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Javert disliked all children on principle. Equally on principle, children disliked him—at least those sensible enough to fear the towering, stern man who had spent so many decades patrolling the streets of Paris and sizing up gamins for an inventory of faces to keep against future crimes.
Jean Valjean, to Javert's eternal regret, loved children. Most of all, he loved his grand-children. And so Javert, who had once sent gamins scattering with just the rise of his cudgel and a grim look, now found himself weekly in the company of the noisy little creatures that had taken over the halls of the Gillenormand home.
Marie was three, and a terror, shrieking as she raced through corridors with ribbons fluttering in her hair. Jean was the oldest, and, to Javert's perpetual chagrin, as empty-headed as his father, or at least determined to live on nothing but dreams alone. Yet, since this also meant that Jean would sit quietly in his chair instead of emitting ear-shattering shrieks, Javert begrudgingly accepted him as his favorite of the brood—or at any rate, the least bothersome.
Valérie was the youngest, as yet only a few months old. In fact, on past visits she had firmly held the role of Javert's favorite, for, once placed in his arms—an act he had long since been forced to give up dissuading Cosette from—she would happily fall asleep and leave him to his thoughts.
Unfortunately, their peaceful coexistence had been brought to an abrupt end by her teething and recurring colics, and so little Valérie had even overtaken boisterous Marie in Javert's ranking of least favorite and most bothersome child for the moment.
“Don't you think that Cosette looks very exhausted today,” Valjean said, and Javert harrumphed. He was comfortable in his armchair by the fire. Pontmercy had poured him a large snifter of cognac. The food had been plentiful, as it had been for every Christmas he had spent with the Pontmercys. Cosette had left the room to deal with the shrieking baby, Marie was harassing her father in the corridors, and little Jean stared dreamily out of the window.
As Christmas Eves went, this made for a very good one, especially with Valjean in the armchair next to his.
“I thought she looked exhausted.”
Javert sighed. “It's her third child. You know how it goes. Eventually it will cease its shrieking. Give it a few weeks.”
“A few weeks without sleep can be very strenuous,” Valjean murmured, but fell silent when Javert turned his head to give him a look.
Valjean's hair gleamed white in the light of the fire. He was clean-shaven; Javert had performed the task this morning, as he often did during winter now, for the cold made Valjean's knuckles swell and ache. The past year, they had moved the bed from the first floor of the pavilion in the Rue Plumet to the ground floor where the sitting room had now gained an adjoining bedroom, for Valjean's bad leg ached in the winter when the cold bit at old bones and joints until they reddened and swelled.
It could not be denied. They were both getting old. Javert thought that he should feel grateful that he was allowed to grow old in peace by Valjean's side, but in truth he was filled by a quiet, furious rage that Time dared to stretch out its fingers and take away little by little the man he lived for.
“You're not staying to help her, if that is what you want to suggest,” he said, more gruffly than he had intended. “I daresay she and Pontmercy are used to the loss of sleep; more than you, in any case.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. Valjean's face was relaxed, flushed from happiness and heat. There was a snifter with cognac in his own hand, red, swollen knuckles holding the glass. Javert looked at them and thought of that hand in his own, smoothing salve into the swollen knuckles until their skin smelled of camphor and Valjean's fingers at last relaxed with gratefulness.
They would take a fiacre home. It would not do to walk so long in the cold, not with Valjean's bad leg and aching hands. Cosette would see to it even should Valjean protest. And yet, now that he had thought of it, Javert missed the walks home through the falling snow late on a Christmas Eve: no company but that of Valjean and the stretch of the night sky above the sleeping city, the blessing of Valjean's warm mouth against his as the bells of Saint-Sulpice tolled with those of Notre-Dame.
For a few, blissful years, that had been their tradition. For a moment, Javert missed the freezing air on his face, the silence of the city, Valjean's hand in his as large snowflakes kept falling all around them. And then he looked at Valjean's hand again and smiled a little. Routines could change, he thought. It would be just as sweet to sit with him by the fire this night, watching the snow falling outside while he smoothed liniment into Valjean's knuckles. Everything would be quiet. The old crèche would be out, and it would feel like they were the only people still awake on earth.
Two old fools who were nevertheless grateful for all that they had been given.
A log cracked in the fireplace, and he started. He had nearly forgotten about the cognac in his hand. Now Javert took a sip. It was warm and rich on his tongue, burning as it ran down his throat, leaving behind memories of oak and fruit.
Little Jean had been woken by the crack as well. Blinking, he straightened in his chair, still clutching the book that had been a present from Valjean. Javert could hardly see the sense in bringing yet another book to a household that already had more books than sense, but the boy's eyes had gleamed, and Javert had silently sighed when he realized that this gift would entail further visits just so that Valjean could read the boy all the stories the book contained.
Well. With any luck, the boy would learn to read for himself soon enough.
When Cosette returned at last, it was with Valérie in her arm who was still fretful and quietly crying. The fire had burned down. Outside, it was dark, and the streetlights shone on the snow that kept falling. They would leave soon now, Javert thought with some relief. Soon, they would leave the cries and the shrieks behind and return to the silence of the Rue Plumet.
“Thank you for the meal, madame,” he said and bowed over Cosette's hand when Marius came in a moment later, rousing M. Gillenormand who had slumbered in a corner.
“I hope she will let you sleep tonight,” Valjean said when came forward as well to say goodbye. He pressed a kiss to Cosette's cheek, then kissed the tiny head of Valérie who had quieted for what Javert knew was just a short breather.
“If you want, I will stay tonight and watch her for you.”
Javert clenched his teeth. Of course he'd offer, the fool.
