5. Take Shelter from the Storm

It was as if an angry god of ancient times had unleashed all his wrath in this thunderstorm. The wind howled, rattling the closed shutters, and rain beat down onto the mostly unpaved streets, turning them into paths of mud. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared.

"Bugger me for a bloody lark," Gavroche grumbled, plodding through a large puddle with his bare feet, "now this is what I call foul weather."

"True," Valjean agreed. It was like having buckets of water emptied over his head, one after the other. By now he had come to the point where he hardly noticed anymore that he was wet, simply because there was nothing about him left dry, as it seemed to him. For all he felt, he might as well have stood in a pond. At least it was not too chilly, but he still longed to find shelter somewhere and struggle out of his wet clothes to wrap himself in a warm, dry blanket instead.

He hoped they would reach this Roses' End soon, wherever it was.

But maybe it was not exactly of much use to him, since he did not have any spare clothes to change into. And Javert would hardly lend him some.

Valjean sighed inaudibly. Did things like this happen in Paradise? Well, it certainly rained in Paradise, it had to, it stood to reason that it did, but a downpour like this…

Was Paradise to be approached by reason at all?

"Tell you something, Whiskers," Gavroche said cheerfully. "You haven't moved Grim today. Means you'll still have to."

"Have you taken Fyalar out yet?" His head bowed, Javert otherwise gave no sign that Heaven had opened all its locks above him. His hair sticking to his head, his shirt clinging to his skin, he looked as if he had been thrown into a tub with his clothes on.

"You bet," Gavroche said smugly, attempting to elbow him in the ribs, which looked rather comical since he had to direct his thrust steeply upwards. The top of his head did not even reach Javert's chest. Then he turned to Valjean at his other side. "You see, I've got a real horse, and his name is Fyalar. He's a dapple, all white and brown in some funny random pattern, and even his tail is half white and half brown. That is to say, it's white mostly because Fyalar has a white bum, like a lantern in the night, so to say," here he giggled, "but with a bit of a brown spot on the right side so there's some strands of brown at the right of his tail. And his mane is a complete mixture of both. I used to have a pony because I'm small, and I said to Whiskers a pony was something for babies, but Whiskers said I could ride Jolly Tom for quite some time still before my feet reached the ground. So I nicked his." Gavroche snickered happily. "I went and gave Grim a big carrot, and then I got the saddle on him, but I couldn't quite climb up, so I led him out and over to the fence, and I – well, let's say I had a little accident. But it was Grim's fault, mostly."

"It was because you had never sat on a real horse before, and because you can't fasten a saddle properly," Javert corrected. While the boy had spoken, his features had appeared indifferent, and he had not even reacted to being called Whiskers repeatedly in front of Valjean, but Valjean had not for a second doubted that he was listening.

"No, it wasn't!" Gavroche protested hotly. "And don't argue now, because I hate it when you're right!"

"As long as you know I'm right…"

Gavroche poked out his tongue at him. "Anyway, you're interrupting me. As I was saying, I climbed the fence and tried to get on Grim, but he chose just that moment to walk away, and I was only half up, and the saddle shifted, and I landed in the roses. Right there." He pointed to the dogrose hedge that lined one side of the muddy path, behind a fence. At the other side another hedge began, just a few paces away, to form a kind of narrow alley lined with wooden fences, half covered by leaves and little flowers. "And, boy, did it hurt." He massaged his backside. "I never sat down quite that hard before."

"And you probably never howled quite that loud before," Javert remarked.

"I didn't! I only – yelled a bit. At Grim. Yes. At your stupid big horse, that's right!"

"You know you howled. So loud that the, shall we say, lady came to see about you. And it's not Grim's fault you're too small to ride him."

"Just because you're obscenely tall yourself!" Scowling, Gavroche pushed out his lower lip. "And of course she's a lady. A real lady. All in white and with long blond hair and a gentle voice, and when she feeds all her many white doves she looks like… like… I don't know, but she looks all… lady-like. You know, like the fairy princesses in the stories who live in little towers in castles and wear veils on their hats and stuff. And she helped me out of the roses and cleaned all my cuts and scratches while you were just standing around sneering."

Javert shrugged. "But I did get you Fyalar."

"Yes, that you did." Stopping suddenly, Gavroche threw his arms around Javert's middle. "And I love you for it, so much that I could squeeze you to bits." To prove this, he tightened his grip. "Oh, do me the favour and yelp or something!"

