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“There’s mail for you.” Javert held up an envelope as he entered the study.
“Oh?” Valjean looked up from his letter to Cosette, placing the pen back in the inkwell. “From whom?”
Javert looked at the return address. “It says it’s from… M. Hugo. Do you know a M. Hugo?”
Valjean’s face was blank for a moment. Then, something dawned on him. “I might know of one. Let me check—” he stood and walked to the study bookshelf. Conveniently, it contained the book he was looking for; he pulled it from the shelf. “Ah, I did have the name right. Victor Hugo is who I was thinking of— he wrote this book, Notre-Dame de Paris. Perhaps the letter is from a namesake, though; I’ve no clue what an author would want with me.”
“Open it to find out, I suppose.” Javert presented the letter to Valjean.
Valjean opened the letter. With furrowed brow, he read it in silence. It was a long letter. Eventually, Valjean finished reading it, and set it down.
“Alright, so, what I could glean is this— it is that Hugo; he has heard my story, has opinions on several aspects of it, and… he wants to interview us to collect material for his most ambitious work yet.”
***
It was evening at the household inhabited by Jean Valjean and Javert. The man who had sent the letter (who, it should be noted, was in his thirties at this time, and thus did not yet resemble the mental image the reader may have formed of him— while his forehead was just as sizeable as in the most common understanding of his appearance, the hair above it was brown, not white, and he wore no beard) had at length described the outline of his proposed work. Many details were unspecified or inaccurate, as this outline was only informed by the parts of Valjean’s journey that had come into the public eye, but neither of the two men he intended to make protagonist and antagonist of his new oeuvre could get a word in edgewise for some time.
“So, what do you think, gentlemen?” He took a brief sip of his coffee (his request for how the beverage should be seasoned had initially elicited some bemusement from Javert, but Hugo was a guest, and there had indeed happened to be mustard and vinegar in the kitchen); then, he immediately continued, leaving no opportunity at all for the question to be answered. “Of course, as I’ve said, I would change the names; it is not a biography, merely a novel based in truth—”
“The names and the ending,” Javert managed to interrupt. “If I gleaned anything from your babblings, you said that the novel would end with both of us dead, and with that villain Thénardier, who got justice years ago, facing no consequences at all?!”
“Yes, well. It’s to make a point, actually— while the truth is quite uplifting, it is the outlier. All too often, the decent perish and the villains triumph. The world is all too often full of wretchedness— misery— and that is what my novel will convey. You’ve read my earlier work, M. Valjean, and I’m sure you did not skip the parts where I digressed from the cathedral’s magnificence to speak of the hunchback and the priest and the gypsy— does it truly surprise you that I would prefer to form a didactic tragedy?”
Well, he had something of a point there, but before Valjean could open his mouth to acknowledge this, Hugo continued. “I’ve not entirely worked out how your analogues are to die, though— but I did hear, M. Valjean, that you saved M. Javert’s life at the June Rebellion, so perhaps a simple modification—”
“I have a proposal for how my analogue might die.” Javert took a steadying breath. “You see, he did not merely save my life at the rebellion, but after it as well.”
Instinctively, Valjean clasped Javert’s hands. “Javert, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He turned back to the author, freeing one of his hands to gesture (though the other was still intertwined with Valjean’s). “This must not be used for anything other than the novel,” he gave a brief threatening glare to ensure this would be made good upon, “but— Jean’s actions that night shattered my worldview. If a convict could be a good man, my life had been a lie. So, later that night… I— I threw myself into the Seine.”
Hugo’s brow furrowed. “But…”
“Yes, yes, I know— ‘but you’re alive?’— well, it’s thanks to Jean. Somehow, he followed me, leapt in after me, and saved my life. It was after this that I had to come to terms with the fact that the world was not as simple as I thought— but, I had fully expected to die at that moment.”
Hugo lit up with understanding. “To end the tale in the manner I wish, I need only have M. Valjean’s analogue not follow yours to the river!”
“Yes. Honestly, I think such a thing would be almost as contradictory to his character as killing me at the barricade, but it would allow your… choice of ending, without putting the blood directly on his hands.”
“And it is quite thematically—!—well!—hold on a moment!—” Hugo scribbled in his notebook furiously. Those few seconds were the longest he had been silent all conversation. “Now! M. Valjean! Is there a similarly convenient point of departure for you?”
Valjean squeezed Javert’s hand for a moment, then answered. “...Yes.”
“And what might that be?”
“Well. In February of ‘33, my daughter married.”
Hugo raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You never married, and yet you have a daughter— and one young enough to have married that recently?”
