Prisoner 9430 was to be set at liberty at precisely 5 o'clock in the evening. However, the Commissaire des chiourmes was not present at the moment to preside over his release.
Upon finding the dimming office space bereft of his superior, the prisoner's guard flailed about for some extra means of lighting. Spotting a double set of wooden candlesticks upon a small bureau, he attempted to them, grumbling.
"Stupid convict…" The wicks danced around each other as his hands shook.
"Shift ends in ten minutes…" First candle aflame, the man moved to the second, gobs of wax dotting the pristine wood.
"And now I have to play sitter," he hacked, wiping his mouth afterwards.
The glow brightened the room considerably, but that could not be said about Jean Valjean's guard. Lanky hair dripped into the young man's scrunched face, and Valjean fought the urge to wipe his hands on his ratty trousers.
He decided to look elsewhere.
In the very centre of the room stood the Commissaire's desk, where the official letter basked, half-open and bearing the Royal seal. This desk, often described by his fellow mates as bare-boned as their serving plates, contained a few additional objects of interest.
An outfit of coarse civilian garb was folded into precise squares in a corner. On top was a small knapsack. And to Valjean's surprise, an amiable amount of provisions hugged the humble donation.
The guard that brought him sneered at the gifts before turning his clammy eyes in Valjean's direction.
"Such a big hubbub for a two-faced beggar such as yourself," he spat, the globule of spit hitting the twine around his shoe.
Valjean didn't even flinch.
He just kept staring at the offering that waited upon the Commissaire's desk. During his trial, the people he had aided, to whom he had provided money, shelter and jobs, had immediately dropped him from the bosom of their goodwill as soon as they learned he was convict. That single incantation was enough to banish years of charity and goodwill.
Now these people, whom he had not personally abetted, had given him the means to help regain his life.
His lips sewn together in a straight line and he fought to drag air through his nose. The guard grinned at his apparent discomfort, and gave him a shove forward.
"To the desk then with you!" he shouted, as Valjean stumbled forward, "Though, I don't believe a simpleton like you can even read, much less sign the honour you don't deserve."
The guard considered the various foodstuffs and wrapped parcels with his meaty fingers. He picked and rummaged through, pocketing a few choice bits here and there.
Valjean remained nearby, hands clenched as he regarded the open door. Owning personal belongings was a privilege that had never been extended to him.
The sound of leather soles beat a rhythm outside the door, and the guard shuffled a hasty retreat towards the far side of the room, directly under the tiny glass window.
The Commissaire strolled into his office, ultramarine uniform impeccable despite the crusting of grime that assailed the Toulon prison. Without the containment of his hat, short walnut locks waved with every step he took.
The room became infused with marigold light as the sun dipped its lowest and Valjean stepped away removed himself from its influence. He bowed his head slightly, with his arms fastened to his sides. He had only met this particular Commissaire a couple of times as Prisoner 9430, and he had no idea of the role he was supposed to play now.
Stopping opposite Valjean, the Commissaire took the document off his desk and flicked the yellow wax open once more. Valjean bit his lips as he waited.
"Are you the prisoner known as Jean Valjean, formally prisoner 24601, now prisoner 9430?" he stated, flicking Valjean a glance.
"Yes, sir."
"And you are here at Toulon serving out a lifetime sentence for breaking parole and for assault and robbery as perpetrated by yourself on part of a gang of robbers from the South."
Valjean dropped his head.
"For the approximately four months you have been working here, I have not read any reports on any extraneous criminal behaviour or wrongdoings," he closed and folded the letter.
"So imagine my surprise when I finally received a missive bearing your name along with a Royal pardon for upstanding morals and heroics in behalf of the citizens of Toulon!" The Commissaire ran a tanned hand over the back of his head as the guard smirked at Valjean from his corner.
Picking at the loosened threads in his trousers, Valjean continued to stare at the floor. His head buzzed and the inside of his nose stung. He hated this constant tune that always played throughout his head; the one sung by an ever-changing chorus of strangers that controlled his life with every note they wrote and every word they voiced.
His soul might belong to God, but it seemed his life belonged to everyone else.
"You will be free to go once we conclude with you understanding and initiating your seal upon these documents here." He tapped the paper against his thigh.
"As you can see, we have provided you with civilian clothing and baggage to start you off," continued the Commissaire indicating the pile with the corner of the missive.
"Also, some of our citizens offered their deepest gratitude through their only means available," he added. He turned to the desk and scrutinized the contents. His entire visage remained impassive, save a small pinching at the edge of his lip.
"Sergeant."
The man, picking idly at his wormy moustache, jolted to attention. Unlike other military men, his heels did not come together.
"I will see to this man, you may go on break," he ordered softly. "But please return at six on the hour for resumption of your duties."
Eyebrows shot straight off the guard's greasy forehead and his hands wrung together before finding solace in his cudgel.
