A/N: I'm so sorry this is late! I had planned to have it finished and up earlier this week, but RL interfered. Thank you for your patience. I hope it is worth the wait.
A quick, heartfelt thank you to Ani-maniac for giving this part a quick once over and offering some suggestions. Thanks girl!
Enjoy!
The Good Samaritan
Part 2
Dawn was fast approaching when Javert managed to regain his composure. It was that hour when the night sky darkened in anticipation of the rising sun. The sun was just a faint sphere on the horizon, nearly invisible as the eastern sky started to lighten. Normally, Javert woke at this time and set about preparing for his day. By the time the sun was rising over the hills in the east, he would be on his way to the station for his first shift. Not today.
Slowly, Javert walked along the road, meandering over the ramparts and below the higher walls and towers. Before, his path in life had always been straight and singular. Now there were two and both were of equal weight. How could he choose one over the other? He did not know what to do.
The hair on his neck prickled. He was being hunted.
He kept walking, scanning the brush around against the ramparts from the corner of his eye. A twig cracked loudly and Javert whirled around. Three men burst out of the darkness and descended on him like vultures. He brought his fists up to fight only it was too late. One man struck him in the stomach and he doubled over; another caught his arms, wrenching him off balance and into a deadlock; a third man held a knife to his throat.
Javert froze.
"Make a sound and I'll slit your throat."
He pressed his lips together into a thin line, glaring, but obeyed.
His hat was ceremoniously ripped off his head and proudly placed on the thief's head.
"Search 'is pockets," commanded the other robber.
Rough hands dug into his pockets, pulling out his billfold and then the rosary. "Eh, he ain't got much."
To Javert's horror, the other thief ripped the rosary in half, scattering the beads over the road. In forty years, he had only been given two gifts. The first was a silver snuff box from his commissioner when he advanced to police inspector. The second was the handmade, factory model rosary Mayor Madeleine handed him on the day they met. Trivial as it was, considering how the rosary had brought Javert to tears not more than a couple hours before, the rosary was very important to him. To see it so casually destroyed ignited the smoldering anger in his heart.
It was because of men like them he believed a man could never change. This was why Fantine's transformation, her seeming rebirth made no sense. This was why the mayor confounded him with his naïve charity.
The thief wearing his hat rummaged in his billfold, pulling out Javert's passport. To Javert's surprise the thief actually seemed to read it.
"Wait, I know this dog. He was a guard at Toulon!" The bandit cried, baring his brown teeth in a vicious snarl.
Belatedly, Javert realized that underneath his hat, the man's head was shaved and the he had the scraggly beard common to parolees. Fingers dug cruelly into his shoulders and arms, forcing him down on his knees. He kept his head high, staring back at the beast of Toulon with a glimmer of his former righteousness. This he was familiar with; this kind of man he knew.
"You certain, Prevot?"
Prevot put his face in Javert's, wild amber eyes boring into him. His breath stuck of decay and old wine.
"Yes, I'm certain Claude! This 'ere is the half-breed gypsy guard, Javert."
In a span of seconds the thieves' anger morphed into pure hatred. Gypsies were the most despised of all races, considered lower than dogs, lower than even the Jews. For a gypsy, even a half-blood such as him, to become one of the guard and then a policeman was an insult to ever other natural born French man who lived in squalor. Not for the first time, Javert cursed his parents and his blood. He then cursed his own foolishness and lapse in attentiveness, caught in the unfamiliar swells of his emotions and thoughts. Yet another failure.
"So gypsy, you think you're better than us? Think you're a good citizen being a police inspector and all," sneered the one called Claude. He was the oldest of the group, or perhaps the ugliest. His teeth were rotten and half missing, his face wrinkled and sunken, and his hair, if it even deserved the title, were unkempt and straggly like a wild animal's.
"I think it's time you learned the true meanin' of the law."
Javert laughed, baring his teeth, his inner wolf snarling at the mutts. "You presume to tell me about the law when you're the villains robbing me?"
His answer was a fist to the face. Spitting blood, he glanced up at Claude and sneered. "Was that your best shot?"
The man's face contorted in rage and he brought up his arm again. Javert was ready. He yanked forward and the punch struck the robber holding him in the chest. The man released Javert with an indignant cry, dropping to his knees. Twisting, Javert slammed his elbow into Claude's chin as he grabbed at Javert's face. He swept his feet out, hooking them on Claude's ankles, sending Claude falling back into Prevot. They landing in a tangle of grunting limbs on the ground.
