In the solemn ancient cathedral , built ages ago , in the times of crusades, on one of the carved wooden pews there sat a man clad in black. He was tall; his hair, once jet black like his greatcoat, were now salt and pepper; his lined,austere face, tale-telling about his long and hard life road, was far from being handsome according to traditional society standards, but his rigid posture was a fair sign that he wouldn't be called an old man in another twenty years or so.
The man – none other than Inspector Javert - was obviously deep in thought. Now that Euphrasie Pontmercy was widowed, he couldn't just go on visiting the Gillenormand manor as he used to do while Marius was alive. That could compromise her in the eyes of the neighbours and the society in general. But to stop visiting at all, to leave the girl…no, woman on her own – that was out of the question. Because he gave an oath to Valjean to protect his daughter, because he still felt himself guilty for Fantine's death, because…Because he now truly cared – even got attached – for the young woman, her children and even to that imp of her foster brother. Strange indeed, but with years he came to consider himself to be one of them. He belonged with them now, even if it still seemed odd and almost unbelievable to the inspector himself. And should he be deprived of their company – her company – the solitude, once so familiar to him, would be just unbearable now.
However, that was what troubled his mind: how could he pretend to be acting in Euphrasie' s best interests, if his own motives were somewhat selfish?
To tell the truth, he wanted to protect her and the children, and he was capable of doing so, especially now, when , after Pontmercy's will had been opened, a flock of gold-diggers was sure to attack the young widow, one half of them being gambling men, and another half – frequent visitors of brothels. But what could he, Emile Javert, possibly offer her beside his protection?
Euphrasie had stirred a foreign feeling inside Javert for which he had always believed himself to be utterly incapable of. He never, even in his thoughts, used the word "love", as in his mind it was associated with naughty plays and dubious novels, Moulin Rouge and cancan and other frivolous things.
He would never think anything improper of Euphrasie, who was in his mind an angel of pure beauty, a fresh flower fragance, an etherial heavenly melody…
Not for the first time he imagined himself – an old, life-beaten bloodhound, walking side by side towards the aisle with her – still young, beautiful, fragile like a porcelaine figurine, and snorted at his own impudence. Should this odd marriage occur, those aware of his Roma background would surely think he'd put the bride under a spell. In his opinion, no other two people on Earth could be more different from one another. And there still was another point to consider…
Euphrasie had been married for love; had been happy in that marriage, and what of him? What did he, Javert, know about happiness? Could someone like him ever be loved?!
"And what, my friend, do you know about why people love each other?", he suddenly heard a familiar voice behind his back.
Javert startled. On the pew next to his there sat none other than Jean Valjean himself. But the change in his appearance was great. He looked no older than thirty or so, and his overall appearance was not that of a Faverolle pruner, and certainly not of a convict, but of a respected scholar, perhaps even a clergyman. His young face , very handsome and kind, was lit by an inner light.
"Hello, my friend", he smiled at Javert, holding out his hand for a shake, and his smile was spreading like a stream of melted gold.
"Wh-what is this?…", Javert was at a loss for words.
"Glimpse of Our Lord's glory", Valjean answered light-heartedly. His handshake, however, felt like a human one, warm and soft.
"And why are you so…" Javert wanted to say "looking so young", as if it was the most important change.
"Oh, that!", Valjean's smile grew wider, his eyes shining bright,"THERE we are all of the same age, thirty-three year old – me, Fantine, Enjolras, even Monseigneur Myriel…"
"Thirty-three?"
"Yes, Our Lord's earthly age", Valjean explained, shrugging his broad shoulders and revealing some sort of golden cape floating behind his back – or were that wings?!
"Valjean , what is there above, I mean, THERE?", Javert whispered in awe.
"Come on, I'll show you. Hold on!", Jean took his hand and they stepped through the golden mist that covered them both and found themselves…SOMEWHERE.
Later on, when he tried to remember the detalis of that mysterious , otherworldly encounter, Javert could never rebuild a whole picture of what he had seen. He only remembered some glimpses, like pieces of some grand puzzle; Chou-Chou (buried and mourned by the Pontmercys a year earlier) running up to meet them; a group of young horsemen greeting them, their horses magnificent and free from saddles or reigns; a beautiful, kind woman smiling at them, her face being that of the love itself , and a stunned Javert himself, hardly recognizing Fantine in that celestial beauty…
Javert had never been a good-natured person, even in childhood, and while he hardly ever thought about afterlife at all, he never imagined the Celestial City being ther place of joy and happiness. But THERE, during that strange journey, he felt geniunely happy, joy overwhelming his heart as it never did before.
"You see, everything is different here", Valjean excalimed, rejoicing, as if he had read the inspector's thoughts. His cape, by the way, did turn out to be the folded wings, after all, Javert noticed.
"Do these bother you?", he asked a stupid question, then, unlike himself, laughing at his own stupidity. (Of all questions to ask in such a place!) He had never felt so light and carefree before as he did here.
"No, they actually don't", Valjean chuckled. "You see, I didn't change instantly either. There is no such thing as Time over here, but those who just arrive are given some period to adapt… It's a pity I cannot show you the house I lived in before the change. Alas, we must return…"
"Where are you dwelling now?", Javert asked simply.
"In the same adobe that my namesake , St. John The Charitable is," Valjean answered. "When baptized, back in Faverolle, I was named after him, you know. And know I must take my leave.."
"Wait!" Javert cried out. Usually he prided himself for the ability to speak shortly and meaningfully, but now it seemed that the ability had forsaken him . "Euphrasie… Cosette… I think I love her!", he finally said it out loud, surprised himself that it was pure truth.
" And she loves you as well, my friend", Valjean replied, not in the least impressed. "Albeit not in the same way as she loved Marius. But then, there are many facets of love… In other words, you have my blessing!" With those final words, he disappeared.
…Javert opened his eyes. A donation-gathering volonteer, passing by the inspector'pew, looked at him in alarm, stricken with awe. Javert wondered how on Earth he could frighten the law-abiding citizen so much, then put some money onto the plate, not being aware that his own face was imprinted with a glow of heavenly light.
