Chapter Text
In the weeks following the failed revolution, Paris slowly returned to its usual rhythm. Summer rains scoured the blood from the cobblestones. Families mourned their dead, or denied ever knowing them. Remains of the barricades were swept off the streets until no grim reminders of the events of that June night remained.
Though the city at large seemed to move forward, there were people in Paris who were still haunted by that night. One of these people was inspector Javert, though perhaps his reasons for it were different from those of most.
On that night back in June, he had found himself standing on the parapet of Pont au Change, with his feet at the edge, staring at the black abyss below, the roar of the river muting any sounds that might have come from the sleeping city. He took a deep breath. Then he turned around and stepped back onto the bridge.
He had come there with every intention of falling into the flowing water. But it was never too late for that. Death always remained an option - inevitable, always at the edge of his mind. He did not turn away from the Seine that night driven by hope or fear; he simply postponed his fate. The river would wait.
He had remained a police officer, but continued his work in a different manner than before. His usually focused gaze became more absent, sometimes he seemed to be staring through the person he was looking at, as if observing something invisible. His once-unyielding demeanour shifted in ways that unsettled those who knew him.
The cold, methodical inspector developed some sort of an uncharacteristic hesitation. On occasion, he sought to remove himself from situations which called him to execute the letter of the law, preferring to limit himself to more menial tasks and allowing the decisions of other officers to decide the course of events. When he could not do so, his behavior was irresolute, as he now paused to hear the pleas of the accused, on occasion letting them go with only a warning. For the first time, faults and punishments became a question rather than a certainty. The accused, who had seen their certain futures in prison as soon as they recognised the inspector, often found themselves confused but free after having explained their faults, or lack thereof. And yet, they were not even sure if the inspector heard them - he seemed to be far away despite standing right before them.
And so, his life went on. The local prisons turned a little bit emptier and some more people tipped their hats in a greeting when they saw him on the street. He seemed not to notice it, though he automatically tipped his own hat in response. Every once in a while, he also noticed a familiar-looking man in the crowd. He would then pause, look away and quickly walk off in another direction.
Sometimes, he would stop during his patrols if he happened to cross a bridge. He would stand at the edge for a moment, watching the water flow below, before turning away and continuing with his work. Each time he walked away, it was as though he had made a silent pact with the river: not yet.
Summer had passed quickly. His stops over the river were getting longer and more frequent. He had granted himself more time, though nothing seemed to change. Autumn came and passed, the river still awaited answers. Snow whitened the world around and then melted away, but he still had not moved on from this state, as if frozen in time. Only the sound of the roaring water in his head, that accompanied him everywhere, grew louder.
He still lingered in this absent state when on a chilling day in spring he walked along the streets of Paris during a patrol. The temperature and the light fall of rain caused many Parisians to stay inside their homes. With only the ones who had to be there, the streets were rather empty. Beggars huddled in the corners, seeking shelter from the rain, and others walked as fast as they could to reach their destination and escape the unpleasant aura.
Javert was pulled away from his thoughts by a soft thud in front of him. Looking up, he noticed that a man walking some distance before him fell down and was now laying on the street. Some of the beggars looked up, but did not move from their spots. A few people passed next to him, not granting him a single glance in their rush.
With some reluctance, Javert walked up to the man. Did he seem like a drunkard? No, earlier he walked slowly, supported by a wooden cane. He wasn’t intoxicated, but ill, perhaps, or simply old.
He had little interest in approaching the stranger, but at the very least, he had to get him off the street. He knelt next to the man and shook his shoulder. “Monsieur?”
The man stirred, and made an attempt to support himself with his arms and get up, mumbling something inaudibly.
Javert froze.
He recognised the voice, and the white hair that he could now see underneath the hat. And, as the man managed to push himself to a sitting position, he recognised the face as well.
Jean Valjean looked at the ground with glazed eyes as he attempted to stand up. He leaned heavily on his cane, but his legs seemed to give out.
Before he collapsed, Javert reached out, gripping his shoulders firmly. The gesture was not one of compassion, but necessity, though for a fleeting moment, the two men stood face to face.
Javert stopped, struck by the cruel irony of any fate that would have put him in this situation. Here he stood, propping up a man he once swore to bring down - a man who dared to show him mercy. The law had failed to account for such contradictions.
He realised why he had not recognised him earlier - Valjean looked as though he had aged two decades in only months. His skin seemed thin enough to tear, his hands were trembling, and each movement seemed to cost him more than he could give. In no way was he the same man who managed to carry a dying boy through half of the city’s sewers not even a year ago - now he hardly seemed able to carry himself across the street.
Perhaps it was not Valjean after all, just someone who looked similar? But the more he looked, the more certain was the man’s identity. He shook him lightly by the shoulders. “Valjean?”