With a smirk, Javert rolled to his feet.
"Get him Durand!"
The third man rose to his feet and for a moment Javert's stared in surprise. Durand was by far the largest of the three men, bigger even than Javert recalled 24601. In the faint light, Javert could see a thick scar running perpendicular across the bandit's face, from chin bone to forehead. Durand was the real muscle in the group then. Except, he noted when he saw the man's wild eyes, unlike the old convict, there was not a lick of intelligence in him.
Durand charged. Javert easily sidestepped and slammed his fist into the man's kidneys. The scarred convict bellowed, swinging his arm towards Javert's head. Javert ducked and surged forward, slamming into the man's chest, knocking him backwards. Durand toppled down the sloping ravine on the other side of the road and out of sight with a scream. Javert did not have time to contemplate whether or not the man would survive because the other two men were on their feet.
Claude bellowed, "You'll pay for that!"
He charged, swinging his arm in a vicious right hook. Javert blocked the blow and dodged another before landing a swift punch of his own to Claude's face. Prevot came at him from the side, knife clenched in his hand. Javert kicked Claude in the stomach and pivoted to catch Prevot's arm, the blade inches from his face. The paroled convict was strong and he pressed his advantage. Javert may lack the strength, but he was trained to fight.
Deftly, he slammed his elbow up into Prevot's nose and as the man yowled in agony Javert knocked the knife from his grip and kicked it off the road into the ditch. Having sufficiently disarmed the convict, he seized Prevot by the arms and shoved him back into Claude who was trying to stand, still wheezing.
A snarl was the only warning he had. Javert twisted, trying to duck the blow he sensed coming from behind. A rotten branch clipped his shoulder and he stumbled. It was Durand. The scarred man had survived his fall, it seemed, though judging by the mud caking his clothes and hands it was not a pleasant fall.
His stumble was all the time the other two men needed to regain their feet. The three thieves advanced. They all had the same mad gleam; the same foaming mouth, gnashing teeth and bony, iron hands. Javert saw them for what they truly were: animals. But he was no animal. He kept his head and dodged their punching fists and kicking feet, landing sharp, but quick hits of his own and retreating again out of their reach. The men roared in fury, intensifying their attack.
Javert was a skilled fighter, of that there was no doubt, but even he could not beat three armed, angry men when he was weaponless and already tired. Adrenaline could only last so long. If he fell or was hit by one precise blow, he was done for. He had to retreat.
Sidestepping another attack, Javert saw his chance. He darted to the left, letting the three men collide with each other as they tried to strike him all at once.
Something struck him across the back and Javert dropped to the ground with a stunned gasp. What—? Before he could complete the thought the thieves descended upon him.
Javert curled in on himself, desperately trying to shield his stomach and head from their malicious blows. The hits kept coming—hands, feet, and sticks—seeming without end, and agony swirled in the members of his body like a forest fire. At one point he swore he heard bone crack. He couldn't breathe.
"That's enough."
Javert barely heard the order over the rushing roar in his ears. Mercifully, the beating stopped and he tried to catch his breath. In all his years as a prison guard and later as a police man, he had never been thrashed so severely. How did they get the jump on him? They had collided, he was sure of it, and they couldn't have possibly untangled fast enough to knock him down.
He forced his eyes open, trying to see his attackers. There were four of them, all looming over him. Four…he had been fighting three men. The fourth must have been hiding somewhere, watching. Which one was it? He blinked hard, hoping to focus. It helped, and cleared his vision some allowing him to see the fourth man who had struck him from behind. He was standing the closest and peering down at him with the arrogance so common for highway thieves. Unlike his companions however, this man had a short, but neat beard and his dark hair was cut short underneath his cap. His clothes were dark and surprising clean, from what Javert could tell in the faint light, given the ragged condition of the other three men. This was the true leader, Javert realized.
Bright blue eyes met his and a chill settled over Javert heart. The man's eyes were stone cold and empty. Except for the twisted expression of disgust, the man gave away nothing. Javert swallowed hard, but forced himself to glare back defiantly. He was an inspector of police, a man of the law; he would not be intimidated!
The dark-hair man smiled and what had been searing, fiery throbbing turned to an icy burn that immobilized him as dismay filled him.
"Well, well, well. Inspector Javert. Fancy meetin' you out here."
