[fic] Toil Until the Old Colours Fade 5a/8 [Les Misérables]

[drcalvin]

Title: Toil Until the Old Colours Fade
Pairing: Javert/Jean Valjean
Content notes: Groundhog Day / Time Loop, Violence, Temporary Character Death, Suicide, Purgatory
Rating: Mature
Acknowledgements: Beta by voksen and morgan. Thank you!

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Read Chapter five: Each for the joy of working, each its separate star

The seventeenth time

Javert put on his freshly pressed uniform and made sure his rapier hung correctly. Earlier, he had polished his boots and shaved with great care, marvelling at how young he looked on this morning - that he had never noticed before! Time certainly flew.

Resting two fingers on the letter waiting in the left pocket of his coat, he closed his eyes and tried to etch the important memories into his mind, before going out to begin another life.

Remember Fauchelevent, he told himself, for providence does not make mistakes. Remember the student Pontmercy and find him and his friends.

And never forget how short time is, when there is something you want to hold on to.

In his previous life, Javert had died on the sixth of June. Valjean had never appeared at the site of rebellion. What changes had caused this deviation from the pattern, he could not guess, especially since he didn't even understand what had brought the man there in the first place.

But before he dared attempt to pull Valjean to the events around the Café Musain, he must deal with the destruction of the barricade itself. Otherwise, the only thing to change would be that they'd both end up dead before the night had passed.

Even trussed up and beaten, Javert had heard fairly well how the very first attack on the barricade had gone, all those lifetimes ago and he knew the students had somehow scared off the soldiers with some kind of bluff. This time, when the gamin denounced him, Javert gave in much more meekly and allowed the students to bind him without violence. His hope was that, by keeping his head clear, he might be able to act more freely at a later time; and, were he to fail, he would at least learn a great deal more.

Both hopes had been bitterly disappointed. Whatever circumstances had stopped the soldiers on that first night had not occurred again. Instead, the national guard broke through on their first attack; as they had at most barricades. The revolutionaries fought with the courage of the doomed and from his place in the empty café, Javert heard their battle-cries rise with that final fervour.

Then, suddenly, it all went terrifyingly wrong. Somehow, the unsecured stores of gunpowder exploded; likely they were hit by a stray bullet. Though Javert could not see the worst, he could hear too much, and what he heard was the sound of a hell unparalleled by anything but a torturer's work.

The explosion turned the entire alley into a booming inferno, shrapnel tearing through soldiers and rebels alike. Even protected by the building, splinters and debris reached him as well, though none fatally. Instead, he spent several seconds helplessly listening to the sounds of young men dying, the difference between rebel and soldier forgotten in their agony. Around them, the fire spread, taking its victims on the most harrowing road to the grave. Even in the midst of the hellish scene, the memory of another who had been forced down that same road in another lifetime pained him still. Javert had not waited for the flames to reach him, nor the hot fumes to finish the job at their own pace; he weighed more heavily on the noose and was grateful to sink into dimness and smoke, before emerging anew on the other side of death.

Clearing his throat now, Javert did his best to ignore the mirage of grey smoke and red blood seeping up through the floorboards. He'd free himself from the image as soon as he had a day or two to distance himself from the latest death; he must free himself, so he would.

That said, Javert thought that he definitely needed to refrain from suffering any more deaths by strangulation, drowning or consumption. He loosened his cravat and swallowed again, as old pains flared up; a ghostly noose tightening around his neck, stale water filling his lungs, his breath growing heavy as if six feet of dirt weighed down on him already.

No more choking.

One of his men knocked on the door and Javert grabbed his gloves and hat. It was time to begin another life.

Pontmercy. Fauchelevent. The night of the barricade and the mystery of the stopped attack. He would remember.

And whatever else happened, whomever else he must save or meet, there remained always Jean Valjean.

Thanks to diligent work and equally diligent letter-writing to certain superiors, Javert managed to receive a transfer to Paris in late spring 1831.

After two days spent settling in at his new post, he allowed himself to pen an inquiry and post it to the address of one Ultime Fauchelevent; another whom he had exchanged frequent letters with during the last years, though these words were written with far gentler considerations, than those missives Javert had written to further his career.

The reply had come swiftly, carried by a street-urchin who kept the entire station staring in curiosity while he had fumbled for a coin and hoped the little pest wouldn't steal anything.

At least the answer had been positive and tonight, he was invited for dinner.

Dressing himself in his best shirt, Javert pondered the strange windings of fate. He was not certain how or why, but despite a different name and a different path bringing him there, Valjean was once again residing on Rue Plumet, though a few numbers away from the previous adress.

He forewent a carriage, choosing to walk. There were myriad things to see in Paris and he was eager for them all. Despite the fondness he had for Montreuil-sur-Mer, especially now that he'd been allowed to leave it once moren, eight repetitive years had starved him for new sights. Passing the park, he looked around for young Pontmercy, but was not disappointed when he did not appear. It was still early.

This time when he knocked on Valjean's door it was the man himself who opened it. To Javert's eyes, the years seemed to have awarded him a further glow of grace, even in a task so mundane as bidding a guest inside and taking his coat. He thought the light might be from joy; Madeleine had never seemed able to let go of his worries, although his smiles had been frequent.

Now Valjean was full of a father's pride when he showed off his daughters: sweet Cosette, who was happy to reunite with someone she had treated as an uncle in Montreuil-sur-Mer, and elegant, if reserved, Éponine. Valjean called her the final treasure he'd stolen, with a secret smile aimed at Javert, and he found himself answering it in turn.

They ate well and spoke of the past; fondly of the town they had left behind and with admiration for Paris, great and terrible city that she was. When Javert carefully inquired whether the family had struggled with any trouble from those too interested in their pasts, Éponine's brow darkened, but this time Valjean could reassure him. There had been lingering issues the first year, he said, but after meeting old Fauchelevent and gaining his and the convent's assistance, no trace had remained of the mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Nor, Javert added to himself, of the girl bought from a villain never satisfied with what he was given.

