Chapter Text
When Valjean turned away, Javert could see him take a deep breath. Then, Valjean stepped towards the narrow bed, and from beneath it, pulled out a valise.
“Cosette called it my inseparable,” he said when Javert came to stand beside him. Valjean's voice cracked when he continued. “She said she was jealous of it. Those days...”
He raised a trembling hand to wipe at his face. Then he knelt down, and opened the valise, and with reverent hands pulled out a small, black dress. Javert watched in silence as it was spread out on the bed. Next followed a scarf; shoes; a vest; petticoats. All the clothes were handled with the same care Javert had seen Valjean use for the candlesticks, or his Bible. Then followed an apron, black as the rest of the clothes, and stockings.
Javert studied the outfit while Valjean arranged it. Those were the clothes of a child in mourning, tailored to fit a young girl. How old had Cosette been when Valjean took her from that inn?
He saw Valjean's shoulders shake. Valjean's worn hands reached out and gripped the black dress. His head was bowed, and then at last, Javert heard the sound of his sobs.
“She was so small, Javert,” he said through his tears, “if you had seen her, those tiny feet in wooden shoes, all red from the cold as she walked through the snow! Her tiny hand in mine as I lead her away from that place at last! The way she smiled at me when she held her doll!”
Javert slowly knelt down behind him and wrapped his arms around him as Valjean wept.
“So many years, and I cannot forget the chillblains on her tiny fingers. So pale and thin she was from hunger! And now she is gone, when for so long she was the sun for me, and I thought I could be happy and content forever in this house as long as she was here with me and filled the garden with her play and her laughter!”
Javert rested his face against Valjean's shoulder. “She loves you still,” he said softly. “She will always love you, more than you know. How could you think your past would frighten her?There is nothing you need to be ashamed of. I assure you, had she seen Toulon in all its cruelty, she would hate me for my part in your unhappiness.”
Valjean buried his face in his hands and sobbed for long moments. Javert held him, and at last Valjean turned around and wrapped his arms around him. They held each other.
“All that is gone,” Valjean said softly, after long moments had passed. He was no longer weeping, but his eyes were tired, and he seemed to carry the full weight of his sixty years now. Javert smoothed careful fingertips over his wet cheek.
“For so long, I thought she was all I had. And when I found that letter she had written to the boy, when I dragged him through the sewer – I thought that if he would live, I would lose her, and then lose all joy. It seemed natural, in a way. Summer had come for her; winter had come for me. It would be over at last, and perhaps God would not judge me too harshly and finally grant me peace.”
Javert swallowed thickly. He found he could not speak. Valjean closed his eyes and tilted his head forward, until their brows touched.
“And yet, here I am in my winter, and God has given you to me instead and reminded me not to be ungrateful for the joy that remains to me still. Forgive me, Javert. There is beauty out there in the snow, and though the sun is shining on a different garden now, I have gained the moon and the stars instead. You ask me if I am happy. I am happy. I am also sad. I do not think I can promise that one day, I will feel only happiness. But I can promise you that there are no days now when I feel only sadness.”
Javert allowed his fingers to trace the lines on Valjean's face again. There were creases around his eyes and his mouth, and Javert wondered how many had been caused by joy, and how many by sorrow.
It was warm now, and Valjean was breathing slowly. There were no more tears, and Javert thought that now was the time to unravel his cravat, and unbutton his shirt, and take him to bed so that he could wrap him in the warmth of his own skin. Instead, his eyes fell on the small valise again, and he saw that there was more hidden inside. Valjean followed his eyes, and another shadow seemed to come over his face for a moment. But then he straightened, gently extricating himself from the embrace, and reached out to pull the valise closer.
What had looked like small, misshapen blocks of wood were now revealed in Valjean's hands to be crudely painted, carved figurines. There was an ox. There was a shepherd. There was the holy family, and what had to be one of the Magi.
“Cosette painted them. That first year in the convent... Fauchelevent did not have a crèche, you see,” Valjean said almost in apology. “So I carved our little santons, and Cosette painted them. Ah, you should have seen it; the little lambs she made from wool; the star we painted gold and hung over the stable!”
He took another shaky breath and rubbed at his eyes. “I kept them, you see, fool that I am. I kept them all these years, although in time, we made finer figurines when one would break, or when Cosette grew embarrassed at her lack of skill all these years ago, or when she saw an angel with wings made from white feathers in a shop...”
“But you kept these first figurines,” Javert said, and Valjean gave him another sad smile.
“Not all of them, as you can see see. We have no angels, and no donkey, and only one Magi. And none of her little sheep survived the year one of the convent's cats got into the hut.”
