29
Title: "Rescue"
Author: Darkover
Rating: T
Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
Author's Note: I wish to thank everyone who has Followed this story, who has made it one of their Favorites, and most of all, for those who have been kind enough to review it! I also apologize for taking so long to write and post this chapter. "Real Life" has been rearing its head in an unpleasant fashion lately, and so I do not always have as much time to write fan fiction as I wish. I especially want to thank both Noelani618 and Katherine NotGreat for their interest, thoughtful comments, and helpful suggestions.
Chapter Five: "This Is All I Have Known"
~ooo0ooo~
Dinner passed much the same as luncheon had, except that the host and his guest were less ill at ease. Still, conversation was not extensive, even with Cosette's help. At first Valjean assumed his guest was silent and given only to monosyllabic responses because Javert was either bored or uncomfortable. But then he noticed how gingerly the Inspector chewed and swallowed, how he occasionally winced, how erratic his breathing was, and began to suspect that the fight the man had engaged in that afternoon was taking its toll. Cosette noticed it at the same time. "Are you unwell, Inspector?" she asked, concerned.
"It is nothing, Mademoiselle. I…" Javert's voice caught on a gasp.
Valjean rose from the table. "I shall send for the doctor."
"No! That is not necessary." The Inspector made a visible effort to pull himself together. "I am sure it is nothing."
Valjean crossed to where Javert was seated and put a hand on his shoulder. "I fear I do not share your optimism. Forgive me, but you appear rather pale—"
The Inspector straightened in his chair and pulled away from his host's touch. "All this fussing is unnecessary. I do not require a doctor."
"But Papa said you were wounded, Inspector," Cosette said. "I fear that in fighting those men today, you may have made your condition worse."
"I am certain all I need is an early night, Mademoiselle."
"That is an excellent idea," Valjean said. "You must retire early, Javert, and I shall reexamine your wounds and treat them as necessary. It is either that, or I send for the physician." Valjean spoke in a calm, even pleasant tone, but it was also clear that he meant exactly what he said.
The Inspector shot him a hostile look, quickly curtailed as he recalled the presence of Cosette. He took a deep breath, as if preparing either another protest or a verbal attack, but found himself coughing instead, wincing as he did so.
"There, you see, Inspector, both you and Papa are right," Cosette said gently. "I believe you will feel much better for an early night, and it can do no harm for him to treat your injuries."
"I see that I stand no chance with you both against me, Mademoiselle," the object of their concern told her, although he gave her a faint smile as he spoke. Valjean offered his arm to the seated man, and after a momentary hesitation, the Inspector took it, long enough to stand upright, push back his chair, and step away from the table. As soon as he regained his footing, he released the other man's arm.
It was at that moment that Toussaint entered the room to clear the table. Valjean informed her that the Inspector would be spending the night, and she nodded as if she had expected nothing else. She informed them that she had already prepared the items necessary for the nightly ablutions of both her employer and Monsieur le Inspecteur and placed them in the master bedroom. Valjean thanked her, and then instructed her to warm a glassful of milk, then to leave it in the kitchen with some honey and the medicine left earlier by the doctor. Toussaint acknowledged his order and left the room.
"I shall retire soon, too, I think," Cosette announced. She crossed to her father and kissed him on the cheek. "Good night, Papa. Sleep well."
Her father returned the kiss. "And you, my dearest."
"Good night, Inspector."
He bowed. "Good night, Mademoiselle."
Javert remained standing, gripping the back of the chair, until the girl had left the room. Valjean was just wondering if perhaps the Inspector felt too ill to move, or maybe did not recall the way to the master bedroom, when the Inspector shot him a dark look and in a voice heavy with suspicion, asked; "What are those items for?"
"Pardon?"
Javert continued to glare. "Do not be coy with me! I refer to your orders to the servant. What do you require the doctor's medicine for? Do you think you can drug me again?"
His voice had risen, and Valjean held up the palm of his hand in a placating gesture. "Peace, Javert. I know that you are in pain, and I wish to alleviate it, that is all. But you are right; I should not have administered it to you against your will, as I did previously. I know what it is like, being forced to do something against one's will."
The Inspector looked subdued at that, but Valjean could see that this remark had gotten through to him. The former 24601 said quietly; "But will you not take it willingly? We both know that you are in pain. A dose of laudanum will help to relieve it, and you will sleep the better for it."