"I don't keep in touch with many of the citizens beyond yourself and Sister Simplice. On occasion, I write letters of donation to the director of the hospital and the matron in the workhouse," Valjean admitted. "Since I have them hand-delivered to the other end of Paris before they are given over to the postal services, I believe we remain sheltered."

"We truly are avoiding enemies from your past?" Éponine asked, casting curious eyes at Javert.

"Indeed, and while I doubt that they will try to trace me here, I do not intend to be careless. My dear... I would not have deceived you in such a way," Valjean chided gently. "The good inspector is one of extremely few people who knows me under my old name. Without his warning, I might not have been able to leave so easily."

"For Montreuil-sur-Mer it was a misfortune that you had to leave at all," Javert said. "But, attitudes being what they are, it would have been an absolute disaster if a mayor with such radical ideas had been fired in disgrace."

"I still can't believe someone would come to hate you, papa, merely because of your birth," Cosette said. "It is unfair that we must hide our roots or be seen as lesser in society!" She pushed the remains of her food around on the plate, and shook her head sadly. "It is more than unfair, it is not right."

Javert's chuckle was rough. "Equality and brotherhood... the great dreams of the burghers, until they are asked to empty their own purses for a brother. Then those same people will tear each other apart for pocket change."

"You are still too harsh, Javert."

"Am I?" He lifted one of the ornamented forks, clinked it against an empty wineglass. "Monsieur, you have worn the coat of a gentleman for many years, and you wear it better than most men I have ever met. Your coffers are no doubt as full as in the days when you could lift an entire town out of poverty, and these young ladies are beautiful creatures of both grace and wit. Yet, were it revealed that you were born a labourer, or that your lovely daughters came from equally humble beginnings, no fine silver in the world could buy you true respect."

"So you say, but do you not sit at my table despite knowing me for what I am? Have you not yourself admitted that your patron Monsieur Chabouillet became your benefactor when you were a young guardsman without connections or anything else to promote you? Beyond your exceptional talent for enforcing justice, of course." Valjean began to count on his fingers, while the girls followed their debate with interest. "The Bishop of Digne, without whose assistance I could never have risen from the gutters, the good Sisters who have so often helped us, the old families in Montreuil-sur-Mer who were prepared to gamble on an unfamiliar factor as mayor -"

"He says unfamiliar," Javert muttered to Éponine, who sat next to him, "but he forgets to mention that they all knew he was rich as Croesus."

The girl hid her smile behind her napkin, but he thought to see agreement in her eyes.

"They still gave me a chance!" Valjean rolled his eyes as he saw how this did not make much of an impression on his audience. "The world is moving forward, if at a slow pace. Today, an inventor can become a factory owner, can work himself up to the level of a gentleman. That would hardly have been possible under the Ancien Régime. And, if we could only remove the many hindrances that still shackle the poor in their place, I am certain that France would easily find a thousand inventive mayors willing to turn their ailing home towns around. Good education for the little ones and fewer barriers between the classes... There is still so much work left! And I am an old man who can do little but try and spread a bit of gold among the worst afflicted."

"You don't value yourself enough, papa," Cosette complained; it sounded to be an old matter between them. "Did you know, Inspector, that he has paid for two entire schools on his own? Both are managed by the church and open to children of all backgrounds."

"Indeed I did not not. It seems that he has forgotten to mention that in his letters, Mademoiselle," Javert answered.

"Yes, papa tends to forget his own accomplishments," Éponine agreed. "The schools are still rather small, but we are growing faster than we can find teachers. I assist the girls with counting exercises, but if Father Michél grows much deafer and we don't find another full-time teacher soon... You don't happen to know someone who has a good head for numbers, Inspector?"

"Why do you not ask one of those rebellious students running around? If they truly wish to change the world, it would make more sense to teach the next generation, instead of throwing fouled fruit at hard-working policemen."

Valjean almost choked on his wine when he heard that. He peered at Javert with a definite teasing glint in his eyes when he replied. "I would almost like to see one dare assault you in that manner - if I didn't suspect you'd scare the boy so badly that he'd ask to be imprisoned for life."

"The law," Javert growled, "is not to be mocked, Monsieur." But he too was smiling.

Their discussion continued while their housekeeper cleared the table and carried them on through coffee in the parlour. When the girls excused themselves for the evening, Valjean gave him a long, searching look.

"Do you still keep those ungodly working hours, tramping through the city day and night?" he finally asked.

"Do you still walk around in the night weighed down with coin, just waiting to be robbed?"

Nodding in satisfaction, Valjean reached for his coat. "Come, Javert, for I would show you the Paris that I know."

"I would be honoured," he answered, and there was nothing mocking in his tone.

They left the apartment and strolled in companionable silence for a while. Rounding the closed Jardin du Luxembourg, Valjean took the lead. "Since I seem to have forgotten to mention this little school project of mine, I suppose I could show it to you. If you have the time?"

Javert inclined his head. "Tomorrow is my day off."

Anticipating a late return, Javert had brought his police issued lantern along. Valjean, too, was equipped with a stable-light, and together they had light enough to walk into the depths of the city.

Though the larger streets were lit by the city, Valjean would step into alleys where the night turned pitch dark beyond the reach of their lanterns. There, he would somehow see the one heap consisting of more than waste and find the human being dragged down to the bottom of the world; there, he would try to buy another soul for God.

Meanwhile it rustled in the shadows around them, it whispered from the dark, and Javert hoped they attracted nothing worse than rats.

"Sometimes, I am surprised that you have survived as long as you have," he grumbled when Valjean's attention woke an entire group of lean-looking beggars, their dirty hands fumbling for his fine coat and stroking over his well-made boots. A few even dared stretch pleading hands in Javert's direction.

