Thanks for the reviews, folks!
Update 1/22/08: Fixed the spelling mistakes pointed out to me by LesMisLoony (thanks!).
The sun rose, and Javert dozed fitfully in the straw bed as the cart rolled on. He dreamed of the smell of gunsmoke, the glint of bayonettes, the color of blood. He dreamed of icy swirling water forcing its way into his nose and mouth. He dreamed of death. Every so often he woke, gasping.
It was mid-morning before he heard the driver call his horse to a halt. Javert got to his knees again and reached up to touch the sleeve of his shirt where it hung from the roof. The fabric seemed mostly dry, and he pulled it down. There were rips and patches of blood smeared across both the front and the back, matching scrapes and cuts Javert could see on his own torso. The white fabric was stained with river mud, as well. He put it on anyway. It covered the bruises.
The driver appeared at the back of the cart and looked up at Javert.
"How are you feeling?"
In his mind, Javert ran through all the aches and pains in his body. His head was a bit better, now just a dull ache. The muscles in his arms and legs protested whenever he moved, but his limbs didn't seem broken. Even the cuts and scrapes that decorated his body had closed enough that they no longer oozed blood. The worst of the injuries had been bandaged in strips of cloth that he now recognized were torn from the blanket. No surprise that it looked so ragged, then.
"I am fine. Where are my boots?"
The driver gave him a pitying look. "A lost cause, M'sieur. The left was gone when I found ye, prob'ly lost in th' current. T'other was tangled in a mooring line. Had ta cut it off to pull ye out."
Javert sighed and made a move to get out of the cart. The driver stepped back and Javert gingerly lowered himself to the ground. Pain ripped through his right ankle--it could barely support his weight. He groaned and started to fall, but the driver steadied him, helped him to lean back against the cart.
"I suppose I could get a couple o' the boys ta carry you over to the tents," Tobar said, scratching his head.
"No!" Javert nearly shouted at the man. He'd suffered enough indignity already; no one was going to carry him anywhere. He tried again to walk, forced himself through three steps along the side of the cart before he could do no more. Frustrated, he leaned back against the wooden frame again, pounding it once with his fists in frustration.
"Stay there," the driver admonished. "I'll find ye a cane."
The man headed around the other side of the cart, and Javert leaned around the edge to watch him go. He expected to see a house, or a cottage, or maybe just a hovel. But there was no building. Instead, the cart was stopped a short distance from a circle of other carts, wagons, and tents. Over a fire in the center of the circle was a goose being roasted on a spit; the scent of the meat reminded him of just how hungry he was. He caught sight of a woman with a baby in a sling resting upon her chest. Her skin was a rich, tawny color, same as Tobar the driver's; her hair was nearly black, long and wavy under a scarf of pure scarlet, and she wore long skirts of bright patterned red and gold fabric that swung with her as she walked. She sang to her baby in a language that Javert could not understand. The melody drifted over him until it snagged on a memory. In his mind, Javert saw his mother's face close to his, her eyes closed, singing. She sang that same song--a Gypsy song.
Merde.
His first instinct was to run, to get away from the memory, away from the song. One tentative step later, he knew for certain that running was not an option. His ankle simply would not carry him. He listened. The woman's voice was soft and lilting, not at all like the blurry rasp of his mother's voice after she had fallen ill, her voice gone prematurely old from consumption.
A few moments later and Tobar returned with a roughly carved walnut cane, which he handed to Javert. The injured man accepted it and took a few experimental steps. It still hurt to walk, of course, but he was at least moving under his own power.
"Come on, then," Tobar said and started leading him towards the circle. Javert briefly considered turning around and hobbling as fast as he could in the other direction. But the smell of food beckoned--between his capture at the barricades and his attempt at drowning himself, he hadn't eaten in more than two days--and he found himself moving towards the encampment almost unconsciously.
