Jean Valjean felt wretched.
His gut was clenched taut, every step binding that knot tighter like a chain being wound.
Above, jagged tendrils of clouds warped and heaved in massive swells. Through a fracture in the sky, engorged droplets spewed forth, pummelling the city below with a glistening salve. Valjean's hands grasped his coat labels shut in an attempt to seal out the wetness.
Barrelling down the twisting avenues and streets, he barely noticed the way his feet found every possible pool of water.
In leaving the Rue Plumet, Valjean had sought to escape his perfidious thoughts. Instead they became more convoluted. He had simultaneously had his perspective of the Inspector both substantiated and damaged further within two hours.
The twin doors of iron emerged from the gloom and Valjean quickly unlocked the gate, the squeak a welcome peal in the silence. He checked the security of the lock before picking his way through the slick lawn. He stamped up the stairs, dislodging clots of mud from his soles.
Entering the small vestibule, he secured the door and kicked off his shoes, leaving the drenched articles as they were. Then Valjean balanced himself on the receiving table, pulling the soaked cotton stockings off his feet. He hung his coat and socks on the coatrack before heading upstairs.
He did not want to endanger Cosette with wet floors come morning.
He walked quietly to Cosette's bedchamber. A quick glimpse revealed a slumbering child curled up, blanket swaddled around her form with minimum fuss. The multipaned window opposite shimmered with backlight droplets. Silver light threaded through her scattered strands of hair and weaved through the cream coverlet. Reassured, he shut the door.
Padding slowly to his own chamber, he left the door slightly ajar as he entered it. Without divesting himself of his damp garments, he threw himself on the bed. His thoughts immediately returned, warring within his head as he lay there. Seeking relief, he massaged his temples until the darkened room flashed with a multitude of grey spots.
Valjean had almost regressed back to that savage bestial nature cultivated in Toulon. That impulse to inflict harm became a part of Valjean's very essence through prison rigor. Each additional year further fused that instinct into something so ravaging and vicious Valjean no longer thought of it as a separate entity.
When Valjean met the Bishop of Digne, the man brought this hideousness to light; he revealed the entangling mess that his soul had become. A disgusting mess of retaliation and inhuman hate had rooted itself around his heart, dispelling all sense of compassion.
The Bishop extended his benevolence and removed Valjean from the embittering darkness. Never forget that you have promised me to use this silver to become an honest man, he told Valjean. Yet despite this he fell, and repented. How difficult the preservation of a tainted soul!
Afterwards, Valjean took the Bishop to heart, emulating his goodness the best he was able. He had fought to disintegrate that side of him through his pious efforts in Montreuil-sur-Mer.
But to suddenly realize what he thought vanquished for good was in fact dormant? The idea of housing this viciousness indefinitely, with no means of extraditing it frightened Valjean immensely.
He shuddered.
The timely arrival of Javert upon tonight's transgression interfered in the relapse of Valjean's character. His steady hand and commanding voice became a bulwark from that horrible urge that engulfed his mind. That firm presence had removed him from the grip of madness and returned him whole.
He did not understand what it meant.
He only understood that he created a misunderstanding. Guilt washed over him.
Swiping wet hair off of his drying face, he grimaced as he remembered the way Javert threw the coins onto the table. The metal clanged together and cried sharply when it rolled onto the floor. But Valjean had ignored the money. There was something off about the rigidity of Javert's stance that echoed though the layers of cloth. It had Valjean wanting to call Javert back and apologize.
Only he did not know why.
So he had left, leaving an extra coin on the table, not bothering to pick up the fallen piece.
Valjean covered his eyes with the back of his hand.
Could this be salvaged? Or was their association was going to remain strained due to their shared past?
Besides the Bishop, Javert was the only person that knew about Valjean's past, perhaps even more so. That thread that lay between them was something that both repelled and fascinated him. Strangely enough, it wasn't something he wanted to lose, but wasn't something that he actively wanted either.
If Valjean could start anew once again, couldn't he extend that same ideal that towards his association with Javert?
Yes, Javert was the one who sent him to prison, apprehending him twice. But from his own lips, he admitted to Javert being an honest and trustworthy man. Albeit too embroiled in his work and duty but nevertheless a good man.
He lay upon the sheets, imbibing this particular thought. The more he did so, the more it strengthened his resolve.
He needed to rectify his mistake made in regards to Javert.
Determination pervaded his limbs, spurring him into action. Though it was still dark, the atmosphere had the tactile expectancy of the upcoming dawn. A few birds tittered awake, rustling in the row of cypress outside his window.