"I give what I have to give," Valjean said philosophically. "It has happened once or twice that some wanted more than I would consider their share, but what of it? I have had enough for them each time."

Imagining him dead in a gutter somewhere, bleeding out from a dirty knife while those soft eyes dulled, turned Javert's stomach. Would he have felt it? Would he too have fallen from the sting of a knife, or would he only have noticed the world drowning once it was too late and Valjean was outside this life? He quickened his pace, wishing suddenly for the illuminated city of light and order; to step on cobble-stones instead of wading through dreck.

"I ought to have come earlier," he said, speaking without thinking, "so that I could keep an eye on you!"

"Please, Javert, I am hardly defenceless."

"It's not about that. It's about you being a reckless saintly fool! Why can you not see how much more you achieve when you build schools and hospitals? Keep yourself safe enough to do good another day!"

"I had no idea you worried so..." Valjean's hand on his arm was firm and heavy, and his smile in the dim light of the lantern looked less a thing from heaven than sent from down below, full of shadows and burnt gold.

"Come, my friend, come and see these safe houses for little children that I have helped build. Don't think of my foolish affectations any more."

They came up to St. Jacques du Haut Pas and Valjean led them around to the back. Behind the church was a large building, the paint flaking so badly off it that it was obvious even in the sparse light. Valjean had the key on a chain and so, after a moment of struggle with the ill-fitting door, they went inside.

First they passed a corridor, its walls hung with name-plaques and images of saints, a dozen painted eyes watching over each visitor to the school; kind, they looked, protective and welcoming. No judging frowns to greet the children of the gutters every day.

"In remembrance of our donors," Valjean explained, lifting his lantern for better light. "For those who do not wish to be recognized by name, we have hung these icons instead, so that the children may still know how many good souls support them."

"I suppose that one is yours, then?" Javert nodded towards a large triptych with Marie-Madeleine, surrounded on each side by St. Pierre and St. Paul, all three of them gazing toward heaven and He who stands above.

"Yes," Valjean said, his voice caught between embarrassment and fondness. "I had it commissioned and sent down from the painter in Montreuil-sur-Mer. Do you recall him? He was always so upset that my mayorship spent more time on plumbing than on the fine arts. I thought I might do him this little service at least." He hesitated a moment, then pointed out a group of small portraits. "These four are also for my donations. Father Michél insisted, when I would not see my name written anywhere in the school."

Javert squinted to read the names of the saints: Grégoire le Grand and Isidore de Seville, two scholars of old, and beneath them St. Geneviève and St. Maurice. A guardian and a soldier, both sorely needed to protect these poor children of Paris.

"It is good," Javert said, for he knew not what else to say. You should hang your own portrait among them? No, that would do no good. So he kept his silence and made an effort to look over the other icons, while silently he considered whether the priest would listen, were he to suggest that they write out the founder's name above the doors. In white on white, to appease his humility, but writ large, that the angels might read of Jean Valjean.

They continued on to the classroom. Lightning two candles near the door, Valjean gestured at the expanse of the room, letting his lantern beam pass over white-washed walls, rough-hewn wooden benches and a blackboard barely visible in the shadows. Sparse, but clean.

"It's not much to look at," he admitted, "but the roof doesn't leak and we have books and ink for four full classes. Next year, we plan to replace the windows and buy a piano. Cosette shall teach those who wish to learn how to play it, and we are looking for more teachers too."

"You could have done so much," Javert marvelled, looking around the large room. "So much, if only you'd been given the freedom..."

The classroom was dark now, empty of life. But he could still almost see the spirits of children learning, playing, growing - becoming something more than trash.

This simple room, much sparser than the fine school in Montreuil-sur-Mer, was still an infinity beyond the hovels Javert recalled from his own childhood. To learn to read here, to enter the world of numbers and sense... What a difference for a child to witness God's words and work borne out in tandem!

No longer only hearing without understanding, no longer being told about an ideal world where order and calm flowed from the Mass, while the dirty truth of chaos festered around him. Oh, Javert recalled it well, how the glory of the bells might reach an ignorant sinner kneeling in the muck... but with only mud around himself to see and learn from, no bells could do more than ring his muddy heart into dry, senseless brick.

To not merely dream of God's glory high above and see the fallible world below, and wish to become the scourge in His hand and given lease to wipe the stains off the world... but to stand a half-step above the filth, to dare imagine a land where law and mercy worked hand in hand. To dare more than imagine, to begin and build a world where even a child of the gutters might dream of reaching the great kingdom in this life, might think fairness real...

"Javert? Are you well?"

Almost overwhelmed by the goodness of this man whom he had spent more than a lifetime persecuting, Javert could only shake his head at the foolish question. Why ask him that? When it had been his choices, his refusal to see, that forced Valjean into a life of hiding where throwing coins at beggars had been the most he dared do.

He set the lantern down on a bench and walked towards the blackboard; stumbled, in truth, for he had to support himself against the wall to hold himself up. The echoing room, the empty benches - did they judge Javert, or did they not care? His soul trembled, naked and alone, in that silent room.

Was anything he thought to see around him even real? Did it matter what they strived for; Javert or Valjean, anyone at all? He had prayed for faith, had forced himself to trust in God's grace. Yet seeing this shabby little wonder and learning of the light it would shine into a world he only halfway dared believe to be real, all his fears assailed him again.

It was as if the contrast illuminated all the faults of the world Javert dimly recalled as the first - as the true? The years of hiding and of fear: caused by him. When compared to the world before his eyes, the errors he had made appeared even more grave.

This, was what it might have become without him. Still fallible and imperfect, but kinder; hopeful in an infinite number of ways. This, then, was what Javert had helped topple before it was ever built... yet now, he was allowed to behold it despite all his faults. Had he managed to make amends? Or was he shown it only to know the depths of his sins?

Perhaps it was the very quality of hope Javert saw in the school was that which caused him to doubt anew. For dared he truly believe that these infinitely circling worlds exist outside of his mind? And if they did - if every deed and act was true and real - how many had not suffered because of his past sins?

