(no subject)

[road_to_calvary]

 


It has been a good day. The weather has been pleasant, the company decent, the work satisfying. Valjean steps back to look at the new stable wall, checking it over a final time. It will do well, he thinks. 

 

The clatter of tools diverts his attention, and his gaze. He wipes dried mortar from his hand as Javert stoops to pick up a dropped trowel, and it occurs to him that now they have finished, it is likely the man will disappear again. It had been hard enough to find him to ask his help for this task, let alone expect him to remain for any longer than he has to. But there are things that have to be said, so the opportunity must be seized.

 

‘Javert, will you walk with me?’

 

‘Walk with you?’

 

His tone is surprised, and sharp. Whether it is the request out of nowhere, or the idea they should be alone more than necessary, is unclear.

 

‘Yes. Just a short one. I noticed there are new trees in bloom on the mountains, and thought to take a look.’

 

‘Trees.’

 

‘Cherry blossoms, I believe. They were not here last year.’

 

‘You think we should go walking under-‘

 

Valjean does not immediately understand why Javert stops, but then sees the thought forming on the back of a surreptitious glance. The man has always had the easiest facial expressions to read, and it is obvious he is recalling the brush with death that brought them all back to the bar. Well, so be it. If he thinks he is being asked along to potentially offer support, it is well enough.

 

‘Yes,’ he says, stiffly. ‘If it is what you wish.’

 

Valjean smiles, and puts his handkerchief back in his pocket. ‘Thank you, Javert.’

 

It starts as a silent walk. The cherry blossoms are many and beautiful, and when they are beneath them it seems sacrilegious to speak of mundane matters. Even Javert looks around with an expression not as stern as usual, and Valjean makes sure not to openly smile at it. There would be no quicker way to send it away.

 

‘I have to thank you,’ he says after a while, and immediately holds up a hand to stop the protest. ‘I must, Javert. I know you do not want it – you have made it very clear – but you must allow me to speak.’

 

‘There is no need.’

 

‘Would you deny me the chance to ease my conscience? I will not waste words, but you must understand what you have done for me.’

 

‘No more than you have done for me, on two different occasions.’

 

‘That is not true.’

 

He stops walking, standing in a tunnel of pink and white light, sunbeams warmed through the petals.

 

‘You did not merely save me from death. You returned me to Cosette, and in doing so have allowed me peace at last. You told her the truth, so that I would not have to. And she has not rejected me – no, she takes me ever stronger to her heart, and says I will live with her and we will be a family. A family, Javert! With no secrets, and no shadows, and no care for the things I have done. You have…you have given me so much more than just a life back, a life I was happy to discard. You must allow me to thank you for it.’

 

Javert is staring away, his jaw set and his face grim. And Valjean knows he should not inflict it on the man, but he cannot help but be selfish in this. He must know he has done a good thing. He cannot expect to act and not receive the things he deserves in return, just as he would insist upon had he committed a bad act. He must see this.

 

‘Thank you, Javert. Words are not enough. But thank you.’

 

Something in those sentences causes Javert’s shoulders to stiffen further. But he does not reject it verbally, and for a long while it seems there will be nothing more at all. Valjean holds out a hand to catch a falling blossom as he waits. It sits in his palm, tiny and perfect, a new bloom gracing the world for only a few short days before it flies away. 

 

‘You should not have had any shadows to begin with.’

 

The words erupt suddenly, a gruff noise at odds with the peace of early evening.

 

‘If I had known what you were, if I had believed the evidence of my eyes in Montreuil, you would not have had to run.’

 

‘If you had, Cosette would not have Marius.’

 

‘She might have had her mother.’

 

‘Yes, that is true.’ He lets the blossom fall from his hand. It floats away down the hill, coming to rest somewhere out of view. ‘But maybe not for long. We cannot know these things, we can only know what has happened, and try to live with it. I have told you before, I hold no ill will towards you. I only wish to thank you for the things you have given me now. My daughter, and happiness. If you had not come, I would be dead. I would have died alone, and never seen Cosette again. The dread of it…ah, you do not know. But please believe me. You have done me a service I can never repay.’

 

‘Stop that, Valjean. You owe me nothing. I have said that to you before. Very well, you have thanked me. Let us not speak of it again.’

 

He wonders if Javert understands how much he means it. He doubts it. The man still cannot look him in the eye, or anywhere near him at all. He would like to grasp his arm and make him look, make him see. But he will not force understanding on anyone. He will believe as he likes.

 

‘Will you do me a favour in return?’ Javert pauses, and then barks a laugh. ‘We are good at doing each other favours it seems. Well, will you?’

 

‘If it is in my power.’

 

The man turns then, and does look at him. It is clear he has put the thanks behind him already.

 

‘Release me from the promise I made you.’

 

‘Ah.’

 

Ah. That. 

 

Valjean holds his gaze. The answer is clear, but he cannot speak it straight away. Javert’s eyes are unwavering as ever, but they are not filled with his old zeal. They look tired, if anything.

 

‘And if I do, what will happen?’

 

‘I will be allowed the choice once more.’

 

Valjean sighs. The sun is falling below the horizon, and they will have to go soon or it will be too dark to see the way back. But the light is magnificent like this, falling on them in a blaze of gold, and pink.

 

‘You have always had the choice. Who am I to say what you might do with your life? I cannot stop you throwing it away, if it is what you want.’

 

‘You can.’

