[Dear readers, greetings!
I introduce here the fruit of a few historical researches and Napoleonic sketches that resulted in a new idea of fiction.
This is a second episode of Javert's life before the one we know from "Les Misérables". The first of these episodes is Lux Aeterna that you can find on my profile.
The author of "Barricades," a book that I did not read yet, and that relates the young years of the Inspector, concentrates itself on the bohemian origins of Javert. Knowing that I wanted to imagine a story closer to Victor Hugo, and therefore a little bit more political, I wanted to concentrate on the military aspect of Javert, even more when only his mother was bohemian.
Javert lived at the same time the Revolution, the Empire and the Monarchy. I introduce here a Javert high-ranked in the Imperial Guard, and whom "unfortunate" adventures could find a reason to his stoicism. This fiction happens somehow like ten years before he obtains his Inspector rank. And maybe it will make Javert look more sympathetic to the eyes of the readers.
I hope that you will appreciate my interpretation of this character of French literature.
I also took the freedom to insert the character of the officer Lacroix that you can see in picture of the fiction, drawn by my very dear friend M-C F. A thousand thanks to her!
I did the translation from French myself. Please accept my deepest apologies if this fiction contains any mistake.
There are some references to the book, as exactly two characters from the official book participated to the battle of Waterloo; Mr. Thénardier and Marius' father, the baron of Pontmercy
Good reading!]
The French Empire was a glorious moment of the History of our country. The veterans that we still know today from the battles led by the Emperor Bonaparte, continued to make engrave his portrait on the many personal effects they had, as in a sort of senseless hope that we still lived under an Emperor and not a king. The death of the Little Caporal has been a wrench in the heart of these veterans, glorified by Montmirail, humiliated by Waterloo.
Javert was one of these veterans who were happy that the Empire collapsed, and no one really knew why. He hid his uniform of general in the depths of his wardrobe, and he never wore his military decorations at the defiles of police. We called Javert more willingly a "copper" than a "brave". Because no one knew anything more from him than his police arrestations.
Even worse; he had sensed the end of the Empire approaching with the battle of Waterloo. And his sulky mood extended to the ranks of artillerymen he commanded. Some thought that the Emperor would save the day at the last moment. Javert had nimbly dismissed from his quarters a sergeant named Thénardier who strived to attempt to prove the contrary. Fortunately, the said sergeant did not remember more the name of the general than he remembered his face with thick sideburns that were usual to see in the Guard.
However, Javert insisted to see his troops more often before the baneful battle. At each training, at each preparation of packages for the bivouac, he perambulated through his recruits, staring at them with the eye of a hawk, without saying anything. Sometimes, in an impulse of kindness, or even of compassion, the general took the bayonet of one of his soldiers and said:
"You will vanquish no one with this. Let me sharpen it."
Or sometimes, he took the rifle of a veteran artilleryman to replace it with a musket of more beautiful quality, without waiting for a single thank. Javert did not even look anxious. He just had his thirty years, but he already had the gaze of a soldier who saw a lot of unspeakable horrors. The militaries, more than respectful, walled themselves in a deep silence, strange, menacing. Their hands were sweaty, they swallowed often, and the general had a little more wrinkles than the other days.
Finally, the artilleryman Lacroix shook like a leaf, and he did not manage to keep his musket in right place between his fingers. Inside the ranks, he was the one the most certain that the presage of Javert would be true, and he lowered the visor of his shako on his eyes to prevent anyone to see the terror in his gaze. He was young yet, and his comrades had pity for him. He did not even talk, or at least he stammered; and he prayed God at low voice, because the orders that came from above had nothing of reassuring. He spoke sometimes to a comrade; "We cannot die now! come on! I did not even have a son to raise… a woman to love… I only have been to the war! May God help us!"
The comrade in question could only pat his shoulder, because he could not do more. Lacroix had the voice of someone who forced on himself not to burst into tears.
"I did not have a childhood! and now, I must die at the spring of my life!"