"Yes, sir!" belted out the man. He scurried out the door, the cudgel snapping sharply against his side as it caught on the post.
The Commissaire turned back towards Valjean, and handed him the pile of clothing.
"Please clean yourself up," he said, "the washroom is down the corridor, to your immediate left."
At Valjean's bewildered look, he added, "I do not have prisoners sign documents; citizens do."
The watercloset was exactly as its name indicated; Valjean absentmindedly noted that two men of his stature would not have been able to fit in there comfortably. A small bar of lye soap and scratchy washcloth were provided alongside a washbin of cool water. Compared to the rest of the prison population, this was a luxury.
After quickly erasing the standard layer of encrusted toil and penance from his body, he gave the linen a thorough wringing. Belatedly he realized he should have started with his face, but that was something he'd recall for later. He gave his face a scrub-down along with his hair before tossing the rag into the dirty water.
No mirror adorned this washroom, but Valjean did not expect one. Instead, he moved his candle closer to the small glass window and set it on the hunk of wood that served as a shelf, perpendicular to the window. The inky night sky and the orange glow revealed a soft image of Valjean in the glass. He stroked his chin and checked out his teeth. He played with his ears, and brushed back the strands of pure white hair he now sported.
Funny. He never really observed the changes that those last days as Mayor brought to his physical being. Ever since that night he returned from the trial in Arras, he had been too consumed with worry over Fantine. Then her daughter, when it was apparent she wouldn't last. Even when Sister Simplice had made a fuss about his white hair, he had been too distracted.
Why, if he remembered correctly, he even took a gander at it in a small glass she had given him!
After that, everything became a chaotic interplay between the predator and his prey: a strategic battle of wits for insight into the mind of the other. The predator whose face hid behind layers of whiskers and cloth yet concealed no lies…
Looking back again at the window, he tugged at his errant hair limping across his scalp. He suddenly became overwhelmed with a need to cast off those dirty strands. He had no desire to be recognized on the street once he quitted Toulon.
Kicking off his right shoe, he stooped down and picked it up. He untied the twine that held it together at the toe and carefully wedged open the crevice between the sole and the shoe. Inside was a small sous coin.
Holding the edges with the forefingers and thumb of both hands, he twisted it open revealing a miniscule saw-tooth blade. He pried it loose from his casing and unravelled it, testing the sharpness of the teeth against his finger. He was satisfied that his blade was no worse for the wear.
Valjean decided that he did not want a closely cropped head, despite the heat wave that had nestled on Toulon; it reminded him too much of prisoner 24601. So recalling the only other haircut he had etched into his mind, he set to work reforming it upon his own person. The tiny blades nibbled at his overgrown locks, sometimes nipping at his fingers or ears.
His hair took on a shortened military style, but with a little more give to allow for it to slightly cover his ears and collar. He trimmed his sideburns and beard, but dispensed with the moustache for now. It wasn't the look he had as Mayor of M-sur-M nor was it anything remotely related to his current prisoner profile.
He quickly brushed the loose hair from his bare-clad body, and tossed on his civilian wear. He cast one look at the pile of prison rags and gathered them up in his fist before quitting the washroom.
If anyone noticed the change in his hair, they did not comment upon it. He was relieved of his rags by a passing laundress on her way downstairs.
He returned to the Commissaire's office who noted his presence with a raised brow. His mouth quirked for a second before he shook his head. He motioned for Valjean to rejoin him at his desk where a quill and inkwell had been placed next to an array of official documents. A form conforming the release of prisoner 9430, the Royal pardon, and an addendum list were fanned upon the desk. His provisions had already been placed within the knapsack was moved to the bureau, dripped wax banished from its surface.
"The hour grows late, and I sincerely apologize for that," stated the Commissaire as he unstopped the inkwell. "But my presence is required on the morrow, and I have this distinct feeling that you have no current desire to await my return by remaining here."
In the warmth of this foreign room, where light danced instead of blinded, Jean Valjean found himself loosening. His eyes cracked slightly at the corners.
The Commissaire directed Valjean to take the seat behind the desk. Valjean wavered and fidgeted with his shirt that suddenly began to itch.
The man gestured sharper this time and he obeyed, planting himself on the sanded wood.
"I need you to sign here," he commanded, pointing to the large space at the bottom, "This indicates that you are indeed, prisoner 9430, Jean Valjean, formally prisoner 24601, who is to be set at liberty today, April- in the year of our Lord, 1824."
Having read the document, Valjean began to sign. A giant blotch sat at the crux of his "Jean" where he fought the urge to spell out the name of a non-existent person. The quill felt clumsy in his hands as he slowly pushed out the rest of his name. Ink speckled the pristine paper as his nib caught on the paper with every letter he added.
This was the first time that Jean Valjean had signed his God-given name. His fingers went lax and the implement fell to the table.