“Yes. Baronne Euphrasie Pontmercy, though we call her Cosette; her husband is Baron Marius Pontmercy.” Hugo’s eyebrow did not descend, and Valjean belatedly realised the author’s true implication— he turned red. “Oh— no, M. Hugo, she is no relation by blood, if that is what you are— her mother was not—” Valjean shook his head and drew breath. “To the best of my knowledge, she is an orphan. I have raised her most of her life, so by that, we are family.”
At that clarification, Hugo nodded— though, was that a touch of disappointment, as if the confirmation of Valjean’s respectability was a loss of commonality? Then, over the next moment, the journey of the author’s train of thought was quite apparent in his face— for half a second, it seemed as if a yet more scandalous hypothesis flashed in his mind, but then, his eyes darted to Valjean and Javert’s joined hands, and that idea was dismissed with a slight shake of the head, but a widening of the smirk. No attempts were made by Valjean or Javert to deny the deduction Hugo had clearly made to reach his conclusion— even if those denials would be believed, they would only bring Hugo back to his previous hypothesis regarding Cosette, and both Valjean and Javert considered it better to allow a man to have an inkling of dangerous but not-technically-incriminating truths, than to cause him to believe disgusting falsehoods.
As such, for a moment, there was an awkward silence.
“Well— as you were saying?”
“Oh. Yes. Well, she married, and… to cut a long story short, I believed I had no further purpose. By the summer, I was slowly dying of despair— it was Javert who found me, brought me out of it. If he had not…” Valjean trailed off.
Hugo nodded vigorously, writing in his notebook. “Well!— thank you both for your forthrightness!— research is often difficult, and one has to compose details oneself, but not today it seems! So, now we have an ending— let us speak more of the beginning and middle.”
The interview continued for some time, allowing Hugo to form a general outline of the events of which he did not already know. They did not speak much of Toulon, beyond key establishing facts— despite Hugo’s general lack of tact, he seemed to possess enough of it to refrain from pressing such a painful matter (“I shan’t spend much of the book there, anyways”)— but they spoke of Digne (“I’ll have to research this Bishop further…”), and Montreuil-sur-Mer, and the Orion escape (Javert remarked, “Are you sure you wish to keep that part? After all, with your ending, the skill would never be relevant again”; this was met with a shrug). They spoke of Montfermeil, and Paris (Hugo went on several tangents about his love for various aspects of the city), and the Petit-Picpus (“A convent! I’ve wanted for some time to share my views on convents!”). They spoke of the barricades a little, and Hugo seemed surprisingly sympathetic to aspects of the cause for which they were built— though Valjean maintained that if Hugo wished to include any accurate information about those who died there, he should speak to Valjean’s son-in-law instead. When they spoke of the way in which said son-in-law had been rescued from the barricades, neither Valjean nor Javert quite knew what to make of Hugo’s quite inordinate enthusiasm about having an opportunity to write of the Parisian sewers.
More than once, Hugo assured the pair that the story would be written— but gave an emphatic lack of guarantee that it would be at all in a timely fashion, given the political risks of certain aspects, the grand scope, and the number of other things he was working on. It was quite into the night when Hugo left the residence, notebook full of words and mind full of ideas, as well as plans for further research.
***
“Yes, I think I read it once. Why do you mention it?”
“Well— the author sent us a letter. He wants to write a new novel based on Papa’s life.”
Marius looked vaguely confused, though that was his default emotion. “…I see, but why’s he asking us? Your father’s alive— unless I missed something—”
“No, you didn’t miss something, Marius.” Though it would not be too surprising, Cosette thought, if Marius did manage to miss something as big as that— she loved him, but he was often quite a fool. “Actually, he already asked his permission, and Javert’s, and interviewed them some. It’s just that— as he said in the letter, though in far more words— our lives are so intertwined with his, and filled with tragedies of our own— he wishes to use our testimony as well.” Cosette hesitated for a moment, reluctant to bring up painful memories for her husband, but decided to say it plainly— “He thinks, perhaps, he could tell your friends’ stories, if you could assist.”
Marius, hearing this, shuddered, scrunching his eyes shut. “I— I failed them. I have no right—”
Cosette rushed to Marius’ side, placed her hand on his arm in an attempt to steady him. “Marius, my love. You did not fail them. If anything— I have very little doubt that if they’re watching us from Heaven right now, they would want us to have their stories told. Perhaps it could even relieve some of the pain— if the world was told of their tragedy, and of the men they were, you would not have to bear the weight of the grief alone.”
