Chapter Text
The summer months of 1820 were uncharacteristically warm. For all of July, the countryside had been stifled by dry and breathless air.
The Strait of Calais had naturally drawn many visitors, but as the temperatures soared beyond reason, the shoreline began to heave with an abnormal number of tourists.
The water was deep and cold, though not exactly dazzlingly blue like in the South. In the mornings, the ebbing tide gave way to the pungent, raw smell of seaweed along the harbours, and in the evenings, the returning waves lapped at the mooring posts and encrusted them with salt.
All throughout the muggy nights, the distant clunks of chains on buoys and the thud of fenders against wooden hulls lulled the fishermen, cartographers, and ropemakers soundly to sleep.
In a way, it was its own sort of paradise, and there were many such little paradises all across the coast of Northern France.
The strong scent of the ocean carried several leagues inland on the southerly breeze, right into the newly-respectable town of Montreuil-sur-Mer.
It was here that many of the town’s working citizens — bogged by the summer haze and seeking a brief respite — resolved unto their daydreams, and took up their allocated days of rest to set forth on shore bound travels.
The women of Monsieur Madeleine’s factory, upon noting the exodus of others, had adamantly assured him that their work in particular would not go interrupted. They intended to continue threading and sanding and shaping, even as the days grew longer and warmer.
But, the glistening sweat on their brows and stagger of productivity did not go unnoticed. No woman could aptly work here in this unforgiving heat. By the third day of intolerable conditions — so sweltering in fact that even Monsieur Madeleine had to loosen his cravat — the decision had been finalised.
The factory would close for a four-day weekend, and, of course, no struggling employee facing financial strife would have to fret. Monsieur Madeleine insisted on paying regular wages for the duration of the extended leave — an utterly unprecedented act of generosity. Once again, his saintly reputation had been vindicated.
Understandably then, the women were ecstatic.
Madeleine nodded modestly at the end of the last working day when they showered him with praise, dotting kisses upon his hands and searching for the perfect words to express their gratitude. He warmly waved his workforce away from the top of the steps. Each woman hurried home to a parent, a husband, a child — whoever it was that they loved deeply — full of excitement that they might endeavour to visit the coast for a short holiday.
What a rare surprise for all.
Monsieur Madeleine, for his part, found himself yearning for a similar escape, and for once, he did not chide himself for this selfish thought. A wistful yearning came to pass through him in a deep sigh, and he returned through the halls of the factory to his office.
Parsing his opinions from the few times he had visited the oceans of France, he had determined that he did not particularly prefer the North.
It was for a trivial spattering of reasons.
For example, the waters were not as warm in this part of the country. Compounding the unpleasantries was the water’s colour, or lack thereof. The silt had a regular habit of kicking up under the movement of boats, which swirled parts of the coastline into an unappealing brown.
That was not to say there were not things about the Northern coastline that Madeleine did indeed find appealing.
One thing he had noticed in particular, something that had enamoured him to these waters, was its smell. The channel waters had a deep, rich, intoxicating scent that carried for miles.
He could catch the vague essence of salt and brine even now through the open bay windows of his office, and if he were to stand and tilt his nose to the air, and take in long draws of breath, he would be engulfed by the rawness of it.
It reminded him of Toulon.
Although, not in the same way as did the sight of rats and chains and the cracking of whips.
Valjean had very rarely found restful sleep in the bowels of that prison, but whenever he did sleep soundly after months of disturbed nights, it was the ocean breeze slipping through the bars that carried Valjean off to slumber.
He often dreamed, on nights such as these, of drifting far away on a sailboat built for one. His rough hands would hold tight to the mainsheet, and the sail above him would flap with vigour. Then all at once, the sails would bloom out and fill with air. The boat would tack in a long smooth curve across the tideless Mediterranean water, and Valjean’s weary, filth-smeared face would be cleaned anew by the spray of the sea.
Only during these dreams did he sleep so soundly, and only after them did he wake feeling invigorated, refreshed, alive.
The worst stenches of the Bagne — the sweat, the piss, the blood — were, every now and then, overpowered by something sweeter.
Indeed, the smell of the sea was a source of great relief to Valjean. Each and every time he had escaped Toulon’s walls, it was his friend the ocean that welcomed him first. It was the breeze that filled his lungs and ruffled his hair, the waves that roared for his victory; it was the fresh smell of freedom.
Madeleine skimmed over his paperwork one more time, though taking little care to keep the margins tight or the lines straight. He could not muster much more energy for this task, and seeing that all of his employees had taken their leave, he too took his chance to rest. Madeleine reclined back in his chair with a tired groan.
He had already stripped off his waistcoat earlier, as well as his cravat, for both garments had been unbearable to wear in the sticky heat. His usually well-kept, fox-feathered hair was now dishevelled, and his curls clung to the sweat on his forehead. His sleeves were rolled high, revealing the muscles of his forearms and the scars that wrapped around them.
