Chapter Text
Moonlight streams in through the garret chamber window. It illuminates, by pieces, what remains.
Over the wilted flowers in the window box it runs, across the scarred and pockmarked table and dripping onto the floor. Rivulets and tributaries spread to the corners of the rooms, find and outline the shapes that huddle there. The bulky mass of the unlit stove, the cavernous blackness of the empty cabinets. The main force continues onwards, through the open doorway and into the inner chamber, a single stream of silver light.
There, in a chair under the wash of it, sits the shape of a man, half obscured by the folds of his cloak. His face and body are turned towards something in the darkness, a bed, upon which lies another man.
This is an old man, stretched out on the sheets, ill worn by care and time. His lips are cracked, his skin is sagging, and his disheveled hair is palest white. And yet, though he lies beyond the reach of light it is as if he’s somehow glowing, illuminated from within.
His bedside companion is his opposite in most all things. His hair is black as the old man’s is white, his beard is trimmed and dark clothes neat. His face is smooth and fine and handsome, though tracks of tears yet glimmer down his cheeks.
His gaze is rapt, attentive on the sleeping man. Not one breath goes by unnoticed, not one aborted motion nor swallowed groan. It happens now and then, less often now when the worst of it has passed but still, that he reaches for him. To feel for himself that the old man’s pulse has settled, and his breathing remains clear; to know with the assurance of fingertips on skin that he is sleeping soundly still.
Beside the man there is a drawered nightstand, occupied at present beyond its natural capacity. The stump of a candle sits there in its holder, guttered out. A water pitcher beside it, nearly empty. Next to them both a battered Bible, upon which stands a half-empty glass of water and entirely empty bowl, except for the spoon still resting inside.
Behind him in the darkness, a second bedframe, curled in the corner like a spider husk.
The man shifts in his seat and leans once more over his patient, care and worry painting long lines across his brow. Two fingers alight upon his pulse point, relax and then withdraw, the man nodding to himself, seemingly satisfied.
It is now, as he settles back in his chair that, perhaps by accident or perhaps by design, a floorboard creaks just so under his foot. The man looks down. He quirks an eyebrow at the floor.
With the casual confidence of a consummate professional, the man leans down and sets his fingers to this creaking piece of wood. With a single silent motion, he pries it from its resting place to reveal the black space below.
That there is a secret nook under the floorboards does not seem to surprise the man, nor that it is clearly already occupied. What does surprise him, however, is the identity of this newfound buried treasure.
There through the gloom he spies a cloth-bound book, water stained and bulging with loose pages. This find alone intrigues the man enough to distract him, for he entirely fails to investigate what else might hide there below as he pulls the book from it bolt hole and out into the light.
As he resettles in his chair, the book heavy in his lap, his gaze once more returns to the sleeping man. There is a new look in his eye now, however. One of curiosity. One, perhaps, even of respect.
He leans back and unclasps his cloak, letting it drape over the back of the chair as he crosses his legs and stretches them out. Then, with naught but moonlight for a lamp, he lets the book fall open and begins to read.
Marseilles was beautiful. Even like this, spring only just beginning to stretch its fair green gossamer over trees and trellises, it was obvious. The sunny shopfronts, the bustling streets, the glinting spires of the churches; everywhere one looked there could be seen the signs of prosperity and progress. And then, the wind picked up, the taste of salt in the air, and all at once great clouds of sails could be spotted, billowing wide and welcoming against the blue of sea and sky.
To Jean Valjean, it seemed not a little bit like Hell.
“I’ll take it.”
“Very well, if Monsieur is certain.” The landlord still looked somewhat dubious. “The ground floor rooms are still available, should you wish to take a second look. The rent is somewhat higher, that is true, but the accommodations—”
“This will suit me just fine, thank you.”
Any room would suit Jean Valjean, to his own mind, were it cheap enough. All in all, the garret space which he was in the process of renting was a great deal more comfortable than many a place where he had willingly chosen to rest his head in for the night (not to mention places he had not).
It was a total of two rooms he was signing for. An outer one that served as both kitchen and parlor, and an inner one that had primarily been used as a bedroom, if the pair of empty bedframes were any indication.
