Chapter Text
Valjean tore open the letter intended for Cosette, reading it but understanding almost none of it. His eyes darted around the page, taking in individual words rather than full sentences, until at last he alighted upon the phrase, ‘I am to die…When you read this my soul will be close by.’ A shudder tore through him, split between elation that the dreaded boy was not to bother them any longer, without having to do anything, and horror that such a young man, nay, a child, was so despondent that he would rather die than live without his young love. It was tormenting, pulled between two opposite emotions.
If he did nothing, if he simply went back to bed, the boy, Marius, would certainly perish, as was his stated intention. The barricades were not likely to stand for more than another day, let alone a few hours. In all likelihood, he would be dead by morning. Cosette would be morose beyond belief, consumed with her grief. She would never forgive him if she ever found out he could have at least tried to save him, if she found out he had known and had not told her. He would surely lose her forever, even after the threat of Marius was removed.
On the other hand, he was not guaranteed to be able to save the boy in the first place. Even if he went to the barricade looking for him, he might be dead already, or there might be no way to help him. Valjean could get himself killed right alongside the student revolutionaries. Then where would Cosette be? Fatherless and loveless, alone in the world? No, it was surely better to stay home and not take that risk.
He paced around the small room for well over an hour, deliberating between the two options, forced into making a decision. He could decide to do nothing, but that was making a choice all the same. To choose at all was torture, but to choose wrong was unthinkable.
And, suppose he chose to go to the barricades. He had no plan, no strategy. He was a fool for thinking of going.
Another hour went by before he came to a decision. Dressed in his national guard uniform, he headed off towards where the boy was waiting. On the way, he found a rifle and some cartridges. By the time he reached the barricade, he was perfectly inconspicuous to any passing guards. The only source of confusion might have been his fearless approach to the low barricade blocking the alley.
Before he was noticed by someone, he took the opportunity to look around. He had entered via the Rue Mondétour, and heard no lookout calling out at the sight of him in his uniform. There was a much larger barricade blocking the main street, the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and Valjean could see several young men swarming around it. At the corner of the two streets was the Corinthe wine-shop, and he could hear muffled voices from inside. Suddenly, the loud report of a gunshot echoed in the street. It was impossible to tell from where it had come exactly, other than that it was very close by. He jumped at the sound before managing to stifle his response. It would not do to be discovered in the throes of fear from a lousy gunshot, especially not when there would certainly be more to come soon enough.
Straining his eyes, he could not make out with any certainty the object of his search. Marius was nowhere to be seen. He had come all this way for nothing, it seemed. He frowned, upset that his lengthy deliberation had been a pointless waste of time. Just as he was turning to go back to climb out and go home, raised voices clattered into the street through the opening door of the Corinthe.
“Marius!” a voice cried out, loud in the quiet air. “Now that that is done, we must prepare to make our final stand. We must sell ourselves dearly, for if the people are not to join us, we must still stand for what we believe, and die for it, if need be.”
The response, which must have come from Marius, was audible from inside. “Enjolras, I understand. You know I have not always believed in everything you said, but I want to die with you, with my friends. There is nothing else for me out there, not anymore.” There was the sound of a wistful sigh, bringing to mind a lovesick fool, which Marius did indeed seem to be. “I just don’t think you needed to kill the spy like that. I recognized his name; he helped save a man from being extorted and killed by a terrible criminal gang. I overheard their planning in the room next to mine, and he believed me and offered to help. If anything, I was no use to him, and then again, now, I did nothing to save him. I do not think he was a terrible person, but rather just doing his job. Why should he be made to suffer like that?”
That seemed to explain the gunshot, at least, but also made the task of extracting Marius more difficult. It was extremely unlikely he would agree to leave willingly at this point, and they were preparing to make their final stand. Valjean had very nearly been too late to save him; had he deliberated any longer he likely would have been.
Enjolras responded, still just out of sight. “They killed Gavroche, Marius! They shot him, that little ragamuffin boy.” There was an anger in his voice that out-muscled the sadness, rage surpassing grief as the primary emotion. “He was too young to be here, but he believed in our cause and would not stay away. You tried, and he came right back. But that doesn’t give them the right to kill him! Someone had to pay for that, and, well, we had an available victim.” Valjean felt a shiver down his spine at the way this youth spoke. He was well-spoken and charming, but his words were fearsome. “Now, come on, Marius. Stop moping about your girl, and come help me.”
