fate! I will decide what is just! I will decide when he dies!"

"If you do not remove him from that filthy cell and let me help him then he will die tonight."

"Then he will suffer no more, and I think that would please you, Monsieur le Doctor." Javert's face began dark and cold, and he cast a revolted glare upon Thevenin that was enough to accuse him of treason.

Simply from this look, Thevenin knew that Javert believed him a traitor, a betrayer, someone who could not be trusted, someone who was disgusting and of a status below dust. It seemed, Thevenin noted, that Javert now viewed him on the same level of which he viewed Enjolras, and for a moment Thevenin wondered, was Enjolras really guilty of all of the things that they accused him of? Or had Javert reversed, distorted, and masked the truth to portray the lie as the truth? Perhaps, Enjolras was not what the called him. Perhaps, he was right all along. Perhaps, he was the good man, imprisoned and suffering for uncovering the lie and fighting for the truth.

It suddenly occurred to Thevenin why out of all the men, the prisoners, the sick or dying people that he had ever encountered, why it was Enjolras who he had finally began to care for, to feel pity for, to sincerely want to help. Why it was Enjolras who had finally opened his eyes. Because he had seen something in Enjolras that he had not seen in any of the others. Not only did he see strength, bravery, passion, and will, as other men, even Javert, had these things as well, but he also saw love. This was something that Javert was incapable of having, understanding, or knowing. He could not love, and that was what ruined him. In this one moment, Thevenin decided that Enjolras, who was a revolutionary, a traitor, a murderer, a lawbreaker, and a sinner, was a better man than Javert, who had never once strayed away from the law of men.

"He is a good man," Thevenin finally said. "A better man than you will ever be."

Javert burst out in outraged and furious laughter, in which his face was utterly terrifying, wild and crazed, like a man who is possessed. "Thevenin, that is enough," Javert finally said. "You may go." Despite his words, which gave Thevenin permission to leave, this was in truth an order, and Thevenin knew that he had to obey.

Glaring at Javert, he nodded his head, unwilling to bow. Then, he turned his back to Javert and went away.

For a long time, Javert was too shocked, appalled, and outraged to do anything but laugh, scoff, and feel utter wrath at this foolish doctor! This traitor! Yesterday he was noble and righteous, and today he was blinded and fallen! How easily the souls of men were corrupted! Although, that Enjolras was a clever one. His mind was dubious, and his tongue was smooth. He momentarily thought about Enjolras lying upon a table as Thevenin tried to help him. He imagined the scoundrel using his deceptive and cunning mind to get Thevenin to pity him, then pronouncing a few lies with his persuasive tongue to convince Thevenin that the law and that justice was false. How stupid the doctor had to be to fall into such and ill-conceived trap, set by such a convict!

Then, at last, Javert began to consider what Thevenin had to him. He said that Enjolras was going to die tonight. Then, so be it. It was already over. Javert had already won. He had already defeated Enjolras. When Javert first arrived at the barricade, it was only to seek justice, to have the revolutionaries defeated, and to find Valjean. Then, Enjolras had struck him, injured him, tied him, and then given him to Valjean to murder. When Javert arrested Enjolras in the café, he struck him back, breaking his ribs, and then they fell even. Javert tortured him, wanting information. But Enjolras continued to fight back, to resist, to try to defeat Javert. Hatred and rivalry built up between these two men, the same way it built between Javert and Grantaire. Javert would not lose this war. He would not let Enjolras win. He, the man of justice, would be victorious. Hadn't he already defeated Enjolras? He had already broken him, which was victory. All that was left now was to get him to talk, to give Javert all the information that he knew, to force him to betray his fellow rebels, and then to take Grantaire and Marius, as well. Perhaps, if he was fortunate, he would even get Valjean. Then it would all be over.

Javert had one night to do this. Tonight would end it all. Tonight he would address Enjolras one last time, and Enjolras would give him his answers. Javert did not doubt that, this time, Enjolras would speak. Enjolras was broken. All of his strength, his will, his resistance was gone. It would not be difficult to get him to speak.