"Ouch," Javert said evenly.

It did not sound very convincing, but Gavroche grinned and let him go and continued skipping along between the two men, down towards a gate at the end of the alley. "The next evening, he just came home with Fyalar, smug as a frog on a water lily leaf, and said he was mine. Do water lilies have leaves? Oh, never mind. And I was so happy I started crying. Nobody ever gave me a thing as good as a real horse."

"Now, now," Javert said. "It's not as if I spent a lot of money on him or anything. I just swapped him for Jolly Tom."

"But all the same," Gavroche insisted, "you went all the way to Lower Rosendale to get him. You see," here he turned back to Valjean again, "Whiskers found that farmer who had Fyalar but didn't need him because he's not a race horse, but not a cart horse or plough horse either, so there was nothing he needed him for, he only took up place in the stable, poor old Fyalar, but that farmer wanted a pony for his children, so Whiskers got Fyalar and gave him good old Jolly Tom instead, who's happy as a cat in the dairy storehouse now. I was always urging him to go faster, you see, but his little legs were just too short." Lightning flashed, and Gavroche blew a wet raspberry in its general direction before he continued, "But Fyalar, Fyalar is fast. And a real horse. But not as horribly big as Grim. Just a normal horse. And he has such a soft nose. He always nudges me with it when I come to say good morning, because I bring him carrots. Fyalar adores carrots. He'll crunch them up like – oh, look, here we are."

They had arrived before a low wooden gate, behind which high grass grew, sprinkled with dots of colour that were wild flowers. Large bushes and low trees almost hid the little house that stood in the middle of this small wilderness. Although Valjean knew that this must be somewhere in the heart of the village, it seemed to him that this one house was removed from the others, a solitary dwelling surrounded by trees and bushes and hedges of dogroses only. So this was the place Javert had spoken of, Roses' End. Who lived here? The lady they had mentioned? Or someone completely different, a man of Orvar's kind?

"Too bad it's raining like old Saint Peter didn't make it to the privy," Gavroche stated. "Otherwise we might have introduced you to Madeleine. That's the cat. She always lies in the sun before the house, and she's all white and soft and mews when you call her, though Whiskers says –" Here he paused, and suddenly he grinned. "Say, Whiskers, is this the man you talked about? You know, the one you said called himself –"

Javert nodded curtly.

If that was possible, Gavroche's grin even broadened as he positioned himself right before Valjean, his hands in his trouser pockets. "Is it true you once went around telling people your name was Madeleine? That's daft, if you don't mind my saying so. I mean, everybody knows that's a name for girls, and you actually have a beard!"

"I used it as a last name," Valjean admitted. What had Javert been telling the boy? What had he been telling others? And just because of a cat which happened to share that name!

"And you were a mayor once, right?" Gavroche asked, carefully nudging a worm that had emerged from the ground with his toe. "Hello there, ugly pink friend, I've got one like you on a hook, want to see it?" And already he was waving his fishing rod around so that Javert took a hasty step backwards.

"Yes, I was." But Valjean wasn't sure if the boy was still listening.

"Because Whiskers always calls the cat the mayor and stuff." So he had peen paying attention after all, despite his fascination with the worm, over which he now dangled the dead one on the hook. "Look here, say hello to the other worm! Or slime at it, or whatever it is you do when you're being polite."

"You wait here," Javert commanded. "I'll take him indoors. Come on, breadthief."

"Can't I come inside too?" Gavroche protested. "Why do I have to stand in the rain all the time?"

"Because you're wet anyway. You can't get much wetter. Besides, you're having fun with the worms." Javert nudged Valjean in the back sharply, and Valjean hurried to open the low gate so he would not have to repeat it. The muddy ground made odd, squishy noises under his feet. Where were they heading?

"It's not as if you aren't!" Gavroche cried. "Just look at your whiskers! Though you probably can't see them since you can't twist your eyes around like that… Hey, Whiskers, imagine you could twist your eyes around!"

"Hold that image," Javert said dryly as he marched Valjean through the wet grass. There was a path, half overgrown, they were following, and he seriously wondered if a gardener might be needed here. Unless it was a man of Javert's kind who lived in this place, of course. Then he would rather find somewhere else to work.

He only hoped their paths would not cross too often after this; he did not particularly enjoy being called breadthief all the time.

Once a thief, forever a thief.

