Archive of Our Own

“Despiat!” Rivette ignored the cocked gun that greeted his arrival at the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie. “He, Despiat!”

A moment later, the man finally turned around. Rivette breathed a sigh of relief when Despiat smiled in recognition.

“You know him?” the dark-haired insurgent who’d threatened him with a gun said.

Despiat inclined his head. “Let him go. He’s one of us.”

Rivette clasped his shoulder gratefully. He’d carefully cultivated this friendship for over a year—the Chief had thought that infiltrating one of the cells of insurgency festering beneath the city’s surface might yield a hint as to Jean Valjean’s whereabouts, who was never far from where there was a crime committed.

That was the Chief’s theory, at least. As far as Rivette was concerned, this Jean Valjean was a phantom, a man who was probably long dead, or had fled to another country.

“So you’ve come to join us after all?” Despiat’s face was unsmiling, his eyes studying Rivette with the earnest intensity that had nearly made Rivette forget at times that his hours spent listening to the worker’s speeches in small wine-shops were an undercover assignment.

There was much about Despiat that was sensible, he’d always thought. It was a pity the man had devoted himself with such foolish steadfastness to the sort of incendiary Republican ideals that had now led to new bloodshed in the streets—and which had also led to the Chief’s capture, if Rivette was to believe the words of the spy who’d arrived breathlessly at the station-house half an hour ago.

“Your words left an impression, my friend.”

Rivette smile, and after another searching glance, Despiat patted his arm with a fierce pride.

“Always knew you’d see that there’s but one way to change things. Do you need a weapon?”

Rivette nodded. He’d contemplated arriving armed, but then decided against it.

It had been the right choice, as it turned out, for Despiat now led him to the leader of the barricade—a man, Rivette couldn’t fail to acknowledge with a small smile, who was definitely not a scowling villain named Jean Valjean whose fearful face had graced the walls of the Prefecture for years.

What a disappointment that must have been for the Chief. Knowing Javert, he’d probably prefer the satisfaction of being shot by Jean Valjean to being taken alive by a bunch of students and workers.

Well, they all had to live with disappointments. Maybe Javert would finally learn that lesson after this.

Enjolras steered them towards a wine-shop, which seemed to serve as the insurgency’s headquarters. Within, Despiat found a rifle for Rivette. And then, when they entered the taproom in search of the promised ammunition, Rivette at last found his fears had come true.

There was the Chief, still in the same workingman’s outfit he’d hastily pulled on in the morning, disregarding Rivette’s words—only now Javert was tied to a pole.

When Javert saw them enter, he straightened. If there was any shock at the sight of Rivette, he hid it by the glare with which he greeted Despiat, who ignored him in favor of the cartridges piled on a table.

“Twenty bullets per man,” Despiat said as he carefully counted out Rivette’s supply. “Don’t waste them.”

“I won’t,” Rivette said, then nodded towards Javert. “Who’s that?”

“A spy.” Despiat smiled as he turned to look at Javert. “A cop. Inspector Javert, wasn’t it? You won’t enjoy our hospitality for much longer.”

“You’re going to shoot him?”

Despiat nodded curtly. “I would’ve shot him right away. Enjolras argues we shouldn’t waste a bullet on him. He’s probably right, given our supplies. Still. If I’m alive by the end, maybe it will be my pleasure to take him out before I go myself.”

“You’re not going to exchange him?”

Despiat smiled wryly. “What for? They’re not taking prisoners. We’ve all come here knowing we might die. How about you?”

Rivette hesitated for a moment, then met Despiat’s eyes and nodded slowly. “You know that it’s taken me a while to realize that you were right. That this is the only way things will change. But I’m here, aren’t I. I’ll fight by your side, comrade. And who knows… maybe it’ll be me, taking him out in the end.”

Despiat grasped his arm and squeezed it with approval, a rare, fierce warmth in his voice. “I’m glad to have you with us, comrade.”

It had been impossible to free Javert, as much as Rivette had tried. Whenever he’d found an excuse to retreat into the wine-shop, others had been holed up within, taking care of the wounded, counting the remaining ammunition, or gathering around Enjolras in an impromptu war council.

So far, Rivette had managed to avoid the thick of battle, although the situation at the barricade seemed more hopeless with every passing moment. He’d have to act before the barricade fell or it would be too late.

At last, taking advantage of his position at one of the extremities of the barricade that allowed him to keep an eye on the wine-shop, Rivette made use of the renewed advancement of the soldiers and hastened inside as soon as the army’s trumpets had drawn out everyone gathered within.

“Hurry up,” Javert said sharply. “God’s sake, Rivette, you’ve taken your sweet time.”

“Sorry, sir.” Rivette reached into his pocket for the small knife he carried—only to freeze when the sound of the door opening warned him that they were no longer alone.

For a moment Rivette contemplated taking a stand with his rifle. Then he made out the sound of several voices, and the low moaning of what had to be a wounded man.