"Benjamin Muller," he hissed. This was not good. Benjamin Muller was one of the most wanted highway robbers in the country. Javert had actually run into the man as a guard when Muller was first brought to Toulon. But somehow Muller had managed to escape before being processed in. Twice. Javert had suspected there was a traitor among the police escort, but it could never be proved.
"Losing your touch, Javert," Muller said conversationally. "You should know better than to go on patrol unarmed."
Javert glared, stung by the observation. Muller was right. He did know better. But he had behaved irrationally and he lost his cudgel when he stupidly ran out of town.
"Take everything boys."
Panicking, Javert struggled the best he could to escape their cold, cruel hands. Something hard struck him on the face, smattering his vision with red, yellow, blue, and green. Pain surged through his nerves and he lost focus. They were taking his great coat. He couldn't let them take it. Weakly, he tried to ward off the hands, but his head hurt too much to properly command his body to resist. It was the draft of cold air on his neck as the thieves started to take his shirt that roused his fighting instinct. He lashed out, kicking and punching blindly. They easily restrained him. One even kicked his ribs again for good measure.
Panting, overwhelmed by pain, Javert could do nothing as the highway men stripped him first of his uniform and then of his underclothes. Feebly, he tried to pull his legs in, humiliated at his nakedness.
The highway men laughed.
"Throw him over the side," Muller ordered.
His men cackled and obeyed, heaving Javert off the path and down the ravine.
Rocks and branches tore at his naked skin, biting and scratching. Then there was mud, thick and cake-like, sticking to his body as he rolled the last few feet to the bottom. He landed with a jolt, a cry torn from his bloodied lips. Every tendon, every muscle, ever bone ached and burned inside him and he opened his mouth scream to the heavens, but only the smallest of whimpers came out. It hurt to breathe, almost as if there was a large boulder settled on his chest, slowly crushing him.
Distantly, Javert thought he heard laughter but it faded away so quickly he wondered if he imagined it.
He was alone; alone and thrown back into the gutter from whence he came.
His face felt wet.
It must be raining.
Bamatabois was fuming as he wandered the docks. How dare that man refuse to let him enter! He, Bamatabois, one of the richest men in Montreuil, turned away from the mayor's door for simply being late. This was not to say it was not rude, of that he was well aware, but it did interrupt his planned grand entrance. Thanks to the mayor's so-called generosity, there were not even the prostitutes for him to vent his wrath upon. How could they enter and feast when he could not?
Then there was that wolf of a policeman, the detested Inspector Javert. Bamatabois' blood boiled. Meddlesome cur! What right did he have to stop him from entering the banquet hall? It was certainly not a job sanctioned by the man's precious law. Had the inspector not blocked his way, Bamatabois certainly could have entered the house and joined the festivities without difficulty.
Something must be done. Mayor Madeleine may be the richest man in the province, but he was not truly one of the elite. He was an infiltrator: a common laborer. A nasty smile twisted Bamatabois' mouth as a plan began to form. The rest of the aristocracy would no doubt be quite displeased with the mayor for not permitting them to enter the banquet tonight. Their anger would be the leverage he needed to put the wheels in motion for M. Madeleine's ruin. For all the man's generosity and over-indulgence in the poor, he was truly naïve when it came to the upper class. They would eat him alive. And after they had feasted and left Madeleine's carcass to rot, Bamatabois would take possession of his overflowing coffers and replace Madeleine in the maire. Oh, revenge would be sweet!
Pleased with his plot, Bamatabois turned his feet away from the docks.
The sun was coming up in the east and the black sky was lightening and the stars fading. He walked towards the ramparts, which would keep him away from the public eye and let him return to his home unseen. No need for anyone to know where he had been.
As he went, he considered the other target of his vengeance.
Inspector Javert, well, he would see that excuse of a man trounced by his precious law. It would be far trickier to orchestrate, but once the mayor began to topple, the police inspector would be vulnerable. Like M. Madeleine, his record as an upstanding citizen would present an obstacle, but Bamatabois was confident it could be circumvented. M. Madeleine was a peasant by birth. The inspector was even lower: an illegitimate child of a gypsy according to his sources. A well concocted scheme accusing of Javert accepting bribes and stealing would easily tarnish the man's reputation, particularly with a few key testimonies and well-placed evidence. With doubt in the minds of the people, it would not be hard to frame Javert for murder next.
The question was merely who the victim should be.
Bamatabois paused, tapping his cane on the ground.