- - - -
As they approached the campfire, Javert could feel the uncomfortable weight of thirty eyes all on him. A word from Tobar sent three young boys scrambling off a bench by the fire, and the driver helped Javert to sit there with his injured leg up. A woman came up behind him to offer a tin plate with sliced goose meat and roasted potatoes, which he accepted and thanked her for, though he had no idea whether she understood what he said to her. Tobar pulled her aside for a moment and they had a short conversation while Javert ate. He struggled not to simply shovel the food into his mouth; his sense of propriety forced him to take reasonable bites and chew thoroughly, though his stomach protested the delay. Nevertheless, it was mere minutes before the plate was empty. The woman whisked it away, and Tobar sat down next to Javert by the fire.
"Yer appetite seems to 'ave survived uninjured."
Javert nodded. "Please thank your wife for me, for the meal."
Tobar's grin lit up his face and crinkled around his eyes. "I will at that. Now, M'sieur, are ye up to answering a few questions?"
Javert's expression tensed for a moment, but he nodded. It was only fair, after all, to this man who rescued him--even though rescue was the last thing Javert had intended for himself.
"Good. First, can ye tell me yer name?"
Even a simple question like that forced Javert to think for a moment before answering. How far did Monsieur l'Inspecteur's reputation extend beyond the reaches of Paris? Would a clan of Gypsies know the name? If they did, how would they react? He was not well-loved among the criminal element. But then again, he was no longer an inspector, either--the letter he left at Place du Chatelet had sealed that chapter of his life. In a moment, he reached a compromise in his mind.
"My name is Etienne," he responded, offering his given name, which he rarely used outside of official documents.
"What were ye doing in the river?"
"Drowning."
Tobar laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Indeed ye were. Perhaps my question should be, were ye there intentionally?"
Javert drew a soft breath. "Yes, I was."
Tobar nodded, seemingly to himself, his expression thoughtful. "I figured as much, the way ye acted when ye woke up. Can I ask why?"
Javert sighed. He knew this question was coming eventually. But how to explain it? What brought him to make his final report, return to the Pont Notre-Dame, and throw himself into the rapids of the Seine? Jean Valjean entered into the equation, certainly. But try as he might, Javert could not lay blame for his own actions on the shoulders of a former convict who freed him from captivity at the barricades. No, the fault fell solely to Javert. To his failure. To his imperfection. His years of devotion to one case were wasted in the space of a single breath. Ten years, gone. It felt like a lifetime.
"I thought it best," he said simply. "I have wasted my life."
"Wasted how?"
Javert shrugged. "It's not important."
"Would no one miss ye?"
"No."
"No family, or friends?"
"No."
"I see." The driver gazed into the fire, which was dying down, fading to embers. After a few moments, he changed the subject.
"Ye have the look of a Rom, but yer not one, far as I can tell. Who were yer parents?"
Another pause, this one longer. "I did not know my father. My mother was a Gypsy, a fortune-teller in Rouen."
"Ye share our blood, then, if not our life. My clan's out of Rouen, as well. What was her name? I might'a known her."
"I doubt that very much. She was imprisoned in Rouen when I was born, and passed away there only a few years later. Her name was Oriana."
Tobar shook his head, saying, "I don't know the name." They sat in silence for a little while, each gazing into the fading coals of the fire.
"May I ask you a question?" Javert asked after a time. Tobar nodded.
"Why did you pull me from the river?"
Tobar shrugged. "It seemed like th' thing ta do. Not in my nature ta watch a man drown."
"What were you doing at the river at that time of night?"
"That was a rare bit o' luck," Tobar said with a grin. "My cart was confiscated by the gendarmes yesterday mornin'. Last night, with them all distracted at the barricades, I took it upon meself to, ah, liberate it. In the spirit of things, understand? They were storin' it down by the docks, where I found ye."
Javert's stomach knotted up. Rescued by a criminal. Again. Mon dieu... He swallowed harshly.
"I suppose I should thank you," Javert said, his voice surprisingly steady for how he felt. Tobar shook his head.
"I understand if ye don't. It's a harsh world we're in." He leaned over and patted Javert on the shoulder. "Livin's the greatest challenge there is, right? Anyway," he said, "Ye've got a place to stay here, 'til yer a bit more mobile."
"I will thank you for that, Monsieur Tobar."
Tobar nodded and stood, offering a hand to Javert. "Come 'ere, let's introduce you 'round." Javert allowed the man to help him up, and with the aid of the cane, followed him towards the carts.