Praying that they were just going to deposit the wounded in the ante-room before heading out again, Rivette crouched behind a table in a corner, keeping his rifle at the ready. As he waited, he became aware of the sounds of fighting growing softer. He bit back a sound of frustration.

Whoever had come in was still talking in the ante-room. Rivette recognized the voice of the barricade’s leader, who must have decided to use the lull in battle for another war council.

Just his luck, Rivette thought and kept his rifle at the ready just in case. If they decided to come in now to make an end of Javert, he’d at least have surprise on his side.

Long minutes passed. The men showed no sign of planning to leave. Rivette had just decided to chance freeing Javert with them right there when the sound of fighting outside gained in volume again. A moment later, a door opened, and Rivette took a deep breath. They were coming into the taproom now.

Stupid to have waited. If he’d freed Javert a minute ago, there’d be two of them against however many had come in…

“What are we going to do with the spy?” someone asked.

“Last one of us to leave this room shoots him,” Enjolras answered.

Rivette nodded slowly to himself. If he timed it just right, he could take out that last person and perhaps manage to cut Javert’s bonds before anyone could rush back in. He should have taken a chance earlier—but it was too late for that now.

“Let me do it.”

It was the voice of a stranger who spoke up, and Rivette whispered a silent curse. How many of them were there now? At least three of them—four, if that wounded man they’d brought in earlier had revived enough to take a last stand.

From his vantage point behind the table, Rivette couldn’t see them—but he could see the back of Javert and his tied hands behind the post. Javert had waited in a slumped posture so far. Now, all of a sudden, he straightened.

Wait, Rivette prayed silently. His rifle was loaded. He stared at where his fingers clenched around the wooden handle.

Wait.

A moment later, he heard the sound of steps leaving the room, then the door.

Good. Just the one man left then. Rivette could hear him ready his gun.

And then Javert spoke, shocking Rivette, who’d been prepared to jump up, into sudden stillness.

“Just so,” Javert said.

“Shut your mouth,” his executor replied.

There was something strange in the air. Rivette had never seen Javert afraid. Even now, he wasn’t certain whether it was fear—but something had happened to Javert. Javert—who laughed in the face of criminals, who was never more in his element than when facing down a group of cutthroats and thieves, knowing that he had the upper hand—now sounded as confused as if the earth had suddenly stopped turning.

Then there was the sound of steps, and a hoarse shout from Javert that broke through Rivette’s confusion.

His rifle at the ready, Rivette sprang up from behind his hiding place—and found himself face to face with an insurgent who seemed strangely familiar, even though Rivette was certain that he’d never encountered him during the evenings with Despiat.

“Drop your gun. Now,” Rivette snapped, aiming his rifle at the man’s chest.

The insurgent hadn’t come forward to Javert. Instead, he’d turned to a small table by the window where a knife was resting. Had he planned to take Javert’s life with the knife instead?

Either way, the man’s face paled in shock. “I wasn’t planning to,” he began.

Rivette was having none of it. “Drop it. Now!”

Incongruously, Javert began to laugh. “Jean Valjean. Always knew you’d be in the thick of it. Didn’t I tell you, Rivette? This is where we’d find him.”

“Really, sir?” Rivette’s eyes widened, although he kept his rifle firmly aimed at the man who now slowly placed his gun down on the table. “Jean Valjean?”

Embarrassment welled up in Rivette at the thought that he’d doubted Javert, who’d been right all along. No wonder that the man had looked familiar. He could see the resemblance now. Something in the line of his jaw and his mouth reminded Rivette of the posters Javert had used to hunt this man for nearly a decade.

Still, Valjean had grown older—his eyes weren’t filled by the brutal rage Rivette had expected. They looked tired. In fact, they looked almost resigned…

“Please.” Jean Valjean swallowed. “You must let me explain—”

Rivette snorted. It was just like Javert had always said—Jean Valjean never ceased to try and talk his way out of an arrest.

“You’ll do no such thing.” Rivette kept his rifle aimed at Valjean as he made his way out from behind his table at last. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”

Instead of an answer, there was an unexpected sound somewhere behind him. Someone had just cocked a gun.

Before Rivette could turn towards the sound, a familiar voice made him freeze. It was the voice of Despiat, which had changed from the warm familiarity of earlier. It was as cold as ice as he addressed Rivette.

“Drop your weapon,” Despiat ordered. “Now!”

Rivette hesitated for a moment, despair clouding his vision. What use was there in surrender when they’d already decided to shoot any spy now, mere moments before the barricade would fall? Perhaps, if he threw himself at Despiat—but then that left Jean Valjean, and Javert was still bound and helpless…

Then Jean Valjean suddenly spoke up. “Release him,” he ordered.

When Rivette looked up in surprise, he couldn’t believe his eyes for a moment. Valjean, the criminal, the man behind the insurgency, had taken hold of his discarded gun again and now aimed it at Despiat’s head.