For an instant longer Javert resisted. Valjean could see it in the other man's face, saw how his knuckles whitened on the back of the chair for an instant as he gripped it hard. But then the Inspector lowered his gaze and muttered, "All right." Valjean had to fight the urge to smile. He understood how much the Inspector hated to be vulnerable, but it was a sign that the other man was beginning to trust others—or at least, to trust him.
"Before you retire, there is something I should give to you," Valjean said.
Javert looked up again, and his eyes widened ever so slightly as Valjean took the rosary from his pocket and handed it to him. The Inspector took it and gazed at it for a moment with an indecipherable expression before putting it in his own pocket.
"I thought perhaps you might use it to say your nightly prayers," his host explained.
The Inspector shot him a look, as if to say: You would think that. But he merely said, "No. I do not use it for prayer."
The older man was surprised. "Then what do you use it for? And it is the same rosary I gave to you at Montreuil, is it not?"
"It is." Javert was quiet for a moment. "When you were Monsieur le Maire. I keep it as a reminder of that."
The former M. Madeleine was staggering under the thought that the Inspector might actually have retained an item for sentimental reasons when the latter blew that idea away completely by adding; "As a reminder not to be such a fool again. I respected you, Monsieur le Maire. I even…liked you. But you fooled me. Of course it was to your interest to deceive me, to keep the local police inspector on your side. It was not because you had any liking or respect for me."
The former M. Madeleine was startled. "Javert, it wasn't like that."
Now it was the Inspector who held up a hand, waving it in dismissal. "Of course it was, Valjean," he said matter-of-factly. "You had no reason to like me. I am not a likable man. But that fact was of no concern to me, so long as I did my duty. I realize now that from your perspective, it was necessary for you to deceive me, and I no longer blame you for that. I admit that when I realized you were Jean Valjean, I was angry, but even at the time I blamed myself more than I did you. I was a fool to think there could have been a chance of true friendship between us."
Dear God, the harm I have done to this man. As much or more than he has ever done to me, and I did not even have the excuse of duty! "Javert…" he said helplessly, wanting to make amends, wanting to make the other man understand that the gift of the rosary had been just that, a small present casually bestowed, not an attempt to manipulate or deceive.
Javert just shook his head, looking tired. "Valjean, I know it was my fault for hoping for anything else. I just keep the rosary as a reminder to myself not to be so stupid."
"You have never been stupid, Javert."
The Inspector gave him a twisted smile. "A reminder to myself not to be sentimental, then."
"Trusting others is neither sentimental nor a fault," Valjean told him gently. "And we have agreed to be friends, have we not? Perhaps you should keep it as a reminder that we have become friends at last."
The Inspector was quiet for a moment, as if considering this. "Perhaps."
"And perhaps someday you may wish to use it for prayer."
"I do not think the Almighty listens to any prayers of mine. He has never done so before."
"Perhaps you were asking for the wrong things," his host suggested, very gently. "We all have a tendency to ask God for what we want. But He gives us what we need."
"I don't know, Valjean," the Inspector answered. He passed a hand over his face, looking unutterably weary, and Valjean was suddenly ashamed of himself for continuing to press his guest so much. He stepped forward quickly and placed a hand on Javert's shoulder, giving it a supportive clasp. He hoped it was a good sign that the Inspector did not pull away, although perhaps the man was just too exhausted to do any such thing. He already looked as if it was taking most of his strength just to remain on his feet.
"Forgive me, Javert. Here I am preaching at you, when all you want to do is rest. Please go to the master bedroom and get ready for bed. I will fetch what I need to tend to your wounds and then join you there."
The Inspector let his hand drop, nodded dully, and turned slowly to leave the room.
"Do you wish me to guide you there?"
Javert shot him a look that momentarily made him look like the Inspector whom Valjean had known and feared for decades. "Valjean, I may not be at my best, but I am neither a child nor an invalid. I will manage."
"Of course."
Both men left the dining room. The master of the house went to the kitchen, where he found Toussaint had done as instructed. The milk was sitting in a covered pan on the stove. Valjean poured it into a goblet, added a dose of the laudanum, and then added a hefty dollop of honey to relieve the bitterness of the drug. He then assembled the first aid items he had used to treat the Inspector's wounds when he first brought the man home. He found himself thinking; That was such a short time ago, yet it seems like another lifetime. For Javert, I suppose it was.