What man was he, who could not see the potential of the world until it was driven into him by fists and blades and rivers dark?

It was a suffocating despair unlike the low points Javert had experienced before; they had been caused first and foremost by outside factors; the pain of death, the dreariness of reliving the same events again and again, his bitter anger at the world which would not let him die... but never since that first life, since the bridge over the Seine, had he felt such a crushing wish to not be.

What was law without mercy? Cruelty. What was a man who could serve such a law, who would not learn until death claimed and spat him out that he was wholly and utterly wrong? Cruel. Worse than that, unknowingly cruel while proud of his ignorance.

What use was he, a cruel man, who had achieved nothing in his life but to stop the flow of goodness into the world?

"You are wrong, Javert," a gentle voice said; Javert flinched away as Valjean caught his hands and warmed them with his own. "I could not hear all you said," he continued, "but heard enough to know that you are very, very wrong."

Valjean brought his hands up, stroked a thumb over the fingers. The slow movement froze him. In the dim light of the empty school-building, the world seemed to grow transparent and fragile like glass.

"You do not know what I have done. You don't know what I was - am!"

Because was he not still a sinner? Did he not judge wherever he went and whatever he saw? How could he otherwise when he had drunk judgement with his mother's milk and walked the path of stern law all his lives?

"I know enough," Valjean whispered, pulling him closer. "We are both men, no worse or better than any other men. As long as I've known you, you've done your duty, and far more thereby. For what is mercy, without order? How could goodness grow without the just gardener's protection? Shh, my friend, shh, take heart. I've been here too, floundering at the crossroads of choice." Each word spoken so close against his skin that Javert more felt them through hands and heart than heard them in his ears. "If your sins weigh so heavy, if you are so hardened and damned, then why does your soul hurt so? A man who is stone has no regrets and feels no remorse."

"I didn't," he confessed. Without Valjean holding him up with his strength, he would have fallen. Instead he was held, though he was not worthy, and caught, he who had fallen for so long, and the arms supporting him were too warm for his weak soul to resist. "For so many years, I cared for nothing and saw nobody. I was blind to the depths of my sin, and I didn't even know it, for I thought myself a virtuous man."

"Then open your eyes and see anew. There are so many beautiful things in our world, Javert."

When Valjean laid his cheek against his own, when Javert felt the scent of his hair and learned the warmth of his body, it was as if he would shatter; yet still he feared.

"I know of this beauty," he admitted, eyes squeezed shut, words forcing themselves out of his heart with his coward mind helpless to stop them. "I see this beauty, I have looked upon it for years, but I dare not, I can not reach for it! If I destroy it by my touch, if I lose it all by my actions, I shall - I cannot, God have mercy on me, I cannot!" Tearing himself free from Valjean, his hands searched for support against the cool stone walls, only to find the world tilting beneath him and the stone slipping away beneath his hands; there was nothing to hold on to. Javert was falling, again, and beneath him not even a river to stop his tumble.

"No," Valjean whispered, pressing ever closer, as if he wished to fall into Javert, for them to sink into the dark together. "No, it is not so, I swear it. The beauty I see is one shaped by God. How could any of us, mortals all, ruin his work?"

"Because time ruins everything, and I fear to become an agent of this time. I reach, and reach, and forever I fall." Again, he felt words take shape without his conscious mind willing it: a trembling, helpless confession from the bottom of his soul. "I fear to find you, for to find you is to risk losing you again, and then... Then I shall be ruined forever."

And behind his eyelids Javert saw a dozen deaths. And he thought of them all afflicting this man, his prisoner, his saint, the keeper of his heart - and knew that living through even one might break him.

But Valjean was too close to be a shadow, the thrum of his pulse the only thing real remaining in the world, and he spoke such soft words against Javert's ear. "Faith, my friend. Let me share with you a secret, that you might unlock this between us."

"Please. Oh God, please."

"I fear too," he confessed, and the pain in Valjean's voice rang too raw to contain a lie. "So many nights before I sleep, I have feared for my daughters. In the eyes of strangers that pass, I have seen the grasping hands of those who'd ruin my happiness, and I'm in terror of any who will yank them away. There are not words in this world which can describe the fear I have felt when I consider those I love." A hand cradling Javert's head, and soft lips against his brow. "In my waking nightmare, in the hours before dawn when I lie, feeling old and worn, these fears take me and I see them die. I see Éponine, driven to her death by poverty and madness, I see Cosette tiny and abandoned, all alone. I imagine them both suffering in childbirth and never waking again... And I see you. May the Lord save us both, but I have dreamt your death by the waters and the gun and the plague and no prayer can free me from these fears, no saints will deliver me."

"How dare you love, then? How dare anyone!"

"Because beyond the fear is grace. And tasting love, I may drink it."

And with those words, Valjean bent closer and kissed the skin beneath his eyes, and kissed away his half-spilled tears, and Javert's hands clawed at his back and for the first time since he had been born, he dared open his eyes and look upon love.

He feared, still. He shivered in his body, and his soul cried out from fear. Holding Valjean in his arms, daring to kiss his cheeks, finding his lips with his own and drinking love from them could not silence this fear, nor could the sweet words whispered or the gentle touches following; they could not extinguish it, could not drown it out.

But he loved.

While the candles burned down, sputtered and died untended, there against the hard wall, Javert learned of love and the truth of it that had been hidden to him for so many years: That to love was to be in agony, for to love was to feel and fear and burn so bright that one might ignite. And that, even throwing oneself into the flames of eternity, one would not shed tears of sadness or regret, but only cry and burn for that one blissful thing: for love.

And when their fumbling hands had done their work, and their kisses had grown surer, they sat together in the darkness. His uniform coat was draped clumsily over their shoulders; Valjean's voice was soft and silly as he rambled sleepily against Javert's side. It was a miracle beyond naming to hold an arm around him, to dare mouth soft kisses against his curls and know that they had shone together.