The guards flung Enjolras into the cell, and he landed with his face against the stone floor. The pain cut through his body, trying to rouse him from unconsciousness. He was vaguely aware of a weak moaning sound, like that of a dying man, but it was several moments before he comprehended that this sound was emitting from his own throat. He did not care. He made no attempt to suppress the noises of pain that flowed from his lips or the tears that flowed from his eyes.

He felt the cold stone against his face, and he thought about Luc's cold body, white and covered in blood. Then, he began to cry harder, and the pain became so much worse. Educed by weeping, his lungs began to shake and draw in short, rapid, cut-off gasps of air. This made him cough again, to the point that his chest throbbed and his lungs bled. He had been coughing up thick clots of red mucus, but then he began to cough up mouthfuls of blood. He started gagging, and he could not breathe. A few moments later, he vomited all over himself, but he did nothing even to attempt to wipe it off of his face.

He lied on the floor, panting, his chest heaving, his lungs aching and burning as he struggled to breathe, and he cried. He cried, because it hurt. His entire body hurt. He had no one and nothing to bring comfort to him. Everything that he once had was gone. His friends were dead, and it was his fault. Luc was dead, and it was his fault. Even God had abandoned him, and it was his fault.

God. Enjolras had barely thought about God since Luc had died. When he found Luc, when the child brought happiness to him again, when he and this child taught each other to love again, Enjolras thought that God had devised that in His divine plan. He thought that he finally had the answers. He thought that he could finally see the light within the darkness, see God working against the evil. He thought that God had finally forgiven him for his sins, and had given him Luc. But when Luc died, he knew that the he had been wrong all along. God did not care about him, at all. If He even bothered to acknowledge Enjolras, then He was doing his best to punish him, to keep him in pain and in suffering, not to let him die so that he would have to keep living in hell. That all became clear when He let Luc die.

After his child died, only once did Enjolras raise his eyes to Heaven and cry out to Jesus. It was the same night of Luc's death. Enjolras was lying on his back, weeping and sobbing as tears streamed down his face. He stared up into the black ceiling of his cell, and he thought about the way Luc kept gazing into it as if it was something beautiful, as if he could see Paradise. He thought about what Luc had said about seeing his mother. Surely this child was in Heaven now, happy with his mother and with Jesus, but Enjolras did not think about this. As he looked into the void above him, all he could see was darkness.

"Where are You?!" Enjolras had suddenly screamed at God. "What have You done?! How could You let this happen?! How could You do this?! He was only a child! He was innocent! And You let him die! You who claim to love us! You who claim to be a merciful God!" Enjolras shook his head in fury, and snarled with utter disgust, "You are a liar! You are not good at all! You are not merciful! The Devil is kinder than You!"

Those were the last words Enjolras had spoken to God. That was the last time Enjolras had thought at all about God. It was clear to him, that God had abandoned him. God had forsaken him. God did not care about him. God wanted him to suffer. After Enjolras realized this, he fell even deeper into darkness, his heath declined, his mind became bitter and hateful, his heart hardened, and his soul blackened.

There is some suffering that a man can endure. For over five years, St. Paul was thrown into a Roman prison, mocked, scorned, tormented, and tortured. But he kept strength, courage, will, and hope, because he knew that God was with him. But for Enjolras, he knew that God was against him, that He hated him, that He had abandoned him. There is no loneliness like that of a Christian who thinks God has turned His back on him. So in return, Enjolras turned his back on God and forgot about Him.

So, Enjolras was deprived of even the small comfort of knowing that Luc was in a better place, that he was happy, that he was with his mother, and hat he was with Jesus. This is the one comfort that can ever so slightly ease a parent's pain when he has lost his child. But even this Enjolras could not have.

