Pre-entry: This Never-ending Road to Calvary

[road_to_calvary]

 

And, so. It is over.

The carriage bumps along, somehow more full now, even though the person of Marius Pontmercy has been removed. It is just the two of them, he and Javert, locked in silence. He spares a brief thought as to whether the lack of speech is awkward for the other man. But, no, it does not matter. Here, at the end of things, there is nothing left to be said. He has made his final entreaty and, against all expectation, it has been granted. There is no need to consider further. His thoughts turn to Cosette, and stay there.

She will be well, he thinks, so long as Marius lives. She is provided for. She will no doubt be married. She will hate him, perhaps, or be disgusted enough to never acknowledge the man who has raised her. The thought brings a sharp pain to his chest, piercing the fatigue that pins him to this seat; that she might hate him, or forget him by design. But her future is assured; she is safe and loved, and that is all that matters. His feelings are not important. He is too tired to feel sorrow for his own plight. In the end, this is correct. He has run, and run, and he can run no more. There is justice in his final capture – no man can hide from the things he has done, not forever – and if it has to happen, he is glad it is like this, with choice, and not at the end of some desperate chase that finishes with rough hands, and cuffs about his wrist. No, this is right. At the last, a touch on the shoulder was all it took to remind him he was caught.

A glance at Javert. The man sits with his chin drawn down into the collar of his great-coat, utterly without motion. His hands rest on the head of his weighted cane. He might be a statue. Valjean looks away. He is beyond fear now, and does not shudder. He will go home, and finish this; inform Cosette of her love’s condition, warn her of his own departure. He will get clean if it is permitted; he will arrange his final affairs it there is time. He will go, then, quietly. Pay his final price. Without Cosette in his life, it is over anyway.

The carriage halts at the entrance to the Rue de l’Homme Arme. The street is too narrow to admit them; he exits in front of Javert, and does not move as eighty francs are handed over to pay the damage to the velvet seats. No doubt they will proceed on foot to the nearest police post – Blancs-Monteaux, if he is not mistaken, or at the Archives. Both are near. He does not think of what will follow. A cell, while Javert attends to the processing of his prisoner, no doubt.

They walk. The street is deserted, as it always is. A knock on the door. It opens, and he hesitates.

‘It is well. Go upstairs.’

He turns, then. Javert wears an expression he has never seen on him before, as though he is making a great effort to speak in so calm a tone.

No. Not that. He has seen his efforts at civility before. This is something else. He is too tired to decipher it.

‘I will wait for you here.’

This is unusual. It does not conform to Javert’s habits in the least. He had expected to conduct his final conversation with Cosette in the shadow of his arresting officer, so that she may be left in no doubt of the truth of her father’s confession. So, another hesitation. But it is of no importance; he is the mouse caught in the cat’s claws; they are long, and sharp, and he will not attempt to outrun them this time. Let there be an end to this. He enters the house.

A call to the porter on his way to the first floor. And there, a pause. The weight of grief – for Cosette, for Marius – is heavy on his heart. His body wants to submit to the effort of the last two days. His clothes stick to him all over; the sewer slime mats his hair to his skull, fills his ears, cracks between his fingers. The smell hits anew, assaulting his weakened senses. There is an open window, and he leans out to gulp fresh air.

The lantern in the street lights it from end to end. A breath later, and he realises what he sees. Amazement knocks the sickness from him; he looks from one end to the other, and back, and again.

The street is empty. Javert has gone.

 

~

 

He washes with efficient speed, mechanical movements that strip the filth from his skin. His clothes are ruined, of course. The water is tepid; his porter is heating more, but there is no time. He will make do. There is soap, there is a scrubbing brush. He uses both until he is raw, his mind registering no pain.

This cannot mean freedom. Javert does not grant freedom. He has taken a moment, perhaps, to inform the post of what will happen, and then he will return.

-but, no. That would never happen. After all this time, he would not – surely? – allow the faintest slip of the leash.

He is clean enough. He returns to the window. It has been perhaps fifteen minutes. The street remains empty. He pulls his head back in, and stands, fatigue having deserted him under this new event. He can hear nothing, either in the house or outside. No one has wound the clock, so even its tick is absent. It is as if the world waits with him, for the sound of a footstep along the road.

There are letters already written in his study. He always knew there was a chance this day would come. There is one to Cosette, of course – it says nothing of his past that is not necessary, but informs her of the money, and the depth of his regard for her. He remembers the way his pen had hovered at the last, undecided whether to ask forgiveness for leaving her. In the end, he did not.

The other letter is for his lawyer. It includes the location his fortune, and proof it was obtained legally, with strict instructions that every last sou should go to Cosette. And a note he adds now, granting permission for her to marry. He does not like to think of what will happen if Marius does not live.

He stands a moment outside her door. Oh, to look on her one last time! But, no. She deserves a full night of peace before she wakes to the upheaval of her life. He allows himself a touch of the door that separates them, as though he could hear her breath through it, touch her hair, experience the joy of her laugh one more time.

But that is all. His hand drops away. He returns to check the street. Javert is still not there. He paces the landing, head down.

Something is wrong. For the briefest moment, there is a flash of hope. It is ridiculous. He knows this man well enough to dispel it.

Five minutes pass. Javert has not returned. Through the ache of his muscles, the weight on his heart, the resignation to his fate – something is wrong. He can stand it no longer; the uncertainty is worse than the eventual end, and he has had seventeen years of it now. Let it be done.

He walks down the stairs, a hand trailing the wall. He will wait outside if necessary, he will…no, he will not go and enquire. He will not need to. Javert will come for him.

His mind is empty of all but this; waiting, and, by the time he reaches the foot of the stairs, accepting. Everything is in order. Let it be done. He lays a hand on the door and opens it, ready to meet his fate.