It would have to be someone of some significance…the prostitute who had attacked him! She had gone unpunished for her crime because of the mayor's interference months ago. The inspector had clearly been humiliated. If he was furious the woman was not held for her crimes, who is to say it was impossible the inspector deigned to take the law into his own hands? He practically did every day! Javert believed himself to be the law. And his belief would be his undoing.
A hideous chuckle rattled his chest at his own genius. Mayor Madeleine and Inspector Javert would pay for their arrogance. They would pay dearly.
Movement caught the corner of the aristocrat's attention and he slowed, looking down the slope next to the road.
There was a body in the ditch. It was a man, he realized; naked and submerged in mud and blood. He was moving, trying to get up. Bamatabois stepped back, repulsed. He jumped when his shoe landed on something decidedly not earth. It was a hat. Bamatabois nudged the object over with the tip of his cane, studying it closer. The once white ribbon was stained and torn; the hat's former shape all but stomped out. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking whose hat this was.
Bamatabois glanced once more at the pitiful figure in the ditch. Caked eyelids cracked open, blue eyes peering upwards dimly, red mouth opening in a silent call.
"Good day, Inspector," he smiled, tipping his top hat.
His chin high and shoulders squared, Bamatabois strolled home, whistling.
He hurried down the path, muttering to himself. Why, oh why did Father Maurice have to send him out at such an hour? He hated the early mornings. They reminded him too much of the days on the farm, when his father would wake him and his siblings with a bellow and snap of his belt. More so, he despised the wretched underbelly where he had been sent to check on those sick and dying from disease. They were dying! What purpose did it serve to go before dawn to see what new corpses there were to bury?
"They need peace, Brother Henri," Father Maurice had explained. "Give them their last rites, my son, so that they may go to the Lord in peace."
Brother Henri did not see how saying a few words over a body could bring it peace. They were dead. Gone. Nevertheless, he was a member of the clergy and he obeyed his superior. Performing last rites was an important part of his duties and he fulfilled it faithfully; even when it was at an insane hour of the morning.
He turned and headed down the path in front of the towers, below the ramparts. It would take him back to the church much quicker than walking all the way through town. He supposed he could walk through the town, it was hardly the wretched place it used to be from what he had been told, but he preferred not speaking to anyone.
The mayor of Montreuil had made admiral efforts to clean up the town. From Henri's understanding, the town was on the verge of collapse when the man arrived in M-sur-M. The death toll had been much higher. Now, it thrived. The grand banquet last night was a fine example of its prosperity. The clergy had not attended, but the mayor had sent several citizens over with food. Henri had been surprised to see they were of the poorer class. Perhaps more shocking was learning that the aristocrats had refused to attend earlier. In response Mayor Madeleine sent out a call for all the poor, whatever their status. The only ones who could not come were those with disease. But then one poor woman had told him, her eyes bright, another group had been asked to take food to the infirm as well.
It was simply…amazing. How could one man have provided so much? What rich man gave so generously to the poor in all of France? None aside from M. Madeleine as far as the friar knew. It was a miracle, according to Father Maurice, who had smiled broadly for the first time in the two years Henri had known him. There was only one other man who behaved like Madeleine and that was the late saintly Bishop of Digne. Rumor had it the mayor had once worked for bishop and his family long ago. It certainly made sense. The two men seemed to be cut from the same cloth.
Henri pushed his musings aside. He should not be thinking about town gossip. Mayor Madeleine was a great and generous man and he made the church's work much easier. There was nothing else he needed to know.
The road turned, passing beneath the towers.
He squinted, startled to see something pale in the muddy ditch below, just visible in the light provided by sunrise.
Henri's stomach hiccupped. It was a corpse. Judging by the blood and undressed state of the man, he had been attacked. This was not death by disease; this was death by man's hand. It seemed his duty was not yet done for the morning. Henri made the sign of the cross and whispered the Latin prayer. May he rest in peace. He would have to report this to the police. Perhaps he would see Inspector Javert on his morning patrol.
Henri turned to resume his walk. For a second he thought he saw the body move. Perhaps the injured man was in fact alive. If he was, he was in God's hands now. But he doubted it.
The friar hurried on up the road back to the church.
Noémie walked along the path slowly, enjoying the light breeze and faint scent of the sea. She was nearing the gate that led to the outer ramparts and towers. Most of the others would have taken the direct route back to their lodging in the lower circles and the docks, but not her. She wanted some quiet to think. For the first time in months, her belly was full. What a strange feeling!
