Shadows of the Past

It was only a day into their stay at the Inn, and Valjean already felt restless. What were they doing here but waiting? His mind had not been able to get away from Cosette, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the situation. How was she holding up, what was she doing? Was she worried? Probably.

It didn´t help much, that Valjean understood why they had to be here, waiting as they did. He understood that they had to wait for the baron´s message, here, where he´d seen them last. And before they heard of him there was really nothing they could do. But damn, they did nothing. Nothing but sitting fat on their asses. It was frustrating.

And then, when the messenger entered the place, asking for a certain Monsieur Pineau, his heart stopped for a moment. Had they been discovered? Or had he lived the life of a fugitive for way too long, that he didn´t know any other way to react than this?

The innkeeper took the message and the man left. Valjean could tell that he was not interested in the place any longer. Still his guts felt awkward, watching him go.

"Monsieur." the innkeeper addressed him, and his gaze told Valjean clearly that he guessed something. Maybe not what was really going on, but definitely that something was going on.

Valjean took the note from him, thanking him politely, and left to read it in private.

It was from the baron, all right. And the news even sounded encouraging, at least in a hesitant way. So far there was nothing new, but at least the note spoke of some hope, that there would be something soon. Surely not even Javert would be able to argue with that.

He found the ex police man outside, behind the house, sitting on a bench, a coffee in hand, and something sitting on the bench beside him that looked suspiciously like a bag of candy.

The ex culprit could not suppress his chuckle, seeing Javert chew so greedily, and earned himself a glare for it.

"Is that Marzipan?" he asked and Javert instinctively reached for the bag, closing it.

"Yes." he finished chewing the mouthful he had. Valjean raised a hand.

"I didn´t plan to take them away from you." he assured the inspector, and somehow Javert must have realized how his gesture looked. He let go of the bag, demonstratively. No jealousy about food here. Because that would be childish. Right?

"It´s good for the nerves." Javert grumbled, as if he needed to explain himself and Valjean smiled as he sat down, the bag between them on the bench.

"I see."

He knew the former inspector had been as restless as he´d been. Inactivity was nothing either of them was very contempt with. Only that Javert would deal with this stress by consuming sweets was in a startling way funny to watch. Valjean regarded the bag a little closer, curious now. The brand name read Niederegger.

"I think I know these." he found. "I bought them for Cosette once. It wasn´t her taste. They´re only made in Germany."

"And they get delivered to Paris, once each month." Javert affirmed, as if he knew more about this than Valjean. "They come through here first. The Innkeeper is related to the fabricant in Lübeck." he gave Valjean a blank gaze, answering his astonishment, and informed him: "I know that ever since I stayed here the first time." He rolled his eyes. "Some women talk more than you want to hear, even if you don´t encourage them." He took a sip from his coffee and somehow managed it to simultaneously shake his head. "Seriously. I only wanted to pay the damn stuff, not hear the whole goddamn family history. I got to hear it anyway."

Valjean´s smile grew. "And?" he asked. "Did you enjoy to converse with someone for a change?"

"I didn´t converse." Javert mocked his word. "I let her talk until she was finished. Like I always do."

"Must be the reason why you´re making friends wherever you go."

The glare he got was deadly. "Are you trying to piss me off?" Javert rasped, and for some reason it made Valjean chuckle, amused, in a very good way. One he´d almost forgotten that it could exist. And so easily at that.

Javert only turned away from him, and downed the rest of his coffee, as if it were Cognac, taking a deep breath afterward, as if he waited for the caffeine to do its work. Eventually, after then caffeine had reached his brain, he turned back to Valjean.

"What do you have there?" he asked, gazing at his hands.

Valjean needed a moment to realize what he was talking about. He´d almost forgotten about the note.

"It´s from the baron." he handed it to Javert. "He found out about a man he wants to speak to." he summarized, even though Javert was reading it eagerly. "Maybe we´ll get some answers soon."

Javert´s eyes suddenly stopped moving over the letter, frozen on something that obviously didn´t mean anything good to him, judging by his pale expression.

"What?" Valjean tensed. "What is it?"

The former inspector closed his eyes. "If he really went to see him …" he said. "He´s already dead by now."

"What?" Valjean felt cold, but the panic he felt did not seem to infect Javert.

"Dammit." he growled, quietly. He shook his head, in despair as it seemed. "You were right. I should have never let the old man go back alone."

"Who is this man?" Valjean wanted to know, needed to know.