“What do you think you’re doing, comrade?” Despiat demanded in disbelief. “Are you another spy? How many of you are here?”

Behind him, Rivette could hear Javert start to laugh. “Another of your tricks, Valjean?”

Rivette frowned, but Valjean didn’t lower his gun.

“I’m not a spy,” Valjean said in a low, urgent voice. “I’ve come to the barricade to save a boy. His name is Marius. He’s been wounded, but there’s still time to get him away…”

“More of your stories,” Javert muttered. “Always more of those.”

“I don’t care why you’re here.” Despiat was visibly seething with anger. “If you help them, you’re one of them, like it or not.”

Nevertheless, Despiat slowly dropped his gun, and Rivette raised his own rifle again to aim it at him.

“You can’t trick me, Valjean,” Javert said furiously. “You’re a fool if you think this will help you—”

“I expect no help from you. I need to save this boy. Then I’m yours,” Valjean said, then gave Rivette a questioning glance. When he saw that Rivette’s rifle was firmly trained on Despiat, he stepped towards Javert, the knife in his hand once more. “I’ll free him,” he said.

For a moment Rivette didn’t know where to aim his gun. Then Javert shouted in rage, and Despiat’s gun came up again.

“No!”

Rivette’s cry was echoing dimly in his own ears, as if heard from a distance. He couldn’t feel himself pull the trigger. All he could feel was the shock of the rifle firing its load. Everything seemed to happen very slowly.

A heartbeat before the bullet buried itself in Despiat’s chest, Despiat’s gun went off with a reverberating bang and a cloud of smoke. Then Rivette’s bullet found its aim.

A red patch spread across Despiat’s chest as the insurgent groaned, the gun dropping from his hand at last before he crumpled to the floor.

Rivette had no eyes for him. Terror had made him twist around immediately, expecting to find the lifeless body of his Chief hanging in his bonds. Instead, Rivette couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw.

Javert was on the ground, the rope still wound around one hand. There was no blood that Rivette could see. Instead, it was Jean Valjean who leaned against the post, the knife still clutched in his hand. There was no blood on the blade either.

As Rivette stared at Valjean in shock, his fingers lost their hold on the knife, which dropped to the ground. Slowly, red began to spread across his shirt. Then Valjean’s knees gave in and he slowly slid down, still leaning against the pole, until he was kneeling on the floor.

There was a crimson smear of blood on the wood behind him.

Jean Valjean—Jean Valjean the criminal, the villainous convict—had shoved Javert out of the way and taken the bullet intended for him?

Rivette’s mind was reeling. A moment later, he remembered the danger they were in when a cannon ball hit the building somewhere above them, splinters raining down from the ceiling as the ground shook.

Hastily, Rivette came forward to check on Javert, who shoved his hand off him a heartbeat later. Instead, Javert threw himself onto Valjean with a roar.

Valjean put up no resistance. All that escaped him was a pained sound when Javert pushed him to the ground.

“Sir, I think he’s wounded,” Rivette pointed out.

Javert, as expected, ignored him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed into Valjean’s face.

Rivette might as well not have existed. With a sigh, he went to check on Despiat instead.

The man was dead. The bullet had hit him straight into the heart.

Rivette shook his head, swallowing down an unexpected grief as he closed Despiat’s eyes.

Stupid to get worked up about something like this. He’d known all along the man was dangerous, calling for violent insurgency! Still, he supposed that it wasn’t so strange that a year of meetings and talks in wine-shops would leave a mark. He’d liked Despiat, in his own way. He’d been easy to talk to. It had almost felt like having a friend.

Had Despiat thought of him as a friend, too?

Rivette shook his head at his thoughts. Better not to go there. Both of them had known what was at stake.

When he at last turned around to Javert, he found him still crouched over Jean Valjean as if neither Rivette nor the thunder of the guns and cannons outside existed.

“Why?” Javert forced out through gritted teeth, no eyes for Rivette even when he came to kneel by his side.

“That boy,” Valjean said painfully, blood still welling up from the bullet wound in his shoulder when Rivette carefully pulled his shirt to the side. “Please… promise me—”

“You’re in no position to make demands,” Javert murmured.

“Sir. He did take a bullet for you,” Rivette pointed out, hastily untying his own cravat to turn it into a makeshift bandage.

“That makes no sense,” Javert said again quietly. “You only needed to wait. That man would have shot Rivette, and then you could have taken me out…”

“Why would I do that?” Valjean said. “I was trying to cut the rope when he came in…”

Javert laughed hoarsely, but didn’t speak. As Rivette watched, Valjean kept watching Javert in turn. His eyes were dark with pain, although he didn’t lift a single finger to throw Javert off.

Was this truly the phantom Javert had hunted for over a decade? The mastermind behind the insurgency?

“You were right, sir,” Rivette murmured at last. “He was here all right.”