In all her years, she had never heard of a rich man such as him giving untold amounts to the poor. For goodness sake, the man had built two schools and paid the teachers out of his own pocket for those of the lower class! It seemed impossible. She certainly had always been suspicious of M. Madeleine's intentions, but not after today.
She shut her eyes, remembering the banquet. She would bet not even the king himself feasted in such splendor!
Yet the great feast was not what truly proved to her that Mayor Madeleine a genuine generous man. No, it was when the child of her former sister of disgrace, Fantine, ran up to the man. The smile on the old man's face was brighter than the sun. He caught the child up in his arms and threw her in the air, much to the little girl's delight.
Noémie knew the child was certainly not M. Madeleine's after overhearing Fantine curse someone called Felix one night after a customer left. It made the joy M. Madeleine displayed as he beheld the child that much more astonishing. Clearly, the child's parentage did not matter to him. Something, perhaps it was what remained of her heart, ached. Her father had never looked at her like that. She wondered if the girl knew just how lucky she was.
She shook her head. There was no point dwelling on it. Life had dropped her at the bottom of the heap. Noémie would not rise out of the filth like Fantine and her child had. Yes the mayor was kind, he was generous, but he could not be involved in every life; could not intercede as he had with Fantine when Inspector Javert's shadow fell on her.
Her teeth clenched, recalling her own encounter with M-sur-M's chief police inspector over a year ago. It had been a terribly windy afternoon and her cap had blown off. Before she could retrieve it, the fearsome inspector appeared and arrested her for failing to wear a head covering according to the prostitute laws. She was sentenced to three months in jail. Noémie shuddered, remembering her cold, dismal prison cell and the other poor women with her. She would never forget what the inspector had condemned her to for a crime she had not committed.
Noémie kicked a pebble, watching as it rolled ahead of her. It stopped at a crumbled hat on the edge of the ditch.
That looked like a policeman's hat, like…Javert's!
Noémie froze, her heart leaping to her throat. Her eyes slowly moved forward, tracing the incline to the bottom where a beaten figure laid. It was Inspector Javert! The man was scarcely recognizable. He was as naked as a newborn babe, smeared from head to toe with dirt and gore. But it was Javert. She would know him anywhere.
She did not know how long she stood there, staring in mute disbelief. Surely what she saw was an illusion, a trick of some kind. Inspector Javert was indestructible, a living breathing truncheon for the law. He was the very embodiment of the law. It could not be the same man, stripped of his clothes and his dignity, lying beaten in the mud in front of her.
Perhaps she would have kept staring if the inspector had not moaned and shifted ever so slightly. Shaken from her stupor, Noémie clambered down the slope, half sliding and half running. Reaching the bottom, she slowed, approaching the man warily.
"Inspector?"
No response. Noémie was at a loss. What on earth happened to the man?
Giving herself a shake, she ordered herself to think. Think! What should she do? Help, she needed to get help. But who would believe her? She could scarcely believe that the terrifying police inspector had been laid so low. And if they believed her, would they help her? She was a prostitute after all. Her fellow sisters of the night would certainly not assist her. They despised Javert as much as she did. Everyone else would probably turn her away on account of her occupation. They may even blame her!
Noémie growled. Maybe it was better to just leave the man to his fate. He certainly would not show mercy on her if the situation were reversed. In fact, he had not. Why was she even considering trying to saving him?
A whimper whispered through the air. Startled, she looked back down at the injured inspector. Javert was trying to curl up into a ball, his dirty face contorted in one emotion Noémie never dreamed she'd see on the man's face: fear.
She wasn't aware she was removing her shawl until she was spreading it over the man's form to provide him some dignity. The mud was too thick and, she suddenly saw, he was sinking. He couldn't stay here. But did she dare try to move him?
Well, maybe she could prop him up against the hill. It would keep his head out of the muck until she could return with assistance. She refused to think about how unlikely it was she would find anyone. Somehow, hearing that one small sound from the cold inspector had melted the ice around her own heart. She couldn't leave him here to die. While she may be many things, she was not pitiless.
Noémie stepped around the inspector, grimacing as the mud swallowed her feet and sucked at her ankles. She could do this. Crouching down, Noémie gingerly gripped the man under the arms. Taking a deep breath and releasing it, she pulled him toward the rise of the hill. He was heavier than she expected and her muscles strained with the weight. Inspector Javert protested the move with an agonized cry that faded once she released him.
