Hope...which yet indicated trust in God.

[road_to_calvary]

Valjean’s room here is simple. It is not a cell, and it is not like his rooms at home. There is a carpet, for example. There are devices attached to the wall with thick wire – he does not understand them at first, but some experimentation produces boiling water in one of them. He can make drinks in his bedroom, and does so. There is a strange razor in his bathroom, not at all like the straight one he is used to. This one is grey, with the blades behind bars, as though jailed. The packet proclaims MACH 3!! in large letters; he does not understand this, but uses it nonetheless. There is hot running water – a joy – and the toilet is far more than serviceable. He does not need these things, but they are provided, and it would be churlish to refuse them.

There is a mantelpiece over the ornamental fireplace. It remains empty. He often stares at the space that should be filled. The candlesticks are not here, and he feels lost without them. But he must trust that God will hear his prayers no matter what, and only hopes the bishop can see him too. Though when the nights are at their darkest, he also hopes he cannot. He can never live up to that man, and the failure is hard to bear. But there is still time, perhaps. Just a few more things to put right.

He does not know what to make of this bar. He is enjoying it, to a degree. There are so many wondrous sights, so many kind people. But the smile on his face feels false, and it always falls away when he closes the bedroom door behind him. He has been called kind, too. Some have said he has helped them. All he has done is listen, it is not such a big thing. They do not know he is a liar; that he smiles, and acts as though he has the right to offer words of comfort. They do not know that they should not listen to him. And they do not know how difficult it is, to sit there and talk; he! A man who has spoken to no one but Cosette and Toussaint in years and years. The barricade was an aberration, and he said few words even then. They do not know that he has to steel his back to make every trip downstairs, and force himself to find the right words to say. He has always preferred – well, at least since Toulon – to speak in actions. There is no need to talk of helping people, only a need that it be done. Do not say ‘look at that guard spy!’ – just shoot his helmet off. Actions say all, and now he is here, and is forced to talk. He prays constantly that his foolish tongue not slip, and cause damage.

He kneels now, hands clasped together. His mouth moves; in this, at least, he has no difficulty. For the first half-hour, the prayers are all for Cosette. Time does not move here, they say. Well, it makes no difference. He will have no time when he gets home either, whenever that might be. He will not even see her again. Just a letter, left on his desk for her to find. Be well, and an ink blot, where he could not bring himself to beg please, do not think too badly of me. He has no right to ask that. Instead, she will have the documents telling her where her fortune may be found, and the permission to marry the boy, should he survive.

He asks God for help. Should he have given the endearments he longed to? But it would be a disgrace, surely, to attempt to sway her in his favour now. She will be hurt, perhaps, that he will just leave, without even a kiss on the forehead as acknowledgement. His heart twists at the thought of her pain, or maybe her hate. She might hate him. He cannot bear it. She will hate him, if she ever finds out the truth. He must not let it happen.

His knees ache, and his shoulders  tire with holding his arms this way. He does not release himself, but is aware of it in a vague way, because it has been more pronounced of late. He is truly getting old, and it seems that his body is finally beginning to tire. It is inevitable, of course. One cannot subject it to the life he has without it breaking down eventually. But his strength has always been something that has never let him down – it has got him into trouble more than once, of course. But has also saved his life more than once. Cosette’s too. He has ever been thankful for it, but it is starting to leave him now. He feels it in the stiffness when he pulls himself from bed every dawn, and the lethargy he cannot seem to drag it from through the day. Perhaps it is his mind that is tired. Perhaps he is dying. He would not mind that, so much. It has been a long life.

He prays for the people he has met here. The young cowboy, desperate to care for his brother, who puts his own dreams aside to do this. For Gavroche, who faces such a hard decision. For Eponine, who faces her death. For Enjolras, who faces his afterlife. Teja, who has the need for answers, and would try to take care of these strangers who interest him so. For all the children running in the bar at the moment, that they be kept safe until such time as the magic reverses. And then, for Javert, whom he has yet to see. Though, here, his thoughts falter. He attempts to pull them together, but they scatter to the wind. In the end, he settles for a prayer for his health – and with that, he stands. Because yes, he means it. But it is not right to pray, when your mind is drifting.

Apparently, the man is changed. He cannot believe this, though he does not think Teja a liar. Uninformed about his apprentice, perhaps. He both wants to see the Inspector, and dreads it with the weight of years that give him the right to do so. He would like to observe this supposed change. But if it is as he believes, and is not real, then his fate is sealed. He will be arrested. Perhaps not here – the man cannot break a rule – but surely some arrangement will be made to meet again on the other side. And that is well. He has been resigned to it for nearly three weeks now. A glance at the man at the barricade was enough to let him know that the game is up – Javert had seen him, he had seen Javert. There can be no doubt he lives, and is in Paris. Therefore, evasion would mean spending the rest of his life running. He might consider it, but how can he? Cosette is in love. He will not take her from happiness. He will remove himself from her life, and give himself back to the law. He will pay his debts. The dread of the galley is something he attempts not to think about; he has no doubt his age will not spare him the lash, and certainly will not spare him the hardest of labour. But at least he will not have to endure it for long. He cannot survive another winter in that place; he feels it in his bones, and tastes it on the imagined remembrance of salt on his tongue. The sea is not merciful. It does not cool in the heat of summer; it burns, and dries a man from the inside out. It freezes in the winter, and can ice a man’s toes off his feet, with no more care than a guillotine dropping on to a neck. No, at least he will not have to endure it long. He can only pray that in giving himself up, he is making payment for a bill long overdue. And God will be kind. Surely. Please.

He stands to ready himself for bed. He tires early, rises early. It is nearly nine o clock, and another day is done. He feels he should be more at peace, with his decisions made. But it has been three weeks now, and still, the hand of fate hovers over him, refusing to drop. It is Javert, he knows. Valjean climbs under his blankets, and stares at the ceiling. That man, waiting in the darkness. He is changed? No, he is not changed. Not in the mind of Jean Valjean. He will come, and put an end to this.

And what is this? He blinks at the ceiling, and then turns to his side, attempting to push it away. But it will not be denied. (He is changed. He renounces the title of Inspector.) It is hope. It is the shoots of green that will ever grow inside a man, and that no dread can wither. Hope in Toulon, that he might escape. Hope in Montreuil, that his new name would cover past sins. Hope in the eyes of Cosette, that he would be her protector, and take her to a new life. And he has done this thing. It is enough; he does not say it is a good thing, but it is a thing that he has done.

And now, it is…he does not know. He squeezes his eyes shut, and prays for peace. It  does not come. Because there is hope, that something yet unseen has stayed a cold man’s hand.

It is also dread, that he has unwittingly done something that may have hurt another. Yes, even him. That at this late point of his life, he may yet be accruing sins. There is still time for something to happen that may keep him from God. And if that happens…no, he will not think of it. He must resist. He must endure. He will not put his faith in any of it, any feeling of his own. He will put his faith in God. He is a far steadier master than hope ever was. In that, at least, he can trust.