Javert scoffed. “I knew I’d find you here.”

“I didn’t know I was going to be here.” Valjean’s face was pale even beneath the grime and soot smeared across it. “Not until this morning…”

“Be that as it may, sir,” Rivette said when another cannon ball made the house shake around them. “We need to leave. Now.”

“You…” Javert breathed in deeply, his face so close to Valjean that Rivette suddenly felt a ridiculous notion stirring within him.

Could it be…?

“I’m yours.” Valjean sounded tired. “Do what you want with me. But that boy—”

“That boy can go to hell for all I care,” Javert said. “Do you think I’ll believe—”

“Sir,” Rivette said urgently, “now!” Before Javert could get into another argument, he grabbed hold of Valjean’s uninjured shoulder. “Can you stand? Careful with his wound, sir.”

Some sense seemed to finally be filtering back into Javert’s mind, for he’d at last moved off Valjean. Valjean gritted his teeth when they helped him up, although not a single sound of pain escaped him.

“No time for that, sir,” Rivette said when Javert stopped for the cut length of rope pooling on the floor. “Come on. You’ll have him in shackles soon enough.”

Outside, the battle was still raging. These had to be the final minutes of the barricade—there were soldiers everywhere, the fight furious and close now. Was it still possible to escape via the smaller barricade from which he’d come in?

All of a sudden, Valjean twisted in his arms.

“Marius,” Valjean gasped—and then, with a burst of strength that belied his wounded shoulder, he’d slipped free of their hold, throwing himself into a small alcove formed by one extremity of the barricade and the walls of houses.

A body had crumpled on the ground there, Rivette now saw. One of the insurgents—a young man, dark-haired. When Valjean carefully rolled him onto his back, Rivette could see a patch of red spread across his chest—and there was another wound at his hip, the trousers torn as if he’d been stabbed by a bayonet.

“They’re going to shoot us first before asking what the hell we’re doing here,” Rivette muttered when he looked around.

For the moment, they were relatively safe in this little alcove, which protected them from stray bullets—and the soldiers now seemed to focus their attention on the door of the wineshop from which they’d only just escaped.

As Rivette watched, the last of the insurgents filed in, closing the door behind them, soldiers immediately following and battering at the door.

Rivette swallowed. They were only steps away. If one of them looked to the side—there wouldn’t be enough time to explain—

“Bring the ram!” a hoarse voice called out. Several of the soldiers immediately turned away to follow the order, and in the gap they left, Rivette could now see a man with the epaulette of a lieutenant on his right shoulder.

Was it the man he’d spoken to before he’d infiltrated the barricade from the back alley? It was hard to make out his face beneath the soot. Blood was dripping from a gash at the lieutenant’s forehead. But there was no time to lose and Rivette decided to chance it.

“Lieutenant Mercier,” he called out, raising his hands to show that he was unarmed. “Lieutenant Mercier.”

Immediately, several rifles were aimed their way. For a heartbeat Rivette thought that he’d lost his gamble when the man stared at him with a grim expression—but then the officer lowered his gun, and at a sign, his men followed.

“You’re that police spy we sneaked in, aren’t you,” he said. “Thought you surely had to be dead.”

Rivette shook his head. “They’d taken Inspector Javert prisoner, just like our reports said. We only just made it out in time.”

The lieutenant came closer, his weapon still in his hand. “And who’s that you’ve got there?”

“Prisoners,” Javert said grimly. “They don’t have anything to do with your business. They’re my business.”

The lieutenant scoffed. “All thieves and murderers on these barricades, eh? A fine thing that is, getting to fight students and criminals in the streets of France. Very well, we’ve got more important things to do here. Sergeant, take them out of here.”

And just like that, Rivette found himself in a carriage minutes later, staring at Valjean, who in turn stared at the insurgent who looked more alive than dead.

“He’s not going to make it,” Rivette murmured.

At his words, Valjean looked up sharply. Rivette studied him.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but he looks nothing like your posters,” Rivette said at last to break the silence. “But I guess they’re no longer needed now.”

Valjean lowered his gaze again, then reached out to stabilize Marius, who’d sunk against his side.

“That young man,” Javert said at last, and now it was Rivette who looked up suddenly.

Javert still sounded strange. Rivette had never heard him sound like that before. Javert was all confidence and, depending on the occasion, could be filled with a terrible anger. Indeed, it was Valjean who reliably brought out that anger in him. Rivette had learned long ago to keep his thoughts to himself when it came to the topic of Jean Valjean.

But now, with Valjean in his grasp at last, there was nothing triumphant in Javert’s voice. He spoke quietly, with long pauses, and something about it made Rivette shiver instinctively.

What had come to pass between these two at the barricade before he’d arrived?

“Would you say… You care for this young man?”

Rivette felt a sudden ache in his chest, his eyes going to Valjean again. Had he assumed correctly then? There was something strange between these two—a connection that seemed to go deeper than a decade of a man avoiding arrest.