The Commissaire took the paper, threw a pinch of sand on top, and set it on the opposite side of the desk. He slid the last two documents upon the desktop over to Valjean.
"This the pardon, granted by our King's everlasting clemency and goodwill upon your person," he stated solemnly, hands still upon the parchment as he leant in closer. Valjean noted how his nostrils flared as the man's eyes caught the light. "May you never give our great nation reason to doubt her mercy upon you."
That arresting gaze kept Valjean immobile save for his hands, which grappled with the clean linen of his trousers. He swallowed before relinquishing a small "Yes, sir".
The Commissaire removed his hold upon Valjean as he returned once more to the task at hand. His arms left the table and Valjean released a long breath through his nose. The curls bobbed about the man's head as he reread the addendum. He hummed a bit.
"Jean Valjean." He looked up; the Commissaire remained engrossed in the paper.
"Though you are pardoned from all crimes committed by your person, you will be receiving stipulations to your freedom."
Valjean jerked and his hands sought each other in comfort. As usual, his life was not his to govern.
"Because of the enormity of the crimes that sent you here, you will be put on surveillance for exactly one year from today," he pierced Valjean with a look. "It will be as if you are on parole for that year. It is to ensure that your moral standing remains high and in good spirits.
Your destination will be Paris were you will find honest work, and as you journey there, you must stop and check in with each of these officers. You can find their names here," he indicated an indented list of names and towns, "and you must have them sign here as well.
Upon your arrival in Paris, you will check in to the station at the Place du Chatelet, to receive your permanent parole officer. This is to whom you will check in every week with details on your status."
Valjean began to feel incredibly warm and uncomfortable. To report to a virtual stranger on his personal life? And in public? What rights had they to pry? His head swam, and the figure of the Commissaire became a morass of warping blues and oranges. He pressed his hand upon his headache, kneading the rough skin. He gritted his teeth as he grappled with his urge to flee.
Suddenly, a small touch propelled him out of his chair, arms wheeling as he fought for balance. His harsh breathing burnt the air around him.
"Are you alright?" asked the Commissaire.
"No, I'm sorry," blurted out Valjean, hand clasping his shirt as he leant against the cool stone of the prison. As the cold security of the sheet rock pricked his skin, he gathered his pulsing thoughts. As he contained them, the siren whispers continued to beg. Run, they pleaded. Run from the fetters that bind you...
"It's just..." he swallowed, "It's just too much. All at once." He waved towards the papers and dropped his arms.
"It's only a year, no more," reiterated the Commissaire, watching Valjean from beneath his trimmed brows. "They will not delve more than they need to. Just your work, your morality, any familial changes...that sort of information is needed."
"Familial changes?" Valjean returned to the desk and picked up the addendum, but did not sit back in the chair. The Commissaire placed his hands behind his back as he stood opposite the desk and stared directly at him.
"Marriage, children, that sort of thing. Only the ones that have to be filed and sanctioned by the government."
Valjean immediately thought of the child Cosette, the lonely child that still remained at the inn in Montfermeil. He'd be able to finally give her a home, the kind that he promised her mother. In grounding his thoughts on his task, he regained control. He started cataloguing all he needed for the month-long journey up north. Child's clothing. Enough money for settling in Paris for a couple of months. A small blanket in case they need to camp.
He frowned. If that's the case, he'd need to obtain a small oilskin coat too-
"Ahem."
Valjean broke out of his thoughts and glanced sheepishly at the Commissaire, who held the quill out along with the addendum. Not sure what he missed of his lecture, Valjean ducked his head and busied himself in reading all the fine points of what France desired him to do. Then he quickly signed the Commissaire's copy for record keeping and crisply folded his and pocketed it.
The man motioned for Valjean to take his knapsack and newly acquired provisions and strode to the open door. At the entranceway, the two men faced each other and the Commissaire held out his hand. In it was a folded square of parchment.
"This is your passport out of Toulon," he explained. "If anyone stops you here or outside, you can quell any and all questioning of your purposes outside of Toulon." And with that Valjean took the paper from the open palm.
However, as soon as he did, the Commissaire clasped his unwitting hand in a firm embrace and shook it.
"Good luck to you," he said, releasing him. "May you arrive in Paris safely."
With a nod of his head he sent Valjean on his way, and shut the thick wooden door behind him.
Strangely, Valjean found he had no need for the passport as he managed to leave both Toulon and her prison unheeded. So the note was soon forgotten in his vest pocket.
He managed to travel a good five kilometres outside of Toulon before he rested for the night, nestled in a shallow ditch and guarded by the stars.
Hello! As you read my stories, there are always the possibility that I have gotten certain historical facts wrong, so if you notice any glaring mistakes, do not hesitate to inform me! I want to keep as true as I can to the period and to Hugo's world, so any help is appreciated. :D ~Uirukii