Of the fear there remained a dimming ember, but of regret? Not even ashes to be found.

Paris in springtime blossomed like a shy maiden letting down her hair. There were young lovers in each park, their giggles and whispers trailing behind them, later to escape from open windows and hastily drawn curtains.

The height of summer was still far away, when the oppressive heat of the city would mingle with the stink of garbage rotting in the gutters. When sweltering summer came to the slums of Paris, even the most tenderly attempted lovemaking turned into a trial; too-sweaty bodies floundering in a feverish dance of corruption.

In spring, infatuations still had the magic of fresh roses: each petal unfolding to reveal new beauty, enchanting eye and heart alike. In spring, to be young was to love. It the seasons of second thoughts were far away; still so much time before summer's overburdened days when tempers ran hot, or autumn's cooling nights that whispered of rationality and regret; the time when bellies swelled and arguments were dredged up like soggy old cabbage forgotten at the bottom of the pot. Now, they were still an eternity away, for the first infatuation lived only in the moment and stretched the day into forever. Winter? Winter, when the penniless student froze in his attic and the grisette did not attend her daily toilette for lack of both firewood and coin... this cold winter was surely a nightmare invented to make springtime sweeter.

In the springtime, Paris sang like a youth caught in the first storm of love. The children of the city followed the tune merrily, their footsteps light as they danced ever faster in Venus' thrall.

Among this gaiety and laughter, this burst of springtime lust, were two who stubbornly walked to the beat of their own drum. They passed the naughty, smirking lips of the city's girls, all eager to taste of forbidden fruit behind spring-green willows; they stepped past the flushed boys stumbling over their own feet in their haste to fall into love's embrace.

There walked, through glorious days and coy nights, two whose silvery whiskers and age-lined cheeks hid secrets of their own; astounding secrets, as fresh and frail as those within any springtime child.

None could have told at the first, or even second, glance - for crabby policemen and old convicts were harder to pull along in the mad waltz of the seasons, and their tempo was of a different kind. Where they walked in the night, their company was sought only by those too caught in the morass of poverty to bother with the Cupid's invitations. When the Inspector entered the Jardin des Tuileries, it was as if a cold draft had come down from the north, leaving the flowers shuddering and both cravats and girdles hastily restored to order. Neither suspicious priests nor filthy-minded libertines would have accorded the philanthropist at his side the least share in the hot, heaving dreams of sin and temptation that swept the city each night.

For did not all know, would not all swear, that among men grown old and grey, there existed only either the dirty, pinching thief of lust or the saintly tower of virtue; did not the world agree that nobody of age might follow another path?

In May, when sonnets were recited and ballads were sung, this pair spoke of law and justice, of the Bible and the Lord, and the discussions between them went on far longer than the most heartfelt ode to love ringing from the inns. Between them were arguments aplenty, both great and small, for they were both stubborn, awkward men.

Cosette's curiosity about Montreil-sur-Mer slowly dried up while she listened to her father and his new friend argue the optimal layout of the town's water and sewage system; when they moved on to draw plans for one encompassing the booming villages around Paris, she began to loudly practice her piano scales. While at first sharp-eyed Éponine remained on the lounge and followed the verbal sparring with curiosity, she too began to hide behind the latest edition of Journal des dames, rather than risk getting dragged into a discussion she had little knowledge of and even less interest in.

As summer progressed, it happened on occasion that Inspector Javert would leave off his greatcoat when a Sunday afternoon grew especially sweltering. At his side, for they would usually take a stroll together after Mass, Monsieur Fauchelevent might remove his coat to let the wind play with cool fingers at his shirtsleeves and at the edge of his waistcoat. On such occasion, each man's eyes might linger a shade longer than proper on the form of their companion, but probably, a passerby might think, it was mere disbelief that an Inspector could exist without his uniform; that a gentleman would be so brash as to display such an oft-mended shirt?

If they happened to end their stroll in the neighbourhood where Javert lived, they might pass the fine little bakery by the corner, then enter a half-hidden churchyard and sit on a bench beneath the green trees, sharing bread and fruit and careful smiles. If instead their rambling walks took them towards Rue Plumet, they might have a glass of white wine, chilled in the ice box Éponine had let install two years ago and their discussions would flow free while exasperated daughters reminded that books lacked the feet to return themselves to their shelves.

If the night grew late, perhaps they might also take a sip of liquor and then. Since neither of them was a great drinker, it happened on occasion that they shared one single glass, and more than strong spirits might cast a blush upon each cheek.

And on certain evenings: When there had been a suffering child beyond the help of any amount of gold, or when a knife held in a cruel hand cut down a frightened woman and a young constable alike; when all windows were dark and peaceful, while the stars gleamed so clear one might think to reach out and pluck them, or when the foul, fermenting smell of the river was for a moment driven away by a whiff of blooming osmanthus from the botanical gardens... On such evenings, Valjean might send a boy with a note home so his daughters wouldn't worry, and they would steer their steps towards the empty apartment on Rue de l'Homme-Armé.

Evenings such as these were not for speaking. What few words fell were less challenging than in the daytime. In the austere rooms, lit by sparse candles, another kind of truth ruled; in this silence, far more than coats and hats were shed. No windows would be opened and the sounds uttered belonged to a language beyond cool reason. In wonder and in terror, they would come together and explore each other; with awkward shyness in the spring, with the ease to laugh and dare mistakes in sweltering summer, with dear familiarity in autumn, and with a comfort and ever-steady longing in the crisp nights of winter.

And beneath and above it all, thrumming through their hearts, there was the silent beat of their own hidden tune: not young infatuation this, but something which burned slower and lasted longer than many of the brash passions of spring.