The inspector successfully propped up against the hill, Noémie sank back on her heels and wiped her dirt encrusted hands on her dress. It was ruined. She scowled at the inspector, angry at how he was ruining her livelihood by crossing her path without even being conscious. The anger died away as fast as it came. Inspector Javert truly looked pathetic. He lay where she had dragged him, sprawled like a broken doll. He was moaning again. She could see his swollen lips moving ever so slightly.
What could make Inspector Javert afraid? Noémie dared not imagine.
She fixed the shawl, covering him the best she could and stood up.
"I'll return with help, monsieur. I promise." Noémie picked up her skirts and scrambled up the ravine and back onto the path. Once her feet no longer stuck in the mud, she started running.
There was only one person who would, without a doubt, help her and by extension the police inspector.
"Monsieur le mayor! Monsieur le mayor!" Noémie cried as she neared the maire and the banquet hall. Surely he must be nearby. What if he had gone to bed? It was nearing six o'clock in the morning and the man had been up all night. Well, if he was, she would wake him, she decided.
She hurried up the walkway to the banquet hall. A woman dressed in simple work clothes met her at the steps. She was wiping her hands on her apron and Noémie could see the dirt on her sleeves. Her white hair was tied up in a cap off her neck making it easy to see her careworn, but compassionate features.
"Whatever is the matter, mademoiselle?"
"Please, Mére Moreau, where is monsieur le mayor? I gotta speak with him."
The housekeeper startled, before her eyes narrowed shrewdly, raking over her disheveled appearance. It did not take long for the elderly housekeeper to realize who, or more specifically, what she was.
"Why do you need to know?"
"Please madam! It's important," Noémie pleaded. She dared not say why. There were too many listening ears. Please, tell me where he is!
The older woman sighed. "When I last saw Monsieur Madeleine, he was escorting Mademoiselle Fantine and her daughter back to the hospital. I think he mentioned he planned on going by the station afterwards to speak with Inspector Javert."
"Thank you," Noémie said, spinning around and racing back to the street. She must have just missed him!
She stopped in the street, torn between the hospital and the police station, which happened to be in opposite directions. How long had it been since the mayor left? Biting her lip, Noémie headed toward the police station, praying she chose correctly.
Providence must have decided to glance at her for a brief moment because she spotted a familiar top hat and green great coat moving down the street away from the police station.
"Monsieur le mayor!" she shouted, relieved.
He paused at her call, turning around, searching for the person who called him. When he saw Noémie coming toward him, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Mademoiselle, how may I help you?"
"It's Inspector Javert," Noémie gasped without preamble. "He's been attacked."
The mayor paled. "Take me to him," he commanded.
Noémie quickly led the mayor outside of town, down the road on the ramparts and below the towers. When they neared the ditch, Mayor Madeleine went ahead of her, scaling down the hill without his usual grace in his haste. Noémie followed. She nearly crashed into him when he abruptly came to a halt.
Quickly she sidestepped him. Exasperated, she squinted at him and promptly forgot her annoyance as she saw how white his face was.
"Oh Javert," Mayor Madeleine whispered, his voice rough. The mayor knelt beside the police inspector, heedless of the mud staining his clothes. Noémie stayed a few feet back, watching curiously.
Mayor Madeleine tapped the inspector's cheek firmly. "Javert. Javert, wake up."
Javert groaned and cringed away from the mayor's hand.
"It's me, Javert," the mayor soothed. "It's me. You're safe."
A terrible croaking sound, barely louder than a whisper, came from the inspector. "Mo'sieur…Mayor…"
"Hush, don't speak Javert," Mayor Madeleine murmured, letting his hand rest on the crown of the inspector's head like a parent would on a young child. "Can you open your eyes for me?"
Noémie's chest felt tight. She waited, along with the mayor, to see if Inspector Javert would comply. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, and Noémie could see the tension in his brow. Blue orbs blinked into view and Noémie released the breath she had not realized she was holding.
Mayor Madeleine's mouth turned up ever so slightly, but the lines around his eyes were deep with concern. "Well done," he said. "Can you focus?"
Javert's head jerked to the side the smallest fraction, his attention never leaving the mayor as he blinked sluggishly. Mayor Madeleine nodded grimly. "Do you think you can sit up?"
