14
Title: "Rescue"
Author: Darkover
Rating: T
Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
Summary: See Chapter One.
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Chapter Two: "My Thoughts Fly Apart"
Javert was still sleeping when Valjean awoke the following morning, so the latter was able to inform both Cosette and Toussaint that they had a guest who was still slumbering in the master bedroom. Valjean saw his foster daughter's eyes widen when she learned that the guest was none other than the famed and fearsome Inspector Javert, but she asked no questions. This was not really so surprising when one realized that Cosette's girlhood had been one of respecting the privacy of her foster father to the point of secrecy. When Valjean told her that the Inspector was ill and would be staying with them until further notice, she merely nodded distractedly. Her thoughts were more about Marius than anything else, and at any rate, she did not know that Javert was the man whom her foster-father had sought to avoid for so many years. Valjean saw no reason to enlighten her now.
Valjean handed the Inspector's uniform over to Toussaint and asked her to clean it. He then went out into the street, gave a coin to one of the gamin to summon a doctor, and another to a second boy to take a message to the Prefect of Police, M. Gisquet, Javert's superior, to inform Gisquet that the Inspector would not be reporting to work today. Valjean instructed the boy to tell the Police Prefect that the Inspector had been wounded in a clash with the revolutionaries, and until he healed, would be staying with "Monsieur Fauchelevent" (Valjean) at the latter's address.
Valjean and Cosette had breakfast together as usual, and then he gave in to the girl's entreaties to visit Marius and ascertain his condition. After taking a fiacre to the house of M. Gillenormand, they learned that Marius was still unconscious, and the grandfather too distracted with worry to ask too many questions about who M. Fauchelevent and his daughter were, much less why they were there. When the physician called in to attend Marius suggested that reading to the comatose young man might do some good, Cosette immediately volunteered, and M. Gillenormand accepted with almost pitiable gratitude. Valjean wished to return home to see to the other man who was lying wounded in his own house, so it was agreed that Cosette would remain by Marius' bedside for a time, and M. Gillenormand would send her home in a fiacre.
Valjean walked home. When he arrived he met the local doctor in the act of departing his house, having already examined the patient.
"Doctor, how is the Inspector?" Valjean asked.
"Difficult," the physician responded, not much bothering to conceal his exasperation.
"What do you mean?"
"He didn't seem to want to cooperate," the doctor said shortly, and then relented a little. "Inspector Javert did not truly resist treatment, but he seems to have the strange idea that he deserves his wounds. They are serious, but with good care, there is no reason to believe he will not recover. You did a good job of treating his injuries, M. Fauchelevent, but I rewrapped his ribs, and I left some laudanum with your servant for the pain, should you be able to convince the Inspector to take it." The doctor sighed and rolled his eyes at the patient's intransigence. "See if you can get a good meal into him as soon as possible, by the way. I asked him when he last ate, and apparently he hasn't eaten at all for at least the last two days. I shall send you my bill. Good day to you, Monsieur." With a nod, the physician set off.
Valjean entered the house, greeted Toussaint, told her that Mademoiselle Cosette would not return for at least an hour or two, and that she could expect the police inspector to continue to be their guest for a few days. He also instructed her to prepare breakfast for their guest. After some momentary discussion of what that meal should be comprised of, Valjean at last excused himself and continued on to the master bedroom.
He found Javert still clad in the nightshirt, sitting on the edge of the bed. The policeman's head lifted when the master of the house entered, and Valjean considered that to be a good sign. At least it meant the Inspector was aware of his surroundings, which had not been the case yesterday. "Good morning, Inspector," Valjean greeted him. "I spoke with the doctor as he was leaving, and he tells me your prognosis is good, provided you give yourself time to recover."
Javert nodded, showing no enthusiasm. "Thank you," he muttered. "But now I must go."
Valjean decided a firm hand was needed. "Javert, you are not going anywhere. You must give yourself time to rest and to heal, and I insist that you remain here until you do."
The Inspector sighed. "I mean that I need to relieve myself."
"Ah," Valjean said, feeling foolish. "That can be arranged, certainly."
After Valjean showed his guest where to go, he asked Toussaint to provide their guest with a basin of warm water, some cloths, a towel, and a comb for his morning ablutions. The Inspector soon returned, Valjean gave him some privacy to attend to these matters, and a few minutes later, he returned bearing the breakfast tray prepared by Toussaint. He rapped lightly on the doorjamb and entered the bedroom. "Ready for breakfast?"
Javert, standing at the wardrobe, turned at the knock. He was of course still clad in the borrowed nightshirt, which made him appear more vulnerable and thus, more human. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded.
"Being cleaned," Valjean said calmly. "Get back into bed, Inspector. You are still wounded, and in no condition to go anywhere just yet."
"I am not wounded." It came out in a growl; clearly the wolf was not gone completely.
"I beg to differ," Valjean said quietly; the two men's gazes met, with Javert looking away first. Both of them knew Valjean was not just referring to physical injury.
