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It wasn’t until a month after the funeral that Cosette found the courage to clear out her father’s rooms. He had lived a frugal life and what little possessions he had had were simple. Deciding what should be done with them could take no more than an hour, but still the prospect had been daunting. It was a meagre consolation that she had no memory of living in the Rue de l’Homme Armé. To face such memories would only make her weep again.
Indeed the small apartment was sparsely furnished. The only things of value were the two candlesticks that Marius had collected to be used at her father's funeral mass. What remained now were clothes, some utilities and a few pieces of furniture.
“Everything that still has some wear in it will go to charity,” said Cosette.
Marius nodded. "Will you not check for personal keepsakes?"
“I see none, and there is little space here to hide much.” She stroked the edge of the desk that stood below the only window. “Still, Papa did have a knack for hiding things. Beloved, would you check his clothes for secret pockets and items sewn into the lining? I recall that was where he used to hide money sometimes. If we find any, we could give that to charity, too.”
While Marius concerned himself with the handful of worn clothes, Cosette went over the contents of the desk. Some old newspapers occupied the left upper corner; a pen and inkwell adorned the other. Otherwise the workspace was empty. To be thorough, she checked the desk’s only drawer.
“Oh!”
“What is it?" Marius asked.
"Letters," Cosette said as she carefully lifted a stack of papers from the drawer. "Unfinished letters, I believe. They are in Papa’s handwriting, but most of them are unsigned. Only this one is sealed." She looked closer. A light furrow appeared on her brow. "It is addressed to one Inspector Javert, at the prefecture of police."
Now Marius hurried over to her and inspected the letter for himself. With a flick of his finger, he broke the seal.
“Marius, you cannot!” Cosette protested.
“Both sender and recipient are dead. There is no harm in it.” He opened the letter.
June 14th, 1832.
Inspector Javert,
A week ago, we conversed on a matter of justice. When I returned as I said I would, I found that you had left. I have not seen you since. However, as I do not presume the matter settled so easily, I hereby remind you that I live at Rue de l’Homme Armé, Number 7. It would be appreciated if you came in person, as our circumstances dictate that it is only just that you should be the one to bring this to a close.
I will await you.
U. Fauchelevent.
Marius stared at the page. “A request to be arrested, I presume, but made to a dead man,” he muttered. “Why would he do such a thing? Unless…”
“Unless what, beloved?"
Instead of answering, Marius searched the newspapers. None of them were recent, but the bottom one, a Moniteur, had been folded to display a specific article.
"Yes, this is the same article that that horrid man Thénardier showed me. Then Monsieur Jean must have learned of the inspector's death only after he wrote this letter. That explains why he did not send it."
"Javert…” Cosette let the name roll on her tongue as if she were tasting it. "He was the man who chased us when I was little, wasn't he? Papa never spoke of him; only mentioned him in the letter he gave me on his deathbed. Why write to him?” She glanced at the unfinished letters in her hand. "And so often?”
“I do not know if it is an answer, but your father saved Javert's life on the barricades, as he did mine," Marius said reverently.
With trembling hands, Cosette spread the letters until they covered all of the desk. "They are dated. And they are all addressed to him…”
She picked up the one with the oldest date she could find. It was the only letter aside from the sealed one that had been signed. It felt indecent to read her father's personal correspondence, but her reluctance to bury yet another secret with him weighed heavier.
August 23rd, 1832.
Dear inspector,
I write this with the full awareness that there is no hope of my words ever reaching you. Yet some things cannot be left unsaid, even when the one whom they most concern cannot hear them.
I owe you a deep debt of gratitude. The happiness of my daughter is entwined with the life of the boy I carried on my shoulders when you found me last. I am forever grateful that you allowed me to bring him home, for he still lives, and while his injuries are grievous, there is a good chance that he will make a full recovery. Had you done what was your right, he would have died that night. But you did not, and he did not. My gratitude for that mercy, to the Lord and to you, knows no bounds!
My wish is that I could have told you this in person, although I do not entertain the illusion that you would have accepted such words from the likes of me. Perhaps you will not accept them even in death, but I can hope.