Christmas came and went; gifts were exchanged and the New Year greeted with hope and good cheer. The heavy chill left the city, the slush dried up, and in the Alps the föhn swept away the remains of winter. When sweet April once again swept blossom-covered skirts over France, and young lovers frolicked and courted their mates in Paris, these two greying men kept on walking, talking, arguing... and meeting in those silent, secret nights; hands rarely touching, but each contact remembered and cherished throughout the coming days.

It was late spring of 1832; voices demanding bread and equality for all were ringing ever louder. In the winding alleys, children dreamed of freedom and prepared to bleed. And still they walked the night together, two souls brimming over with love.

Beyond the happiness of the moment, or even the great glowing joy of the past year, Javert did not forget his duties or the slippery time running through his hands.

The problem of how to keep the barricade standing through the night, preferably without additional lives wasted from the side of the national guard, kept him awake more and more often as winter turned to spring and no solution would appear to his mind. When one day providence cut away the brambles of confusion and showed him the way ahead, he was almost too surprised to give thanks for the help given.

It happened thus: On the date of May the second, Inspector Javert was alerted to a disturbance of the peace. He was patrolling the alleys of Saint Michel when he heard a gamine call after her friends to wait, for she too wished to see the fight.

The Paris police had plenty of men who would have looked the other way; in truth, they might well have avoided the slums altogether. But the Inspector followed this cry and in turn his three constables were forced to follow him, despite the damage to their boots from the thick layer of refuse they must cross in their pursuit of the nimble child.

What Javert saw that noonday would to any other have looked like the simple matter of a beggar accosting a man of means; though how or why had a gentleman strayed this far, they might well have asked.

To his eyes, however, there was a strange doubling going on. While he saw the well-dressed man trying to shake loose an aggressor, his daughter cowering nearby in fright, he also saw a mirage laid above them: Another daughter and the same man, but shaped so differently by destiny, that Javert might scarce have known him in the dark.

"Look out!" the high voice of a boy yelled. "It's the coppers! It's Javert!"

At his words, the present snapped into place and his hesitation evaporated. Javert lifted his lead-topped stick; with a gesture to his men to encircle the disturbance, he pushed aside the gawkers and stepped up to the two men at the centre of the square.

"Another brawl in the square?" he sneered at the tall pauper, who smiled sheepishly and did his best to act as if his fist bunched in the gentleman's collar was a friendly gesture. "Ah, Jondrette, I should've known from your stink who was involved."

When he turned to Valjean, he was disquieted to see the wan colour of his face; catching his eyes, Valjean mouthed 'knife' before flicking a look towards Éponine.

Two men were standing too close to her. Now that his attention had been drawn to it, Javert noticed that he could not see the right hand of the one he knew as Brujon; a killer and a thief, if the rumours of the underworld had it right.

Éponine stood stock-still, eyes wide and hands clenched unto trembling. The naked terror on her face angered him even more deeply than the sight of the foulest man he knew laying hands on Valjean; there, at least, he knew that the fight would favour the right party.

"Please, mademoiselle, the streets are not safe. You should follow one of my constables out of here," he said, reaching out a hand for the girl. One step between them was all he needed, and then he and his men would be enough to protect...

"Hey there!" Thénardier broke in, choosing to step away from Valjean rather than force his man to either hide the blade or act. He smiled, disgusting ingrate that he was, and bowed to Javert. "Inspector, I'm so grateful that yer here! See, this gent ain't all 'e seems to be! Scrape a bit at 'is polish, and you'll find him no more bourgeois than meself! And this -" He twirled dramatically and pointed an accusing finger at Valjean, whose glare only darkened, the veins standing out on his clenched hands. "That girl is the child he stole from me!"

To hear him speak as if he was a man, to see this thief accuse Valjean... It took an effort to keep his hand off his gun, but there were too many witnesses around for Javert to do more than dream of this simplest path. Blood spilled, he told himself, with questions unasked would leave the wrong sort of impressions behind. He dared not risk Valjean's identity, nor his own position.

But Javert recalled the trial and the shame; the starving little child that evaded the raised hand; and further away, separated from this life by so many years, he recognized the thin, dirty-faced girl lying in the row of the dead. Never grown to half her potential, never knowing decency or kindness, never being offered more than the same wretched choice; outside or outside, alone through life whatever way they took.

How he longed to take up his gun in that moment! If not for the knowledge of how close the threshold of the barricade night loomed, who knew what foolish acts he might have committed?

Instead he forced calm, was wholly the feared Inspector gazing down from the heights of Law. He raised an eyebrow and looked, slowly, between the three with all the disdain he could muster: Valjean, in a fine mustard-yellow coat and a fashionable hat; Éponine in a modest dress of light blue muslin with a sprig of fresh flowers pinned to her chest; and old Thénardier in a tattered waistcoat, his messy sideburns still containing the crumbs of his latest meal.

"And I assume you have a witness to support this outlandish claim?" he said, condescension fair dripping from his voice. Rather than give Thénardier time to revel too much, he gestured to the policeman at his back, and watched with pleasure as the maggot was roughly grabbed by the shoulder.

"Hey! Lemme go- I've got-!"

It was the work of a moment to use the distraction to push his stick between Éponine and Brujon, to snap it painfully against the villain's hand and pin him down with a stare.

Following him as if they had choreographed it ahead, Valjean leaped forward two steps, and pulled his daughter close, gathered her to the safety of his arms.

"Thank you, Inspector," he said, and Javert heard both fear and rage flow beneath the forced calm of his words. "I have no idea whatsoever what this man is talking about. It is madness, lies, every word of it."

"Of course he lies, Monsieur," Javert replied. "I know his name, I know his 'trade', I know what scum he is. Upon your witness, we'll make sure justice is done."

The gob that landed between them was thick with phlegm; spittle still staining her lips, the Thénardier woman swaggered out from the shadows and her smile was pure poison. "I'm not saying 'e ain't a bit of a liar, my husband, not saying we ain't poor - but Inspector, the little miss is our blood, and that I'd swear on sweet Jesus himself. So," she drawled, pointing a dirty finger at the still-trembling Éponine, "why dontcha ask her herself?"