“Not at all,” Valjean said. “He’s taking all happiness from me, if he survives.”

“Then why do you—”

Javert fell abruptly silent again, moistening his lips. Even now he hadn’t raised his voice, when Rivette had born his ire countless times before for daring to question Javert’s pursuit of this man. For less, even—sometimes merely for being in the same room Valjean had managed to flee from just in time.

Rivette remembered Javert’s fury when they had found Valjean’s rented garret in the Gorbeau tenement, which had been abandoned only minutes earlier. Was it possible that it was the same man now sitting next to him, at a loss for words?

And was it possible that this exhausted, frustrating man was the villain who had monopolized Javert’s every thought for so many years?

“Are you mad?” Javert asked at last, still speaking so softly that a shiver ran down Rivette’s back.

Valjean, in turn, met Javert’s eyes tiredly. “No. I don’t think so. Are you?”

“All well, sir?” Rivette asked when no one spoke.

“No, Rivette,” Javert said. “Nothing is well.”

Rivette studied Valjean again, who didn’t seem to have taken notice of this admission from Javert. Valjean sat slumped, exhausted to the bone—and still held up the insurgent with careful hands.

He didn’t seem violent at all—and yet Rivette had seen what men could do who looked as innocent as a lamb one moment only to produce a knife the next.

The clatter of the carriage came to an abrupt stop. Javert gestured at Rivette to stay in the carriage. It only took a minute until they returned, the half-dead boy handed over safely into his family’s care.

Again Rivette gave Javert a careful look when he entered the carriage. This did not seem at all like him. Striking a deal with Valjean was perhaps only too natural—Rivette himself would have happily made this deal. But that Javert should have done so…

Rivette watched the streets worriedly. They weren’t returning to the Rue de Jérusalem. Javert wasn’t taking their prisoner to the Prefecture. Again Rivette considered speaking up. When he turned his head, he saw that Javert sat silent, staring at Jean Valjean with an unreadable expression, who in turn met his gaze tiredly from half-closed eyes.

“One more favor,” Valjean said quietly after a moment.

Rivette couldn’t quite hold back the soft laugh that escaped him. No, Valjean might be nothing like what he’d thought—but Javert had been right enough about that, hadn’t he?

Valjean’s gaze had wandered from Javert to Rivette’s face. Now he swallowed, hesitating for a moment.

“Go on then,” Rivette said when Javert was silent. “The chief told us you’re good at that. Begging for favors.”

Valjean inclined his head as if accepting that burden. “Let me write a letter to my daughter. That’s all I’m asking for this time. The last favor I will ask.”

“I’ve heard that promise before,” Rivette muttered. “But I guess it can’t hurt, sir, can it?”

A careful look at Javert showed no objection—no reaction either way, which was more worrying. Rivette buried his unease by producing his notebook and a pencil, which he handed to Valjean.

The man lived in a quiet area that didn’t seem affected by the insurgency of the past night. When the carriage came to a stop once more, Valjean held out the letter to Rivette, even though it was Javert he looked at.

Javert waved a hand. “Go,” he said. After a heartbeat, he leaned forward and unlocked Valjean’s shackles.

“I’ll… go with him, sir, shall I?” Rivette said.

As he’d half expected, there was no answer from Javert.

It had been a long, exhausting day and night for the Chief. He’d been taken prisoner. Who knew, perhaps the insurgents had tortured him in the hope for information about the army’s plans. Still, it was eerie to see the Chief like this—as if all life had gone out of him. As if that bright fire of determination and ambition that had always burned so fiercely within him was gone, just like that.

In a way, Javert had reached the end of his ambition at last: Jean Valjean was his prisoner once more. Still, Rivette didn’t like the look on his face. He’d seen that look before.

Pachard had looked like that for months after his son had died. Ribeaud had looked just like that before he’d gotten himself killed in a botched operation, shortly before the Chief gained note of his gambling debts.

But Javert had no family. No one he loved had died. And surely the Chief would rather kill himself than ever become entangled in crime…

With sudden shock, Rivette realized that Javert had indeed made himself complicit in a crime—he’d lied to the soldiers at the barricade; he’d delivered one of the insurgents to his family instead of to a prison.

And yet, surely that couldn’t be the reason for Javert’s upset—he’d seemed strange long before they’d stopped to let the boy go home.

Gritting his teeth, Rivette followed Valjean out of the carriage, now more eager than ever to keep an eye on this man who’d somehow managed to wound Javert in a way he couldn’t understand. Even now, Rivette was half certain this famous trickster would have some final surprise up his sleeve, that he’d pull off another impossible escape, even wounded as he was.

Instead, beneath Rivette’s watchful gaze, they entered the house. Valjean lived in an apartment on the first floor. Inside, it was quiet; everyone was asleep.

