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June 7th, 1832, about one o’clock in the morning.
Javert folded and sealed his letter for the Préfet, detailing various things he had noticed over the course of his career, little inhumanities that would be worth addressing. Writing this was penance, perhaps, though certainly not enough of it. He left the station-house, bidding the watchman adieu rather than au revoir, and headed back to the quay.
At that quay he stood, near-motionless, for minutes that felt like hours, staring into the roiling swollen waters of the Seine. He knew what he had to do. It was the only possible outcome for him, the only way his story could end, knowing what he now knew. Nobody would mourn him.
He removed his hat and placed it on the parapet, then leaned on that parapet, put his weight on his hands, intending to hoist himself up—
But, then, moments before it was too late, a fresh idea dawned on him, and it was like waking from a terrible nightmare.
Javert recoiled from the parapet as if it had burned him. Standing on his own two feet on the rain-slick cobblestones of the quay, a fresh fire of determination in his eyes, his hands went to the two columns of brass buttons on his chest.
Inspector Javert is nothing now… another story must begin.
*****
June 15th
The Moniteur ran quite a similar article on this day to the one it would have run if Javert had truly chosen death. However, rather than the actual body of Inspector Javert being found tangled on a boat of the Seine, it was his greatcoat— identified as his by the police not by its distinctiveness alone, but by its pockets containing his snuffbox and his glass-bound identification card.
Despite the altogether less definite nature of the police discovery in this version of events, similar official conclusions were drawn from the combination of the discovery with Javert’s abrupt disappearance and the letter he had left behind— namely, that Inspector Javert was dead, and that he had done it himself the night that the barricades fell. Although agreement with this conclusion was not unanimous, it was reported in the Moniteur as likely; as such, the gossips whom Jean Valjean happened to overhear that morning were working from the assumption that it was true, and when he rushed to purchase the newspaper to clarify the state of affairs, the actual article read as much more of a confirmation than a denial.
Just as in the series of events with which the reader may be familiar, Jean Valjean decided to believe that Javert’s demise had been a mere fit of madness, no deliberate act, certainly nothing with a motive. Such madness, he told himself, would also explain Javert’s mercy to him and Marius Pontmercy at the sewer-entrance.
And now, thanks to the mysterious hand of fate, nobody on earth knew him as Jean Valjean.
*****
Javert was certain that he had done his erstwhile quarry a favour by leaving. His meagre savings were sufficient to fund passage to a place where he could start afresh.
It had, he reflected during the carriage ride to Calais, been quite foolish of him to dispose of his coat in falsifying his demise— he would have to save up to buy a new one by the end of summer— but he could not fault his choice of which reckless action to take that night; being cold was certainly much better than being dead.
From Calais, he booked passage on the soonest available ship to England, under the name of Fauchelevant (perhaps a poetic choice; perhaps a last-second improvisation). He was not entirely sure what he intended to do with his new life, but with his old life now revealed as a cruel sham, he knew it could not continue.
There was an unidentifiable ache, one for which he could not find a logical explanation, at the thought that he was forever leaving behind Jean Valjean, that they would never meet again. Whatever this feeling was, however, it was a selfish feeling that he would do well to ignore. The freedom granted by his absence was the best gift he could give that man, repayment and apology at once, so Javert did not look back.
Javert stood idly sentinel at the bow of the ship, wind in his hair, as the English coast came into view. Water surrounded him for miles— yet unlike that of the Seine that recent night, the water of the English Channel sang no siren-song. That moment of frenzy had passed, and he was determined to go on.
*****
Months passed, and Jean Valjean did not falter one bit in his duties as Cosette’s father. The knowledge that his pursuer was dead, when he allowed himself to think about it, provoked a confusing and painful mixture of emotions. For the most part, however, he felt numb.
One day, walking with Cosette on the way to visit her bedridden sweetheart, Jean Valjean glimpsed a tall man in a dark greatcoat and top hat among a crowd.
In his years, Jean Valjean had grown quite skilled at suppressing suspicious involuntary reactions— his most painful memories were simultaneously his greatest secret, so when those memories happened to be evoked by a sight or sound or smell that would seem benign to any normal person, it was a matter of survival that he should not outwardly react. He was no longer an actively wanted man, but his secret still needed to be kept, if anything for the sake of Cosette— she was still in his protection for the time being, and if he came under suspicion, she would be ruined as well. Furthermore, if she were to know the truth, it would surely break her heart, so it was for her sake in more ways than one.