The flash of light was gone from the Inspector's eyes; he seemed to slump again, and he dispiritedly got back beneath the covers. "It does not matter," he said, his voice barely audible. "I have disgraced the uniform. I have no more right to wear it."
Valjean placed the tray on the bed before his guest. It contained a hearty meal, with a cup of hot tea for Javert, and a cup of hot chocolate for Valjean. The different beverage was to make certain the two cups did not get mixed up, although Valjean did not intend to share that fact with his guest, at least not until Javert had drunk the tea. "Here, Inspector. I know that you must be hungry. I have already had my breakfast, but I shall drink a cup of chocolate while you have yours."
The man in the bed stared down at the food but made no move to touch it.
"Javert," Valjean said, adopting the firm tone that had been the only thing that had worked the previous night. "Eat." He picked up the cup of chocolate from the tray, and sat down on a chair near the bed.
Even though privately Valjean felt certain the man must be ravenous, Javert was still reluctant to eat. He picked up the teacup, sipped from it, and put it back on the tray. He continued to stare down at the food, and only when his host made a "go ahead" gesture did he reluctantly pick up the utensils and begin eating.
At first the Inspector ate listlessly, only picking at the food, seemingly only half-aware of what he was doing. Still, even though he ate automatically, his appetite slowly improved as he went on, and Valjean, recalling experiences in the past when he had seen other men almost despair of life, recognized the behavior. The soul might wish for life to cease, but the body wished to live, and welcomed the sustenance. Valjean did not distract him with conversation, but contented himself with sipping from his own cup as the Inspector ate.
He spoke again only when Javert had finished the food. Valjean nodded at the cup of tea. "Do not forget to drink that, Inspector. It is ginger tea, a special gypsy blend."
Javert's head shot up, the utensils clattered on the empty plate, and the Inspector's blue eyes flashed with fury. "What are you saying, Valjean? Is that your idea of a joke?"
"No," Valjean said, astonished by the intensity of the response and the sudden anger in the face of his old pursuer, especially as he could discern no reason for it. "That is what my servant Toussaint told me, when I said I had a guest who was ill—that this tea is a special blend, relied upon by gypsies to heal wounds. I believe a hot drink will help you recover, and it has honey that will soothe your injured throat. Please drink it."
For an instant, the blue eyes in the tanned face bored into him, and then the Inspector seemed to deflate. "I…apologize, Valjean. I am in no position to object to anything you say. I shall leave soon, and no longer burden you with my presence."
His host shook his head. "Drink the tea."
Javert did so, draining the cup, keeping his gaze averted. When he had finished and placed the empty cup on the tray, Valjean asked gently; "Feeling better?"
"Somewhat, thank you," the Inspector mumbled, and then lifted his head to make eye contact. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because you need it."
"But I do not deserve it," Javert said, his voice rising. "Least of all from you, a man whom I have hunted for years. A man whose life my interference has nearly ruined."
"But you did not," Valjean said. "Inspector, I know that you were doing the right thing as you understood it. As I said that night at the barricades, you have done your duty, nothing more."
"'Nothing more,'" Javert whispered, as if to himself. "How right you are. And now I have failed even in that."
"Javert," Valjean said gently, "do you believe I do not understand the nature of despair?"
The Inspector looked at him. His expression was hard to read, and he did not reply, but neither was he ignoring his host's words.
"You thought you understood how the world worked," Valjean said softly. "You thought you knew men, and what you knew about them was that they were not good. And that they were incapable of change."
Javert said nothing, but his hands were trembling. When he saw Valjean's gaze upon them, he quickly lowered his hands and placed them flat on the bed, concealing them beneath the tray as much as he could, while apparently holding them still by an act of will.
The man who had once been known as Prisoner 24601 continued speaking. "I know all this, because once I felt the same. By the time I was released from prison, after nineteen years as a galley slave, I had known nothing but brutality and the company of people you would no doubt describe rather accurately as 'scum.'" He paused momentarily. Javert said nothing. Valjean continued swiftly, "My experiences on the outside did not improve either my outlook on life, or my opinion of my fellow men. I was so embittered, so angry that I hated the world and everyone in it. When at last I did encounter a man who showed me kindness and generosity, I repaid him by trying to steal his silver."
From the sudden change of expression on the Inspector's face, Valjean suspected he was thinking; Once a thief, forever a thief. If he was, however, he did not say so aloud, and the former 24601 went on with his account.
"That man was Monseigneur Charles Myriel, Bishop of Digne, and never have I met, before or since, a kinder, more generous, more decent man. But at the time, all I could think of was that he had more than I did, so somehow that meant I was entitled to steal from him."
Javert's expression was not easy to read, but it definitely was not approving. Not that Valjean expected him to. He was thoroughly ashamed of his own actions at that time. Moreover, he was not telling this story to justify himself, but to help this man, so close to suicide the night before, understand that life sometimes could change for the better.