"We don't need to listen to this! Inspector, clear away this rabble," Valjean said, trying to tug Éponine away from the square.

Unfortunately, from the way the crowd closed around them, Javert had the feeling things might turn ugly if he tried to sweep the curious faces away right now. Despite the year passed and the reputation he had amassed, he was not the head Inspector of Paris, as he had been in the smaller town, and Valjean was no longer the awe-inspiring Monsieur le Maire.

Four policemen and the strongest convict of Toulon, against five robbers and one screeching wife? Odds he'd take any day - but not with a vulnerable girl in their midst, not with two dozen scheming, sneaking, poverty-stricken men and women surrounding them, each potentially armed with a stabbing blade or skull-breaking club.

The Thénardiers, under the name of Jondrette, were known in this area, though hardly liked. But this was irrelevant at the moment, for Javert suspected that all of Saint Michel was listening, deadly curious about this latest scheme of theirs. Crazy and vile as the couple were, it was also well-known that they had a great nose for money. He must somehow break the interest of this crowd! Otherwise, even if they escaped a brawl, Valjean would find far too much interest come the way of 'Ultime Fauchelevent' and there was no time to spare for hiding and escaping anew.

"Woman, shut your mouth, and clear the way," he said, trying to thrust Madame Thénardier aside with his stick.

"Not 'til she says it herself!" she protested, even as she was forced back a few steps. "Ah, my gal, will ya do it? Can you deny yer own mother and father, who loved you as a little babe? Can you, my dear Éponine, my own sweet lil' daughter?"

When the girl looked up, it was easy to spot the tears gathering in Éponine's eyes, and Javert swore internally. Damn the foul old witch who would use a girl's soft heart against her! But then, the girl swallowed, put a calming hand over her father's heart and met the greedy eyes of the woman who had sold her away. While Éponine's lips trembled and her cheeks had lost all colour, there was the steely resolve of a soldier running towards the bayonet to read in every line of her body, and her head was held high in pride.

"My father," she began, only to find her voice deserting her. Drawing in a further breath, she made to speak again. "My - "

In that moment, a high shriek tore through the air - a dying fawn, a lady in terror - and as one, the crowd turned to look. They saw a blonde girl running towards them, her high, clear voice still rising in that fearful tone. Her hair flowed behind her, a ribbon spilling down her back, and she had the look of a nymph chased by the hounds of Hades himself.

"Father! Éponine!" With a loud sob, Cosette threw herself at the pair. In his surprise, Valjean staggered slightly, before wrapping an arm around her too, drawing his daughters even closes. "I have been so afraid!" Cosette wailed. "Those men tried to grab me!"

Her finger pointed straight at two further gang members; Babet, he with the sour face, and Claquesous, whom Javert was now certain that he recognized from other circumstances. Without needing any further prompting his constables collared the two; when Babet tried to run, he was summarily punched in the kidneys and fell to the ground, wheezing.

"Oh, my dears," Valjean said, his trembling hand stroking their heads; one dark, one light, both pressed against his chest. For the first time since Javert had laid eyes upon him, he seemed to be weighted down by each one of his years. "Oh, my darlings, I am so sorry."

"Please do not be alarmed," Cosette said with a pitiful little sniffle. "A gentleman came to my aid."

Events had occurred quickly, one after another, but upon observing the way Cosette made certain to keep her face hidden against her father's coat, and the timbre of her voice - clear and carrying throughout the square, despite her apparent sobbing - Javert suspected that they had not, in fact, occurred at random.

If so, the final player in their little drama was waiting for his cue to reveal himself, and Javert should give it to him before the Thénardier's finished with their whispered conference and stirred up further trouble.

"Cuff the lot," Javert ordered to his nearest constable and handed him his own restraints, "and keep a sharp eye on the old man and the hag." Then he turned to Cosette. "Who came to your assistance, Mademoiselle?" he asked. "Please; I understand that you are upset, but we shall need all witnesses to ensure that these criminals face their just punishment."

"Oh! Yes! I'm the one!" Another familiar shape stepped forward from the shadow of a gate, and Javert allowed himself an internal sigh of relief. He had been wondering where the blasted boy had been hiding in this life.

His relief was as short as the time it took Pontmercy to clear his throat and begin speaking. Instead of simply agreeing with everything Cosette said, he began prattling on about them being childhood friends, how they used to meet in the park, what terror had enveloped him at seeing his dear, lovely -

"Yeah? And what's 'er name then?" the Thénardier woman asked, her grin sharp and wicked. "Eh? You call 'er friend; I used to call 'er serving girl, 'til this old fellow," she tossed her head in Valjean's direction, "stole her away for his own foul uses."

At that, Valjean frowned. A moment later, however, his lips shaped in a smile which was, for him, unusually sinister. "A moment, Madame! It is you who dare lay claim to my daughters, and as such, I would first have your husband speak her name," he spat. "In fact, I wish to hear him name both my daughters, before he dares sully their reputations with further claims."

Thénardier tried to shake off the hands of the constable on him, but when he found that both handcuffs and grip were unyielding, he looked up the best he could and proclaimed in a loud voice. "Ye think I don't know my own girls? That's Éponine, my daughter, and the other one I've fostered since she was a babe; it's Courgette."

For a heartbeat, there was utter silence in the square. Pontmercy's mouth silently formed the name he had learned, eyes crossing in consternation as understanding set in. Valjean's smile was melting into the rarely used mask of patronizing pity Monsieur le Maire had used when questions regarding the sense in feeding the poor - since they would then only survive to need be fed another day - were put to him. Held fast beside her husband, Mme Thénardier closed her eyes and groaned loudly, as if she'd just been kicked by a horse.

The fool glanced her way, still not comprehending. "What? Wha'd I do?"