Valjean then continued on to the master bedroom. Finding the door slightly ajar, he rapped on it lightly.
"Come in, it is your room after all," the Inspector's voice said quietly from within.
The master of the house smiled a bit at that, although his smile faded somewhat at the sight that greeted him as he entered. His guest was seated on the edge of the bed. Javert had removed all clothing save his trousers, and hung his uniform in the wardrobe. While a multitude of bruises were exposed to view, they had faded from the dark purple, almost black they had been, to a paler purple-yellowish combination. The welts were more than half healed, including the marks on his neck and wrists where the ropes had burned him. Nevertheless, it was still a painful sight. Javert was also clearly more alert and aware than he had been on the night of his suicide attempt, but he seemed nearly as weary.
"Your wounds are beginning to heal," Valjean said. "But you are not well yet." He held out the goblet containing the dose of laudanum. "Drink this before we begin. It will give the laudanum time to work."
Javert blinked and studied the goblet for a moment; a small frown of bemusement briefly crossed his face. His expression indicated that he found something slightly familiar about this scenario, but could not quite place it. Again, Valjean wondered privately how much, if anything, the Inspector recalled from the night of the latter's attempted suicide. At any rate, the man asked no questions; he merely accepted the draught silently and drank it, placing the emptied goblet on the nightstand afterwards and submitting to examination by his host. He was quiet as Valjean treated his wounds. Save for a faint hiss as his host re-taped his ribs, he continued to be stoically silent.
When it was all done, Valjean wiped his hands on a cloth, and then placed one hand on Javert's shoulder. "I shall go and make my own ablutions while you change into your nightshirt."
"It is your nightshirt, Valjean, not mine," the other man responded, sounding subdued.
His host smiled reassuringly, clapping him lightly on the shoulder as he withdrew his hand. "For as long as you are my guest, Javert, the nightshirt is yours. You are welcome here." He was surprised to realize how much it was true. At some point, without his quite realizing how, Javert's welfare had become important to him.
"Thank you," the other man said quietly. Valjean nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
When he returned some minutes later, clad in a nightshirt himself, he found Javert sitting up in bed on the opposite side, nearest the window. Javert's head was turned away, and Valjean wondered if the man was praying after all, or perhaps just lost in thought. But as he moved to draw the curtains, the Inspector's voice stopped him.
"No! Do not draw the curtains, Valjean." There was a momentary pause as the Inspector added belatedly, "Please."
Valjean turned from the window to look at his roommate. "Why?"
"The stars," the other man said, as if that explained everything.
"You wish to see the stars?"
Javert nodded slightly. "With the curtains open, I can see them from here. Of course, there are no bars on this window. When I was a child, I would look at them. Through the bars. My mother's cell had a window."
"That was fortunate."
"It may not have been just good fortune. We got a better cell after my mother serviced one of the guards."
"Oh," was all his host could think of to say.
The Inspector did not seem to have heard; he was gazing out the window. "I have always loved the stars. They are so beautiful, each one in its place, lighting up the night…and it is a sight that anyone can look at, even the half-gypsy bastard of two criminals." The last words were delivered softly, almost as if Javert was speaking only to himself.
Valjean suspected the other man's loosened tongue was the result of the laudanum beginning to take effect, and wishing to spare the Inspector the experience of feeling embarrassed in the morning, he suggested kindly; "Why don't you lie down now? You should rest."
Javert did so. Valjean moved to the opposite side of the bed, pulling back the covers and getting in before blowing out the candles that rested on the large table next to his bed.
Valjean stretched out. He felt surprisingly relaxed, and was just smiling at the irony of this as he was lying next to the man who had been the bane of his life for so long, when Javert spoke up suddenly, as if in mid-thought. "It is different, is it not?"
"What is?"
"How you relate to Cosette. Rather than to her mother. In Fantine's case, your concern was based on compassion. And guilt." Valjean started, but the Inspector did not seem to notice, and only continued thoughtfully, "But you truly love the girl, do you not? To you, she is not just an act of duty or charity. As her mother was. As I am."