Indeed, on that same walk, this skill of his was tested more than once. First, when their route took them past a fishmonger’s stall which smelled quite strongly of the sea— he grimaced and quickened his pace to get upwind of the stench, and he knew Cosette would not think strangely of it, as it was not a particularly pleasant smell even without the associations. Then, while the smell was still vivid in his nose, the driver of a passing carriage cracked his whip to propel the horses, and despite himself Jean Valjean flinched— he caught himself almost instantly, reminding himself of the truth that the year was 1832 and he was in Paris and he was as safe as a man like him could hope to be— and luckily it seemed that Cosette was looking elsewhere so she had not noticed the reaction.
However, despite his skill, when he glimpsed that man in the crowd, Jean Valjean’s eyes went wide and he failed to suppress a sharp intake of breath. A feeling of hope that should have been dread rose in him at the possibility, even so slim, that a certain man had somehow survived— but then, the tall man shifted, and his pale hand became visible, and the hope that should have been dread was dashed.
“Papa, what is it?” Cosette asked, her hand on his arm and her eyes full of innocent compassion. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No, it’s… it’s nothing, Cosette.”
*****
Javert spoke little to no English upon arrival, but managed to find some adequate employment as a labourer and servant. It was hard work, but it was honest work, work which did not make him complicit in cruelty, and so he applied to it the same implacable focus and diligence that had made him so feared in his time.
In London, he found community among other rejects and misfits. He picked up a decent amount of English, and nearly as much Polari (arguably easier— there was some overlap with the vocabulary of Javert’s childhood).
He kept the name of Fauchelevent— if it had not been a consciously symbolic choice on the boat, it became one on the shore. Jean Fauchelevent, officially, but to his circle of friends, he was still Javert; it was not as if Tom or Sam or Herbie were going to run and tell the French authorities of his continued existence. (Creativity in fabrication was not exactly his strong suit, and nor was maintaining a false identity— case in point, his actions at the barricade. Indeed, over these months it became quite apparent to Javert that keeping up an alias in the long term was exceptionally stressful; how, he wondered, had that man done it for so many years with nobody to confide in?!)
In dimly-lit dens, between rounds of gossip and beer, Javert was known to go on long multilingual spiels, explaining the twists and turns of his convoluted story to his new friends.
*****
Months passed, and Marius Pontmercy recovered, and at last he became well enough to marry Cosette. After that February day, that day which was so joyous for so many, Jean Valjean knew he no longer had a purpose.
Alone in his empty house one night, he made a decision. The fact that nobody knew him under his true name had become unbearable, the guilt and grief of it— he would tell Marius Pontmercy the truth of his identity. Furthermore, he would not attempt to ameliorate the matter; to mention such things as his rescue of Marius the night of the barricades or his deeds of penance over the years would only be to make excuses. He would let the young man think what he may.
When, following the revelation, Jean Valjean found himself being pushed out of the Pontmercys’ lives, he was neither surprised nor offended. It was good, in fact, that he would no longer burden the young couple with his association.
What, indeed, was the use of caring for himself under these circumstances?— of lighting a fire in cold weather, or of opening the windows in hot weather, or of eating three meals a day? Jean Valjean had outlived both his name and his purpose, but he knew (with a faint sense of anticipation— and anticipation, not dread, was the most accurate term) that this sorrowful state of affairs would not last too long.
*****
During Javert’s stint in London, through the company he kept, he began to understand himself much better. In particular, he understood the fact that he was, as Sam put it one March night, “absolutely hopeless for that Valjean omi— Lord above, how can one your age be such a dizzy fruit?”
“Really, Javvy,” Herbie added with a laugh, “it’s a shame you divorced Lilly Law; if all the sharpys were just out for cartzo, we lot wouldn’t have much to fear.”
Javert chuckled at Herbie’s joke (though, of course, as he knew his friends were well aware, his feelings for Jean Valjean were much more nuanced than simple lust, and his exit from the police had been the best choice he ever made).
“From all we’ve heard, Jean sounds like an absolute dish, and an angel personality-wise as well,” Tom said, sipping his drink. “If he ever writes saying he wants you back— I, for one, give you my full permission to drop everything and scarper back on home.” Judging by Herbie and Sam’s noises of assent, Javert had their permission too. “Just… don’t make it a French exit, as it were. You’re like a brother to me, Javvy, and you always have all the bona cackle, too, so if you go, send us word— let us know his address so we can write you.”