He shucked off this clammy clothing and hung it over the open doors of his armoire. His undergarments thankfully were dry, so he donned on some fresh shirtsleeves and trousers then made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
The banked fire in the grate was particularly recalcitrant this morning. It stubbornly refused to ignite in spite of Valjean's rigorous poking. Sighing, he moved aside the lingering embers and threw on a couple of fresh logs. Pushing the embers back, he gathered a bit of brush and twig and covered the pile. He blew on it, breathing life back into the stove as it ate feverishly at his offering.
Satisfied, Valjean began puttering around the kitchen preparing breakfast. He took down a tan ceramic pot and set it upon the single timber table. Then he retrieved a set of wooden spoons from another pot and a couple of bowls to complete the small tableau.
The sun rose upon a bed of tended marigolds as he climbed the stone stairs leading out of the underground kitchen. He retrieved a pot of fresh water from the rain barrel outside, careful not to spill any. His bare feet became awash in leftover rain and bits of grass clung to his skin.
Returning, he set the cast iron pot on the stove, and settled at the small dining table. A lone book rested off to the side. Reaching for Confessions, he turned to an ear marked page. When the water came to boiling, he brought the ceramic pot and a wooden spoon with him. Scooping up a heaped spoonful of oats, he sprinkled them into the clear spume, gradually turning it murky. When finished, the ceramic was returned to the cupboard, and his book immediately took the spot it had left. Valjean alternated between reading his book and stirring the bubbling porridge.
Light titillated through the open shutters and warmed the small kitchen, dissolving the table in honey when Cosette finally skipped into the kitchen. Like any faithful servant, Catherine came quietly in tow.
She sat on the wooden bench, hands folded primly in her lap while Valjean replaced the book. He set to pouring the steaming mixture into the bowls, Cosette's first and then his own. Once he submerged the scolding pot into the wash bucket, he took his seat next to Cosette upon the bench. Together they said their prayers before attending to their meal.
As always Valjean finished first, trained early not to linger over his food.
Bracing his elbows on the table, he fisted his hands together and laid his head on them. Cosette prattled and bounced Catherine on her knee, while trying to eat at the same time. Bits of oatmeal plopped on the table. Wordlessly, he passed her a rag and resumed his stance.
"Cosette."
She looked up from where she was wiping the table. "Yes Father?"
"You know how we have to go to the police station every week?"
"Yes." She frowned as she looked down, considering. Cosette looked back at Valjean. "Are we going today?"
"I will, but you will stay here." Cosette's back eased a bit and she stopped wiping the table.
"Like the first time?"
"Yes, Cosette, like the first time," affirmed Valjean, taking the soiled cloth. "You remember my instructions?"
"Don't open the door except for three sharp knocks and to stay away from the window." She tugged at Valjean's billowy shirtsleeve. "Is that right?"
Valjean smiled, and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. "Oh, Cosette, you remember well."
Cosette beamed in response and resumed her consumption of the porridge, Catherine at rest upon her knees.
A different sort of atmosphere pervaded the station upon the Place du Chatelet than Valjean's previous visits. It was restless, like a rock tossed into a still water. It instantly set Valjean on the alert.
Physically, everything was exactly the same. Officers and civilians milled about, scattering bits of conversation. The windows flanking the station's entrance were half open, inviting in a slight breeze laced with extracts of Parisian life. As usual, his entry sparked more hushed murmuring and blatant stares his way, but it seemed another emotion triggered their interest this time.
The customary front desk sergeant was at his post attending to his moustached face, completely uninterested in the goings-on around him. He didn't bother to acknowledge Valjean when he walked up to the desk for his pass. The man turned, deigning Valjean with an apathetic greeting. However, when the man looked Valjean in the face, his features became shuttered. His eyes skittered elsewhere.
A barely legible pass was thrust at him. When Valjean reached for the slip of paper, the man quickly seemed to recoil, and the paper feel from his grasp. Valjean stooped to pick it up and quit the area, turning down the familiar corridor. He was ill at ease with the man's strange behaviour. It was as if he was afraid of him, but Valjean never seen the man before.
Jean Valjean hurried to Javert's office, shaking himself of all extraneous thoughts. He reached the seventh door down the corridor and slowed his pace before stopping. Habitually, he raised a hand to knock before he saw that the door was ajar. Inside, Javert was bracketed by two completely opened windows. The paned glass cascaded morning sunlight on the worn hardwood. Its shutters were thrust out, amplifying the noisy Paris street below.
Meanwhile, Javert was engrossed in a faded law book, lips reading back the text silently. He stopped and slowly turned the yellowing page, grasping the corner and flipping it aside.