Motioning for him to remain silent, Valjean opened a door. He raised a hand to keep Rivette from following him. Rivette straightened, wondering whether now the moment had come that Valjean would try to slip from his grasp once more—but before he could force his way in after him, Valjean reappeared, the letter no longer in his hand.

When Valjean pulled the door gently close, Rivette saw that his eyes were shining wetly. He didn’t speak when they went down the stairs once more, although his shoulders were bowed.

For a moment, Rivette felt a stirring of sympathy. He, too, was weary to the bone after the hours at the barricade. And the man had taken a bullet for Javert, as strange as that seemed.

Valjean needed a doctor. And then they’d lock him into a cell, and perhaps, after all these years, Javert would finally allow himself to rest.

When they made it back out onto the street, the rain was coming down heavily. The carriage was no longer there.

For a moment, Rivette stood still in confusion, staring out at the veil of rain that plastered his hair to his skin. All around him, the cobblestones gleamed with wetness—but the street was empty.

There was no sign of Javert.

A moment later, Rivette started when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. When he hastily turned, expecting to find the familiar silhouette of Javert glowering at him, he was met by disappointment: the streets were still empty. It was only Jean Valjean, still wearing his soiled trousers and shirt, who’d run up the street, ignoring the rain that was falling even heavier.

With a grimace, Rivette started hurrying after him. If he lost their captive now, Javert would surely have his head for it. But before he’d even taken more than a few steps, Valjean stopped, turning to survey the street without seeing Rivette.

“Javert?” Valjean called out, “Javert?”

Valjean raised his arms, turned again, the rain falling stronger and stronger.

“Javert!“ he shouted a final time, his voice shaking with a desperation that was deeply unsettling. Then he let his arms fall, his head bending, and stood for all purposes like a man in mourning before a grave.

“For God’s sake,” Rivette muttered when he came closer, “stop your shouting, man. You’ll wake the whole neighborhood. Maybe the Chief saw another of those damn insurgents and took after him. This isn’t like him at all.”

Valjean didn’t react to his words. Only when Rivette grabbed his arms did he give a start. His face was pale, the rain having washed much of the grime away. A patch of red had begun to spread through the bandage.

“Don’t you understand?” Valjean said tonelessly. “He’s gone.”

“Nonsense. We’ll find him at the Prefecture. And that’s where we’re going now.”

Rivette couldn’t help but give Valjean several sideways glances as they walked through the rain. Surely the man couldn’t really believe that Javert of all people would let him go, just like that?

Another might have, after what Valjean had done. Even Rivette might have been tempted to. But not Javert. Not this man.

For nearly ten minutes they walked through the pouring rain until they finally found a carriage. The driver made Rivette pay in advance, after a derisive look at his uniform and Valjean’s soiled clothes—expecting, no doubt, that at the end of the ride, he’d be left with a corpse on his seats.

Instead, when they made their way along the Quai de Gesvres, Rivette chanced to look out through the window and saw something that made his heart clench with disbelieving shock.

There was a man, standing on the parapet of the Pont au Change, wearing Javert’s familiar coat. As Rivette watched in disbelief, he saw him take off his hat and place it on the stone beside him.

Dimly, Rivette could hear himself cry out for the driver to stop. He ignored Valjean’s surprised question as he fumbled with the door handle. His fingers were shaking. He was down on the wet cobblestones before the carriage had even stopped.

On the bridge before them, he could now see Javert’s distinctive frame—he’d half climbed onto the parapet, Rivette realized, frozen in disbelief. Then, just like that, Javert moved back down onto the safety of the bridge.

Rivette had nearly forgotten about Valjean’s existence as he raced towards the bridge, ignoring the carriage behind them—ignoring Valjean as well, who for all Rivette cared could slink back to whatever hell he’d sprung from, if that was what he’d driven Javert to.

Then, before Rivette had even made it to where the bridge opened from the quay, Javert appeared high upon the parapet once more. There wasn’t even a heartbeat of hesitation as Javert threw himself forward. There was a splash as his body hit the water—and then, moments later, there was a second splash.

Still rooted to the ground, Rivette saw with disbelieving eyes that Valjean hadn’t only followed him, but had thrown himself off the quay into the dark waters of the Seine without even a heartbeat of hesitation.

It was too dark to see very clearly. In the light that reflected off the river’s dark surface, Rivette thought that he could make out Valjean’s head, coming up every now and then as he struggled against the current to make his way towards where Javert’s body had hit the water.

A moment later, Rivette found himself running. He contemplated throwing himself in after them, but he’d never been a strong swimmer, and this was the Seine, full of dangerous currents at this part. Instead, his eyes still helplessly on the gleaming waters flowing beneath the bridge, he raced along the quay until he found a boat moored only by a rope.

It was a small row boat—another skill he had not had much need of. Nevertheless, Rivette didn’t stop to think as he sawed at the rope until it gave, the boat immediately carried away by the current. Still peering at the water ahead, he took up the oars. He didn’t allow himself to think.