Valjean could hear the pair leaving the building, possibly heading his way. Fearing discovery, he pulled himself against the side of the alleyway, tucking into the deep shadows. From where he crouched, he could see the entryway of the Corinthe, and he hoped that anyone passing by would not be able to easily see him. From this vantage-point, he saw a pair of men, one of whom he recognized as Marius, and the other he assumed to be Enjolras, exit the wine-shop and begin to march purposefully and directly towards the barricade. Behind them, a dozen other young men followed. They all looked to be similarly aged, and Valjean wondered idly if they were all friends before today, or if they had met here, drawn together by common cause and fated to die together as a result. He supposed he might never know.
Driven perhaps by a sudden morbid curiosity, he crept inside the now-empty looking Corinthe. Just inside, one man was passed out, head laying on the small table he sat at, surrounded by empty bottles. He reeked of drink. Passing him by, Valjean continued deeper, heading towards the back. He heard no voices, and so relaxed slightly.
All this calm and ease left his body the moment he saw the bodies on the tables and floor, though. There were several on the tables; an old man who looked vaguely familiar, a few young men, a young woman, and, most heartbreakingly of all, the young boy who had delivered the message for Cosette and sent him here in the first place. They had been lain out with care, their eyes closed as if sleeping, but the lethal injuries that were apparent quickly dispelled that illusion.
The body that was not on a table was more interesting. It was leaned back against a pillar, loosely tied by rope, as though the bonds had been recently let up and had been much tighter before. Its legs were unusually long, its arms bent, hands pressing on its abdomen where a flower of red was blooming, staining its white shirt crimson with blood. Its head was slumped forward, its long, black hair had fallen completely over its face, entirely obscuring any hint of identity. Breaking the silence of the room, which had been as quiet as a tomb, it proved itself to still be alive, if only just, by letting out a groan of agony; a deep, guttural sound that tore at Valjean’s heartstrings. He hated to see anyone suffering, even someone who was evidently the spy that Marius had mentioned.
Almost without conscious thought, he found himself reaching down, brushing the figure’s hair out of its face. Upon seeing those familiar eyes, he yanked his hand back, as if burned by the touch. For who else would it be, if not that fierce adversary, the unstoppable inspector Javert?
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one blinking. Finally, Javert spoke, and his voice was rough and cracked. “I must be dead.” He laughed, a short, barking sound that felt unbearably loud in the cramped room, his lips peeled back in a manic grin. “I must be dead and this must be hell. Why else would you be here, if not to torment me?”
Valjean struggled to come up with a response. Why had he come in to the Corinthe, anyway? To gawk at an executed spy? That didn’t seem like him, after all. So what had drawn his curiosity? Did he wonder, did he somehow guess as to the identity, and need to know for himself?
“It’s you,” Valjean said at last, lamely, unable to piece together anything more sensible to say.
“Come to gloat, then? Come to watch my last moments before I leave you for good? You’ll be free; isn’t that what you always wanted? No one else will be looking for you. It was only me these days, and I’ll be out of your life soon enough.” He laughed again, which turned swiftly into a coughing fit, and he pressed harder against the wound.
“No- I don’t-” Valjean stammered. “They shot you!” he finally managed to exclaim.
“Astutely noted,” Javert said, dryly. “What, are you jealous? Wanted to do it yourself? Well you’re too late for that. It might take a while, they made sure of that, but I’ll bleed out eventually. I don’t care if you stay to watch. Can’t imagine it’ll be that good of entertainment, but maybe you just want to make sure it’s done?”
“I can’t believe- I don’t understand-” Valjean grasped for words, coming up empty yet again. “Why would they want you to suffer like this?”
“Why would they want a spy to suffer?” Javert asked, incredulous, baffled by the simple question. “What world have you been living in?” He gave another barking laugh, cutting himself off before it could devolve into coughing this time. “I think the national guard captured one of their own. Would’ve liked to exchange me for him, but they shot him first, before the offer could be made. Sealed my fate and didn’t even know. And then they killed that poor boy, the one on the table over there.” He pointed, and Valjean followed his gesture, knowing already exactly who he would see was being referenced. That child was far too young to be involved with all this, and yet, Valjean could not exactly blame him for doing something, making a decision of his own, after living on the streets likely his entire life. It was such a shame he had died, but at least he had lived first.