A blink and a dip of the chin answered the mayor's question. Carefully, the mayor eased Javert into a seated position, supporting him with an arm behind his back and a hand on Javert's bicep. The inspector's face contorted with pain and his breath came heavier. M. Madeleine paused, waiting for the injured man to catch his breath.
"We must get you to a doctor."
Terror washed over Javert's face so suddenly Noémie's heart skipped a beat. He grappled at the lapel of M. Madeleine's coat, his skin impossibly gray beneath the mud and blood.
"Javert. Javert, it's all right," Mayor Madeleine assured him. "You won't be alone, I promise. I won't leave. Easy, my friend."
Tenderly, the mayor laid his hand on the side of Javert's face, thumb stroking his bruised cheek. Were those tears in Javert's eyes?
Javert's head fell forward, resting against Mayor Madeleine's chest, his broad shoulders starting to shake. M. Madeleine wrapped his arm around the inspector, leaning down so his mouth was next to his ear, speaking so softly Noémie could not hear.
Noémie looked away. She had not expected this. Who would have thought: Inspector Javert was human after all! Yet seeing the proud man brought so low, broken to the point that he was willing to seek comfort from a man the town knew he disliked, made her insides ache.
"Mademoiselle." Noémie turned her head. The inspector was now wrapped in the mayor's great coat, his body limp. He must have passed out. The mayor himself appeared quite alarmed with his hair mud streaked and messy as if he had run his hands through it. "Do you know the quickest way to the hospital from here?"
"Yes monsieur."
Her lips parted in shock as the mayor protectively lifted the inspector in his arms, cradling him as Noémie recalled seeing him cradle Fantine months ago. Naturally, she had heard of the mayor's great strength but witnessing it was another matter. Just how strong was he? Surely as strong as Sampson!
A bead of sweat glistened on Mayor Madeleine's brow, but there was a determined set to his jaw and his hold on Javert did not falter. "Show me please."
Without a word, Noémie waved her hand, indicating the old man follow.
The hurried walk to the hospital was made it complete silence.
He must be in Hell. All he knew was the pain of his failures, of his weakness. He deserved this. Yes, he deserved to suffer for everything he had done, for all the mistakes he made. He drifted, lost in the darkness. Sometimes he imagined there were people who came and looked down at him. They left him to his fate. One actually came down to him, to better see his suffering Javert supposed.
But it was the next visage that hurt the most: Mayor Madeleine. To think that the man he respected and even admired as he never had another was there witnessing Javert's punishment filled him with terrible grief and shame. Unlike the others, Mayor Madeleine was gentle, speaking to him softly. Javert could not answer and his head dropped, the humiliation crushing him. But Mayor Madeleine didn't leave and Javert was glad to have the mayor close by before he succumbed to the darkness again.
The next time he became aware, the pain was actually a little less. Was this his reprieve before the worst came?
Something cool and damp touched his face, startling him.
"Peace Javert, it is only me. You have a fever. Your body must be cooled down."
It was Monsieur Madeleine; the mayor; his superior. Surely the good Monsieur Madeleine would not be in hell! The cool cloth continued to dab his face, every application gentle. It was out of place. This was wrong. Slowly, he peeled open his eyes and squinted. A familiar face looked down at him, anxious.
"'o'sieur 'adeleine," he slurred. Could it be?
"It's me, Javert," the apparition assured him. "It's me. You're safe. Rest now."
He peeled his lips back from his teeth, trying to speak further, but only a moan emerged.
"Hush," M. Madeleine quieted. Something gentle stroked his hair back and while cool it was a different texture than the cloth. It must be the mayor's hand. He couldn't be dead or in hell then. There was no kindness in hell. The tension melted gradually from his frame.
"Sleep," M. Madeleine urged him, continuing to gently brush his fingers over Javert's temple. "You're home."
Javert relaxed, the fear dissipating like mist and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He was home.
And that concludes the parable of the Good Samaritan, Les Mis style! :)
Coming soon is "The Lost Ones". A six-eight part look at Jesus' parables regarding the lost coin, the lost sheep, and the prodigal son. And soon is...like four months from now, lol, if how long it took me to write this one is any indication.
Also, if any one would like to, name a parable or Bible story you'd like to read Les Mis style in a review. CaptainHooksGirl has suggested a story about Paul in prison, which one of us will write in the future. :) Any other suggestions? Please leave a review or send a PM with your suggestion. :)
Anywho, thanks for reading! Please leave a review and let me know what you think. :D
Have a great day!
Noelani