It didn’t matter why the Chief had done it. It didn’t matter that Valjean was wounded. He only knew that he needed to find them. He didn’t dare to think about the alternative.

The current quickly carried him away from the bridge. At first, he struggled against it; then he realized that it would also be carrying Javert and Valjean away, if they survived. He gazed at the water ahead. Before him, the massive silhouette of Pont Neuf was coming up—and there, in the light of the gas lamps reflected by the water, he thought he saw just for a moment a head break the dark surface before it was gone again.

Rivette kept rowing until his hands ached, a sharp pain shooting through his shoulders every time he forced the oars through the water. Even so, he was now heading straight towards where’d seen a sign of life, pulled forward by the current of the river. He’d nearly made it there when he saw movement again—past the bridge now, just one glimpse, but it had been unmistakable that of a head and an arm.

When Rivette came out on the other side of the bridge, keeping towards the right, where he’d last caught sight of them, he was greeted by another glimpse of that arm. Now, at last, he was close enough to recognize that the person struggling in the water was holding someone else as well.

Rivette didn’t allow himself to think, rowing with all his strength. Another long minute passed until he’d made it close enough to be able to recognize them—but it was indeed Jean Valjean, still, miraculously, holding onto Javert.

“Valjean,” Rivette called out, “here!”

The current was still pulling at them—but here, with the bridge behind them, it had eased for a moment. Rivette pulled the oars up. The boat immediately began to turn. Gripping one oar as tightly as he could, he held it out as far as he could reach—and a moment later, he felt a sudden weight at the other end of it.

Valjean had managed to grasp hold of the oar. While the current pulled them further downriver, Rivette clenched his teeth against the burning of his shoulder muscles and pulled his catch in.

Javert’s uniform was sodden with water. He seemed barely alive; Rivette had to pull him into the boat by himself, while Valjean, pale as a ghost, hung weakly on to the side of the boat. When Javert was at last safely collapsed in a wet heap inside the boat, Rivette turned back to help Valjean inside—only to find that Valjean’s grip on the boat had slipped.

The last thing Rivette saw was Valjean’s hand sinking back into he water.

“You fucking bastard!” Rivette threw himself forward. The boat rocked back and forth as he reached blindly into the water, reaching further, further—and then his hand encounter something and he clenched around it, pulling with all his might.

Valjean’s head broke the surface a moment later.

“You two deserve each other,” Rivette forced out as he dragged Valjean over the side of the boat as well.

Valjean wasn’t resisting. He was still very pale, his skin cold beneath Rivette’s touch. Maybe the river’s cold would kill him. If the bullet wound didn’t. If Javert didn’t.

If Rivette didn’t, he thought as relief at last caught up with him.

He had them. He had both of them.

They were safe.

“Thank you, doctor,” Rivette said quietly as he led the man out.

Javert’s apartment had been closest, and so he’d given Javert’s address to the first coachman he could find. By the time they’d made it there, both of them had been shaking violently—the shivering seemed to be the only thing still keeping Valjean conscious.

Even now, the man was shaking, although Javert’s portress had hurriedly lit a fire for them. They’d added heated stones to Javert’s bed, but Valjean hadn’t stopped shaking. The doctor, when he’d come at last, had shaken his head at the sight, but it seemed that at least the bullet wound was not as bad as Rivette had feared.

It was a clean wound. The bullet had left on the other side, and had miraculously missed shattering the bones of Valjean’s shoulder. The river water was another matter—but the doctor had cleaned and bandaged the wound, and now all that was left was to wait and pray that infection wouldn’t settle in.

Valjean was asleep.

Javert had stood watching him quietly, refusing to stay in the chair where Rivette had left him. Javert hadn’t protested when Rivette had hurriedly pulled off Javert’s soaked clothes and wrapped him in a dry blanket. Javert hadn’t said anything, even to the doctor who’d eyed the bullet wound with a shrewd look, although their uniforms seemed to have convinced him that Valjean was merely an injured police spy.

As Rivette watched, Javert fell to his knees beside the bed as if his legs would no longer carry him. Rivette took a hasty step forward—only to stand frozen when Javert’s shoulders began shaking.

Javert was crying.

The sight was so impossible that Rivette found himself staring for a long moment in disbelief.

Javert’s hands were resting on the bed, his head bowed, his entire body shaking as he sobbed. Javert, who always carried himself with such confidence that hardened criminals twice his size instinctively gave way, now was crumpled up against the bed, his head buried in his arms. He looked strangely small, Rivette thought incongruously, the blanket that was now slipping from his shoulders too large for him.

A moment later, Rivette found himself by Javert’s side. Rivette watched himself reach out, sick with the certainty that any touch would be violently rebuffed, that Javert would force him to leave his apartment, and that he didn’t know what he’d do after what he’d seen earlier today—but there was no resistance when Rivette carefully wrapped his arm around Javert’s shoulders.

He didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? He’d just seen Javert attempt to kill himself, and he’d seen the man who should be his enemy save Javert twice, endangering his own life.

Jean Valjean had done more for Javert than Rivette had. That thought was sickening and sobering at once.

Rivette’s chest was tight, aching with jealousy as he held Javert’s shaking body and looked up at the bed—but Valjean’s pale, worn face quickly quelled that jealousy again.

No. Whatever these two were to each other, without Jean Valjean, Javert would be dead now. What right had he to begrudge that?

And yet, a traitorous thought whispered at the same time, without Jean Valjean, Javert would never have cast himself into the river…

Rivette tightened his arm around Javert, bending his own head until it rested against Javert’s. Javert still smelled of the river—like damp, stale water, like something still and dark and deep.

Like a grave, he thought, shuddering himself.

“You’re safe, sir. He’s safe. Everything else can wait. All will be well, I promise.”

Rivette barely knew what he was saying, murmuring it against Javert’s damp skin as he held him tightly, thinking of his first encounter with Javert. How impressive Javert had been even then, when everyone in the Prefecture’s offices had laughed at him behind his back. Rivette still remembered the day Javert had been made Chief Inspector, or the day Javert received his medal.

Javert had always been as firm and as unyielding as steel, full of ambition, devoted to his duty—a hard but fair man, Rivette had told the junior officers who’d come in the years after.

It was still true. Rivette still believed that. And whatever had come to pass with Jean Valjean, it could be fixed.

Little by little, Javert’s sobs died down. And yet Javert hadn’t shaken off Rivette’s touch. He hadn’t stopped shaking either, Rivette realized with sudden concern.

“Sir,” he murmured, “come on. You need to lie down. Your skin’s all cold.”

Javert didn’t resist when Rivette helped him up, even though the blanket slipped from his shoulders. In the light of the single lamp, he looked strangely diminished, his shoulders bowed, his eyes staring at the ground.

“Come on, sir,” Rivette said in encouragement. “He nearly froze to death in that river. Least you can do is help warm him up.”

After that, Javert let Rivette help him beneath the blankets, as obedient as a child. Rivette watched, still strangely unsettled, how he finally came to rest next to Valjean, his head on the same pillow.

Rivette thought again of that moment when he’d seen Valjean’s hand sink beneath the water. Had Valjean been too weak to cling to the boat for longer? Or had he let go deliberately?

Rivette lifted the blanket Javert had dropped and then sat down in a chair at last. He didn’t think he’d be able to sleep after all the events of the night, but he must have fallen asleep straight away. When he came to again, the room was dark. The lamp had burned out and the fire was low.

Groaning in discomfort, his shoulders still sore, Rivette forced himself to add enough wood to the fire to keep it going until morning. When he turned back to the bed, he found the gleam of tears on Javert’s face. Valjean was still sleeping, the laudanum doing its work to keep him resting. The linen bandaging his shoulder was blessedly free from new blood stains.

Rivette bent over the bed to rest a comforting hand on Javert’s shoulder, then frowned. Javert’s skin was still cold to the touch. Worse, he was still shaking.

Rivette hesitated for a moment, observing Javert’s restless sleep. As he watched, a new tear ran down Javert’s cheek, gleaming in the light of the fire. Rivette couldn’t help reaching out to brush it away.

Then, hurriedly, before he could think better, he undressed. After all that had come to pass, surely this would make no difference.

Javert was cold when Rivette joined him in the bed. He pressed himself against Javert, slinging his arm around him. A moment later, he tentatively continued to reach out until he found Valjean.

Rivette exhaled a sigh of relief when he found Valjean’s skin reassuringly warm.

“All will be well, sir,” Rivette murmured, pressing himself to Javert’s back until his trembling seemed to ease. “I promise. All will be well now.”

There was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the sound of breathing. Little by little, as the fire continued to burn, Javert’s body began to warm in his arms.

How Javert would react in the morning, Rivette had no idea. Rivette still couldn’t say what exactly he’d observed. A criminal, a convict, who’d twice saved Javert, almost at the cost of his own life. Who, it seemed, had hoped that it would take his own life. And Javert, who’d never taken a wrong step in his life, who was iron certitude, had let this man go and had then sought to end his own life.

Perhaps, in the morning, Rivette would find himself fired. Perhaps Javert would shout at him for the liberties he’d taken. How would Javert deal with the knowledge that Rivette had held him as he’d wept?

Rivette couldn’t say. But in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered right now was that Javert was alive. That Jean Valjean was alive. Hell, who knew—perhaps even the boy Valjean had saved would live. Rivette didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t care at this point.

But Javert was here, warm and safe in his arms, and so was the man who’d saved him. They could deal with everything else in the morning.

“All will be well, sir,” Rivette murmured tiredly once more, his lips grazing Javert’s warm skin, and then he allowed himself to sink back into sleep at last.