Even he, he had always known, was not immune from sin, but his sins had hitherto been ones of omission, not of action. In a one fell swoop, he had become a liar, and not only that, but a liar of exalted lies-- his fall had been blessed by God. By this admission, he grew to recognise that he had raised up a spirit already exalted in heaven, by removing his earthly bonds. In a way, all he had really done was remove a pretension on his own part-- he had taken himself from the place of judge and master over Jean Valjean, and admitted that the man lived completely in the jurisdiction of the Almighty.
This admission was shattering to Javert. He had never before considered that this sort of blindness might be reproachable, and might be, in fact, worse than a deviation from duty. Motives of this level of subtlety hurt his head badly; reason and emotion swelled within his mind and breast far faster than their containers could expand to hold them. He had to stop walking, and steady himself on the rail of the bridge, to prevent himself from crying out in agony of despair.
For the first time, he became aware, suddenly, of his surroundings. The lamplight misted the darkness, and in heaven and earth he could discern, beyond the fog, only many layers of infrequently illuminated blackness. The sky loomed above like an iron lid, moonless and starless. Below him, the river wound slickly, occasionally glinting a little in the reflection of the streetlamps. Between these borders, not firmly, Javert stood on a level with the earth, staring at the pinpricks of light in this middle world and its either reflections or origins, below or above. The night was not cold, but he shivered inside his greatcoat, disgusted by his own insignificance. He was a part of the darkness, a shadow among shadows, and the gas-lit lamp at the other end of the bridge served a greater purpose than he. Only in reality, it was not so easy to shatter one who brought light into the world as to dissipitate one who lived in umbra. Or at least, that was how it seemed at the moment.
Heavily, Javert dragged himself to the illuminated spot and sagged, almost, against the lampstand. He looked at his hands, paper cutouts in the yellow glowing, and witnessed their unsteadiness. Grimly, he forced himself to look at his soul as he looked at his hands; in all detail, honestly, and with no part in shadow. What he found terrified him, but this time, he expected that.
What secrets could possibly fester inside of a man who has looked only at what is without? His perfect spy's mind hoarded facts about others' vices, improprieties, habits, ways of speech and ways of standing, with very little regard to his own. He had one rule about his own appearance: be perfect, be intimidating. He'd spent so much time acquiring the habits of the Correct, he'd nearly forgotten that it had been an acquisition. He looked over his daily routines with a critical, objective eye-- not to look for gaps or flaws in the smooth perfection of it, but with the more penetrating gaze granted a man who sees with the true eye of judgment-- what really is lying beneath? Emotion? Feeling could not be truly dead to him, else this moment would not be possible.
What of kindness, sympathy, hatred, fear-- ah, fear. Fear struck something of a note in him; he dealt not meagerly in fear as a part of his profession. His greatest asset as a spy, he knew, being that he could inspire fear in the coldest crocodiles of the Paris swamp, and never tremble. But he had never really examined that of which he might be afraid. It would have to happen eventually, he reasoned, though he could see little reasonable in his current state (you have not looked thoroughly yet, scolded his mind) that he would find this out eventually, by being put into a state of fear. So it was now.
What was this fear that had so taken him... if not by surprise, (he would not admit that much) then at least unawares? God? The greatness of the Almighty and His works, and the sanctity of those protected by His hand-a phenomenon he, Javert, had never dreamed to encounter? Perhaps, a little, but he thought not entirely. He had erred, he decided, in not fully considering the fullness of what the term, 'god-fearing' meant, but surely that realization alone would not leave him feeling so utterly hopeless. Towards an Invisible Omnipotence, behavior could be corrected. God loves everyone, so long as you don't do it again. Remember Saul, on the road to Damascus.
This line of thought flicked against his mind like ephemeral snow and melted in the heat of his anguish. But when it had dissolved there burned, upon its surface, the single word, 'love'.
Now how was that? He reflected upon the Commandments, mentally leafing through the dusty lessons as if sifting police records, rather than remembering a text. Reading was something he had done as a discipline, rather than a pleasure, and the Bible all the more so. Dimly, he could recall words that had not before made their meaning clear to him-'Love your neighbor as yourself'. He still did not fully understand. It seemed a pale shade of the deepest shadow he faced currently. He did not wish to penetrate those depths, surely, but his soul demanded it. This was his duty to God, commanded by an office higher than that of M. Gisquet; by an authority that suborned that of the King. Fortified a little by this, he tried again.
Love, was it? That emotion, Javert believed in less than he had believed in the visible justice of God. He'd had no education in it from his thief father, his whore mother, nor the galley prison which had subsequently adopted him. The gutter had not loved him, and the warmest escape his heart had found had been the cold comfort of the uniform, still superiority. Others in his situation had found other methods of escape, he knew. Neither women nor drink had ever held appeal for him, however. He'd never considered the monastic life as a serious option. To be a monk locked away from the world, while all about, outside, injustice and crime raged... this thought nauseated him. Prison in general, it seemed to him, was a most fitting, cruel punishment for the wicked.
In prison, the werewolves who wore human faces on the streets were forced into their craven, true forms. The claws were there, for everyone to see, by the sign of the bars which striped their features, and the chains which bound their ankles. Having nothing profitable to do-either for self or humanity-they fell headlong into every sort of recreational depravity they could devise. Such acts were always physical-the brutal attack of a fellow inmate, wrestling matches, that sort of thing-like bored, hyperactive dogs. This is why he had so longed to get away from being a prison guard. Exposed to long to this degradation, the wardens of the beasts grew familiar with it, and subsequently, fell to it. It was just to use force to stop an animal from attacking, but not to take pleasure in it. He had always prided himself on being quite, quite above that sort of petty display.