And there, perfect! A gamine somewhere in the crowd let out a loud, braying laugh, and the spell of fascination shattered; the nasty cackle of the mob swelled and broke, whispers and whistles peeking through its waves, the full weight of its ridicule aimed at Thénardier.

"Courgette? Courgette?" Valjean said with mock offence. "You'd have named your foster daughter for a pumpkin? Then I am twice as glad that I can claim her as my own blood!"

"Enough of this farce," Javert said, not bothering to disguise his the twitching of his lips; he couldn't have hoped for such a fine outcome if he'd given it three lifetimes to plan! "No, not another word from either of you; save your tears and give your excuses to the court."

Soon, his constables led off Thénardier, his wife and three of his men in handcuffs, insults and mocking laughter following them, while Javert escorted the gentleman and his daughter to safer streets. The student trailed after them, while through the secret roads known only to the urchins of the street, a boy called Gavroche had been sent with a coin and a message to the nearest known outpost of the Sûreté.

The message asked if Javert's esteemed colleagues might, perhaps, be interested in putting some questions to suspected members of the Patron-Minette robber gang? For he'd be happy to give them both the case and the five scoundrels... and nobody would be the wiser that it was because Javert thought he might try and wring the maggot's neck, if he must speak to Thénardier longer than a minute.

When they reached a wider street, Pontmercy took some initiative and hailed a carriage. Javert wrote down his name and address, not surprised that the young man's attention was nailed almost entirely to Cosette. She in turn was mostly concerned with her sister and her father, who were both subdued and nervous. Éponine's eyes flicked from doorway to doorway and her breath was shallow and fast, while Valjean's gaze kept straying upwards; to the roofs, to the walls, and and his fingers moved as if he was mentally scaling them all.

Valjean managed to find his senses enough to manage a distracted thank-you to Pontmercy, attempted to press a coin into his fingers and then forgot him entirely when the young man declined.

"It was my pleasure to be able to help you," Pontmercy said to Cosette before she stepped into the carriage. "Would you- That is, might I- Permit me to visit later and ensure that you remain well, Mademoiselle?"

For the first time since the square, Cosette's attention weighted fully on him. By all appearances, the girl approved of what she saw. Blushing in a fetching way, she nodded and allowed him to kiss her hand, though she warned Pontmercy to not appear for at least three days.

"My father's nerves," she whispered, "I do not think we will receive guests..." The worry in her eyes when she looked at Valjean was impossible to miss.

Bowing, effusive with thanks, Pontmercy accepted, then continued to press his gratitude upon the girl and Valjean. In the end, Javert was forced to shoo him off so that they might take the carriage in peace.

"If you wish privacy, I can ride outside," he muttered to Valjean, whose hands could not remain from touching the two girls; stroking their hair, arranging the sleeves of their dresses and fluttering in worry between them.

"What? Oh, no, no..." When Valjean turned to him, there was such anxiety written on his brow, that Javert felt it as a physical blow. "Please, remain, my friend. I am more grateful than you can imagine. If you hadn't, oh Lord above, if they had caught us alone..."

"Then you'd still have the strength to snap the rat in two," Javert told him, stern. "Take hold of your worries now, Monsieur. they are arrested and you are safe!" But his hand when pressing Valjean's was gentle, as were the reassurances he gave Éponine. Her old family was too heavily involved in crime to walk easily out of jail, even without her witness brought against them; yes, he was certain of that.

During that short carriage ride and the walk up to the apartment, which Valjean locked and bolted shut as soon as they were inside, Cosette was the calmest. She spoke softly to her father, each word a gentle raindrop on his flaming worry, then hummed a little tune as she took her sister by hand and led her to their rooms.

Only now, when they were alone, when the girls could not witness it, did Valjean truly fall to pieces. It disturbed Javert on the deepest level to see him so; for so many years, Valjean had been the star he adjusted his compass by, his presence and inherent goodness a solid handhold in the whirlpool of lives. Though he helped his friend to the comfortable settee, brought him a dab of spirits and finally, with a glance at the closed door, allowed himself to sit down next to him and even put an arm around his back, he knew not what words could ease Valjean's worry.

None of the reassurances Javert attempted; the fact that Thénardier was in the hands of the law now, the reliable papers Valjean had been able to draw up for his girls with Fauchelevent's help, or the plain truth that his fortune gave him a far greater leverage than he acknowledged - managed to calm him down.

Finally, Javert dared lay a hand on his face, forced the tear-glazed eyes to look his way. "I do not know how to convince you," he whispered, "but I swear to you, on everything that is holy, that I will not rest until your family is safe. Do you understand me? I will bring down that man with Justice, I swear he will pay for the crimes he has already committed, and you will not be threatened again." He dared press his lips to Valjean's cheek, felt the other man fold against him and let out a shuddering breath.

"If I thought it necessary, I would gladly shoot both Thénardier and his wife for your sakes," Javert admitted. At that, Valjean attempted to draw back, but he would not let him out of the embrace just yet. "I believe I know your protest already; it would be an unlawful act, beneath me." Another kiss, upon his brow, before he spoke again. "I would do it, but I won't. I do not need to, my friend. You must believe me: there is Justice in this world, and it will not let Thénardier escape for much longer."

"Even if it didn't," Valjean replied with something close to his old surety, "you should not take the law into your own hands so. Better for me to escape again, just take the girls away and find a new safe haven."

The thought of how mad it was that Valjean should argue the lawful path to Javert flitted through his mind, but the words had served their purpose. Valjean's worries seemed soothed and his eyes were dry when he gave Javert a soft kiss of gratitude; a mere peck on the lips, but far more than they had ever done with others in the apartment.

Both of them realizing this, they moved apart until they sat at an almost modest distance from each other; perhaps their legs still touched, perhaps Javert's remaining hand on Valjean's shoulder was no longer necessary to comfort a worried friend, but for another few moments there was no one to see and they permitted themselves these freedoms.

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