"Javert—"
But the other man's mind seemed already to have moved on to another topic. "I have told you much of my past, Valjean, but I know very little about yours. Tell me."
In the darkness, the former 24601 smiled. Javert's drowsy voice made the words half a plea, half a command, like a child wanting a bedtime story, although Valjean doubted that the Inspector would find such a comparison flattering. "Where should I start?"
"Tell me of your childhood."
"It was normal enough, for one of my background and class. My father was a pruner. He taught me his trade. He died when I was still a boy, falling out of a tree he was trimming at the time. My mother had fallen ill of milk fever and died a couple of years earlier, so when I was orphaned, my older sister and her husband took me in. My sister, Jeanne—we were both named after my father—and I were the only ones of my parents' children to survive." His smile faded somewhat as he wondered if that were indeed so. What had become of his sister and her children after he had been imprisoned? They had been at the brink of starvation even before he had been arrested and incarcerated. "I was reared more as her oldest child than as her brother. I had just reached an age where I could work for a living when her husband died too, leaving her a widow with seven small children. So it fell to me to provide for us all."
"Seven children. A large family."
"Not so many, really. Many of our neighbors had families larger than ours. Peasants tend to have large families."
"Supporting them all must have been quite a responsibility." Javert's tone was half appalled, half wistful, as if he could only imagine what it was like to have a family.
"Not really. It was expected, you see, as I was now the oldest male. Indeed, I expected it of myself. For the first time, I felt like a man. So I took a certain pride in it, even though I sometimes felt it to be burdensome. It is the custom of the folk of Faverolles to help each other." That was something he had almost forgotten, in the dog-eat-dog world of life as a prisoner in Toulon. He added, "And I did not consider it much of a burden until there was no work. That was when I became desperate, you see."
"I do now," said the former guard at Toulon, his voice low. Both men were silent for a moment. "It is strange, that we have come to this," he added, and again, he sounded as if he were speaking to himself more than to his host. His voice was slurring a bit, and then Valjean heard Javert take an exceptionally deep breath and bestir himself slightly, as if trying to force himself to remain awake. "Did you see your sister and her children again, after you served your sentence?"
"I tried to do so." Valjean was silent for an instant, thinking; Another failure on my part. "But by then, they were no longer living where they had been, and I could find no one who was able to tell me where they had gone. And I had to focus on survival. So after a time, I simply…stopped looking."
"So you do not know what happened to them."
"No." Valjean might have left it at that. Perhaps it was the sheltering darkness, perhaps it was because he had never talked to anyone about this, anyone at all, since his release from Toulon, but he admitted; "To tell you the truth, after nineteen years with no visits, no communication of any kind, I had forgotten what they looked like. And now, after all this time, I no longer even recall the children's names."
"I am sorry." Both men were silent for a time. Valjean was just wondering if the Inspector had gone to sleep when the latter spoke again. "I did not forget you. When we met at Montreuil, ostensibly for the first time, I knew there was something familiar about you."
Valjean chuckled. "I know. I was terrified." That he could admit it now, because he was lying companionably alongside the man whom he had feared, sometimes hated, and fled from for so long, was surely a sign of the absurdity of the world. "I thought for sure you had come to arrest me, and if it were not for the fact that there were other gendarmes outside the factory, I would have run away out the back door. But there were, so I felt I had no choice but to brazen it out. Did you really recognize me right away?"
"No, although I felt certain there was something about you that was familiar. I have a very good memory, especially for faces," the Inspector said, not bragging, just stating a fact. "You quite put me in my place, with your remark about *my* face, however."
Valjean was startled anew. "What do you mean?"
"You said, 'Your face is not a face I would forget.'"
"Yes? What of it? I could hardly admit that I knew you when you were a guard and I a prisoner at Toulon, but I did not wish to lie, either." He laughed a little, ruefully. "I was sure you would know immediately if I did!"
"I assumed you were telling me that I was ugly. Or that I was not worth remembering."
Valjean was again surprised. Will I ever completely understand this man? "I am sorry. That was not my meaning at all."
Javert seemed to shrug in the dark. "No matter. As a half-breed Gypsy, I was accustomed to such snubs. Social superiors often said such things to me as a warning not to get above myself."