If he could cast aside the remainder of his clothes and occupy his office dressed only in a wet towel, well, he would. It would be uncouth, scandalous even, and if someone were to come along unexpectedly? — he did not dare entertain it.
Although, perhaps if he were someplace else…
He could certainly get away with being half-dressed by the beach with a drink in one hand and a book in the other. No one would pay him a passing glance.
Surely he could permit himself that?
Permit to himself that he could go somewhere else. That he could take a break, just like his dutiful employees.
A break sounded nice.
He desired to feel the splash of the ocean on his broad chest, to feel it lapping at his tired feet as he walked along the shore.
He wouldn’t mind taking a short trip to a pleasant seaside town. He could stay in a quaint inn on the dunes and have lunch by the pier.
Yes.
He could go.
Where would he go?
Berck, perhaps?
Berck was further to travel than Merlimont, though he suspected the crowds would be far smaller there, and that on its own appealed to Valjean. He liked the idea of walking down the promenade alone with only the gulls and gannets for company, and the northern breeze soothing his pains.
As he daydreamed at his desk of what he would do with his weekend, Madeleine was stirred from his thoughts by the sound of steel-toed boots clicking around the corner; and then, the tap of a cane against the ground where its owner had paused behind his office door.
Promenading alone…?
Perhaps not.
“Come in,” He called out, before his visitor had time to knock.
He had gotten rather accustomed to recognising Javert’s gait and approach — much in the way a father may recognise the sound of his son’s footsteps on the stairs, or a husband of his wife.
As expected, it was indeed the Inspector who opened the door to Madeleine’s office.
Madeleine looked up only for a moment as he finished his writing, and suddenly had to look up again. — He had not expected to see the Inspector dressed down for the heatwave.
It took weather of extreme proportions for Javert to compromise his impeccable uniform, but here he stood, greatcoat and hat abandoned in favour of his code-approved waistcoat, and his dubiously approved rolled up sleeves. His face glistened in the glowing sunlight, and his chest rose and fell just fast enough to tell Valjean of the Inspector’s discomfort in the warmth of the factory. His waistcoat was buttoned, but the collar of his shirt had been pulled open. Even his stock seemed looser than usual.
Valjean did not often get to see Javert undone in such a way outside of the mayoral residence, not even many years ago during similarly blazing months at Toulon. Seeing Javert’s long, white sleeves unbuttoned and bunched up to his biceps and his dark skin thrumming with heat was a welcomed surprise.
“Monsieur le Maire,” Javert spoke in a poorly-disguised, weary voice. “Good afternoon.”
The Inspector’s furrowed brow did not appear as strong without the fortifying brim of his hat, but still, his eyes looked to Madeleine with unsure hesitation.
It was only then that Madeleine realised how casually his own attire had devolved; his waistcoat was gone and his cravat was draped over his shoulder. His sleeves, too, remained rolled high — leaving his scars exposed. A few years ago, such an occurrence would send Valjean into flight. It did not matter now. It was nothing the Inspector had not already seen, nor found the strength to come to terms with.
He reclined lazily in his chair, and offered his greetings to Javert.
“What brings you to me, Inspector?”
Javert — once he had finished scrutinising the mayor’s unkempt appearance — eventually found the manners to reply.
“I had noticed your employees leaving early. I thought it best to make sure that you,— that all was well.”
Madeleine nodded.
“Yes. I’m perfectly alright.” He sighed. “It’s just that…”
He took a long, yawning stretch in his chair before he deflated back down again.
“I cannot stand this terrible heat. It has simply overwhelmed me. I thought it best to give my workers the reprieve of enjoying an early weekend, so I discharged them.”
Javert’s brow scrunched, but he nodded despite himself.
“I see.”
“And what of you, Inspector?” Madeleine asked him, eyes full of a playful curiosity.
“I have noticed you aren’t wearing your greatcoat today?”
“And nor you your waistcoat, Monsieur.”
Madeleine could very well have been wearing that wet towel from the way Javert’s voice wavered as he spoke. Somehow, the inspector seemed scandalised by him at every moment.
Madeleine did not acknowledge the comment beyond a jesting smile. Then, he raised an eyebrow, and jerked his head in a way that would remind Javert that a question had indeed been asked of him.
“I would not wear my coat in temperatures this dire, Monsieur. It would be foolish to favour formalities over health. I have patrolled efficiently today without such clothing stealing away my breath.”
Madeleine couldn’t help but picture Javert dressed fastidiously in his coat and hat, sweltering and gasping on his patrols and growing lightheaded from the sun.
“And you have finished for today?”
“No, Monsieur, I have another patrol I must conduct before I have to—”
“Would you like to come with me to Berck, Inspector?”
That had come out of nowhere.