Valjean shifted his weight onto his other foot, uncertain on how to proceed. That tiny shuffle uprooted Javert from his reverie, snapping his focus to the entranceway. Upon seeing Valjean he stepped back, towards the window. His eyes were flinty and hard, though the rest of his face remained impassive.
"Are you daft, Valjean?" said Javert, returning to the book and addressing it instead.
Valjean remained in the doorway.
"What do you mean?"
Javert snapped the book shut, and laid it on the desk with both hands. He took a breath, shoulders straightening before he removed himself from the cluttered tabletop. He turned to Valjean, bare clad arms relaxed at his sides.
"Why are you here?" Javert asked. His eyes didn't quite reach Valjean's face. "Was I mistaken in my assumption that the ex-convict would rather not see his arresting officer?" His tone had remained even, though with the last word his eyes snapped straight to Valjean's own. It seemed to Valjean that the sunlight rippled with the force of it.
Valjean was unsurprised. Javert cut straight to the matter. No pre-emptive morning salutations or hedging around the uncomfortable topic. Valjean ruffled the back of his head.
He then took a step forward, hand out in supplication.
"I wanted to thank you for your help last night—"
"No need."
His arm fell back to his body. Hackles raised, Valjean was ready to snap back a sour retort, but a slight movement caught his eye.
Javert curled his hand into a fist, and slowly uncurled it. He kept repeating the procedure. His face remained carefully bland. It skewered Valjean.
Valjean put a hand on his face and rubbed his eye and temple.
"Javert, about last night-I won't mind meeting with you every week." Valjean hesitated as Javert crossed his arms in response. "But if you and I have to work together for the next year, I don't want to come to see it as an unpleasant task."
"Somehow I have a hard time believing you, Valjean," countered Javert. "You are the one who slapped that gallant speech at me—what was it?" He tapped his chin, and twisted his lips. "Ah, yes, that's it; I'm a 'reminder of something you wish to forget'. Like Christ's own burden."
Valjean flinched. Javert smirked at his discomfiture. Valjean removed his eyes elsewhere, playing with his fingers.
"Am I not correct?"
Valjean sighed, though he still did not look at the Inspector.
"As always. But Javert, I didn't personally mean you—it's just—"He shoved a fist to his forehead to dam the overflow of incoherent emotions and mismatched thoughts.
He glanced around the office for a foothold. Orderly shelves of books crowded the bookcases, some resting supine upon their brothers. The bright square of light created by the window reflected poorly on the wooden floor. The lone island that was the Inspector's desk was inhabited by an absurd chaos of parchment, papers bundled in twine, and coffee cups perched at various intervals. Returning back to the stiff, questioning stance of Inspector Javert quietly drumming his fingers on his thin arms, Valjean took a breath and resumed:
"Those are not pleasant memories for me, Javert. You have to understand that. The excitement of my arrest, the betrayal of the people I helped, near-abandonment of my principles—"Javert loosened his grip upon his arms—" and the sudden death of Fantine. They are all things I do not wish to dwell on."
While lost in the hazy memories of that horrid night, Valjean barely registered Javert's arms slowly peel themselves apart to dangle loosely at his sides. The fingers curled and uncurled around some intangible object.
Javert closed his eyes. "God, I need an anodyne...or more coffee."
A team of fingers wandered his desk, arriving at a ceramic mug. The tips brushed against the glazed exterior, shifting it until they were able to grab the handle and make a quick getaway. Armed with their prize, they returned to the Inspector, who merely put it off to the side with a disappointed sigh.
"Damn, it's empty."
Javert pinched the bridge of his nose and his brows converged, emphasizing his pained look. Valjean noticed the tiredness that crept underneath his closed lids and he took another step forward.
"Javert, how long have you been awake?"
"None of your business."
Valjean quickly processed the timeline from between his encounter last night with the drunken attacker, and this morning. It was only 10 AM, and though the Inspector was in his shirtsleeves and not his immaculate uniform, its rumpled and distressed state bespoke of a long and restless night.
Valjean squinted.
Why, there was even a dun-coloured stain clutching his shirtfront!
"You didn't sleep at all last night, did you?" said Valjean in disbelief.
"Congratulations. Maybe they should hire you in lieu of Grosz if you managed to come up with that."
Not letting the matter drop, Valjean continued, ignoring the scathing eyes currently trained upon him, a wary hound before a stranger. "Even I understand how shifts work, Javert. You should have been able to get some sleep, even after our encounter."
