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XVI: As Man Turns to Stone

"We've received a complaint, Inspector," the judge said, his squarish hat sitting bulbously atop his head and his wiry spectacles teetering near the bridge of his nose. Javert stood in front of the court, his back straight and hands clasped in front of him. He had made sure that all of his brass was polished and he had Carlette press his uniform so the seams popped out crisply against the fabric.

"I had reason to believe that the priest was harboring a fugitive, or hiding information, sir," Javert replied coolly. He did not shy away from the men of justice who outranked him, high in their wood balcony of the court.

Another judge leaned over and whispered to the speaker. "What made you reach this conclusion?" the speaker asked, clasping his hands and clearing his throat. Javert thought he looked like a turkey, a bald, wrinkly head extending from the black of his robe.

"The man lied. His story did match up to other eye witness accounts that placed the fugitive, Jean Valjean, at his church. This aroused suspicion."

"Did your men break anything or harm anyone?"

"Officer Mattox shattered a glass vase upon entry, but I will gladly pay for the damage done. Besides that, we left the church without any harm. The two Sisters were unhurt, and the bishop was fine, yet he verbally threatened and attacked me."

"A Father of the church?" the judge who had previously whispered asked. He was a fat man, his plump face shining in a thin layer of sweat from his hat and robe.

"Yes, Your Honor," Javert answered. "Yet I took no offense."

"Very well," the speaker piped up, his voice sounding like a mallard's squawk. He scribbled a quill across a sheet of paper, blew on the ink, and passed it down the line. Each judge, nine in all, signed their names. Once the paper was rolled up and sent to the files, the head judge spoke again. "We have reviewed the complaint and pardon you, Inspector Javert, it is obvious to us that you were merely acting as the law enforcement authority that you are. You justified your reasoning to us in a clear way. Thank you for your time." The gavel barked against its wood stop.

Javert gave a curt bow and turned on his heel, marching out of the courtroom. All of this hassle was wasted on a flimsy complaint, Mattox had broken a vase. A vase that had barely cost one franc. How foolish.

"I've wasted so much time," Javert muttered under his breath as he passed under the stone eagle of the Parisian Justice. He turned and walked briskly passed the stone pillars and returned to the jail and his office. Once he closed the door with the frosted glass window, he sat down at his desk and tried to ignore the bawdy shouting of prisoners as they were being escorted past his door and into a holding cell. Javert shook his head as he bent over papers. They were trivial things, complaints of taverns, lost items, feuds over wills.

Javert had found that it was troubling for him to sit still. Thought of Valjean, stealing or sneaking about, made him uneasy and angry. The criminal was out there right now while he sat and signed argument papers! Who knows what Valjean was doing? Javert had been so close at that church…the Father had seen him there. Why protect him?

I don't understand, Javert kept thinking. I don't understand how a man like Valjean can be defended.

He leaned back in his chair and did his best to ignore his paperwork. Extending his legs, he crossed them at his ankles and entwined his fingers over his chest, the wool of his jacket scratchy on his palms.

I have to learn to think like a criminal, he thought as he compared his thumbs. Think like filth…like scum and thieves. At one point, when he was a mere boy, he knew exactly how to think like them. How to duck through alleyways and how to steal food to keep himself alive. He had known how to avoid the law, how to cling to the shadows and wear them like a new coat.

But that had been a very long time ago.

Deciding that he would rather be out on patrol, Javert quickly scrawled his name on his stack of papers, not even bothering to see who he cursed or who he blessed. Once the shine of the last signature had dried away, he stacked up his papers and left his office, setting the forms on the desk of the jail's secretary, a man who could never seem to stay awake.

Ombre tossed his head and snorted when Javert threw himself up into the saddle. Pulling on the reigns and turning the horse down the road, he kicked him into a trot. Javert bounced in the saddle so he didn't jumble about as the horse moved. People stayed clear from his way, not because he was well known, but because his presence was intimidating. Those who looked at him quickly averted their eyes. Javert found himself missing what a smile looked like.

He quickly regretted it as images of Aimée's wide grin flooded themselves behind his eyes.

"Dammit, Javert," he growled, looking around and trying to find something else to look at.

After an entire afternoon of riding the city, Javert returned home with sore legs. He brought Ombre to the wide ally that sat between his home and the jailhouse. In this alley sat the stables. Horses nickered and snorted at him when he passed, leading Ombre gently by the reigns. The musty smell of hay and manure clung to him greedily, but he found that he didn't think it was unpleasant. He ignored the stable boy that offered to unsaddle his horse.

Ombre's stall was the last one on the right side and Javert opened up the gate and led the horse inside. The boy had lain down new straw and it crackled quietly beneath his boots. Javert unhooked the leather straps of Ombre's reigns and removed the bit from the horse's mouth. Ombre flapped his dark lips once the metal and straps were taken away from his face. Javert reached into the feed bin and held out a handful of grain. As Ombre snacked, he ran his hand down the horse's strong muzzle, feeling when his short hair was replaced by the velvet of his nose and mouth. Javert smiled as Ombre blinked his dark, shining eyes.