Sighing to himself inaudibly, he cast a quick glance at the flowerbeds beside the path. And those behind them… Well, it seemed someone was growing vegetables here, or at least attempting to. And there was an apple tree, and a cherry tree… Maybe he might really be needed in this place.

The house was a framework building like most of the others, but smaller, and up in the attic was what looked like a pigeon loft, only that there were no pigeons to be seen at the moment. But Gavroche had mentioned them just now, which meant…

A lady in white, then. Valjean was not certain how he should feel about this.

Javert rapped on the door with his knuckles, and it seemed to Valjean that it was done rather more violently than necessary. "Come on," he growled, "open up."

Valjean almost wished that there was nobody home. He was in no state to meet a lady.

But then the door swung open slowly, the creaking of angles audible softly above the falling of the rain. Another thing he might put right? Before he could catch a glimpse of who had opened it, though, or even of what lay inside, it abruptly stopped in a half-open position, so that whoever had answered to Javert's knock now saw the former inspector only. There was a moment of silence, then a female voice said, "Come in."

"I'd rather not, thank you," Javert replied coolly. "But I brought you someone who might like to. Though he might be in danger of answering when you call your cat."

At once the door was flung open, and while Valjean was still wondering if this might be someone he had once known, he suddenly found himself facing a woman in a simple white linen dress, her long hair hanging open around her shoulders like curtains of gold. As she smiled, Valjean caught a glimpse of two rows of lovely white teeth. "Monsieur Madeleine! It really is you!"

Caught by surprise, Valjean did not know what to say. How came she knew him, when he did not know her?

"For Heaven's sake, come inside! You can't stand in the rain like this!"

Could he just trespass upon her hospitality? And especially in his current state? Automatically Valjean glanced at Javert, and their eyes met for a moment. Javert's gaze was cold, cold and blank. One corner of his thin mouth was drawn downwards contemptuously. "Go in, breadthief. I've got other things on my schedule, too."

A little helplessly Valjean's gaze returned to the woman, who was smiling invitingly. Should he go? She was very pretty, and he was very wet. It was one of the most awkward situations he could possibly imagine.

Once more Javert nudged him in the back sharply, and he took a few steps, over the threshold, into the house. Behind him, the woman pulled the door shut, without giving him the chance to at least thank Javert for bringing him to a dry place. Very suddenly, practically without a transition, he found himself in a low, windowless room with walls of wood, a small lantern on the mantelpiece giving off a gentle light. The room was rather dark, but cosily so. An almost closed door ahead led to a room brightly lid, for a finger of light ran across the floor towards him, ending close to the place where he stood, as if it were calling him. Another door beside it was shut.

"Come." The woman's voice was gentle, as was her hand on his arm. "You'll catch a chill in those clothes. I'll find you something dry to wear."

"I can't go in," he protested weakly. "I'm all wet, and my shoes must be dirty."

Her laughter was very pleasant, like the tinkling of little silver bells. "Take them off, then."

As he knelt down to untie his shoelaces, he seriously wondered who she was. It was clear to which period of his life she belonged, obvious from how she had addressed him, but he was unable to put a name to those bright eyes, that pretty face… He wished to know, but he could not just ask. Lord, where had he met her? Why was his memory so blank at once?

Placing his shoes by the door, he got up again. At least his socks were not completely soaked, but only moist, yet still he feared that he would leave wet footprints on the floor. He felt plain silly. Perhaps he should ask his hostess if she had a stable or barn where he could stay for now, until his clothes were dry?

"Come," she repeated, opening the half-closed door. Bowing his head in thanks, he entered a room filled with light. The curtains were drawn, hiding the storm outside. Instead there were candles on the table in the middle and lanterns on the walls. Merry flames were crackling in the fireplace, before which a white cat slept on a cushion.

"If you'll just wait a minute…" The woman hurried towards one of the chests of drawers lining two of the room's walls, pulling out drawers and looking for something. Feeling it would be impolite to watch her so closely, Valjean let his gaze stray through what apparently was a small living room. There was a comfortable chair in a corner, and a bench piled with cushions, and pictures on the walls above them, strange landscapes with forests and mountains and waterfalls. The table in the centre was surrounded by several wooden chairs, some with cushions on them and some without, and on it some items of clothing were spread out, and a neat pile of even more clothes waited in one corner of it, behind a basket filled with utensils for needlework.

A seamstress, then.