One day, Lacroix got convened in the quarters of Javert during the last hours left before they had to leave for Waterloo with the artillerymen of the Company of the Train. The general was much more solemn, and saluted Lacroix before he did it himself. He even ignored the fact that the officer forgot to introduce himself, because he did not find enough voice to do it. Javert did it at his place.
"Officer Lacroix, from the 18th company 6th of foot artillery.
- Commandant.
- You leave to Waterloo. I could not do anything."
Lacroix remained silent and lowered his head.
"You will play the batteries of Austerlitz in your regiment when you will leave. I have trust in…
- Monsieur, with all my respect. It is to the price of having the right to play these batteries that we lost the colonel-general who preceded you."
Javert sighed and stood up from his desk. He did not know what to do. He was not used to have, in front of him, people that he knew were to die before their hour, and it pained him, somehow, to see Lacroix so young and so fiery go already all straight to death, or, in the best of the cases, be forced to watch a battlefield scraped off from top to bottom by the enemy.
Lacroix already turned around to leave, but Javert put a hand on his shoulder.
"I will fight at Waterloo with you."
For those who lived in the ancient times, they can know that there are many ways to assist to the change of a government. We can, for example, day after day, realize that the world we know would not be anymore the same than the one we knew as a child, because the streets are becoming more and more agitated and that the spirit of the Revolution was awoken in the minds of the people.
For other cases, we can wake up one day, and discover through our window that the government has simply disappeared, destroyed during our sleep, swallowed by the darkness of a History that is written only by the winners.
Or again, we can assist to the death of a monarch just as Nero assisted to the great fire of Roma while playing the lyre.
It was in this case that was found the Great Army at the battle of Waterloo. A day of 18th June that saw, one by one, the soldiers with the shakos fall like the First Empire fell. A day of 18th June that became synonym of Hell for everyone, recruits just as the high-ranked. A Hell in which Javert voluntarily engaged himself in the hope to avoid confronting the same pictures of a Terror he had to confront years ago. A Hell in which the French army threw itself without a thought, screaming its rage and its ardour to as the fear distilled itself in the veins of the militaries.
Lacroix, lost in this battlefield that seemed immense to him, had put a knee on the ground behind his canon of six pounds. The howls of pain, of death from the soldiers, the orders shouted by the superiors, burnt his ears and gave him a horrible headache. He was feeling hot, he was feeling cold all at the same time; he was especially scared. He felt his heart beat strongly against his chest, and his sight was fuzzy from time to time. After a certain time, he did not manage anymore to understand what shouted his comrades; he only heard them from a distance.
When he saw a regiment of Prussians that advanced itself in the distance, he shouted "To the artillery!" of a voice that he did not recognize anymore as his, and threw with alacrity a ball in his canon. The detonations made themselves intense and redundant, and the front of the French filled itself with a thick white smoke that made Lacroix cough. He heard a bullet whistle at the side of his ear. He spread against the ground, laid down against his weapon, panting like crazy but too much brave to call for help.
He remembered that all of that had begun by a voice that shouted a few hours before:
"Artillerymen! The Emperor will make participate the Guard!"
Lacroix crawled out of his cover with trembling arms, grabbing his musket that was lost on the ground. He pushed the butt of the weapon against his cheek, but he could not see anything. He could only see the shadow of his comrades that armed their canons beside him. These shadows soon disappeared. The officer only had the time to see one of the soldiers fall to the ground, caught by a bullet that reached its goal.
Lacroix knew that Death was here, and that she watched him, him, the young officer who was only twenty-five years old, young prodigy of the Imperial Guard that would be soon replaced by another, just as they replaced his Commandant.
Another bullet flew by. He redressed himself in one shot, as with an energy boost. He armed again and again the canon, shooting several times, hearing the Prussian language shouted by the other side. He covered his ears, his traits hardened themselves as he could hear the steps of the Prussians that approached themselves of him, ready to reach him, the hate of Napoleon inside them more than ever.
He saw the edges of the muskets appear in the smoke. He knew that it was his last instant. Lacroix put a last time a new sliver to his canon, armed the one of twelve pounds, made explode both of them at the same time. And in the detonations, we could hear:
"Vive la France !"