Brushing the traces of grain away from his hands, Javert set to work unhitching the saddle, a heavy dark thing fashioned of leather and silver studs. The horse heaved a sigh as the wide strap around his middle was loosened and fell away. With a grunt, Javert removed the saddle and under cloth, damp from the horse's sweat. He set the saddle on the stand and draped the cloth over it so it could dry out properly. Then, he ran the soft bristled brush all over Ombre's body, through his thick mane, across his wide back, and down his powerful legs. Finished, Javert gave his horse one last friendly pat on the shoulder, and left the stall.

"See to it that the farrier checks my horse within the week," Javert told the boy as he left, tossing him a copper coin for the work the boy didn't do.

"Yessir," the boy chirped, pocketing the money.

It was past six o'clock by the time Javert walked into his home. Carlette had left half a chicken on the table, already carved and nestled next to a loaf of bread. Javert contemplated warming up the food in the fireside hearth, but he decided that he was too tired. The chicken was still lukewarm, and he enjoyed it as it was, eating tediously with his silverware. Javert was never one to eat quickly. He loved to enjoy his meals ever since Carlette had come into his employment. He was unused to home-cooked meals every night and found that they were so much better than the cold cheese and sausage he would have in Toulon, the salt already on his lips nearly making it unbearable to eat.

When he was finished, Javert realized that his house felt entirely too empty, so he built a fire in the hearth, the crackling and popping of burning wood comforting him like a nurse's whispers to the ears of a babe. Once he retrieved a book from his shelf, he settled down in the sofa and began to read. The book was one he had just picked up one he arrived in Paris, a story of a certain General Washington during that pesky American Revolution. Javert didn't think to highly of the new Americans, yet he could spot a good man of character and he respected this George Washington almost as much as the patriots revered him. Every now and then, he would stop reading and place another log on the fire, the flames keeping the chill of loneliness at bay.

When his eyelids started to droop, he curled the corner of a page to mark his spot and rose with a grunt, his legs creaking as they woke. The stairs were climbed stiffly, footsteps heavy and clunking. His eyes glazed over as he stared at his painting of lion and bull while he changed. Javert removed his jacket and white undershirt, his chest bare and exposed. His high-waisted navy pants were still pressed from Carlettes's care, yet hay clung to the hems and he decided they smelled too much like the barn to be worn again. He sat on the bed and bent over to remove his boots, the exposed muscles in his shoulders rippling as he pulled. When he was finished, he ran a hand over his chin, scratching at his beard and undid his pants, folded them, and got up to place them in the hamper. Javert pulled on a clean white shirt over his under-britches and crawled into bed.

Javert only slept on one side of the bed, the left, not the center. He lay on his back, his hands pressed against the thin fabric of his shirt and moved his head to look to the side, the pristine linens untouched. Those green eyes of his blinked sadly. His room was drafty and big…his whole house was drafty and big. No one lived there, his only visitor a maid that rarely spoke to him. Loneliness was a crowding thing, it hovered over him and pressed inwards, sucking the air from Javert's lungs and making him close his eyes to try and ignore the emptiness that surrounded him.

Javert finally fell asleep, knowing of the letter that was sitting neatly on his desk, loopy writing spelling out his name. He had forgotten to check his office for a letter.

"I am lonely, mademoiselle," he said, looking at the ceiling above him. The sheets rustled next to him as someone rose. He turned his head and looked at a woman, clad in black mourning robes, yet her hair cascaded down her shoulder like spun gold. Her face was covered in a black veil and he could not see her features.

"Why?" she asked, her voice echoing like the call of a bird through an empty wood.

"There is no one here. I speak to no one. I am alone," Javert replied, looking at the mussed linens that were on the other side of the large bed.

"You speak to me." Her voice was flat.

"I know not who you are," Javert admitted, looking up to try and see though the veil.

The woman in black was silent. However, she reached her arms out to him, beckoning him closer. He rose from the bed and walked to her, yet she stayed the same distance away. Javert stopped, his brow furrowed.

"What is this?" he asked, stopping where he stood. He looked down and saw the dark uniform of Inspector.

"You do not wish to come closer?" the woman asked, her arms lying limply at her sides.

"I cannot," he replied.

"Why?"

"I don't know…" he looked at his feet, expecting to see them cemented to the floor. They were fine, the black polished surface shining in the bedroom. He looked up and watched as the lion and bull from his painting come to life, wrestling, snorting, roaring, biting. Javert reeled backwards, surprised and frightened. Luckily, the two beasts stayed in their frame.