The old man blinked at the sound of his name and looked up at him, squinting and furrowing his brow. It did not seem like he recognised him - or that he was aware of anything going on around him, for the matter of fact.
Javert took a step back, his mind already crafting an excuse to turn around and leave the man there. It wasn’t his duty, not anymore. Had he not washed his hands from anything concerning the fate of Jean Valjean? The man had lived a free life for decades - perhaps this was some sort of justice catching up at last, a sentence carried out not by chains but by years.
Javert turned slightly, preparing to leave.
But his feet refused to move. A flicker of memory stopped him - of one night of the past summer, at the barricade - that night something cracked within him, though he still could not name it. Now, standing over the same man, he felt the fissure widen.
It was infuriating how the past refused to stay buried.
There was nothing just in Valjean perishing on the muddied cobblestone, brought down by some aliment and left there. How could there be? To Javert, the man could very well be a saint- a convict- he chose not to dwell on that thought.
With a scowl, he reached down, his hands hovering for a moment as if weighing the decision one last time. When he finally grasped the man’s arm, his grip was firm, though reluctant.
Duty, he reasoned with himself. He couldn’t leave a man sprawled in the street, if only because he was blocking it.
He stopped, unsure how to proceed.
He had to leave this man somewhere, find someone else to assist him. A hospital might help, but a private doctor would be faster. Still, the thought of spending the day hauling Valjean through the city filled him with unease. He wanted to be rid of this responsibility quickly.
Then it dawned on him - Rue de l’Homme Armé. The address, etched in his memory since the barricades, was only a few streets away. Closer than any hospital. This made him decide - he would bring him there, he would let whoever else lives at that address worry about calling the doctor, and that will take the problem off his shoulders - that was the best option.
Did Jean Valjean even live with anyone? He probably had at least one servant. He briefly wondered why they even let him leave the house unaccompanied in such a state. It was surely not a condition that developed during the past few minutes.
So it was decided. He felt like trying to discuss the matter with Valjean would be utterly pointless, as the man did not seem aware enough to even hear anything. He would probably not respond. Or worse - he would. Instead of trying, Javert tugged at his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of the address that he knew.
To him, Valjean was walking infuriatingly slow - as if he was sleepwalking. In an attempt to speed him up, Javert soon switched from tugging on his sleeve to walking next to him, supporting him by his shoulder, then he wrapped his arm around him and half-dragged him through the streets.
By the end of the walk, he was wholeheartedly sick of this situation, and physically exhausted. To make matters worse, some people on the streets watched him curiously. It must have looked like he was escorting some drunkard.
He greeted the sign marking the beginning of Rue de l’Homme Armé with relief. He wanted nothing more than to drop the man off here and leave as soon as he could.
He dragged Valjean towards the same building that he left him in back in June. He noticed the gate was ajar, and pushed it open. He looked around, but the porter was nowhere to be seen.
With a sigh, he looked at the stairs before him. Could he really not have lived on the ground floor?
Getting Valjean to walk upstairs took what seemed like aeons, but having accomplished it, he finally stood before what he supposed was the door to his flat. He raised his hand and knocked.
There was no reply.
Louder, he pounded on the wood. Again, he was met with silence.
Looking down, he realised that the key was in the lock - and that the door was unlocked. If there was nobody home, why would they leave the key here?
He decided that escorting the owner granted him the right to enter the apartment. He opened the door and pulled Valjean inside.
The apartment was modest for someone of Valjean’s means, but what struck Javert was the lifelessness of it. A single plate of uneaten food sat on the table, the only hint of recent activity in the otherwise barren space.
His gaze fixed on the armchair in the corner. He nearly tossed Valjean onto it, glad to be finally free of his weight.
As Javert settled him into the seat, Valjean’s lips moved faintly. The words were not audible, but they unsettled Javert. Was it gratitude? A plea? Either way, he had no wish to hear it. He shook his head, unwilling to linger.
He looked around the apartment. What now? Anyone that he had hoped to find was obviously not present. Should he simply leave? Perhaps someone would return soon - maybe they went outside to search for Valjean?
What troubled him was the lack of any normal objects that he would expect to find in a house inhabited by anyone, even a servant. A couple of books on the shelves and candlesticks on the mantelpiece suggested that someone still lived here, but most of the furniture held a layer of dust, proving that it has been unused for some time now. The room almost looked abandoned. He frowned. Over half a year has passed - what if Valjean has not even lived here by now?
He glanced at the door leading to other rooms. He could check there for signs of life but the idea of searching people’s bedrooms did not appeal to him at last. Perhaps he could ask the porter to pass the message to whoever should handle the situation?