“Mon ami,” Javert, though amused, shook his head— “this thing you say, I do not believe it is possible.” (He pronounced ‘possible’ the French way; his accent was still quite thick.) “To him, and to all of France, I am a dead man, and the death of Inspector Javert has set Jean Valjean free.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh, here he goes again.”
In response, Javert continued with a half-smile: “But, if— how do you say— if pigs fly, and your little story comes true, I will remember your advice.”
*****
It was summer, and the Pontmercy couple had just arrived at Rue de l'Homme-Armé no.7, and Marius was babbling his nearly-too-late apologies to Jean Valjean. “—but in fact, you were Monsieur Madeleine, you did not rob him; you saved Javert, you did not kill him; and what’s more, you saved my own life as well!— I have been the greatest fool of all, the ingrate, the guilty one—”
Jean Valjean looked at his daughter and son-in-law with tired eyes. “I did not wish to burden you.”
“To— to burden us? How so?” Marius asked. “You are an angel, and I want only to be worthy to call you father— and I have done wrong by Cosette, too, in keeping you and her apart—”
Jean Valjean displayed an exhausted smile. “I suppose I have been foolish. I expected the truth to have… different effects than this. But, in all honesty, I do not see myself as worthy to call you son.”
“Whatever could you mean?”
“To start, there was one error in your account of my deeds. I have killed Javert.”
“Who is Javert?” Cosette asked, frustrated at being left out of the conversation.
Jean Valjean hesitated. “…It’s a long story.” Cosette would have to ask him again later.
“But— but you did not kill him! He went into the Seine of his own volition,” Marius said (half-whispering the description of the suicide, apparently in an attempt to protect his wife’s delicate constitution). “Look here— I got this newspaper clipping from that man, Thénardier—” Cosette flinched at the name; she would discuss this matter with her husband at a later time— “Javert left a note with the police, went missing, and his coat was later found in the river.” Marius held out the scrap of paper.
“Exactly,” said Jean Valjean, not even looking at the clipping; he knew the words by heart. “I did not kill him with my own hands in the alley behind the Corinthe, but in taking the actions I took, I ended his life. His derailment into this— this madness, if it even was a madness, began there.” There was a faraway look in Valjean’s eyes as he continued his reminiscence. “At the barricade, he had finally caught up with me, after all those years of pursuit, but he was at my mercy. I had the chance to end his life and free myself, but instead, I fired my gun in the air. I told him where to find me so he could arrest me in the morning… Cosette, I had been running all these years for your sake, but with Monsieur Pontmercy to protect you in my stead, this tiring chase could come to an end. I believe this mercy may have been the shock that broke Javert.”
The daughter and son-in-law stared at the father incredulously, though the actions he described were entirely characteristic of him.
“Indeed, later that night, after the barricade fell— hm,” Jean Valjean laughed weakly, gazing at Marius, “you were there, and yet you do not know this— when I brought you out of the sewer, Javert stood in my way, but he showed me mercy, despite everything— showed you mercy, despite the barricades. He paid for the fiacre to bring you to your grandfather’s house, and once you were safely inside, granted my request to go here, in order to farewell Cosette before being taken away. He told me he would wait for me outside. I thought things were finally over— in a way, they were. For, after I bathed and said my goodbye and exited the house, I learned that his promise had been false. I should have known that something was amiss— I should have gone after him, saved him, but I did not, and now it is too late.”
Marius was astonished, tangential thoughts swirling at top speed— not only did he still owe Javert those pistols from the Gorbeau house incident, but now he owed his life as well!— and yet, Javert was dead!— what was he to do now?—
Cosette, meanwhile, gleaned from this story the fact that her father’s recovery would hinge upon being relieved of the guilt surrounding Javert.
“I am… tired,” Jean Valjean said. “I do not believe I have much time left.”
He was not, however, quite so close to dying as the reader may expect— by some good fortune, he had not deteriorated as quickly as in the more familiar version of events.
“We will stay with you, Papa. We will nurse you back to health.”
“You may try.”
*****
By summer, Javert’s feelings for Jean Valjean, the feelings he had once considered unnecessary and confusing, had not faded in the slightest— if anything, identifying their nature had allowed them to grow, especially now that he had put distance between himself and the adversarial dynamic of the previous decade-and-change— but he had made his peace that he would never return to France, and by extension, that he would never see that man again. There was nothing left for him there, after all— nothing but painful expectations, enemies whose hatred of him was completely justified, people to whom his presence would be a burden.