 

‘Only because you have allowed it. What would you have of me, monsieur? To say go, be free of the pact, end yourself as you see fit, and then have your death on my conscience if you choose the river once more? It is not a just thing to ask.’

 

‘It was not just of you to make me promise.’

 

‘No. Well. You are right.’

 

Why had he asked him to? A rash decision made in the agony of a rescue, when a glance into Javert’s eyes was to face an abyss; to know that he would willingly throw himself to damnation time and time again if not stopped. It was the only way he knew how to prevent it. He would ask the same of him again.

 

‘If you are granting me the power once more, then you cannot expect me to agree. But I tell you Javert, I have no such power. You are your own man. If you choose to let the decision lie with me, at least convince me that you are capable of being rational before I hand it back.’

 

He does grasp his arm now. It goes rigid under his palm, but he does not pull it away.

 

‘I do not wish to see your body pulled from the river, Inspector. I do not wish to visit you here as a man might see another’s grave. You are alive through God’s grace, and I would prefer it remain that way.’

 

He lets him go. Javert does not move.

 

‘But it is your decision. I will not hold your life in my hands. You of all people should know I am not worthy of such a thing.’

 

There is a long moment of silence. And then Javert laughs, a full, dark, boom of a sound.

 

‘…Valjean. Of all the people in the world, you are the only one worthy of it.’

 

He cannot answer that. He just gives half a smile, not quite understanding the expression of resigned weariness that crosses Javert’s face. There is something pained about it, something sad. But not angry, and that is odd enough to be worthy of note. 

 

Valjean is tired too though, and leans against a rock to steady himself. There is a chill in the air with the falling of the sun, and it is still early in the year. They should move. But it is peaceful too, and Valjean craves peace. This is what he imagines it will feel like to sit in Cosette’s garden when the evening draws over Paris. And he will be there to see it. He can hardly believe such a thing.

 

‘Are you quite recovered then?’

 

Another abrupt question, but Valjean just nods.

 

‘Yes. I tire easier than before, but I am quite well.  Cosette and Marius have taken good care of me.’

 

‘As they should.’

 

Javert crosses his arms over his chest, and looks away. For a second, Valjean is transported back to Montreuil-sur-Mer, when such a posture could be seen on any day of the week, putting the fear of God into criminals and civilians alike.

 

‘And what will you do now?’

 

‘I will go home, Javert. I am looking forward to seeing Paris again. I will be back – there is the building to be seen to, as you know – but I will go home first.’

 

This gets a nod, and more silence. Valjean watches him, rays of light falling across eyes that seem intent on ransacking the soul of the sky. He always did have an impressive glance.

 

And then…something. A thought crosses his face, and it turns to meet Valjean’s gaze.

 

‘And your family?’

 

‘Will return also.’

 

‘Cosette. And the Baron.’

 

‘Yes.’

 

Why would they not? Cosette has been coming to the bar a long time now, and Marius will have a door of his own. They are all free to leave, and come back whenever they like. There is nothing to keep them here, or lock them out. And Marius has…

 

…his friends. He has his friends. His dead, revolutionary, friends, who let people escape from the barricade, who spent their lives in secret groups and organisations against the government, who are exactly the sort of people Javert now gathers information on.

 

How did he not see this danger before now?

 

‘-Javert.’

 

But the man has looked away, shaking his head, not wanting to hear.

 

‘Javert, please don't.’

 

‘Don’t ask me. Do not. You cannot ask that.’

 

‘Ple-‘

 

He forces his mouth to shut. Javert steps back a pace or two, looking at the ground now, his brow furrowed. The sun sinks lower, and some of Valjean’s peace slips with it.

 

‘Valjean. Do not.’

 

He looks at his hands. The silence is not quiet. He can feel a heavy finger uncurl, touch its tip to his heart. But in the end, he shakes his head.

 

‘I cannot force you to do anything. I only ask you think, think hard, about the decisions you make.’

 

‘You cannot make me other than I am, Valjean. Not even you can do that.’

 

‘Of course not.’

 

But he thinks, perhaps, that is not quite true. He thinks, perhaps, Javert might agree. Another dry laugh confirms it.

 

‘Though I would rather not test the strength of that claim. Valjean-‘ a formal turn, and bow. ‘I will leave you now. Unless you need help in walking back?’

 

‘No. I need no help. Thank you for working with me today.’

 

‘I will work with you again. Good evening, monsieur.’

 

Valjean does not watch the sunset, or the blossoms, or the light. He watches Javert’s poker-straight back as it moves away, and disappears down the slope of the hill. He watches the space it leaves when it is gone, and draws a heavy breath into his lungs. His living, breathing, lungs, thanks to that man.

 

He cannot stop Javert being what he is, and he is a spy as other men are priests. But Valjean cannot stop being what he is either, and that is a man who will hold his daughter’s happiness above all else. 

 

But maybe Javert will think about it. Maybe he will leave well alone. Maybe Marius will do nothing, and there will be no cause for concern. Maybe…maybe it is a matter of choice, and there is nothing for it but to wait and see what occurs. This is not his battle, after all.

 

Valjean turns his eyes to the dying of the light. Then stands up, and walks away from the horizon, back to the life of the bar. Paris lies beyond, and a future he can only just dare to dream of. That is what tomorrow holds, and if there is a thread of darkness in the shining promise of it, it is only what he is used to. He will face it now, as he always has.