This is a night of revelations, the former 24601 thought, realizing that apparently there had been many times when life and society had been as unkind and unwelcoming to the Inspector than it had to him. Perhaps more so. I at least had my family, growing up. And I have Cosette. Who has Javert had for support, all these years?
Suddenly, he asked, "Javert, have you a wife? Have you ever married?"
"No," the other man replied, his tone indicating that he thought that a ridiculous question. "Neither prison guards nor policemen make very much money, and I always felt I could not afford to support a wife, nor the children that would follow. And there were…other considerations."
"What other considerations?" Strangely, Valjean would never before have had the courage to ask his former nemesis such personal questions, but now his curiosity was piqued. He had answered the Inspector's questions, let the latter answer a few of his.
His guest was unfazed. "I should think that was obvious. As a half-breed gypsy, women do not find me particularly attractive, and at any rate I did not wish to defile an honest woman with my gypsy and criminal blood, or to pass it on by having children. I am tainted. It is best that my parents' line ends with me."
"Men are not born bad, Javert."
"Why did *you* never marry then, Valjean?" the Inspector asked with some asperity.
"Because I did not wish to inflict my past on a wife and children—Touché," Valjean admitted, realizing what he had just said. "There was always the chance that my past could be revealed at any time. How could I inflict such a fate on a woman? But I was not *born* bad, Javert, and neither were you."
"I did not immediately remember you as Jean Valjean, or even as a former convict at all," the Inspector said, as if there had been no digression in their conversation. His words were coming slower now; he sounded barely awake. "At the time I presented my papers to you…Monsieur le Maire…I would not have believed any more than my superiors did…that such an exalted man was a former prisoner. Much less one who…broke his parole…" There was silence after that, and Javert' breathing had deepened. Valjean raised himself up on one elbow and looked down into the other man's face. Javert had fallen asleep.
Valjean lowered himself back down to the bed, pulled the covers up a bit more securely about them both, and gazed up at the ceiling. He prayed; Gracious Lord, will I ever understand this man? For such a long time, I believed him to be all-powerful, and I hated and feared him for his pursuit of me. Now I see him just as a man, no worse than any other man, and a man who has apparently had a life every bit as hard as my own. I no longer fear him, and with your help, I shall cease to judge him. I have promised to be his friend, but I know so little about friendship. Please, help me to be a good friend to him. He paused. And if it is not too much to ask, dear Lord, help him to wish to be a friend to me.
Valjean closed his eyes and went to sleep.
~ooo0ooo~
"No!"
Valjean's eyes flew open at the cry. It had come from Javert, who was flailing about next to him, clearly in the grip of a nightmare. Valjean sat up quickly and shook him. "Javert, wake up. You are having a bad dream."
The other man sat bolt upright in bed, choking back a cry. Gasping, he looked around wildly for a moment. In the moonlight, Valjean could see wetness on the Inspector's face, and was not at all certain it was only from sweat. In the next moment, Javert turned away, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.
Valjean put an arm around those shoulders. "Javert, what is it?" he asked softly.
"Nightmare." The word was muffled.
"Tell me."
Javert did not answer immediately. Valjean waited patiently. After a few moments, Javert let his hands drop, and then wiped his face on the sleeve of his nightshirt, making a visible effort to pull himself together. "A-about Antoine. A guard in the prison where my mother served her sentence, the prison where I was born. He…" Javert swallowed. "He used to beat me when I was a child."
"Why?"
"Because I had broken a rule and deserved punishment. Because I needed discipline. Because I was a gypsy's child, and the bad blood must be beaten from me." Javert made all these assertions, including the last, in an automatic tone, as if they were lessons long since prescribed to memory. "Sometimes just because he was having a bad day. But usually because I deserved it." This last assertion, too, was delivered automatically, as if it were something long repeated, although his tone lacked much conviction. "Why should I dream of this now?" he cried suddenly. "I have not thought about him in years. I have tried hard not to think about him!" Javert stopped suddenly, as if with those last words he had surprised himself.
Valjean opened the drawer of his nightstand, retrieved a pocket-handkerchief, folded it and dampened it with some of the water from a pitcher by the bed. Then he turned to Javert and gently applied it to the other man's forehead. "Just relax. Take deep breaths."