The former of these two rooms, in which they were now standing, had a long sloping ceiling, such that one had to crouch to reach the furthest wall. From it jutted a single dormer window which, had it not been covered in bare and bristly vines, would have afforded one a fair view across the trees and rooftops of the harbor, the little chain of islands off the coast, and the sea.
“It is not entirely furnished of course,” the landlord continued in a somewhat awkward tone. “Most of the last long-term tenant’s possessions had to be sold off, you understand, to pay for his living. What remains is just what wasn’t worth the trouble to sell, and none of the people who have come and gone since have stayed for long enough to dispose of it. We can have it all carted away of course, if Monsieur wishes to fill the place with his own furniture.”
“No, I will keep the place as is. I will have my own possessions brought up here with me, and that will be enough.”
Waste not, want not, after all. Besides, there was something right, Jean Valjean thought, about him living his last among the cast-offs of some unknown wretch. Perhaps once he might have wanted to find this previous inhabitant, to pay him back for the things which he did not know that he was giving away, but at this moment all that Jean Valjean could find within himself to feel for this stranger was a vague and amorphous pity.
He had not brought many things with him from Paris, so the moving in was a very simple affair. The landlord, who had sensed a quiet sort of distinction in his new tenant, was briefly disappointed at this paltry show of effects. However, any such notion was quickly washed away once he had his contract signed and advance dutifully paid. The cart that had brought the man along with his remaining earthly possessions left, as did the landlord with word that the portress would bring breakfast in the morning, and then Jean Valjean was alone.
I have made my mind up on the matter. No, I will not write to her. It would be the sort of mistake one could not return from. I promised as much, for her sake as well. If I am to do this as thoroughly as she deserves, then I need to let even the word of her go.
Was that not for the purpose of which I brought this? I know well my own restless fingers. If the beast needs feeding, and I have
no one upon this earth to whom I would dare write, then I shall turn my pen to other purposes. My last correspondence shall be with God alone.
If anyone does happen upon this book and find it to be still intact, then I ask this of you: burn it. These words are meant for no man’s eyes.
(If you are whom I suspect that you would be, then I know that you may consider yourself to be exempt. Please understand me when I tell you that you are not. I know that I owe you answers but I am sorry, I have none to give you. Not even for myself.)
It matters little to me if someone else should read this, for I shall be long gone by then, but there are yet people whom I care to protect, and I know that by this I am only doing them further harm.
In a chair under the moon and by an old man’s bedside there sits a man who is indeed reading these words as they stand written. As he reaches these passages he quirks a lip, but he makes no other motion but to incline his head in wry acknowledgement towards the sleeping man. He shifts, recrosses his legs, and turns the page.
I find myself too full of thoughts these days, and with no place else to put them down. This is natural I suppose, of a life reaching its end. A reckoning with what has passed, in the face of what’s to come.
A confession, yes, that is the word. In more ways than one.
There were three meals a day if the gentleman wished to pay for them, Jean Valjean was made to understand. Warm water if he asked for it, though a full bath he would need to find elsewhere. Cleaning, laundry, if it could not be sorted on site then the porter could point him towards good local providers.
The garden was for everyone to enjoy. No, he may not alter, add, or remove anything that grew there without prior permission, but there were tools in the shed by the wall, should he have an interest in pottering.
Indeed, he may bring those shears up to his room, provided they would come right back down after he was done with them. To cut the vine that grew about his window down to size? Very prudent of him. Should he wish to have the whole thing removed he needed only say the word. The lodgings to his liking? It would be quite simple to look over them; find someone to replace the paper, perhaps throw up some paint. All was as it should be? Very good to hear. Well, he and the wife (for so the porter called her) lived right down by the gate, so if there was anything he needed they were always close at hand. Nothing at the moment? Well, that was good as well.
Thus, Jean Valjean spent his first days in the city by the coast, in distraction. For he knew, even as he refused to put words to it, what was coming. Sooner or later, there would be nothing left for him but to submit to the inevitable.
Marseilles, 8th March 1833
My dearest Cosette,
Spring has come to Marseilles, if you can believe it. I have seen the birds fly northwards from my window, and it warms my heart to think that soon enough they might reach you.