I do hope, and I pray for you.
Yours truthfully,
Jean Valjean.
Cosette slowly put the letter back on the desk. "Oh, Marius. It seems you had two benefactors.”
“Indeed,” he sighed, “but I cannot do justice to either.”
She patted his arm, but then her eyes were drawn to a letter that appeared to have been written in haste or distress. It was incomplete, with words crossed out and stains left by smudged ink and an occasional drop of water.
December 1832,
Javert,
I have no other to turn to, no one else I can tell, but she is leaving. My dear Cosette, my daughter, the light of my life, she is leaving! She will marry that boy Pontmercy, and she will be happy. I should want no more from life than her happiness, but to me it is bitter despair.
Why I should turn to you, I do not know. I have no doubt that you would tell me, if you would ever deign to speak to me, that this is the natural order of things, that it is just that she should be a man's wife and not remain a daughter to one who is not even truly her father. When I close my eyes I can imagine you standing there and your voice as you tell me these things. Sometimes you will tell me that losing her is my just punishment for having evaded the law, but when I turn to say that this is no fault of mine, that I had surrendered to the law, and to you, I am once more aware that you are dead, and slain by you own hand at that.
Why, Javert? The newspaper said that you had killed yourself in a fit of mental aberration. But it also said that you killed yourself after a rebel had granted you your life. Then why did you not arrest me when I gave myself up? Did I cause that aberration? Did my actions drive you to yours? I pray they did not, that there is some other, unknown factor that drove you to such despair. I do not think I could stand being responsible for hurting you so, but I understand your despair now better than ever. I thought I was desperate in the bagne, but the knowledge that I am losing Cosette makes those hardships pale by comparison. She and you were the only constants in my life, but now I will lose her as I have lost you. Of the many wrongs I have done in my life, I blame myself most for not having been able to stop either of you from slipping away. For Cosette it is better this way, but you! How I wish I could be with you, even if there are cell bars between us, like there were long ago.
You would not want to hear these words. I do not know why I write them. It is futile.
“Marius, this is wrong. These letters are like a diary, they are not meant to be read!”
"We can put them away and burn them if you prefer, my love."
But Cosette hesitated. To destroy them without knowing whether they contained anything that should be known felt equally wrong. Her fingers traced the outlines of another letter, a very short one. She read it out loud.
March 15th, 1833.
Javert,
It is done, they are married. A month now. The boy will not know me, keeps Cosette away from me. That fault is my own. I told him what I am, what you always knew me to be. You would approve of how he resents me for it.
Why are you not here to resent me? That would be easier to bear than this knowledge that whenever I look over my shoulder in fear of seeing you there, my eyes will meet only emptiness.
“I did not know then,” Marius said. “He told me of his crimes, but not of his saintly deeds. Had I known, I would never have kept him away from you.”
Cosette blinked away a tear. "I know, beloved. It was wicked of him to hide his goodness, as it was wicked of you to hide me from him. But perhaps it was not just my presence that Papa missed. These words may not have been meant to be read, but I feel they show a facet of my father that he omitted even in his last confession. Look at this one."
May 1st, 1833
Dear Javert,
Cosette has gone from me. These days I am only allowed to see her in my mind, like you. I tried to visit her, but find I do not dare to. Once out on the streets, the old fear grips me that I am exposed, and that you will find me. Then I remember you cannot, and the world becomes too much to bear.
All that is left to me are memories. Some days my mind wanders back to the time when Cosette had just come into my keeping, the way she would play with her doll, or with lances of straw in the rain-filled gutters. Then I think of her mother, Fantine, and with her image always comes yours. I recall your face when I overruled you and called your detention of her unlawful, when we both knew it was not. Your shock when she spat in my face. Over time I imagined that your reactions meant that you cared, but now I fear that it was only a fancy.
A fancy I still cannot relinquish entirely. Not even now you are gone.
Thoughts tumbled over one another in Cosette's mind. When she was a child, before she had learned that her father had adopted her, she had assumed that her dead mother had been her papa’s wife, and that he was not married because he was a widower who felt no need to remarry. But these letters put all that in a different perspective. God-fearing as she was, she did not dare to put that perspective into words, but neither could she keep silent.