"He commands the Serpaints Corail. Administrates the black list." Javert told him. "He´s the one who gives the orders … Who gave the orders to kill me and all the others."

Valjean felt cold all over again. The baron. He hadn´t known. He´d had no idea that he´d step right into the lion´s den. And now … Javert was right. He had to be dead. Of course they would have killed him right away, as soon as he showed up, asking questions like theirs. Valjean closed his eyes. Dear god, please forgive us.

"I need to go back." Javert decided, next to him, waking him up from his prayer. "I can´t just hide away here."

Valjean jumped up, to follow, as the former inspector obviously intended to jump on the next horse right away.

"If you go back you will be recognized." he cried, holding him back. And to his great surprise Javert turned to face him with no resistance.

"Not if you help me to hide." he spoke, totally blindsiding him. "You managed it to hide from me, all those years. Lived right under my nose, and I didn´t see you."

Valjean felt out of place, all the sudden. Did he really hear those words, and no accusation hidden underneath it?

"Do this again." Javert asked from him. "And this time do it for me. Show me how you did this. How you get invisible."

And for some reason that was beyond any conscious thought, Valjean found himself nodding, in absolute agreement. Yeah. Now finally he had his answer. This, and only this, was the reason why he was here.

...

The general sighed as he looked down on the man before him. So old and yet so dangerous. Gillenormand was unconscious. But not dead. Not yet. Because he hadn´t ordered it yet. But he would. Eventually he would.

Bourguignon turned around, and left the room. His man followed, a little bit startled about this sudden retrieve. He couldn´t understand anyway. He was not the one who had to give the orders. And it wasn´t even Gillenormand who gave him so much trouble. This man was a stranger to him. Despereaux on the other hand. He´d been a friend to him, back in the days when they had served their time in the army. Good old Jérôme. Reliable, under normal circumstances. They hadn´t had any contact in years. And now the first message he got from his old comrade was … this. He couldn´t let this go unanswered.

Sure, Jérôme had not known, or he wouldn´t have sent his friend to him. To his certain death. But still. It was an action that was too severe to ignore it.

"Sir." Moreau addressed him, and Bourguignon turned to face him. He only nodded, already knowing what his adjutant wanted to ask.

Jérôme was a viability. And as far as this mission was concerned, he could not allow his own personal feelings to endanger him or any of the others. They´d gone too far for this. A single life really didn´t mean much anymore. Not in this.

God, he had condemned men and women to die, for years. And all the sudden he felt regret to speak the sentence. But he had no choice. For all their sakes.

"I know this isn´t easy." Moreau offered some words of comfort. "But we have no choice. No single man is worth to risk our larger goal."

Bourguignon glared at him, silencing the man. Who did he think he was? Did he think Bourguignon didn´t know this himself?

The younger officer lowered his gaze, humbly.

" Jérôme Desperaux will pay for his interfering." he told Moreau. "But not yet."

"Sir?"

"You heard me. I have plans for him, before we take him out."
Moreau stared at him, irritated for a moment. But eventually he nodded, obediently. "Of course, Monsieur." he halted again. "If I may … What about the baron?"

And Bourguignon thought, nodding at last. "He will be taken care of." he spoke and faced his inferior. "Go now. You have your orders."

And of course Moreau obeyed.

...

They needed a whole day back to Paris, to get unseen to Valjean´s old house. A whole day of driving beside a silent Javert, who wouldn´t talk much, even if Valjean tried to attempt a conversation. After a while he´d just given up. Whatever was preying on Javert´s mind, it wouldn´t come out if he pressed him. And was it that hard to understand anyway? They´d agreed to let the baron be their spy. And now he was dead. Because of them. Because they had been hiding, while another, much older man, had gone to face the dragon.

The carriage was too big to not to raise any attention, so leaving it on the street was impossible. Valjean had to hurry ahead, to open the gate to the garden, so Javert could swiftly steer it through the street and out of sight for everyone who might wonder about this big thing standing about in their street. Thanks God the walls around the garden were high.

But oh God, it was a strange feeling to be back here. And without Cosette. Not even Toussaint was here. She´d been dismissed from her duties, when they´d left the city, until further notice. And so the house seemed empty to Valjean, and like abandoned by all the children. Javert was there, but the former inspector did not seem to feel welcome or in the right place, so he wasn´t even a guest. Somehow even Valjean felt like a stranger now. As if he didn´t belong here anymore.