He looked at Valjean who was now slumped over in the armchair, apparently asleep. He wondered if he would be of any help anytime soon. On the other hand, he shivered at the idea of having to talk to him.
At the thought of it, he suddenly felt the urge to leave that room.
Javert stepped out of the apartment, closing the door quietly behind him. He descended down the stairs, pushing away the thoughts filled with unease.
He approached what could have been the porter’s door and knocked, hoping for a better result than upstairs. He could hear the door unlock and a small, old woman opened them.
Before she could say anything, he introduced himself. “Inspector Javert of the Paris Prefecture of Police. Does monsieur-” it took him a moment to remember what name the man was using, “-Fauchelevent reside here at present?”
Looking at the woman made him realise that perhaps it would have been better not to speak as a police officer - she seemed rather startled by the situation. “Oh- yes, he most certainly does, but- I don’t know- did he-” she stuttered, then composed herself. “My deepest apologies, I thought that it was him that I heard earlier. But if it was you, then perhaps he isn’t here after all. Would you-”
“I have already deposited him in the apartment upstairs,” he interrupted her. “I only wanted to make sure that the apartment still does belong to him. But do you know where I can find- whoever lives there with him? I did not find anyone present.”
“Deposited?- Ah, I suppose that you are looking for his daughter, monsieur. Madame Cosette moved out weeks ago after her wedding,” she explained, her tone softening as she spoke of the young bride. “But may I ask, monsieur - deposited? Is monsieur Fauchelevent unwell? Is that why you are here? I thought-”
Javert waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, he is, but please do answer my questions first. If his daughter...” he stopped for a moment and frowned. Daughter? And a married one at that? It has been no more than nine years since he was a mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer; he definitely did not have a daughter then. Unless he was hiding one from the public - enough time has passed since he left Toulon for him to have a daughter this old. Either way, it was no use wondering about it now. “...if she is absent,” he continued, “how can I contact anyone else who lives there? A servant, perhaps?”
“Monsieur, I’m afraid that you won’t be able to find anyone who does. Their servant moved away together with madame Cosette - monsieur Fauchelevent has been the only resident here lately.”
“Oh.” That complicated the situation. “Then I suppose that his daughter should be notified. Hopefully she had not left Paris?”
“To the best of my knowledge, she hadn’t, monsieur. Her husband lived in Paris, though I don’t know his address-”
“His name then?” Javert interrupted her again, feeling his patience running thin. “Or any details?”
“Ah yes, I do know it, madame Cosette spoke about him often! Pontmercy was his name, if I’m not mistaken - Marius Pontmercy.”
Javert frowned. The name seemed familiar to him, though he could not recall where he had heard it. Nonetheless, a name should be enough to find the man. “Thank you,” he said to the portress, nodding. “Now, may I ask you a favour in monsieur Fauchelevent’s name, madame? It may be crucial for him to see the doctor as soon as possible. Please call for one. He will cover the costs.”
Nodding, the portress started chattering on in response but his thoughts had already drifted away. Pontmercy. The image of a piece of paper, taken from a seemingly dead body, with a few scribbled lines on it, flashed through his mind. Of course. The boy who Valjean carried from the barricade. So Valjean was right - he was alive then after all, and somehow still survived.
That was... fortunate, given the circumstances. He knew his address, at least. He could simply contact the Pontmercys and free himself from this situation.
Now that he thought about it... Marius Pontmercy had participated in the revolution. Did he kill anyone there? He was not sure, but he could face legal consequences for just taking part in the fights.
He could just send a letter. But why not have a word with the young revolutionary in person?
The porter’s rambling reached his ears again. The old woman, now recovered from her initial shock, was unstoppable. Javert, already sick of her chatter, half-listened until a detail caught his attention.
“...and perhaps this is none of my business,” the portress went on, “but madame Cosette hasn’t visited in ages! Such a loving child once, but to abandon her father now… how cruel! You must know, monsieur, I would have never expected that from her. Oh, it must be that husband of hers! I never trusted that boy. Poor monsieur Fauchelevent - his health is failing, and yet they’ve abandoned him! It really is so horrible of them… such a nice old man. But he has been looking so pale lately, I suppose his time has come, oh well. And-”
“Madame, please,” Javert interrupted her, suddenly more uncomfortable at her words. Was Valjean dying? The thought was surreal - could a man like Valjean truly die? He shook his head as though to clear it, turning back to the portress. “There is no need for the entire story now. We both have more urgent matters on hand. Please do contact a doctor as soon as possible. And, if you excuse me, I will try to see that the Pontmercys to pay a visit here.”
The old lady nodded vigorously, her enthusiasm almost overwhelming, and Javert stepped quickly out of her sight before she could launch back into her chatter.