"I did not get far. I was not even a very good thief! Three of the local gendarmes caught me easily." He smiled with rueful, self-deprecating humor as he recalled the incident, although it had been intensely painful at the time. "You would have been proud of them, Inspector! One of them struck me with a truncheon…"
Javert looked down, and Valjean felt the burn of the other man's shame. Belatedly realizing with horrified embarrassment that the Inspector must have interpreted his words as an accusation of brutality, Valjean added hurriedly; "Because I foolishly resisted arrest. They had demanded an explanation of where I got the silver, and the only thing I could think of to tell them was that the Bishop had given the silver to me as a gift. Naturally, the gendarmes scorned this, dragged me back to that good man's house, and tried to return his property to him. Instead of condemning me and sending me back to prison, which would have been well within his rights, the Bishop told them I had spoken true! He not only claimed he had indeed given the silver to me, but he even added two very valuable candlesticks to the collection!" Javert's head lifted, a look of recognition appearing in his eyes, and Valjean nodded. "Yes, I believe you have seen those candlesticks. I have them to this day."
Putting down his own now-empty cup, Valjean sat forward a little, speaking urgently. "Do you understand why I am telling you this, Inspector? It was an epiphany for me. The world was not what I had thought it was—there was love, kindness, and decency. If a man as good as the Bishop existed, perhaps other good men did, too. At any rate, he thought *I* could be a good man, and I was determined to live up to the trust he had shown me."
"It is not the same," Javert said. His voice was hoarse, either because of the abrasions to his throat from the noose, or because he was trying to control some strong emotion.
"Of course it is—"
"No." The Inspector's voice, while weary to the point of exhaustion, still managed to sound implacable. "You were a thief, and in being one you may have harmed others, but you ruined no lives other than your own. How many lives have I ruined, in my dedication to the law? And yet, if I do not have the law, what do I have? What do I do?" There was anguish in the Inspector's eyes and in his voice. "Your experience was a good one, Valjean. Mine is not. Always, I have followed the rule of the law and considered that sufficient, no matter how difficult, but now I no longer know what is right and what is wrong! I am in a quandary—if I do not arrest you, I am failing in my duty, but how can I arrest a man who spared my life, who would not kill me even to preserve his own? If I do not follow the law, as I chose to do so long ago, then I am nothing. But if I continue to follow the law, I may be wrong again—I may do harm to those who do not deserve it, as I have done to you!"
"Inspector—"
"Do not call me that!" The raw pain in the other man's voice shocked Valjean. "Do you not understand? A policeman cannot pick and choose which laws he will enforce—if he does, he is one of the worst scoundrels of all! That is why I once told you that it is easy to be kind, but it is hard to be just." The words poured out of the Inspector in a desperate torrent. "I should do my duty, else I betray the law—but my duty is to arrest you, and I cannot do that! Not just because you spared my life, but because you are a good man. You are generous to the poor. You have raised a child who is not your own, the child of a dead street jade. You saved life of the Pontmercy boy. You spared my life, the life of the man whom any other man in your place would have regarded as an enemy! But still, you are a convict, guilty of violating your parole, and as a police Inspector, it is my duty to bring you in!"
"Javert!" Valjean held up the palms of his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, Javert. All right. I did not mean to upset you. Just relax. Take deep breaths."
The Inspector went on, still agitated. "I am in an untenable situation. I sought to remove myself from it—the only way I could, in honor, keep you safe without violating the rule of law, my duty, and what honor I have left—and then, you prevented me from doing so. I should return to that bridge—"
"No, Javert." Valjean's voice was gentle, but no longer placating, and very firm. "Hush, now. Ssshhh." He rose, removed the tray from the distraught man's lap, set it to one side on the dresser, and then returned to the bed to gently push the Inspector into a reclining position. "Sshh. Go back to sleep." He drew the bedclothes up to the injured man's chest. "You must rest if your wounds are to heal. We will talk again later."
The wounded man tried to sit up, only to fall back again. His eyes, already cloudy, were becoming heavy-lidded. "N-no…I have no right to be here…I should go…" Even as Javert spoke, his words were becoming slurred, and his head fell back on the pillow.
Valjean shook his head. "You are my guest, albeit a stubborn one. I know that you are still in pain, so I put a dose of laudanum in your tea. Please stop fighting it, and just let yourself sleep."
For an instant, anger flared in the Inspector's eyes, and he forced his lids open to glare up at Valjean. The latter said softly, "Ssshhh. Sleep," leaned down, and gently smoothed his guest's brow. Under the combined effect of this tender administration and the drowsiness brought on by the drug, Javert's eyes closed in spite of their owner's resistance. Valjean, scarcely aware of his intention until it became the deed, leaned over and kissed the weary man's brow, as if the Inspector were a child no older than Cosette had been.
Within moments, Javert's breathing indicated that he had fallen into a deep sleep. Valjean still continued to gaze down at him with thoughtful concern. Javert, life can be good, I promise you. But I fear we have a long way to go before you understand that. Gracious Lord, help this man. And help me to help him.
TBC…