"Tomorrow, we will go into the city." Javert decided, out of the blue, maybe just to fill some of the awkward and pressing silence. "And try to find out what happened to the baron."

Valjean sighed, and didn´t know anything else to respond than a nod. It was strange. Too strange. He didn´t know what was before him, barely what was behind him. And even though he´d lived half his life like that, it was all new to him. As if he´d never been a fugitive before. But he had been.

Javert got up from his seat, catching Valjean´s attention, as he walked over to the window, in utter silence. His posture was tensed, a heavy cloud of restlessness hanging over him. Frustration. Anger. All at once. His eyes didn´t meet Valjean´s but it was obvious that he was well aware of the eyes that lay on him, watching carefully.

"Look what became of me." he spoke at last, almost too quiet to hear, hadn´t the room been so deadly silent.

Valjean didn´t dare to speak, to give a response. He only kept watching, as the former inspector turned to face him, at last. As if he knew, that this conversation was something he couldn´t delay any longer. That at one point or another they would have to speak about it. And if he wouldn´t do it now, he´d burst from the inside out, from the pressure.

"Look at me." the angry chuckle that he gave, was only a tiny expression of the enormous tension that was still hidden underneath. "I became you." he rasped, and finally he laughed, bitterly. "24601." His eyes closed for a moment, like in a silent prayer. "We all become what we fear." It really sounded like a prayer, and without looking at Valjean again, he turned back to the window, as if there was something out there, to give him an answer to all the unspoken questions that tortured him. "I never wanted to go back there."

Valjean felt a stitch of something, at those words. Something he´d stored away, and now came back to him, to be remembered.

"You said that before." he recalled, getting up from his seat. "Javert. And what you said about your father …"

"Don´t talk to me about my father." the other man warned, and alone the look in his eyes, made Valjean stop in his steps.

Something was there, all the sudden. Something that hadn´t been there before. And from one moment to the other, Valjean began to understand. It seemed so clear all the sudden, that he wondered, not understanding at all, how he could have missed this all this time. But it was a dangerous ground he was walking here.

"My father was a worker." he tried a different approach. "Or he tried." he shrugged. "Until the day he died."

Javert turned to him, frowning, probably wondering what the hell he tried to say with that. But Valjean ignored it.

"I was still a child." he kept telling him. "My mother was left with me and my sister, all alone. She died a year later, from the labor we put on her. My sister took care of me, for she was the older one. I still don´t know how she kept me alive till I was grown. I tried to repay her, by working as hard as I could. I was a pruner then, and all my sister had after her husband´s death. With seven children … her youngest son already close to death …"

Javert´s what the hell-gaze, changed for a moment, at those last words, in recognition. "The one you stole that bread for." he remembered, and Valjean halted, startled that this little fact had indeed not been forgotten by Javert.

"Yes." he nodded. "I don´t even know if he survived. Any of them. If they still live or if they´re dead. How would I know? While I was in prison … under your care." he attempted a joke, but Javert turned away from him. "I never knew." he went on. "I never heard of them again. I could have searched for them, all right. But what good would it do? To go back to this old life. When I had come so far. In sweat … and pain. And fear from discovery."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Javert at last looked back at him, as if his last words had hit him somehow. And Valjean just smiled.

"Whatever it is, you are ashamed of, Javert. It couldn´t shock me. Or make me turn away, disgusted. This is what you fear people would do, right?" He shook his head, shrugging, to show the other man that none of this mattered. Not to him. "Look at me." he said. "Look at what I was."

But all Javert did, was laughing dryly, without looking back at him.

For a moment Valjean felt as if he´d made a mistake. Maybe approaching this subject had been wrong. Javert didn´t seem as if he wanted to work it out. At all. Whatever it was. And then all the sudden, Valjean remembered something else. As if memories had chosen to come home to him, all at once, right in this moment, if he wanted it or not.

"This man …" he spoke. "Moreau. He said they know. Your superiors. He said that´s the reason why they wanted you to take the blame. For crimes they would commit." And in this moment, hearing his own words, speaking it out loud, Valjean knew why. "Because …"

"Because the son of a convict is likely to commit a crime himself." Javert spoke it out, before he could, and turned around to face him straight. "Exactly." he snarled. "Are you happy now?"

Valjean flinched when the former inspector started moving, believing he would attack him now, for this violation of his privacy. But all Javert did was walking past him, down the room, as if he just couldn´t stand it anymore to be that close to him.