"When we were first courting," she started with a faraway voice, "I often wondered afterwards if the ordinary things you had said or done meant something more. I think… It would seem… Perhaps Papa was familiar with that feeling.”
Marius nodded slowly. "Unless I'm very much mistaken,” he said carefully, “these letters are not so much a diary, but rather similar to the letters I left in your garden.”
“He was in love?”
“If so, it was doomed to fail for more than one reason.”
Cosette bit her lip and retrieved the only other letter that consisted of more than one paragraph.
“Dated seventh of June; just before his death. His handwriting is different here, as unsteady as it was in the letter he wrote to me.”
My dear Javert,
It has been a year now. Many times have I ventured to write to you, but my grief will not be put into words. I am resigned that I will never see Cosette again, but you… For too many years I have expected to see you at every turn, and I cannot accept now that it can never be. I wish to see you, and sometimes, when the night is dark and the shadows deep, I think that I do.
Did you feel the same elation I did, when you caught up with me after I faked my death? Elation for me, not for the escaped convict that I was? Did you dream of an outcome other than my arrest when you had me cornered that first time in Gorbeau House? And that second time, when you so gallantly interrupted the brigands that would have tortured me to death, did you truly not recognise me, or did you choose not to? I wanted to think it was the latter, that in that night you let me go; you let me live because you cared. Another night, now a year ago, I returned the favour; I let you live. Because I do care for you. You asked me to kill you after all, but I would just as soon have ripped out my own heart.
You are gone, and soon so will I be. Food and water are dust to me; the light is fading from my eyes and the strength from my fingers. I contemplate my regrets, and find only one: long ago you apologised for denouncing me, as yet innocent of the fact that you were right to have done so. If I seemed callous that day, know that I was fighting the urge to put your mind at ease, to stay your shaking, to hold you close. Perhaps I should have given in. Perhaps our lives could have been different then.
Such foolish thoughts! I knew then as I know now that you would not have welcomed my affections, much less returned them. But I am dying, and I want to believe that a dying man is allowed to dream of all the things his heart longed for, but that could not be.
Forgive me, if you can.
Cosette wiped away the tears that now flowed freely down her cheeks. “He gave up everything, Marius. Papa gave up everything he wanted, so that the people he cared about could be happy!”
She leaned into Marius’ embrace as he pulled her to his chest and whispered hushed words into her hair. When he began to gather the letters with one hand, she watched without letting go of him.
“Do you still wish to burn them? There may be enough wood left in the—”
“No.” She detached herself from him and dried her eyes. “Papa denied himself too much already. I will not destroy his wishes on a whim.”
“Then what do you intent to do with them?”
As it happened, the prefecture’s meticulous personnel records included the burial sites of their fallen agents. Through one of Marius’ connections, they had learned that Inspector Javert had been buried in this dilapidated lot of unhallowed ground. The grass was untended; the graves only marked with nameless, wooden crosses. Ironic how lost souls apparently did not deserve the much-needed forgiveness received by those already saved.
With her husband’s support, Cosette navigated the uneven ground in search of the grave that the caretaker had indicated. She counted the graves as they passed them, until they halted at a cross that was not as weather-worn as those around it. Cosette looked over her shoulder and counted the rows and the graves they had passed once again, to make sure.
Yes, this was the one.
She crouched down and pulled a thick stack of folded pages from her purse. “My father wrote these, inspector,” she said. “He wrote what he wanted to tell you, but could not longer say to your face.” Then she pried her gloved fingers into the soil and began to dig a small, shallow hole at the base of the cross.
When the hole was big enough, she put the letters into it, crossed herself, and buried them. Slowly she rose to her feet, cleaning the dirt from her gloves. She had the urge to say a prayer, but the ones she knew felt out of place here. Instead she rested her hand on the cross and closed her eyes.
“I know you cannot read my father’s words anymore,” she whispered, “but I pray that they will not be lost. Perhaps, God willing, a little of their sentiment may seep through to your soul.”