Javert had been stopped in his tracks. He could not quite remember the rest of his itinerary for the time being.
“Pardon, Monsieur?” He replied.
Madeleine took a moment's joy in Javert’s muddled expression. He could not lie, he did rather enjoy sticking a spoke in Javert’s unstoppable wheel of thought every now and then, just to see the Inspector become meek and attentive.
He tilted his head away towards the window and allowed his gaze to explore the horizon. He placed a hand comfortably upon his own chest and spoke fancifully.
“I feel that I must make a trip.” He explained, absently playing with a loose button on his shirt. “I should think I will be setting off very soon.”
After an extended silence in which Javert made no call to respond, Madeleine looked to him again, and held out his hand in a vague gesture of encouragement.
“I am offering you an invitation.”
Javert gave a short utterance of understanding. He straightened his back and clasped his hands behind himself.
“There is no need to present an invitation, Monsieur.” Javert assured him. “If you require my attendance, I shall go with you obediently. What business is there in Berck that you must tend to?”
Javert spoke quickly and curtly, and Madeleine was lost in the whirlwind of such an immediate acceptance — but when he realised Javert’s insinuation, he was quickly put off. There was little triumph to be found in this success if the Inspector’s duties obliged him to follow. Valjean would have to try again, to have Javert accept on personal terms.
“Oh, I have none. There is no business at all.”
Madeleine finally stood from his chair with a deep heave. His cravat had slipped from his shoulder as he rose, and it landed on the edge of the desk. He took it into his hand and played with it for a time.
“I must confess,” He spoke again, keeping his eyes on the gilded silk that twisted in his fingers.
“I am desperate to get away from Montreuil. I’ve been fancying a short visit to the coast all week, and I might as well take some time to rest for a few days while the factory is closed.”
His eyes glanced up, and the Inspector was watching him patiently.
“I thought that, perhaps… you would like to join me on a holiday?”
Javert’s eyes seemed to brighten for just a moment, and a pursed frown of consideration rose up upon his face. He opened his mouth slightly, as though he might nod and say, ‘well, alright,’ — but he did not.
Rather, he became dour again, licked his teeth under his closed lips, and shook his head.
“It is a kind offer, but I must remain here. Not all of us can go along on frivolous little trips when the weather is amicable, some of us have to stay to keep things orderly.”
Javert did not seem displeased by his obligations, and maybe he had hoped that Madeleine would nod and commend him for his steadfast commitment to his work. Instead, Valjean began chipping away at the Inspector’s resolve.
“You are certain you would not enjoy a rest, Inspector?”
“I would rather not. Although… Monsieur, I cannot simply—”
“And are you not tired?” Madeleine interrupted liltingly. “I have seen you sweltering in the streets, you know. — I worry that you will overexert yourself. It is an easy thing to do when one loses track of the weather.”
Javert was now very thankful for the heatwave, which granted him an alibi to the flush that crept up his neck.
Valjean had been watching him from afar and he hadn’t noticed. He wondered what he might have looked like, dressed down like a civilian and ducking into the shade with his useless gaggle of gendarmes. Had Valjean seen them reposing behind the wall, or fanning themselves with their open collars, or splashing one another’s foreheads with water? He felt a little less than humiliated.
Madeleine circled the desk and looked up, catching a clear view of Javert’s reddened skin, slicked with sweat. He wanted to dab it away with the cravat in his hand, but he controlled himself.
He observed closer, and noticed that Javert had a bright burn on his skin between the base of his neck and his stock. As Madeleine’s gaze returned to the Inspector’s face, he noticed that the rim of Javert’s cheeks and indeed the length of his nose were all kissed red by the sun. Had the man not worn a hat at all during the day?
Madeleine tutted and shook his head.
“You are hard-working to a fault, Inspector. But I find that your duties must also include another responsibility — one that you have neglected sorely, and which greatly disappoints me.”
Javert looked down to the green silk embroidered with golden thread that Madeleine clutched in his hand between them. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, that there were other obligations to the mayor — to Valjean — that he had been putting off. He huffed repentantly.
His own hesitant hand reached out, and he pressed his fingers into the fabric.
“Jean…”
“You may appoint a deputy to your position if you wish.” Madeleine suggested quietly. “I have missed spending days with you, Javert.”
Javert let out another weary sigh.
“You won’t give in until I yield, I suppose?”
Madeleine smiled, and his fingers found Javert’s through the thin silk.
“In truth, I would feel remiss to travel without you.”
The two conceded then with smiles, one bright and affectionate, the other crooked and shy from disuse.
Valjean placed a hand upon Javert’s shoulder, and the man winced. His sunburnt collarbone smarted under his shirt. Valjean removed his hand quickly and lifted the shirt just enough to see the damage, and could only laugh softly.
“And we shall make sure to find a hat for you before we go.”