Here in London, Javert had community— his new friends, his new family. Furthermore, he did not remain chaste during his time in the great city; he had no reason to maintain his record of celibacy now— none of these connections were particularly lasting, but they brought satisfaction. (“I see someone’s got a type,” Herbie had remarked jovially one night when he noticed Javert eyeing up a well-built dockworker across the room, as the group of friends sat at their usual table in a certain establishment.)
Here, among the community that now surrounded him, Javert experienced moments of never-before-felt joy.
There were some loftier ideas that he learned in London, too. Given the role now played by the law in his and his friends’ lives, he grew to comprehend the error of his old ideas of justice on a much more intimate level than his original single counterexample ever could have taught him. However, he also learned that, even in this world of Jean Valjean, there were things that could truly, honestly, be called right and good and just.
There was no longer any such being as ‘Inspector Javert’, and for this, the man who had once been that wretched creature was profoundly grateful to Jean Valjean.
*****
Jean Valjean’s condition was successfully stabilised by the attentions of his daughter and son-in-law— but did not improve. He had no physical ailment killing him; he simply lacked the will to recover.
During the days that followed, Cosette (as the only occupant of the house who was both willing to hope and clever enough to consider the possibilities) started to think about certain things, having extracted additional fundamental truths of the matter from her father and husband.
Surely, if Javert had actually drowned, the police should have found his body, not merely his coat? How would the coat and body even manage to drift apart, if he had fallen with the garment equipped? Then, all of a sudden, she remembered the escape plan her father had formulated but cancelled for the day of the barricades— and, going out on a limb, she sent for some maritime records.
When these records arrived, she had her answer. A few days after Javert’s disappearance, a ship from the port of Calais, bound for England, had carried a passenger going by the name of Fauchelevant. The very same pseudonym that had been her own maiden name— it had to be someone who knew her father, and given the timing, it was exceptionally likely to be Javert.
She tried to inform her father, but he would not hear it— merely conjecture, merely a coincidence, I will not tolerate such false hope. A plan, then, formed in her head; it might not work, but it was the only chance she had.
Cosette wrote the message in French, and a sufficient remnant of Marius’ translation skills remained for him to translate it into English. Both versions were sent to the editor of the Times, with the highest priority mail, along with money to cover any associated fee— Cosette believed the original French had a better chance of being noticed by the message’s target, but she was not sure if a British newspaper would be willing to publish a personal advertisement in a foreign tongue, so she left it up to the editor which version to choose.
To Javert—
Jean Valjean is dying slowly and miserably. He believes that you are dead, and that he has indirectly killed you. This belief is the cause of his despair. Please, good sir, if this message reaches you, come to his house on the rue de l’Homme-Armé, and prove that he is mistaken. This is the only way that he will survive.
From his daughter and son-in-law, M. and Mme. Pontmercy.
*****
Javert was not much of a reader, but he had taken to reading the newspaper, particularly the agony columns. It helped his English, he justified. On this particular day, he purchased the Times, and when he opened the paper, something in the Personals section caught his eye— several names he had never expected to hear again.
A few minutes later, he was already halfway back to his accommodations. He made a beeline for the desk, where he picked up his pen and two sheets of letter paper.
The next day, most of the valuable possessions Javert had acquired in London were in the hands of a pawnbroker, and a ship bound for Calais sailed with the name Fauchelevent listed in its manifest.
*****
When Cosette checked the mail, she saw a letter addressed ‘Monsieur & Madame Pontmercy, 7 rue de l’Homme-Armé, 7e arrondissement, Paris, France’. Cosette’s eyes widened as she held it in her hands— there was only one person on earth who would pair that addressee with that address. Hastily, she opened the letter— it was dated three days ago (the Times had written back already to confirm her note’s publication, so she knew three days ago was the same date as the edition in which the note had been published).
The letter, written in French in an unpretentious and consistent hand, was all she had hoped for and more. Javert confirmed that he had indeed spent the year in London, that he would be on his way to Paris via Calais by the time the letter would arrive, that he was sincerely sorry for the despair he had inflicted upon Jean Valjean, that he would explain his actions and mistakes more thoroughly upon arrival, and that the recipients were free to show the letter to Valjean but that he would be unlikely to believe in its authenticity without seeing Javert in the flesh (in Cosette’s opinion, an accurate assessment). The message was followed by a signoff of utmost politeness.
Cosette clutched the letter to her chest, overjoyed. The plan had worked.