Javert took the handkerchief from him, wiped his face and neck with it, and then handed it back. Valjean took the pitcher once more, poured a draught of water into the cup on the nightstand, and extended it silently to his guest. Javert drank it, and then handed it back. "Thank you," he mumbled.
His host nodded. The fact that Javert is allowing himself to be cared for, says a great deal about the intensity of the dream, and how much it has shaken him. The older man said gently, "You have had a difficult day. Perhaps the attack in the streets triggered such memories."
"No. Why should it? I fought those thugs off, I beat them, they did not beat me," the Inspector said dismissively. "More likely it is the laudanum."
"You are not accustomed to drugs?"
"I am not accustomed to anything that makes me lose control, Valjean," the Inspector said, a bit coldly. Then he exhaled, ran a shaking hand over his face and shivered. "Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your sleep as well."
"That is all right." Valjean began to rub the other man's back in slow, tender circles, a soothing gesture he had often applied in the past to Cosette, when as a child she had suffered nightmares, or otherwise been frightened. Javert went completely still for a moment, but then relaxed into the touch as if he needed the comfort it brought so much that he was helpless to do anything else.
"Tell me about Antoine."
Javert took a deep breath. "He was a guard at the prison where I was born. When I was a child, he was a guard on the women's side. It was a double prison, the men in one part of the building, the women on the other."
Choosing his words with care, Valjean said; "Was he the guard who was responsible for your mother's getting a better cell?"
"Antoine?" Javert snorted, as if the idea was a mad one. "Hardly. He despised women, and gypsies too. He would not have allowed my mother to touch him under any circumstances."
"He was homosexual?"
"No—at least, I do not think so. He detested women, but in a misogynistic way. Or perhaps it had been so long since he had encountered any honest women, he had come to despise the entire sex. I do not know. He was a very big man, tall and broad, with very large hands and feet. And an even larger truncheon," Javert added, trying without much success to laugh. "I should know, he used it often enough on me when I was a child."
Valjean did not smile at the feeble joke. "You must have hated him."
"No," Javert insisted. "He was teaching me right from wrong. How else was I to learn, if not by punishment?"
"There are far better ways of teaching right from wrong, Javert, especially to a child."
"Who else was there to teach me, if not the guards? Certainly my parents made no effort to do so. Antoine was the head guard at the prison throughout most of my childhood." As Valjean continued to regard him steadily, Javert fidgeted. "I admit that I did not like being beaten. But when I deserved it—"
"No child deserves to be beaten, Javert. And if you looked up to him, then that is all the more reason why he should have treated you with kindness."
Javert shook his head. "You do not understand. It was Antoine who protected me from my father. I saw my father but seldom, and once, when I was very small, he…" To Valjean's astonishment, Javert's hands began to tremble.
"Javert? What did your father do?"
"He was going to sell me." The Inspector took a deep breath, and made a massive effort at self-control. "Or perhaps 'rent' me is a more accurate way of putting it. He was going to trade my body to some of the other male inmates in return for pay. Antoine came upon us in the nick of time. My father was holding me down—" Javert stopped as if unable to go on, and put his head in his hands again. After a moment, he lowered his hands and was able to face his host directly. "So you see, Valjean, I did not hate Antoine. Regardless of how much he beat me, he still saved me. And now you understand why I *did* hate my father."
Without a word, Valjean took Javert into his arms in a fierce but comforting hug, as if the other man were a brother. For an instant the Inspector froze before hesitantly returning the embrace. "I am so sorry," Valjean said quietly into the other man's ear, before releasing him a moment later and kissing him on the forehead. "That should never have happened to you."
"The fact that I was not molested was due to Antoine," Javert said simply.
"Was there no one else who tried to teach you right from wrong?" Preferably without beating it into you, Valjean thought.
"There…there was a priest. Pere Michel. He was the one who baptized me. He taught me my catechism, and also taught me how to read and write. But he was too trusting. He…" Javert closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. "He was killed during the Revolution. When mobs were going about the countryside, killing all those with 'soft hands.' And there was another guard, Claude. Most of the other guards took their lead from Antoine, paying no attention to me unless it was to administer punishment, but Claude was sometimes kind to me, even when I did not obey the rules perfectly." Javert was quiet for a moment. "But Claude got killed by prisoners. Antoine did not."