A silence just as strange as the one before the battle imposed itself quickly during a few seconds. Silence broken by a ball of canon that crushed itself a few meters away from Lacroix. He screamed of pain and his sight became black.
A Prussian emerged from the battlefield to come achieve the officer of artillery. It was a lost cause. His comrades have fallen under the two shots of canon given by Lacroix, and a French bayonet pierced his heart. He fell under a kick given by the owner of the weapon.
It was Javert.
He grasped Lacroix by the arm and brought him back against him, staring at him with a ferocious eye while he held his musket firmly in his other hand. The eyes of the officer were empty but his chest still continued to raise itself, even though the blood already took over his blue uniform. Javert shook his head and threw his artilleryman on his shoulder, getting progressively away from the canons. He held the two muskets and the shako of Lacroix, pierced from side to side by a bullet.
"Commandant… You are going to…
- Shut it, officer! Javert barked. I signed in the army to arrest criminals, not to see kids die!"
Lacroix kept the silence. A weak smile appeared on his face, however he moaned with pain. It took over him and he closed his eyes, falling into unconsciousness. Javert was getting more and more away from the battlefield. Him too did not look great anymore, his uniform strained, bloodstained, full of dust. He walled himself into silence, only seeking for putting Lacroix out of reach of the detonations; out of reach of a Hell that he should never had seen.
The general felt in his shoulder the throbbing bite of a bullet that remained stuck in his flesh, but his only priority for the moment was to save the artilleryman. He knew what words hung on the lips of the officer before he got interrupted.
"To desert".
The general was going to desert. He had thrown away his cap of ranked, and he was deserting with his artilleryman the most faithful. And no one would know how to blame him, because the Empire collapsed under their eyes. The reminiscences of a childhood that he only effloresced had appeared to Javert as appeared the solution to a future that he hoped to be better.
Whether. Javert deserted with Lacroix. They did not hear any more about the Great Army. Lacroix dedicated an eternal admiration to his superior since this day.
Their lives did not stop there, nonetheless. That was the goal of the maneuver. And just as planned Javert who retrenched himself in North of France, Napoleon the First abdicated his Empire to the enemies of the country.
At the police post of Montreuil-sur-Mer, the gendarmes were quite quiet on these days. Crime was very few present since the reform of the police. The Empire had strong repercussions on France, so well that the all new National Guard was enough to scare the criminals away and that there was no need for a lot of gendarmes to bring them to the post. The veterans of the Empire, we said, continued to make engrave the portrait of the Emperor. And they engaged themselves in the National Guard for the hope to have a uniform similar to their military one.
The effect dwindled through the years.
The sideburns of Javert, from black, became dark grey. He sank his days in his desk, sometimes on the work field. He had exchanged his musket against a nightstick.
And at least he was called "Inspector".
His uniform of Imperial Guard was there, somewhere, but not on him; and his own shako got replaced with a top hat, though, he sometimes let his gaze wander on the caps of his auxiliaries.
The door of the desk opened itself with a grinding. A National Guard, with an age of good wisdom, penetrated in the room, saluting respectfully the Inspector Javert.
This one stood up and gave the salute back, bowing his head. He signed to the officer to sit down, and crossed his arms as he looked outside.
"You know, officer, that they make a commemoration of the fall of the government, tomorrow. I deserted, you know it, I have not the right to participate. But you! my faith! you should. I will cover you. You have shining years of service. You earn well to wear your decorations at the defile and to see the children cheer your passage.
- You grant me a holiday for the defile, Inspector?
- Your affairs will be kept, and I will watch your apartments. The new mayor has been clement, and he wants to congratulate you by himself."
The Guard smiled and adjusted his shako on his head. This one was not in an unused state. He got repaired, but we could still see on it a hole through the cockade.
"Officer Lacroix. To your orders, Inspector. Can I dispose?
- You can."
And Lacroix got away, his insignia of police shining on his old uniform's shoulder, his smile becoming customary throughout the years. His gait became somehow strange since Napoleon, however.
It was difficult to get used to a wooden leg.