"This is what they believe." he spoke, not looking back at him. "And everyone else will believe it too. Especially with the proof they have. And this past of mine. My heritage." He sighed, heavily. "For years and years I have tried to forget. To let the world forget, about this gutter I grew up in. And now look at me." he finally turned back to him, arms spread. "I´ve fallen back into this darkness I came out of. Fell back to be the scum I was before."

Valjean had never believed it possible to feel that much of compassion for a man that had been his nightmare, his nemesis. And yet, seeing him now, so lost, and disgusted with himself, his appearance resembling a poor, not the police man he´d used to be, Valjean couldn´t help himself. His heart was not his own when it came to compassion like this. It had never been.

And oh, he did understand.

"You didn´t fall." he spoke, quietly. "Javert. You were pushed. By people who do not understand … that what you only see as scum … are some of God´s most cherished gems, only fallen to misfortune. Some of these gems …" he gestured at Javert, with an encouraging smile. "Manage it to rise again, and shine in glory." He pointed at himself as well, with a shrug. "Does that not tell you anything?"

But Javert´s gaze darkened. "I rose once." he rasped, nodding, and the blaze in his eyes was pure hate. "And I fell back. Blinded by a light, that shone from a darkness where there should not be a light. At all."

Valjean looked into those flashing eyes, and all the sudden he understood, what Javert had not spoken. Who he was speaking of.

He opened his mouth, unable to decide what he wanted to say, but Javert was faster.

"You murdered me, Valjean." he told him, way too quiet, but the meaning of his words went through Valjean´s heart like a knife. "The man you knew as Javert is dead. And for that, I will never forgive you. And I will always hate you."

The glare that was on him was devastating. Valjean did not know what to say. He felt like a murderer. Like the worst scum in the world, just by seeing the hate in those eyes. Not for him being a thief, or for being on the run all these years. But for something he had done to this man, personally, maybe without knowing it, but that didn´t change the facts. What he saw right there was real. And it stayed in those eyes, never decreasing, until the former inspector, Valjean´s old foe, could not stand it any longer, and marched out of the room.

It took a long time, before Valjean felt able to stir from the spot.

...

Bourguignon looked up as his adjutant entered the office, watching as Moreau clicked his heels almost viciously.

"What are your orders?" he asked, and Bourguignon held out a note and a letter for him.

The other man took both, uncertain.

"Let this be delivered to Desperaux." Bourguignon ordered. "The note reads that Jérôme shall deliver the letter to baron Gillenormand´s grandson."

Moreau glanced up at him, an asking brow raised. "Did he write that himself?"

Bourguignon only snorted. "In the end the old man´s hand wouldn´t have been steady enough. But fakers are good at what they do if you pay them enough. It will do, to convince Jérôme. His eyes have never been the best, even when he was young. He will have the address the baron protected so stubbornly and when he sends the letter on its way, I want you to follow the messenger. If we are lucky, this will lead us to the boy."

Moreau nodded, eagerly. But he didn´t leave yet.

"Anything else?" Bourguignon asked, but he already knew what Moreau wanted.

"I hope you forgive me, sir. But Despereaux. After he sent the letter … He´s of no further value for us. Or am I mistaken about this?"

Bourguignon sighed. "No. You´re not mistaken." He took another moment to harden his heart for the task he had to accomplish now, and eventually he nodded.

"Give the order." he said, and Moreau seemed satisfied. "Jérôme Despereaux must vanish. Quietly. After he sent the letter. You will take care of the boy. Let your men take care of Jérôme."

Before Moreau could leave, he called him back on last time though. "Tell them to make it quick." he ordered. "He shall not suffer."

Moreau looked at him, without a word, and nodded. Nothing more. The life of a man was forfeited.

...

It was the worst night ever. Even sleeping in this verminous bed at the stews had not been that hard. Because this here, was Valjean´s house, and he lay on a bed that was owned by the man he hated with all his heart. Just knowing that he was relying on him, more than he ever relied on anyone else in this world, made him sick. How could fate be that cruel? How could any of this been meant as this oh so godforsaken fate, Marianne had spoken of? What fate could this be? A test for his stamina? His inner strength to stand the greatest torture a human mind was capable to imagine?

Maybe he hadn´t been saved by Marianne after all. Maybe he´d fallen, and she had missed his hand, and what he believed to be his life now, was nothing but one of the nine circles of hell. Because this was what it felt like. Hell.