And suddenly a memory stirred, like the missing piece of a puzzle clicking into place. He recalled a woman, a rake-thin, pitiful thing, at Javert's feet, pleading for mercy, talking about her daughter being sick, about money-hungry employers, her speech interrupted by coughing fits and nigh impossible to understand. "Fantine?"

"You remember me!" Interrupting her search, she beamed, and he looked down at his feet a little uncomfortably. Was it such a favour, a great gift to have remembered her? Of course he would, why shouldn't he? Naturally he would. She had changed, yes, she looked like she must have looked once, back then before she had fallen into poverty and despair. But he still knew her. How could he forget the one who had given her child to his keeping? He had been a fool not to realize who she was straight away!

"I'm so glad I can help you now," she continued happily. "After all you did for me, at least I can repay you a little bit."

"Don't mention it. I did not help you for a reward." He would have been a horrible man if he had. "I did it because I wanted to help you, that was all."

"You're very kind, Monsieur Madeleine. You're the kindest man one can possibly imagine."

Shaking his head decidedly, Valjean still preferred to look at his feet, although having his moist socks before his eyes only increased his embarrassment at standing in a lady's living room soaking wet and being fussed over like this. His cheeks felt hot, and he had the unpleasant suspicion that he was blushing a little.

Maybe he should explain to her that his name was not Madeleine.

"Here," she continued, in that same happy tone of voice, "I found something that will probably fit you. Just wait a minute… Yes, exactly what I was looking for. Here you are." She was coming towards him now, smiling at him, carrying a pile of clothing in her arms. Apart from the fact that a linen shirt was among the items, Valjean did not recognize anything. "I always make some spare things, in case someone suddenly needs new clothes. Lucky for you, isn't it?"

"I'll give them back once my own are dry again," Valjean hastily promised. He was not too comfortable about the idea of borrowing anything without knowing what he could do in exchange for the favour. "Can I get changed somewhere?"

"Of course. If the kitchen will be alright with you, Monsieur Madeleine, I'm afraid I don't have any better place at hand, the hall just won't do and –"

"Never mind," Valjean interrupted gently. "The kitchen is more than enough for me."

Fantine led him through a door across the room, picking up another piece of clothing as she did so. "I'm grateful Javert brought you here," she said, "so someone can take decent care of you. He himself certainly wouldn't have done that."

Not knowing what to reply, Valjean simply shrugged, but she did not wait for a reaction from him. "Not a pleasant man, Javert," she commented as she placed a candle in a saucer on top of a small cupboard probably meant to contain dishes. "He doesn't harm anyone, sure, but he's always… I don't know. Rude. Nastily so. Very… I'm not sure how to call it…"

"Scathing?" Valjean suggested. "Try not to take it personal." Even though it probably is.

"Yes, thank you, that's the word." Fantine deposited what she had earlier on picked up on the cabinet beside the candle, and Valjean now saw that it was, in fact, a towel. She really thought of everything. "Orvar seems to hold him in high esteem. Well, maybe this is because it was Sophia who took him in when he first came here, but all the same, Orvar is hard to influence, I think. Even by Sophia." She turned and looked at him, and her eyes gleamed oddly in the flickering half-light the candle was giving. The shadow of what appeared to be a copper cauldron danced over the whitewashed wall opposite it. "He just came out of the forest one day, where he had been lurking for some time, stubbly and tired and hungry, but people were frightened of taking him in, he looked like a savage. Only Sophia was ready to, and he stayed with her for some time – maybe she's taken a fancy to him, like people in the village said, but I don't know, and one day he disappeared again, off to explore the world or something. And when he came back last winter, he brought a boy with him, a sweet little rascal who trailed him like a dog, and they took over Nenal's house when Nenal got married and moved to Greengrove. And it seems Orvar's been relying on him ever since."

"What does he work?" Valjean asked, hoping to receive advice for something he might do himself.

"Oh, all kinds, really. For Orvar and for the blacksmith and for Sophia, whatever they give him to do. Things like haggling with horse dealers and cutting some from Lowford down to size when they put claims on our farmlands, but all kinds of other work, too. I don't really know. And for the blacksmith he's one of the bellows-men from what I've heard. I'm not sure, I'm not in close contact with him. He only comes here when he needs some clothes repaired, or some new ones, mostly for the boy." Fantine shrugged. "I'm sorry, I try to stay out of his way."