That is not all, whispered a deeper layer of shadow.
Love your neighbor. In a prison, even, there were lycanthropes who sought to retain at least the semblance of humanity. These took it upon themselves to mirror grotesque parodies of outside institutions and behaviors. How desperate it must have felt, Javert guessed, to maintain the illusion that one has pride in a prison cell, to scrabble for something to cling to and discover only the warm body in the cell next to you. No, no. Those sorts of activities could be nothing more substantial than the primal urges more base than base brutality. Surely, that was all. Comfort could certainly have nothing to do with it. He had no need of that, and therefore, niether could those creatures. Nor, as followed logically, did love.
And what, dear Inspector, do you know about love, again?
He shivered. No, it was a bad comparison. Yes, he could certainly identify with a need to assert humanity, but he'd chosen to do so without... touching. He'd been an innocent marked by a bad star, two beasts putting forth another who at least, hadn't the stink of blame trailing him. He'd not been at fault for anything, and only once had believed so.
And that had been Jean Valjean's fault too. In Monturiel-sur-mer, Valjean/Madelaine had been both wrong and correct. And Javert-it struck him, suddenly-had been in the wrong, ever since then. Better, it would have been far better had he been allowed to resign with dignity then, and he could have ended his days honestly.
Honestly?
Well, with honor, anyway.
Ha. Intact in your illusions, rather.
What has this damned man done to me? Javert brooded, and resumed walking, rather vaguely in the direction of the police station nearest the bridge. He understood, by now, that his pursuit of Valjean had, over this time, metamorphosed into gross slavishness of a kind. There were more than two masters before him now, and even as the paths before his eyes split into two-to reclaim his authority and betray his soul, or to... (he cast a glance over the side of the bridge, as he crossed it finally, recalling that the current in this place was very swift, and perfectly treacherous; he paused a moment to take note of this and moved on)... ah well. Even as these paths seemed huge and luminous, another path took shape before him, and threatened to branch into even several. Now this was intolerable.
Nevertheless, Javert negated his first option entirely. Becoming purposeful, he noted, and entered, the little police post on the Place du Chatelet. The man on duty nodded to him at the sight of his card, and Javert availed himself of the ink and paper at the table there. The notes he recorded fell from his pen in neat, precise letters without his having to think about them; they were observations of the most natural sort to him. Nevertheless, he felt a certain giddiness in writing this report, in particular, as he suspected it might be his very last. Sanity then, he noted, was barred from his choices, and even while he rejoiced and trembled at the remaining two options, he lingered here, even after he'd signed the time and his name, enjoying the familiar comfort of his adopted mother, before leaving her forever.
So, it is to be the void or the abyss. Javert strode back to the parapet on which he had leant previously, and paused by it. He reviewed, again, what it was Jean Valjean had done, and said, in these past twenty-four or so hours.
Let me go home for a minute, and after that you can do what you like with me.
And it further occurred to him that Valjean would appear, really, at the foot of the stairs, and would wonder where he had gone. He who had diminished Javert in truth, would willingly abase himself again. This, Javert remembered, this was what had made him great. He had more respect for Javert's position than, it felt now, Javert had himself. From Valjean, Javert realised, he could learn a great deal. If he could possibly abase himself too? Correct the behavior by bowing to the higher power, rather than-as he had tried to do ten years previous-resignation. Jean Valjean had not allowed Javert to resign then, and Javert did not think that he would now. This, then, was his only chance. He gripped the railing.
Discipline. The word both demanded his present course of action and stayed him. Under Valjean's hand, could he not discover a very fine, very complete discipline? The scope of his vision deepened, even as a second before it had narrowed into certainly. He did not know how to obey God, as it were, he did not know what was wanted from him, or by what rule this Almighty master set his measure. Valjean... seemed to. He had been sending his lessons, through the darkness, to Javert for twenty years. How worse now could it be to go to the man, as to a confessional, and tell him-or beg him-for guidance? If he refused, the Seine, the bridge, and the swift current would still be here. And if he accepted...
What possibilities. They were two men who considered themselves trapped by a blindness that Javert only now fully realised. And Valjean would not refuse. He had given Javert power over his life, or death. But Javert did not want to kill him, nor inflict the chain once more upon him. He wanted what Valjean seemed to possess, or at least, to serve. He wanted...
Ah. Ah. There. Javert's hands trembled, and he blew on them against the illusion of cold. He did want something. For which there was only one chance. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. Well, Javert had never loved himself. Perhaps-perhaps, it was not too late to learn. He would see.
Determinedly, head held high, he abandoned his position between the two darknesses, back to the Rue De l'homme arme. He achieved his goal, crossed and uncrossed his arms in front of it, and then, resolutely, opened the door. The porter's bell chimed; he ignored it. He went up the stairs to the second floor, and rapped with his cane. An old woman, who looked as if she might have been resigned to old maid-hood from the age of fourteen, answered.
"Where is Jean Valjean?" He barked.
"Wh-who?" The woman frowned up at him.
"Me, Toussaint." Valjean removed the woman's hand from the door gently, and stepped between her and Javert. Serenely, he met his pursuer's gaze. "I am here."
"Yes." Javert clenched his nightstick behind his back with both hands, but did not move.
Valjean said, "I am sorry I took so long. I thought you had gone."
"No."
There followed another pause, and Valjean examined Javert's pulled frown quizzically. Javert hovered, then sighed, deeply. He seemed to unravel before Valjean's eyes, which widened.
"May I come in?" He asked, politely. Not knowing what to say, or think, Valjean nodded.
With a very, very small smile, Javert entered, and closed the door behind them.