Javert gathered the abandoned law book and shoved into a dusty crevice on the flanking wall shelf. Dust spewed forth, sprinkling the Inspector with iridescent dust motes.
"Valjean, when there's work to be done, there's work to be done. You know this. You certainly commented on it a couple of times in Montreuil-sur-Mer."
"Yes, but that was a small town. Surely there are other officers that the task can be delegated to once your shift is over?"
Javert shot Valjean a withering glance.
"Not when my name, my actions, and my signature are involved."
Javert returned to his desk and snapped the loose papers together in orderly piles. Ignoring Valjean, he continued to build his barricade of parchments and written words. Despite the pressing atmosphere of mutual frustration, Valjean punched through with a single statement:
"Let's go."
Javert screwed his face, still stacking the papers.
"Valjean, what are you talking about? You're making absolutely no sense."
"If you have to work, there's no changing that. But I think it will be beneficial for the both of us if you were awake."
Valjean took another step forward until he was standing in front of the desk, his plain waistcoat brushing the edge.
"So let's go and get some coffee or whatever you need presently."
Valjean waved the air between them, looking off to his left. When Javert didn't immediately rebuke his suggestion, he looked back.
The Inspector eyed him as if he just admitted to carrying a concealed weapon. "You're asking me, to go with you—for coffee?" asked Javert.
"Yes," Valjean confirmed, right arm brushing a precarious stack as it reached to rub his bicep. The papers teetered and Javert's hiss was immediate.
"Watch yourself, please. We are all not endowed with unparalleled strength, so it would be nice if you could rein that in."
Valjean tried to extricate himself from the vicinity of Javert's desk, but not before he bumped the corner pile. The papers skittered across the table.
Javert dumped the forgotten papers from his hands in his chair so he could wrangle with the mess.
"Now you've disrupted my case files!" He slapped away Valjean's attempts at help. "You've mixed together the evidence."
"How so? These are all the same."
"What do you mean the same? These are my files; I know which is which."
"But these are penned by the same hand," remarked Valjean, placing a letter and an envelope side-by-side on the cluttered desk.
At the bottom of the letter was an ending to a sentence: "my dearest Monsieur Coypel." However, the very distinct and elegantly curved 'M' stood out from the cramped scrawl of the author's handwriting. Nowhere else in this letter existed a capital 'M'. On the envelope opposite, addressed to the infamous "Madame Vuillard" existed the same species of lettering.
Rapidly shuffling through his burgeoning pile of notes, evidence, observations , and reports, Javert pinched out a couple of folded letters. They released a small wisp of feminine fragrance into the air, causing Javert to sneeze into his shoulder.
"God bless you," responded Valjean.
"I think He already did," stated Javert, fingers tracing the strings of similar handwriting. Upon reaching a capitol 'M' within the text, he stopped and compared with the original. Then he snatched the document, placing it into a growing pile. A feverish thrill racked his body when he reached the last note.
He motioned Valjean closer. "See here!"
When Valjean hesitated, Javert snatched his arm and pulled him over to the desk. He allowed Valjean to examine the very top of the document, as he covered the rest with his broad hand. At the very top, Valjean read the first line, "Your dearest Michel was a sweet thing, and today he—"
The curves swirled languorously on the page; same as the previous two. A bitter aftertaste eased onto Valjean's tongue as the crisp white paper began radiating a faint impression of odious intent.
"I can't believe it," breathed Javert, eyes flicking between the three documents. "I had these together for two weeks, and never saw the connection."
While standing transfixed by the slips of paper, Javert had not moved. One hand remained braced on the table as Javert concentrated on the papers before him. The other was lightly wrapped around Valjean's exposed wrist. The rasping slide of Javert's palm tugged lightly at the sparse hairs of his own hand. The way it tightened and loosened as the Inspector analysed the handwriting with a discerning eye and silently moving lips caused Valjean to tug his hand back slightly.
Meeting with some resistance, Valjean called Javert's name. Without looking up, Javert released Valjean and gripped on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles as he did so. His foot tapped against the floor as he flipped through more of the letters, completely disregarding Valjean's presence.
"Hmm...yes. I wonder." The wad of letters and other extraneous papers were tossed into his desk chair. The remaining few were shuffled and spread onto the plateau of books, like a dealer's hand.
Javert straightened back and covered his mouth with a fist, his left arm wrapped about his middle. Humming slightly, his brows furrowed as his eyes darted between two letters and two official reports.
"Knocking a bunch of inquiries out at once—yes, a plan. Absolutely. He should have some information, or at the very least, be able to recognize this handwriting. I wonder if Alain will be at his post today-"Javert scratched his sideburns, tufting them out—"No, it's Friday. Damn."