Javert continued his explanation. “They carried his body in here, and I could see how mad they were. I knew my time had come. They had said they were going to wait until just before the barricade fell to execute me, but evidently they changed their minds. And they didn’t shoot me in the head like they had originally threatened. No, this is much worse. I’ll die anyways, but I’ve been left to die slowly and painfully. The longer they hold out against the guard, the more certain my death becomes. But even if the barricade falls, when the national guard gets in here, they’ll probably shoot me themselves before I can explain why I am here. At least it will be over.” He groaned again, the pain evidently getting worse.
Valjean listened in horror. Marius’ friends, those young men outside, were capable of such cruelty!
Javert spoke up again, abruptly. “Since you are here, you could shoot me yourself. I would accept a faster death by your hand. You could have your revenge against me after all.” He said these things with such blasé indifference, it was bizarre to hear.
“I don’t want to do that,” Valjean replied, equally as abruptly.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Javert mumbled to himself. “Why would you help me, after all? I, who have tormented you and chased you down for all these years, deserve no kindness from you.”
“That’s not what I mean. I don’t want you to die.” Valjean surprised himself with the words that had just left his mouth. As strange as they were, they were not lies. “If it is in my power, I will save your life. I give you my word.”
“I won’t accept your bargain, Valjean!” spat Javert, vehemently, before wincing, caught out by a spike of pain.
“It’s not a bargain. I don’t expect anything in exchange. I just don’t want to see you die here, alone and in agony. You don’t need to die today.”
“And how do you expect to help me, then?” Javert questioned, bluntly. “The national guard is coming. The barricade will fall shortly. There’s nowhere to go.”
“Why would they shoot me in my uniform?” Valjean asked, slowly puzzling it out. “Do you have some sort of identification that proves you are police spy?”
“Yes. Why? What are you planning? And who’s to say I’ve agreed to anything of your scheme? I could turn you in as soon as they get here. Reveal you for what you are. What then?” He scoffed. “You’ll just have to kill me.” He said it so matter-of-factly that it took Valjean a second to realize what he had actually just proposed.
“No!” Valjean cried. “I won’t. I don’t want to kill you, Javert.” A pleading tone crept into his voice against his will. Just then he remembered his original mission, and the sole reason he had come to the barricade in the first place. “There is another I need to save, if we can. Maybe I can claim he was also here as a spy? Unless he is dead already, of course.” He was still so conflicted about whether he wanted Marius to survive. He needed to try, though, no matter what. He had wasted so much time already, he would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t try his best after all that.
“Another at the barricade? One of the students?” Javert raised an eyebrow, likely questioning his motives.
“Yes. My daughter loves him.”
“Your daughter? I did not—”
“Not expect me to have a daughter?” Valjean finished his question for him. “Cosette. Fantine’s daughter. I took her in after I saved her from those corrupt innkeepers.”
“In Montfermeil, yes, of course. You kept her all this time?” Javert wondered, amazed.
“She is the light of my life,” Valjean answered, simply. “But once she is happy, married to her beloved and safely away from me, I do not care what should happen to me. You can take me, at that point. I would not object. I only wish to carry out this final task.” The words were sticky in his throat but he forced them out. They were entirely true, but difficult to acknowledge, and likely even more difficult to believe.
Javert looked contemplative, and perhaps, hopefully, he was actually considering the request.
“Please decide, Inspector,” Valjean hastened. “You run low on time.”
“Fine,” spat Javert. “I will hold you to it. You won’t escape me, 24601. Not this time!”
Valjean rankled at the number, but pushed the feeling aside, needing to focus now. “I am going to go find the boy, Marius, and see if I can bring him here. Please stay, and keep pressure on the wound. I will return as soon as I can.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Javert laughed, cold and detached. “See you shortly! One way or the other!” The last thing Valjean saw before leaving the room was his manic grin, which transformed in an instant into a look of anguish, his frame wracked by throes of agony.