"What is happening?" he asked, his heart quickening and his breathing becoming shallow. Javert had never been a man to get frightened, yet now he was terrified. He felt beads of sweat bud on his forehead and trickle down his temples.

The woman stepped closer, "You are frightened."

"Yes," Javert admitted, nodding as she neared him.

"Lift my veil," the woman softly told him, reaching out and grabbing his hand. She brought it to the fabric. Tentatively, he took it and slowly pulled the veil up and over the woman's head, his green eyes searching.

The ocean stared back.

Javert fell off his bed. The shock of his body slamming on to the thick floorboards drove the air from his lungs. He coughed and heaved, trying desperately to breathe, his eyes wild and frightened. The daylight stung his eyes. The pounding in his head registered as knocks at the door.

"Monsieur Javert, is everything alright? I heard a loud thump," Carlette's muffled voice asked from behind the thick wood.

"Yes," he croaked, placing his hands on the bedpost as he tried to stand, "Yes, everything is fine…I just dropped something." Why was he lying? So she wouldn't come in and see him like this, that was why.

With wild eyes, he stared at the painting of the lion and the bull. They were still in their frames, frozen by the painter's strokes. Javert's shirt pressed clammily to his back, damp from nighttime sweat. He reeked of fear and agitation. The linens of his bed were tangled and twisted, the pillows strewn everywhere. Javert stood frozen to the spot, remembering the dream, vivid as a fever.

"Aimée?" he murmured, looking about. He realized that it was foolish of him to think that she would be there. It was only a dream. Was he so weak that he couldn't realize the fantasy?

As his shock and fear died away, it was replaced by anger and annoyance.

Get a hold of yourself, you fool, he muttered darkly as he dressed himself. Dreams are dreams.

However, he could not deny the fact that it worried him to see Aimée again, even if it was a trick of his imagination. Those eyes... They had dulled to a common blue in his memory, but in his dream he saw how deep and swirling they were. It was as if he was seeing her again for the first time. Something deep in his chest swirled and he actually clutched a hand to his heart as he stood.

Shaking his head, the feeling was gone. Javert, a man of reason, could not understand how the woman had snaked her way into his dreams. He rarely dreamed at all, mostly just slept in deep, silent darkness. But she had found him as easily as a fox finds a lame rabbit.

Javert sat on the side of his bed and brought his hands up to his face. She was so clear…so real to him. Aimée in her mourning black, her weakest state. She had lain next to him in his dream, the linens had rustled as she stood. Javert was ashamed of that. There wasn't anything sexual about the dream, yet the mere idea of her in his room set him on edge. That wasn't right, he wasn't a foolish boy dreaming of women in his bed.

He was a foolish man dreaming of a ghost of the ocean. The woman that had taught him how to fight loneliness. His friend.

Your friend, Javert told himself. Your friend. Nothing more. Stop this right now. Javert brought his hands away from his face and bowed his head. Be like stone now, Javert. You cannot afford anything that will make you stray. You have to become the law now.

His eyes darkened as he felt the stone start to take over. Javert became solid then, solid and cold and strong. He decided then that he would not let loneliness weaken him. He stared at his painting, picturing him as the lion, grappling with claws of strength, then as the bull, standing his ground with an unyielding sense of duty. Javert realized what he had to do. He had to find Valjean, had to spend his time hunting him down. Aimée would get in the way of that.

Javert walked to his study and saw the envelope on his desk. He had half expected it to be there. Quickly picking it up, he turned it over, knowing that if he had seen her handwriting, his resistance would crumble.

She will forget about you, find a young handsome suitor, and be happy. She's stronger now, she doesn't need you. She's never needed you. You were the only one in need…the only weak one in need. Javert's mind was biting as he realized how foolish he had been. His hand crumpled the letter as he held on to it.

He hurried downstairs and found that Carlette had built up the flames in the living room. Good, less time to second guess himself. Clenching his jaw so tightly it sent a tang of pain up to his ears, he neared the fire and saw how greedily the flames licked at the air. Closing his eyes, Javert gently tossed the unopened letter inside. As he stood, he imagined her screaming voice coming from the fire and he saw her face, kohl smeared from sadness.

His legs felt weak in his betrayal and he put his hands to his face again, stumbling to the sofa. Once he sat, he leaned forward, imagining her hands spreading warmth as she touched his face, her fingertips light at the base of his neck, her arms around her. He imagined the smell of lilac and vanilla and it burned his lungs as smoke. His palms felt wet as they pressed to his eyes and realized that he was crying, the tears falling from guilt and the feeling of failure.

This is the right thing, his thoughts were quieter, she'll forget you. You need to be the law now.

Reserve was a creeping thing as Javert finally managed to pull himself together. He sniffed and wiped his face, his hand traveling over a man and changing it to stone, strict unyielding stone. The letter was ashes now.

There is only Javert, he told himself, trying to strengthen the stone that surrounded him now.

He turned and went to work without eating breakfast.