"Yes, I understand." After all, her past encounters with Javert had been far from pleasant. Suppressing a shiver, Valjean shifted his stance a little uncomfortably. He was beginning to feel cold in his wet clothes, now he was not in the rain any longer. That constant shower from above had made it easier, just like when swimming in a pond. He would only start feeling cold then when he came out of the water. "It's not that important really."

"Thank you," she said, and he wondered for what. "But I won't detain you any longer, you'll be wanting to get changed now… I'll wait for you in the living room, just come over when you're done. You can leave your wet clothes here for now, I'll put them up somewhere later on. Do you have everything you need?"

Valjean nodded and thanked her, although he had no idea what the pile of clothing she had given him contained. He had given her enough trouble already as it was.

As the door closed behind her, he hastily struggled out of his drenched clothing and deposited it over a low stool he almost stumbled over as he turned around, hoping it would not drip too much. Shivering, he rubbed himself dry, then brushed his still moist hair out of his face. He felt a lot better now. Time to approach those new clothes, then…

While throwing the towel over the stool to his discarded things, he already reached for the topmost item on the pile – and suddenly stopped, his arm outstretched, his fingers closing around thin air. The scar on his arm, the burn from the red-hot poker… it had disappeared. It was gone. Could it be true? Could it have just vanished? Gingerly, as if fearing it might reappear when he did, he touched the place where it should have been, felt it carefully with the tips of his fingers, then decidedly closed his hand around it. Nothing but whole, smooth skin. It had truly gone.

Remembering something else, he turned his head to his right, hope suddenly soaring high inside him. Would the brand, that hateful mark of his dark past, still be there to accuse and condemn him? His eyes scanned the place eagerly while he craned his neck, squinting in the dim candlelight, but all he saw was unblemished skin, no sign of those three hateful letters standing for a life sentence of slavery. He gave the place a rub, but could feel nothing out of the ordinary. Could it have gone, too? Decidedly he slapped his own shoulder sharply. When the skin was reddened from a blow, even a faded brand would stand out clearly. Closing his eyes, he felt the skin sting, knowing it would show the desired effect now… But would he dare to open his eyes again, for fear that his rising hopes might be in vain?

God, he was a coward. Determinedly, he opened his eyes again… and saw nothing but whole skin, with no sign of an old burn mark left.

For a moment he closed his eyes as a warm, quiet sensation of bliss filled him, starting at the pit of his stomach and seeping into the rest of his body. Free. Free at last. At once that light-headed feeling from earlier on was back, that state of mind which had made him want to laugh for no reason, but now he didn't laugh. He just smiled to himself. Although his hair was still moist and he was shivering, this was a perfect moment.

As he left the kitchen later on, he was still smiling, though he inwardly feared he looked somewhat comical in the clothes he was wearing. It had taken him some time to decide whether he should tuck his shirt into his trousers or not, but finally he had decided against it because the trousers were just a tiny bit too tight to make him feel comfortable. Now he already regretted this decision, he probably looked like a slack that way. And the vest did not help in the slightest, it just made him feel awkward because Fantine had probably spent hours on that thread-of-gold embroidery.

"There you are." She had returned to her needlework while he had been changing into other clothes, and now she put what looked like a sock down and smiled at him. "It suits you. I'll have to find you a belt, though."

"Don't trouble yourself for me," he hastily said, "you've done quite enough for me already. I'm afraid I currently don't have the means to repay your kindness –"

"Not necessary," she told him firmly. "All I would ask of you is to let me know what happened to my Cosette after I… left her."

My Cosette. It was strange hearing anyone say something like that; for all those years she had been his Cosette, his own girl. But Fantine was her mother, while he was just the man who had raised her. He had tried to be a father to her, and for a little while he had succeeded, for a little while… before he had lost her to her young man. "She is well," he said, fighting down the feeling of bitterness and loss. "I watched over her until she got married. To a young baron. A good boy, but lacking any sense whatsoever. Their love for each other is what matters, and they are happy together now. She was happy with me, too. I think, or like to think, she was, at least. I did my best to be a father to her."

That would almost make him Fantine's husband, he realized. It was a rather awkward thought.

"Oh, Monsieur… how can I ever thank you?"

"No need to," he assured her, his awkwardness increasing. The way they were always trying to thank each other… But there was nothing she had to thank him for. Nothing at all. "I am the one who has to be grateful, for giving me a daughter of my own."

Were those tears that made her eyes glitter like that? He could not quite tell. "Come, sit with me," she said. "There is so much I would like to ask you…"