Slowly, Marius’ breathing steadied. When he opened his eyes, they contained a glimmer of hope.
“...Yes. Perhaps it could.”
***
After Hugo’s first interview with the Pontmercys, Marius had a star-struck look to him. He turned to his wife and whispered, “Cosette! He likes me!”
“…Go on.”
“Didn’t you hear it— he said I reminded him of his younger self!”
“Marius… I’m not sure he meant that as—” she stopped and shook her head, thinking better of clarifying it; the knowledge that the remark had likely not been a compliment would only make Marius sad, and perhaps less cooperative with the author in future meetings. “Never mind.”
***
Many more interviews were conducted over the following months, and then years, with steadily diminishing frequency. Hugo conducted independent research as well (and wrote to the Valjean and Pontmercy households at length regarding it). The beginning, middle and end of the story were all refined, themes developed— and the boundaries of which aspects nobody alive could help, and thus on which Hugo would have to guess, clearly delineated. When twelve years and two regime changes had taken place since the initial interview, doubt was growing that the novel would ever actually be written— but a few letters reassured the ‘characters’ that it would be, and in fact, that he had already begun, six years previously. The fact that it had taken him half a decade to begin was not particularly heartening.
***
Epilogue: 1862.
“It’s a shame that he did not live to see it published.”
“It is.” Cosette sighed. “He lived a full life, at least.” This was true. By the time Valjean’s life ended in the autumn of 1854, his years of happiness had finally outnumbered those of misery. He passed peacefully; his heart gave out in his sleep, the doctor said. The family mourned, but eventually learned to live with the loss. Javert was the exception to this, however— without Valjean, he believed his life was empty. He vowed not to give in to self-destructive urges, but he was old and heartbroken; he died in the line of duty in January of ‘56.
Now, Hugo’s novel was published, and Marius and Cosette had resolved to read it together, behemoth as it was. The first volume, named for the analogue of Cosette’s mother, used neither of their testimonies as the primary material— though a little of Cosette’s word regarding the Thénardiers was incorporated, the volume was for the most part according to Valjean and Javert (and Hugo, who injected his own beliefs at every turn). Some time before his passing, Valjean (with Javert’s assistance) had informed Cosette of all the things he had told Hugo during interviews that had not included her— at that time, he was beginning to consider the possibility that he might not survive to the novel’s publication, and he did not wish for Cosette to be left wondering as to the accuracy of events he had not thought to mention to her. As such, very little of the knowledge revealed in this volume was strictly new, but it was certainly enlightening.
Cosette wondered how close the description of her birth father was to the truth— neither her nor Valjean knew enough to give testimony on his character, other than that he was the kind of a man to do what he had done. She hoped that the parts concerning her mother were accurate— of course, she wished they had not been (the woman’s tale as recounted by Valjean had been tragic enough for Hugo’s taste entirely unmodified, which really did say something), but she hoped what she read was close to the truth. She had only the vaguest memories of her mother— only having been three years of age when she was left with the Thénardiers— so reading her story felt like a reconnection (despite the fact that her mother’s analogue often spoke in a manner that could barely be read in any voice but Hugo’s).
The Thénardier-analogue— apparently named for a political enemy of Hugo— was suitably vile. The accounts of Cosette’s childhood presented in the volume named for her analogue were entirely drawn from her own testimony; despite that, or perhaps because of it, these parts were exceptionally difficult for her to read— as she read them, the memories and the pain would return, vivid as ever. It was good that she and Marius had agreed to read it together; if he had not been there, holding her and reassuring her that Thénardier was gone, that it was over, that they would never hurt her again, she doubted she would have been able to finish the section.
And Cosette supported Marius in turn. The volume named for Marius’ analogue was almost entirely his testimony, but only briefly touched on the existence of his friends— but, the fourth volume (whose title inexplicably broke the pattern of volumes being named for characters), and the first subdivision of the one named for Valjean’s analogue, chronicled the barricades, and Cosette reminded him as often as he needed that he had not failed them by surviving, and that the very fact they were reading this now signified that their stories were being told. At one point, Marius suddenly burst into tears, but they were not of sorrow— he was simply overcome by the significance of the fact that he had, indeed, finally gotten their stories told, after thirty years of their memory fading into obscurity for all but Marius and perhaps a select few others.
After the fall of the barricades, the story diverged from the truth. It was uncomfortable to consider how such a simple thing as Valjean refraining from following Javert that night could have led to such a tragic cascade of events. The plausibility of it all was the worst thing— both of them could entirely believe that in a parallel world where that simple mistake was made, it might very well have resulted in a mid-1833 with Valjean and Javert dead, with Thénardier walking free and profiting from his wartime lie… with themselves alive, but alone in the world. They were grateful that it had not, to be sure— but it was a sobering thing to comprehend how barely they had escaped it.