Gathering up the parcel of documents, Javert swept past Valjean and exited the door, leaving him alone in the office.
Trying to make sense of the situation, Valjean remained a moment, before taking his leave. He noticed that Javert's office like his own as Mayor: devoid of any belongings that could reveal any secrets.
Outside the threshold, he nearly bumped into Javert, who scowled and promptly turned around. Valjean trailed after his retreating figure as it entered a room to his left. When Valjean made an attempt to enter as well, Javert shooed him out and had him sit in a chair in the hall, a little ways down.
Settling himself into the creaking wood, he waited. Though the door was shut, he could hear thrilled murmurs issuing forth from the room. He wondered about the connection between the writings, but since Javert was not forthcoming with any details, he had nothing to build off of.
Instead Valjean wondered what prompted him to invite Javert to coffee. Even as Mayor, he never ate out, preferring to ensconce himself in the privacy of his home. But Javert had been correct: you cannot live without the obstacles and interference of other people.
Funnily enough, Javert was the one that occupied this role more often than not.
Despite the chasm between them, he realized knew Javert more than anyone else from his life. But as he was learning, even that wasn't much at all.
"Rough night, eh?"
Valjean jerked his head upwards at the familiar voice fastened with inappropriate humour. The chiselled face of Sergeant Ary Baudot smiled devilishly at him, stained teeth matching his swarthy visage. Valjean interlaced his fingers and rested his forearms on his thighs, hands hanging in between his legs.
Without any invitation, Baudot tossed his body into the spare chair and slumped backwards. He folded his arms behind his head and proceeded to barricade the passageway with his stretched out legs.
"You certainly did a number on that poor sap last night didn't you? And to think, all he wanted to do was to have a go around with a whore! Didn't expect you to show up, did he?"
Valjean grimaced and shot Baudot a pained look.
"Sergeant Baudot, how do you know about that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry old chap. I know you don't like this sort of thing, but it was the most exciting incident to grace this dismal precinct since the Handel Coypel kidnapping. Though I think this takes the cake; we never had such an angry and frustrated man hurl himself around the floor before. I'm not sure whether he was upset at not obtaining his game for the night, or the loss of this dignity. The stench of fear was quite unmistakable." Baudot's laugh rumbled his boxy frame. "We had to let him clean up, more for our sakes than his."
Horrified, Valjean dropped his gaze back to his hands as they latched onto his distressed linen trousers.
"Don't worry, I was the reporting officer last night, so you can assure yourself that not everyone will be spinning your dirty laundry about the town."
He cast Valjean a quick glance, squinted and blew a lock of his hair off his forehead.
"And of course, with Javert being the man who found you, nothing will leave this precinct except the goddamned facts."
Staring at the wall opposite, he brooded. Not looking at Valjean, he asked: "So, do you want to tell me what happened?"
When Valjean did not respond, the man continued, peering at him sidelong from pointed eyes.
"Javert wasn't exactly forthcoming with the specifics, so if you would like to make sure your entire story is covered, you can always tell me. As your previous officer, I want to make sure you are treated right."
Though the words seemed innocuous enough, Valjean couldn't prevent an involuntary shudder. After years in the Bagne, Valjean knew all about officer rivalries.
Down the hall, excited banter heralded the arrival of Javert. He backed out of the room still addressing the occupant. Gripping the door frame, he stuck his head inwards to deliver one last quip. An ungainly guffaw shot from the entrance before Javert shut the door.
He strode over to Valjean, a small envelope in his hand. When Baudot waved at Javert, he froze.
An elusive look flitted across Javert's face; Valjean had no idea what it was. He only caught this particular emotion once before, but he gave up trying to remember precisely when he encountered it.
Javert stared, fixing his eyes upon Baubot, who simply smirked in response. Two pale spots of colour dotted Officer Baudot's sunken cheeks even as he cocked his brow in challenge.
Resuming his habitual mantle of sententious solemnity, Javert addressed Valjean without once looking his way.
"We're going Valjean. We will need to leave before the would-be lawyers and diplomats swamp the place."
Javert quit the area without waiting for a response. Baubot shrugged his shoulders with a lopsided grin as if to say, "You see what I mean?" Javert's antics, though exasperating, were something Valjean had been conditioned to.
Valjean got up out of the chair and followed Javert past his office.
"Don't you need to go back and retrieve your coat?" questioned Valjean, looking back down the hall.
"No. Commonality is what is required for today."
Stomping towards the front Javert left, with Valjean dogging his heels.