Now, Enjolras closed his eyes, and let his mind drift off into a frightful world of nightmares, disturbed by the hallucinations brought forth by fever and delirium. One moment he was lying on the cold floor of his cell, and the next he was at the barricade. Guns were firing all around him. He could hear them cracking again and again, along with the booms to the cannons, and the screams of dying men. Smoke filled the air and fire erupted throughout the café. The toxic air strangled his lungs. He could not breathe. First, he could smell blood, and then he could see it. Blood everywhere. Soaking the streets, the dead carcasses that littered the streets, the bodies of his friends as they fell to the ground crying out in pain, his own body as he raced to his wounded friends and dragged them to safety. When he got them into the café, his body was soaked with his friends' blood. He tried to save them, but he could not. Instead, he had killed them. They were all dead because of him.

A moment later, Enjolras was tied to a pole. Javert was standing before him and prisoner 4461 was driving the lash into his back again and again. Then, he was standing at the galleys and watching his fellow prisoners fall around him, watching them die, watching them bleed, watching the water turn red, and then watching the bullet come at him and go through his body, striking his chest and coming out the other side along with a burst of blood. He vaguely saw Thevenin. He was tied down to the wooden table, and Thevenin was leaning over him. But now instead of trying to help him, Thevenin was torturing him, dissecting him, and laughing when he cried out in pain. Then, the last vision that he saw was the most painful. He saw Luc get shot, he saw the blood spread out from the wound in his stomach, and then he was holding Luc and watching him bleed as he died in his arms.

"Get up, you! Get up!"

"He cannot get up. He is too weak."

"Then help me get him up. We will drag him if we must."

Pain cut through Enjolras's body as two pairs of hands grabbed him and pulled him up from the floor. They had grabbed him by his shoulder, where the bullet had gone in, and the way they twisted his arm, the pain that shot through is body, his chest, his back, his arm, was agonizing. He felt as if the bones in his shoulder were shattering like glass. He let out a loud cry, but he did not open his eyes.

The guards ignored this, and he felt his body being dragged across the floor. He heard the gate stretch on its rust hinges as they brought him outside of the cell. One of the guards released him, and he could hear the keys rattling as he locked the cell. Enjolras's eyes were still shut, and in his mind he could still see Luc's face, cold and still, lifeless and dead, frozen in that way for the rest of eternity. He could think of nothing but Luc. He did not know why they were taking him out of his cell. He did not know where they were going to bring him. He did not care. Maybe, if he was extremely lucky, they would take him to be executed.

"Bring him this way," Enjolras heard a third voice say. This voice hit him like a blast of cold wind. There was no emotion in this voice at all, but in it Enjolras could still hear the hatred. As soon as he heard this voice, Enjolras's felt his body go cold and prickle with goose bumps, his blood froze, his gut twisted, and his heart stopped.

Yet, he was not afraid. All he could feel was fury, hate, wrath. Hate like he had never tasted before. Hate so terrible that it can drive a man mad. For the first time in his life, Enjolras wanted to kill. To murder, to destroy, to devour. Now, for the first time, Enjolras was capable of murder.

Enjolras had killed people at the barricade, in the battles. He had pulled the trigger of his gun and watched soldiers fall before him, bleeding from the places where his bullet had pierced them. He had killed people, but was that truly murder? It was terrible, but had he any other choice? Had he not pulled the trigger first to kill his enemy, they would only have pulled the trigger to kill him. That was war. It is not the soldiers in the battle that are the killers. War is the killer. The murderer.

But now, Enjolras knew nothing but hate. Now he could murder. He wanted to make someone suffer. He wanted to see him in pain, to see him bleed, to see him die. He wanted revenge. Now Enjolras was really to murder. He no longer cared for his soul, which he knew was already damned. He knew that he was going to hell. But he would be victorious if he could drag his enemy's soul down into the flames with him.

For the first time, Enjolras weakly opened his eyes and looked up. He saw the man standing before him, piercing him with that too familiar glare that cut him like the blade of a knife. It was Javert.