There was no attempt to prevent the next generation of Pontmercys from reading the book. Save for the youngest two, the offspring of Marius and Cosette were adults in their own right— the eldest daughter, Fantine, even had a son of her own— and their parents had no right to stop them from learning about their family’s history. None of them would be fooled to believe the ending was the truth, of course, as Valjean and Javert were the subjects of many treasured memories.
Of course, Cosette wondered what those two men would think of the novel. However, this curiosity was quite less hypothetical than that phrasing indicates. Only Cosette knew of this, but in the last few years, the Pontmercy home had been intermittently haunted by presences that could only be Valjean and Javert. Thus, as soon as the first complete edition of all five volumes came into print, she left a copy sitting open to the first page on a table in an otherwise empty and unused room of the house, where Marius would not think to interfere.
Occasionally, she checked on it, to track the spectral readers’ progress. As of her last visit to the room, it seemed they were nearing the end.
***
Valjean turned the page. He could not close the book— while it was well within the limits of ghosts’ manipulation of the physical world to turn a single piece of paper, it was certainly not within them, even for the strongest ghosts, to turn two thousand pieces and a cover at once— but, with this turn of a page, he and Javert had finished the novel. Cosette would be pleased when she next visited the room.
“Well. That was certainly…”
“Something?” Valjean helpfully suggested.
“Indeed.”
“Honestly, beside the obvious, I found it quite an accurate account.”
“Hm. I’m still not convinced that Fantine didn’t help with her part. We know that Hugo did a great many séances during the time he was writing it, and some of those ‘guesses’ were far too close to what she’s told us.”
“Some of them; others are… just plain strange.”
Javert nodded in concurrence. “You know, it amuses me to no end how he decided to work in what he gleaned about us into his retelling of the past. ‘Seize and devour him, that is to say, arrest him’, indeed!”
Valjean chuckled. “One can only hope this subtext is ignored by readers.”
“I doubt it will remain unremarked upon forever, especially if this book’s popularity continues to grow— but yes, hopefully, it will for at least as long as public cognition of the truth might risk damage to our good names.”
“I suppose we should take a copy back to Heaven. Cosette will be pleased to have evidence that we finished it— now, the other ‘characters’ ought to read their tale.”
Javert nodded. Valjean slipped his hands under the sides of the book, closed his grip around the edges. If he had moved his hands sharply upwards, they would have gone straight through it, but he did not; he closed his eyes, concentrated for a moment— then, slowly moved his hands upwards. The physical book was unaffected, but he was now clasping a spectral book, glowing with the same translucent bluish aura that ghosts haunting Earth possessed. He flicked through its pages, and indeed, the text of the book had been preserved. He closed the book and held it under his arm.
“Well. Shall we?”
Javert did the honours— on his will, a swirling door of white light appeared before him and Valjean. He stepped aside, gesturing for Valjean to pass. “After you.”
***
And the other characters did read their tale. (Well, more correctly termed, those of them who were in Heaven— Thénardier, for instance, did not.)
Fantine admitted that she had indeed given a little assistance— but maintained that she had only spoken with Hugo once, providing just enough information for his further guesses to be educated.
Those who died on the barricade were generally impressed at the novel’s sympathetic portrayals of them and their cause (although a few eyebrows were raised at the eight-hundred-word sentence describing the virtues of Louis-Philippe). Moreover, they found very little ambiguity as to which renamed analogue represented whom— though, a few drew some amusement from the idiosyncratic decisions it seemed that Marius had made in his provision of material for the descriptions.
Grantaire, upon reading the novel’s description of his analogue, said rhetorically to Enjolras, “Damn, was it really so obvious that Pontmercy noticed?”
Javert overheard this, and piped up. “Oh, I very much doubt he noticed, regardless of how obvious it was— he seems to have a talent for misconstruing interpersonal situations. But perhaps he observed your behaviour innocently, and recounted it to Hugo— and he then gleaned the significance. That man determined the truth of Jean and I within half an hour of meeting us; it’s entirely possible his skill at this niche of observation extends to second-hand accounts.”
“Yeah, that makes more sense.”
Time passed, and more and more of the deceased who featured in the book, including more and more minor characters, caught wind of its existence. Tears, and laughter, and bemusement were all freely had.
But for all the idiosyncrasies of Hugo’s account, the characters were glad that their stories were told.