There is no need to worry yourself on my behalf, I have found
I have found a fine enough set of rooms by now, so there is no need for you to worry
It is a fine enough set of accommodations I have found myself. Two rooms are far more than necessary, you know how little I require, but they came partly furnished, and the little street upon which it lies is lined with lime trees. I confess, I much enjoy the thought of waking to their scent once the year grows late enough for them to bloom.
There is a common garden around the back as well, through a brick passageway and behind a wall. It is somewhat overgrown, having no one for a gardener but the porter when he is not otherwise busy and the occasional hireling. Still, it is a fine enough place to take the evening air, and I imagine it will only become more so once the sun comes out from where it hides over winter to warm the benches and the stones.
One might not believe it from where I sit, but it is a lively city I have found myself in. Far more so than me I am afraid, sedate as I have become in my old age.
No, that is not entirely accurate. The street may be quiet, but the house itself is busy enough to make up for it. Five floors make for many neighbors, and among them I have only had the pleasure to make the acquaintance of a few.
Just below me lives a pair of ladies; sisters, I think, or else a pair of widows. They made sure to come greet me once I had settled in. Apparently, they regularly host a salon for friends and fellow ladies, and they wanted to apologize in advance were they to disturb my peace. Well, I am sure it will be fine. One can hardly complain about an excess of cheer.
Other than them there are two families living here. One, I have yet to meet the father of, though it seems the mother manages well enough on her own, working during the days to care for her two children.
The other seems quite recently formed, a mother and father and their newborn child. The man I understand is some manner of clerk, doubtless of one of the many shipping companies that make this city their home, though more I do not know.
The ground floor rooms are still available to let, though I doubt they will remain so for long.
I had forgotten how much work it is to speak this way with strangers. It is a skill that, if I ever had it, I have since let atrophy. Well, no matter. I shall try my best for your sake, because I believe that it would please you. Besides, it is not so bad. They are curious about me at the moment, but I am sure with time my presence will become as unremarkable as any other. They all seem like pleasant enough people, even living as close as we now do.
Writing of people with whom one shares a home: I have made a little discovery with regards to my own rooms that I believe you might enjoy.
Cosette, I think the last people to make their lives here was a family.
Now, this is not so strange to imagine. You might recall, after all, that there are two families living here at this moment. However, I am not writing this from mere supposition; I have found some evidence to this.
Upon the doorframe which separates the inner chamber from the outer one there runs a series of notches, from just below my knee to about the crown of my own head, ascending at uneven but steady amounts. Do you know what they are? I will tell you. They are the marks of someone growing, year by year.
A son, I do believe, from the height of those last marks, though I would not dare swear to it. There are nineteen of them in total, provided I have not miscounted; a very reasonable age at which a young man might reach his adult height.
It is nice, wouldn’t you agree, to think of staying in a place which has this on the wall? To think that in these rooms there once lived a growing child, and a parent (only one, I think, unless two people slept very closely indeed on a single bed) who was pleased enough to see it that they made sure, every year, to mark it down on the doorframe for posterity. It warms these walls to me ineffably, to think that they’ve known love.
The reading man looks up at this, startled at the emergence of unexpected memory. He looks up and around himself and indeed, right where they should be, he can see them through the gloom. The same set of lines as this draft of a letter writes of; nineteen notches carved in wood and painted black by shadow. The reader counts them all in turn, and the look in his eye is as rich in love as it is in sorrow.
All in all, you may consider me to be very well situated indeed.
However, dearest Cosette, what of yourself? How are you faring since I left lately? You were fairly glowing last I saw you; I trust that has not faded yet, nor that it ever will. Are you eating well? Sleeping soundly? You do not keep too late hours, I hope? Youth is a wonderful thing, but your eyes will not thank you if you strain them on late night reading. You need to take care of yourself, and to let yourself be taken care of, especially now that I am not there to do it for you. You know that I only hope that you are happy and pray that you will so remain.
And too, what of your husband? (Oh, but how you have grown! When did this happen? It seems to me only moments since I first took your hand, and now here you are, minding a household of your own. How are you finding it, being the lady of the house? I know that I could not have prepared you for it, not properly, not as a mother could, but I hope this failure of mine has not come to grieve you overmuch. But I am digressing, you will forgive an old man his reminiscences.) Is he all set up now, caring for you as he should?