Smiling, Cosette looked back at the letter— there was a postscript, and reading that postscript made her smile a little wider. Apparently, Javert had met Monsieur Pontmercy in February of the previous year (Cosette supposed this had something to do with the loaned pistols that Marius had mentioned a few times)— and due to this experience, with all due respect, he did not believe the man to be capable of such an ingenious deduction as discovering that Javert was alive in England, let alone deciding to contact him via the newspaper. The letter concluded: ‘alors, mes compliments à Madame.’
*****
Cosette intended to prepare her father for the arrival of the wayward former Inspector. However, on the day the man arrived (less than a week after his letter), she was not given the opportunity— the sound of a fiacre halting was followed by quick, insistent footsteps, and seconds later, bursting through the door, clad in dark working-class clothes, the man she supposed must be Javert practically forced his way upstairs.
“Ha,” breathed Jean Valjean when he saw who had opened the door to his chamber. “I suppose I am dying. Are you here to take my hand and lead me to the afterlife, Inspector Javert? Funny, I half-expected to see the bishop, or Fantine, but I suppose you are the guide I deserve.”
“Jean Valjean, you are a fool,” Javert said, striding to the bedside. “I am alive, and so are you, and you are a good man. I have been alive all this time. Did you not heed your daughter’s logic?”
“I… I…” Valjean stammered, overwhelmed and confused.
“It’s true,” Cosette said, entering the room. “He has spent the year in London. I tried to tell you, Papa— it was suspicious from the start that the coat would have separated from the body. And then there were records of someone using your pseudonym to cross the English Channel. Of course, I had no way of getting an address to write to him, but I sent for him using the newspaper.”
“And I will not arrest you, Jean Valjean,” Javert said, before the man’s thoughts could run any further in such a direction. “I fled the country to escape that task. I would have died to escape it if I had been just slightly more reckless. I no longer belong to the police.” Javert sat in the chair beside the bed. “Now, I am merely a man— the Inspector is gone, but Javert remains. You awoke my heart of wood that summer night, and I wish for nothing but your forgiveness for the pain I have inflicted over all these years, including the pain of my tactless departure.”
“Javert.” Jean Valjean reached out a hand and placed it on Javert’s arm, as if confirming that the other man was actually there. Something in his soul that had been broken became whole, and the colour returned to his pallid face. He hoped above all else that this was not a dream. “I forgave you long ago.”
Javert’s heart fluttered beneath his dark waistcoat. “Monsieur Valjean, you are entirely too merciful,” he said, the hint of an affectionate smile on his lips. “I ask for your friendship, then— if you would be willing to extend it.”
Jean Valjean smiled. “Of course.”
*****
Remarkably quickly, Jean Valjean was on the path to recovery. Javert took up residence as a guest at the house. Marius Pontmercy had insisted on returning those borrowed pistols; Javert had no idea at all what he was supposed to use them for, now that his days with the police were over, but the boy had been adamant on the matter.
Only a few days after Javert’s arrival, a letter in English came, addressed to Javert Fauchelevant, with the return address of Tom and Sam’s flat, and Javert sent his own letter answering the questions it had asked. He had a lot of answers to give, as his initial letter from the day of his departure (in which he had specified Rue de l’Homme-Armé no. 7 as the destination for future mail) had been quite brusque and worried in tone.
Javert’s letter was, evidently, received, because after a week, there was a response to his response, written in Tom’s typical chaotic hand.
To our dear Javvy,
We’re all glad to hear Jean is getting better!!! Even more glad to hear that he’s “forgiven you and accepted your friendship”— v. v. v. curious to know how literal that last bit was?
(Javert, even with so much distance between him and his friends, could see in his mind’s eye the eyebrows-raised expression that Tom always used when he was trying and failing to be coy. He rolled his eyes, but with a certain faint smile.)
Congratulations regardless, of course— either way, it’s an end to all that tiring “oh, mon ami, do not say that, he certainly detests me after all I have done” nonsense. But, for the record, Sam maintains your Jean is one of us and he’ll bet six months’ rent on it. And don’t forget, you promised me that you would let yourself be happy!
Also, just so you know, you didn’t have to pawn all your things for ship and carriage fare; we would have chipped in if you’d asked. Though I suppose that point is moot now, what with Jean’s fortune. Anyway, Herbie bought your watch back from the pawnbroker for you, in case you ever come back.
With eternal “fraternité”,
Tom, Sam & Herbie
P.S. Maybe once Jean is well enough to travel, you could both come visit— we’d love to meet him!!!