Finding sleep was impossible. Or so he thought. Until he woke at last in the morning, with the remains of some memories, of a dream he´d dreamed. A dream in which he´d been back at the pharmacy. Marianne had been there, and so had Valjean, sitting in a corner quietly, looking with eagle eyes, as if he´d been the one to lure in the shadows, waiting for Javert to show his face. As if Valjean had been his shadow, all these years, not the other way around. And Marianne. She´d not talked to him either. She´d seemed busy, preparing something. Some medicine for her shop. Javert remembered seeing her, walking through the door … but that was about all he could remember.

God, he felt drained. The light that shone in through the window was sallow and it hurt his eyes. He could tell that it was a cool morning, probably foggy until the warmth of the sun would chase the chill away. There´d been a time when he´d enjoyed this kind of coolness in the early hours of the day. It almost made him sad to think of this, now that he despised the same fresh air. Where was the time, when things had been good in his life? When he´d known who he was, and where he belonged.

It didn´t help. Feeling sorry for himself would not accomplish anything, or solve any of his problems. So he got up, rolling out of this bed, he´d not wanted to be in anyway, and spotted a pitcher of water and a bowl with a towel, sitting on the bureau, where there hadn´t been anything last night.

For a moment, his heart leaped, in alarm. Valjean. But then he made himself calm down. He wasn´t in any danger here. Not physically at least. Mentally … this was a different matter. Hospitality from a source like that could drive a man crazy.

But it was as it was, and Javert didn´t have the time to wonder about these things. He washed, and dressed, again in this old rag that he had worn ever since they´d left Paris. No time to pack anything else to change into, and he would do hell and ask Valjean for something of his. He was supposed to stage as a beggar dammit. What beggar ran around with a wardrobe of casual change?

He went to the sitting room, ready to give Valjean a royal dressing down for his morning greeting, combined with some orders to finally get something done. But when he saw the man, his words died dry in his throat. The noble robes were gone, replaced by old rags similar to those Javert was wearing. The salt and pepper curls on Valjean´s head were gone too, shaved short and scrubby, and the usually so smooth face was dark with the shadow of a beard. If it hadn´t been for the man´s well-fed exterior, Javert would have believed to see the prisoner from all those years ago, somehow transported to this present day.

But the expression in his eyes was different than he remembered it from those days. Calmer. Wiser somehow. Knowing. No, this was not the past he was seeing. This was now. And it wasn´t a dream either. But surely it had to be a joke.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted at the man, unable to hide his irritation.

But all Valjean did, was looking at him, blankly.

"What?" he retorted. "You asked me to do this, remember? You wanted me to show you how to get invisible. Well, this is how it works." He picked up something, Javert could not identify and threw it. Javert caught it, and the cloth fell apart to a long, old bandage. "Wind that around your head." Valjean instructed him. "You were on a good way already, but you need to hide more of your face."

Javert narrowed his eyes, taking in once again, this oh so familiar appearance of the man before him.

"Do you feel homesick for Toulon?" he asked, aiming well, but his attempt to strike a nerve missed its target.

"I can hardly walk around with you, wearing fine clothes." Valjean reasoned, ignoring the comment. "I would look rather misplaced, now would I?"

Strike right back. One point for the ex prisoner. Javert suppressed a grumble. Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. Who did this man think he was? And even more unbelievable was, that he even did what he said. The bandage was awkward, but somehow he managed it to wind it around his head, without letting it look like a failed turban.

He hated it when Valjean regarded him, estimating. Judging how well he´d done. And he hated it even more that he was relieved when Valjean nodded.

"Try to bow a little." the older man advised him. "Like this." And he showed him the movement, of a man having trouble walking uptight, obviously expecting him to imitate it. As if Javert was a student of the world´s worst and most pitiful drama school. "Try it." he insisted.

"That´s ridiculous." Javert growled. "I´m not gonna play coy for your amusement."

Valjean gave up on his lesson, raising a brow, as if to say: All right all right, you old grumbler. And strange as it was, Javert almost imagined him saying those exact same words. Only he didn´t.

"So now Monsieur fugitive slash undercover expert." he spoke at last, forcing the conversation on, into a more productive direction. "Where do we go?"

But here Valjean shook his head. "This is my part." he spread his arms, indicating the disguises. "And I´ve done that. Now I´ll gladly follow your lead."

Javert only snorted. "We´ll see about that."