With what I left you I know that you will never want for money; however, it does a man good to be able to provide for his wife as well. I do hope that you are not afraid to use what you have. It need not be anything extravagant (unless you wish it to be of course) only, live beautifully, my dear. You deserve all the wonders of the world and more.
Write to me if it pleases you, Cosette, or do not write at all. I will read anything you send me, but do not spend any more words than you have to spare. Do that only, and you will find me very happy indeed.
With all the love in my heart,
Your old guardian
27th February 1833
Inspector Javert,
You may be pleased to find that I have done as promised. I am now in a location (I will not say where, for your own sake) from which I am unlikely to disturb either your practical life or your conscience, and where I intend to remain for the rest of my natural life.
You may rest assured that I have no intention of bothering you any further, and it is indeed my fervent hope that, with myself taken out of the picture, you shall find it within yourself to live a long and fruitful life.
As to what happened
Jean Valjean had not written his letter to Cosette with the intention of sending it to her. Naïve of him perhaps, but it was true. At the time of writing, it had felt like most any of the exercises in which he was so fond of engaging. The writing in his book, quiet contemplation, his meditations and his prayers; all communion with that great immensity, excavations into the obscure recesses of his soul, releases of overwrought feeling, in short: trepanning. It had not been written to be read.
He had told himself this at the time and he’d believed it, right up until the moment it was already too late.
It had been quite easy to write the letter; he was in good practice of putting thought to paper by now, and there were many things which he would have wanted to tell Cosette, were he able. It had been easier still to make of that first draft a proper letter, only to put the best words on good paper and with proper penmanship. It had been the easiest thing in all the world to fold that letter closed, to write her address on the front and seal it on the back, and then there really had been nothing left to do but to send it off.
There had been a battle here, Jean Valjean now understood, and he had lost it. He had fought, lost ground, rallied his forces, and lost again. Now, there was nothing left for him but to survey the wreckage.
He had failed Cosette, and in the most fundamental of ways. The lion’s share of this whole exercise had after all been for her benefit. He was to remove himself from her as cleanly as he was able. He was not supposed to remind her of him ever again; he certainly was not supposed to give her his new address.
However, he thought, in a voice so reasonable that it could almost be mistaken for impartial, would Cosette not be distressed were he to simply disappear from her life? She still held some fondness for him, he would assume, and though he would not flatter himself that it could not be erased, a sudden and violent snapping of the thread between them might rebound to hurt her, and that would be unacceptable.
A gradual dissolution then might be for the best. A slow slackening of tension, and a natural, gentle sort of removal. It would be quite simple to arrange. With him no longer present in her day-to-day life, and with her already busy enough with her new husband, new mode of living, and new, diverting ways to fill her time, he was sure that Cosette would have no trouble letting him fade from her mind. He must be quite uninteresting in comparison, in his quiet, graying years.
Once she had done her duty and assured herself of his continued health and comfort her mind would no doubt turn to other, more exciting and immediate matters. He may not even need to do anything to bring this about. Indeed, for all he knew it could have happened already.
As for the other letter, it sat, crumpled into a tight ball, blotched and effaced and nearly illegible, in a corner of the room for a good number of days, before Jean Valjean picked it up in preparation for a coming round of cleaning.
By then he had quite forgotten what it was and, when he unraveled it in curiosity to see, he flinched. Still, he smoothed it flat and pressed it, crackling faintly and stiff with excess ink, between the pages of the book, where it remained. He never looked at it again.
Jean Valjean had not moved to Marseilles in order to die there. At least, he had not done so consciously. He simply considered his life to have reached its end. That the days still continued to pass around him was considered with faint puzzlement, even annoyance. A distinct sense that time really ought to know better than to keep dragging him along when he was so clearly finished with it.
Still, he rose from his bed every morning, he ate of the breakfast left out for him, he tended to his scant correspondence, he went to sit in the garden for the evening. What prompted this motion, gentle as it may have been? Simply the thought that one day he might receive a reply to his letter from Cosette. It was a faint hope, but a hope nonetheless, and as he drifted further out to sea Jean Valjean had not the sense to cling to it like driftwood, but only to follow it at a distance, like a guiding star.