Javert covered Valjean's hands with his own and looked down at the figures he was cradling so carefully. Much of the paint had flaked off. The shepherd's arm was splintered. He carefully probed the feelings that arose within him. Was this jealousy?
No, he decided after a moment. It was impossible to feel envy when Valjean had known so little happiness in his life, and deserved so much more than what he had found. Yet still, how strange to kneel here beside him and look at the remnants of the few moments of happiness Valjean had found, and to realize that although he had gone without all of his life and never felt the loss, now his living, beating heart ached with a strange sadness.
What need had he had for a crèche of his own? He had no family; he went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, like any good citizen, and then returned to his small chamber to sleep, and wake, and leave for work. He had never even considered such a thing, which seemed like a frivolity for a bachelor. It belonged to that mystery he could have no part in; he was without society, and this was a thing that belonged to those within: the men who owned a house or had a trade, who raised a family, who spent Christmas Eve together and displayed their crèche in the drawing-room for the children to marvel at.
It was not jealousy, he thought with sudden wonder. It was the pain of realizing that here was something he had thought he would go without for all of his life, and yet it had never been unattainable. Here it was held out to him in offer, and all he had to do was bend his head and accept it with the humility of one who knew that he did not deserve such a blessing, and that it was his regardless.
“Cosette took the others with her, the ones that were still beautiful and bright with color.” Valjean smiled now, although his eyes remained sad. “The Gillenormands have their own crèche. You must have seen it: their display would not even fit into this room. The finest santons from Marseille, and much admired tonight.”
Javert nodded. The display had been impossible to miss, and had been impressive indeed.
“But Cosette took ours with her, and keeps them in their bedroom--”
“--and in time there will be children,” Javert said softly, “and she and Pontmercy will have their own crèche to display. She will tell the children that grand-père Fauchelevent carved them with his own hands, and they will look at you in awe with bright eyes and beg you to carve them horses and soldiers and knights to play with in the garden. That is how it will go.”
Valjean closed his eyes and leaned against Javert, although a reluctant smile had grown on his lips. He was silent now, and then, after a moment, he said, “The old crèche is still in the house. It will be cold there, but – do you want to see it?”
“Yes,” Javert said, almost before Valjean had ended his sentence. “Yes. It is Christmas; let us find a home for this family, on this night of all nights.”
Silently, they put on their warm coats once more. Outside, it was still snowing, and when they entered the larger house, it was eerily silent, and the sound of their steps echoed through the rooms. The light of the moon fell in through the windows when Valjean drew back a curtain in the large drawing-room, and dust danced in the cold light while the snow was still falling in heavy flakes outside. It was very cold, and their breath escaped in pale clouds.
Carefully, Javert took hold of the figurines, and watched as Valjean knelt down before a chest of drawers. From the back, Valjean pulled forth the crèche – Javert looked at it, studied the slightly crooked branches, and imagined Valjean patiently building the small stable in the convent on a winter's eve, at peace and content to know himself hunted no more.
Specks of dust danced in the light of the moon as Valjean set the crèche down on top of the chest. He smiled as he looked at it, and Javert felt a pang in his heart when he realized that this smile was not meant for him, but brought on by memories of a time he had not shared. Then he chided himself. It should give him joy, and not pain, to know that Valjean had known happiness as well.
He stepped a little closer, and when his shoulder brushed against Valjean's, Valjean looked up. The smile remained on his lips, and this time, Javert knew that it was meant for him.
“How strange to desire to share this with you, when it was your pursuit that brought me to seek sanctuary in the convent in the first place,” Valjean murmured, and took the figures from Javert's hands. He was still smiling as he knelt down and began to carefully arrange them: the shepherd outside the stable, the Holy Family within, the ox next to the manger, then the waiting, solitary Magi, and at last, the infant.
For a moment, Javert felt the familiar stab of the guilt he still carried. But how could one ask for forgiveness for a lifetime wasted? And then, had not Valjean already forgiven, and would it not be wrong to spoil the sanctity of this moment with memories of pain?
Valjean had always forgiven too easily, Javert thought as he watched him place the tiny, carved infant into the manger. It had lost most of its paint but still retained its swaddling clothes. Valjean's fingers trembled slightly. Javert exhaled deeply and watched his breath turn to fog.
Perhaps Valjean had always found it so easy to forgive because Valjean had never forgiven himself.
Javert knelt down next to him and bent his head. Valjean's hands were clasped in prayer; he clasped his own around them and warmed the beloved, worn fingers with his own. The room was cold and silent. There was no star above the stable, and no angel to speak his Gloria in altissimis Deo . But the moon shone so brightly about them that Javert was certain that the remaining Magi and shepherds would find their way to the stable eventually.