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My dearest Sophie (and Luc, who I know will be listening to you read this),
I apologize for not writing to you in so long. My life has become terribly busy. Being an officer of the law may keep a roof over my head without long hours, but the hours are wearying in more ways than I can describe. I usually fall into my bed half-clothed and half-washed at the end of a day.
But in light of recent events, I thought I should see how you were doing and also tell you a story that I'm only starting to piece together.
Before I met you, you'll remember My mother and I worked small jobs at the local stables, which offered us a place to stay. But then I broke a piece of tack, and the owner beat me soundly before throwing me out. This mischance led to us moving to Paris and eventually to my mother offering me up to the foundling hospital as she did with my older siblings in Brie all those years ago. I cried more in those first days than I had in my entire life before, but then I found you and your brother. There are no words for how your companionship has uplifted my spirit since. It would almost be worth it for that meeting.
I get off the track of what I was trying to tell you, forgive me.
As you know, when I was old enough to travel on my own, I decided to try my luck outside of Paris and take up the job of stable-hand again. The town I found work in was a small one called Montfermeil. To be honest, most of my work had little to do with actually handling the horses. The stable owner didn't want to break his back hauling water from the only spring a mile away. So that task fell to me. It occupied my hours. One dark evening, as I was making my way back to the hostelry, a great shadow separated itself from the shadows of the trees and stepped onto the road in front of me. To me it seemed more a silhouette than a man, a great hulking creature... and it was carrying a shovel? I flung myself out of the way to avoid the shovel and in the process smashed the handcart and the barrel of water within it. Before you chide me, my wise one. I know now that I could have returned to the stables and begged pardon for my error. But at the time, the memories of my boyhood rose up before me and I ran back to Paris, and you, without even saying my goodbyes.
Fortunately for us, a year or so later we also stumbled on the Convent of the Petit-Picpus, a welcome balm for such woes. Which leads me to the next part in this story.
Do you remember the two trees that nearly touched over the convent wall? Do you remember the day I fell from my usual perch?
That day, instead of finding the usual doddering old gardener (who couldn't climb a tree if a wild boar was on his heels) whistling cheerily and obliviously down below, I found myself face-to-face with a white haired but vigorous man clutching a set of pruning shears. Our foreheads almost collided, and would have if I wasn't so surprised that I fell backwards, twisting my ankle and gaining a few scrapes in the process. I went back later, but the dead branch where Emeline used to lie and hold hands with me as we talked was neatly pruned away. I'm fairly sure that this new gardener was the same one who replaced the loose stone in the corner of the wall where you and Diane used to tryst.
Fortunately, the sprain healed quickly but not before costing me my job as a messenger.
You know how many jobs I went through before Javert offered me the post with the police. For all of his coldness, he did have his good points. He understood what it was like to grow up under the care of the state, and he took even someone like me seriously.
In any case, onto the third event.
Recently , an attempt at kidnapping and extortion came to our attention. The man who reported it was a booby. The kind with their heads so deep in a book that they can no longer see their two feet. Nonetheless Javert accepted responsibility for investigating it, and we all trudged out in force through the snow. As it turns out, we were all needed. The entire Patron-Minette Gang had lain a trap for one man. If you want, I will tell you the exciting details later, but oddly, they are not important to what I am telling you.
As the kidnappers were led away in chains, the venerable mountain of a man who was to be their victim stood up and rushed towards the window, I barely threw myself out of his path in time. As I spun around I caught a glimpse of him leaping through the window and vanishing from sight.
I rushed to the window to see if the gentleman was below, injured by the fall, but all that remained was the rope dangling from the window and a line of footprints in the snow. And that was when Javert said the strangest thing.
“The devil”, he said “That would have been the best one.”
It seemed strange to me that he should be so upset over the escape of a victim, who had done nothing wrong, that he took no further joy at apprehending those who had chained a man unlawfully and threatened his life. I asked him what he had meant earlier.
He began to lay out an eerie and sorrowful tale. Apparently, he recognized the white-haired gentleman as an old convict. A tree pruner from Faverolles who, decades before, had been apprehended as a thief. He argued he was robbing a bakery to feed his family. (An irrelevant story, Javert added here.) He had been sentenced to the Bagne of Toulon for five years, but had shown himself to be an escape artist, a spider, a sparrow who defied caging. When he had finally been released he even defied his parole and faked his death. Javert was certain, upon arising from his grave, this man had committed more ill acts in a small town called Montfermeil. He went by many names, but his true name was Jean Valjean.
As he recounted this tale, a strange chill began to affect my chest, for my mother had told us stories of an uncle, who was also named Jean, who had gone to prison for stealing bread to feed us. This uncle was a tree pruner back in Faverolles and very strong. He was the reason her eyes went grim whenever Toulon was mentioned.
As he continued to recount the story, a strange picture started to form out of details that had before been unconnected. A broad-backed silhouette matched with a set of broad shoulders seen in daylight halfway up a tree. A set of strong hands holding pruning shears matched with those same hands gripping the window ledge as the man fled through the window. A shock of white hair in the firelit room of the Gorbeau house imposing itself on the glint of white seen by moonlight on a country road.
In light of past events, and of what I was about to do, it seemed that one man had conspired to ruin my life!
Or perhaps it is a blessing. I do look forward to seeing both you and Luc again! And I find myself looking forward to dawn tomorrow as I have not in a while.
Yours,
-Nicolas “Valjean”
P.S. - Speaking of my mother, ever since I found her again she has been wanting to meet you and Luc very badly. We would both love if you could come over for dinner on Sunday. If you do come, I'll even make your favorite plum pudding, although you will have to provide the plums yourself as I am now sans income. You can even steal them if you wish – just like the old days! I promise you have nothing to fear from me as I have turned in my handcuffs!
After yesterday I do not think they would give them back anyway, even if I asked nicely.
(On the back, as an address:)
À Mademoiselle Sophia Rosseau
Rue du Canivet, No. 4