Which taught you that trust and kindness were weaknesses, never to be indulged. And that right and wrong were solely a matter of following the rules, obeying the law, Valjean thought, saddened.
Javert shivered suddenly. In the moonlight, he appeared pale and ill. "Why am I dreaming about this now?" he demanded, and then whispered, as if to himself; "God help me, I believe I am going mad."
Again, Valjean put a comforting arm around the other man's shoulders. "You are not going mad. But you are changing, Javert, and change is always difficult, even when it is for our good."
Javert stared at him. "Claude used to tell me sometimes, that Antoine was punishing me for my own good."
And Claude was the *kind* one? Dear God! Aloud, Valjean said firmly, "Enough talk of punishment. You are a man now, Javert, and you will not be punished again."
"That is what I tried to tell Antoine, the last time he beat me." Javert wiped his face again. "It was just after one of your escape attempts, I do not recall which one. But it occurred on my watch, and Antoine tried to beat me, as he had done so many times before. I grew up to be a strapping young man, but he was still bigger."
Valjean was astounded, for so many reasons. An image suddenly came to his mind of Javert as the latter had been, when he first came to Toulon as a guard, hardly more than a boy. "He tried to beat you? And for what another—" (I) "—had done? Why was such a thing permitted?"
The Inspector shrugged. "Antoine was head of all the guards in the prison by then; his authority was almost absolute. I suppose he still regarded me as something of the gypsy child of criminals that I had been. And your escape took place while on my watch, so it was true that I deserved—"
"No," Valjean cut him off. "Do not say it. You did not deserve punishment, especially not for what I did."
The Inspector gave him a small, humorless smile. "Well, Valjean, by then I considered myself a man, and I…resisted. It was not pleasant, but no one has beaten me since." He looked sharply at his host. "And I begin to know you, Valjean, so I tell you now; do not start feeling guilty about that incident. The man you are now is not to blame for the fact that as a young guard, I failed in my duty."
Valjean smiled. "Agreed, provided you also realize that you do not deserve punishment every time you make a mistake."
Javert sighed softly. Both men were quiet for a moment, absorbed in their own thoughts as they remembered those days. Suddenly, Valjean exclaimed, "The Dandy!"
The Inspector looked at him questioningly.
"The Dandy," Valjean repeated, with a sort of satisfaction. "I believe this Antoine was the one we called by that nickname. We never knew his true name, of course." Javert nodded; the prisoners were not encouraged to know the true names of the guards, nor anything personal about their captors. Valjean had not known Javert's true name until the latter told him, as part of the warning he had given 24601 when the latter got his ticket of leave. The prisoners were of course known by number more frequently than by name: an experience that was dehumanizing for both sides. But of course, the inmates still made up their own epithets for the guards. Valjean continued, "It was a sarcastic nickname. He was so thoroughly ugly, and he seemed to hate women."
"An accurate description," his former guard admitted. "Did the convicts have a nickname for me?"
His host felt a bit uneasy. "Javert, morning will be here soon enough. Why don't we lie down now…"
"Tell me," the other man insisted.
Valjean sighed. "The Gypsy."
There was a stunned silence. Valjean looked at the other man cautiously, trying to see his expression in the moonlight. But Javert's only reaction was to say in surprise, "Truly?" before laughing out loud.
Valjean was simultaneously relieved and amazed. To have heard Javert laugh in genuine humor and amusement, was something that he had never expected to experience in a lifetime, much less twice in one day! Surely this is a day of miracles, gracious Lord!
"It was because you were dark-skinned, and rather solitary. You never asked for help from anyone, even the other guards. None of us realized…"
"That I had gypsy blood in fact?" The Inspector shook his head, but he was still smiling; his host could see it in the moonlight. "Valjean, the universe is so absurd, sometimes I can almost believe in your idea that God loves us more than He judges us."
The older man was startled, but pleased. "Good," he said, simply and warmly. "But now I believe we should lie down and rest, Javert. Morning will be here soon enough."
They both did so, with the older man drawing the covers over them both. Valjean could feel that the Inspector was more relaxed than the man had been previously, and not long afterwards, he knew from the other's breathing that Javert had fallen asleep. Valjean smiled in the darkness, closed his own eyes, and relaxed. Within minutes, he too had fallen asleep. There were no more bad dreams or memories for either man that night.
TBC…