“No, father, you need your sleep as well. And it is not so bad,” Cosette said bravely, even though Javert could see the shadows beneath her eyes. “Marie was worse at that age.”
“Then let us take Jean with us tonight. One child less for you to worry about. We'll return him tomorrow.”
Javert took a deep breath. So much for that solitude he had longed for. And of course Valjean had not even asked his opinion on such a thing. Maybe because he already knew what Javert would have said.
“Can I, mama? Can I stay with grandfather tonight?” Jean had slipped from his chair and came eagerly forward at the news, still clutching his book with one hand while he slipped the other into Valjean's.
Javert sighed silently once more, already resigned to his fate. What a grand Christmas Eve this would be. He knew who would hold Valjean's attention once they arrived home.
“Are you sure father? And you, Jean, you will behave, yes?”
“I will, mama!” The child look up at Valjean with gleaming eyes, and Javert walked off to get their coats. He did not need to hear the conversation play out to know how it would end.
***
The fiacre moved slowly, for it was still snowing heavily. For a few minutes, Jean had eagerly watched the snow fall onto deserted streets, but now he was asleep, slumped against Valjean's side. The carriage had only just reached the Quai Pelletier; Javert looked outside as well as they crossed the Pont Notre-Dame and then drove towards the Place St. André. It was strange how silent the city was. The snow muffled all sound. Many windows were still brightly lit; it was not that late yet. Were they younger, he thought that he and Valjean might still linger in a wine shop for an hour or two, and then walk home arm in arm, hearts warm with drink and love.
Perhaps it was wrong to feel as though someone had taken these moments from him. It was not the fault of the boy, at least. It was simply age. The passing of time. Who was he to rage at that relentless master?
And yet Javert, who had learned to share Valjean with Cosette, with her children, with the schools and poor families that took up Valjean's time and attention, even with God—Javert found it impossible to share even a minute of Valjean's time with that faceless, relentless figure that stood watching and snipped off moment after moment, merciless even in the face of the joy that they had found so late.
“Look, Javert—the Seine is frozen!” Valjean whispered and pointed out of the window. His cheeks were flushed from either the wine or the cold. Even though Javert knew that he could not make him bear the hardship of a walk across the ice, he still felt the loss of those moments they might have shared as bitterly as the cold.
Valjean's words had woken the boy, who now scrambled and at last sat on Valjean's lap, the small, narrow face pressed against the frosted window to look out at where Valjean pointed. Javert looked at them, jealousy gnawing at his heart—even now!—and acknowledged it, then moved on from it. That part of him, he thought, would stay with him until his death. Very well, so be it! A man like him could not help but feel jealousy, betimes, and all other sorts of petty emotions there were.
But he could also see other things: the gentleness with which Valjean's arm curved around Jean's small body, the warmth in his eyes, that nearly unbearable tenderness Valjean had with children. Where did it come from? Javert had seen Valjean when he was at his worst: one among many they had seen as little more than beasts—brutes who could neither read nor think, who could only harm and rob and lie.
Had this immeasurable tenderness already existed in Valjean's heart then? Had it been hidden by the hardened skin of his innermost core? Had it only taken freedom and kindness to coax it forth?
Or was it rather that a Bishop's kind touch could wake tenderness and goodness even in the heart of someone who had never known such a thing before?
Javert wanted to scoff at the notion, but he had carried these questions in his heart for many years now, and always his thoughts returned to the same old conundrum. Had not his own heart been withered wood, dry and dead? And had not a touch of compassion bestowed upon him a capacity for goodness he had not possessed before?
Or: had not what little goodness and tenderness Javert now possessed always existed within him, and Valjean had done no more but prune away the dead wood to let the green shoots strive towards the sunlight?
Javert had no more an answer to the enigma of his own heart than he had for that of Jean Valjean. Perhaps it was so for all men. Perhaps this was indeed a secret that was not for men to solve. Who could see to the deepest depth of a heart? Not Jean Valjean, Javert told himself, no; not even he. Jean Valjean saw too much goodness where Javert saw too little. And yet—had not in the end Valjean been proven right?
When he looked at Valjean again, the child had fallen asleep against him once more. Valjean's hand rested on his head, and Javert studied once more the reddened joints, the fine hairs on his knuckles, the wrinkles and spots that had become as familiar to him as the skin of his own hands.
Time had taken, and taken—but had Javert not also gained? A better man would be grateful for the years they had been given, and for the years still waiting. He knew that Valjean felt nothing but gratitude for what he considered an undeserved happiness. And yet, even now Javert could not suppress the bitterness of knowing that the years of pain would always outweigh the years of joy.
Perhaps that was why the passing of time ached so much. There was never enough time. There never would be.
***
When they reached the Rue Plumet, Javert stopped for a moment to watch the snow fall. The garden was already covered by a heavy blanket of white. It was not so late yet, he thought again as he looked at the snowflakes gleaming in the moonlight. Younger men might be stumbling home now, arm in arm, limbs flushed from wine. Younger men might kiss here in the garden, and then retreat into their home for another drink and another kiss.
He turned and watched as Valjean carefully lead the child along the cleared path to the small pavilion. None of those pleasures for Javert today, it seemed. He frowned at himself even as he followed them into the house.
Was it ridiculous to be jealous of a child? Perhaps. And especially on this of all nights, such emotions did not become him. If the passage of time meant that every passing year was one year less of those that remained with Valjean by his side, he was certain hat Valjean felt the passage just as keenly. To him, every passing year was one year less to spend with his grandchildren and daughter.
Javert took their coats to hang them close to the fire where the snow that had settled on them would quickly melt and dry. Embers were still glowing in the fireplace; now he added new wood to the fire while Jean, nearly asleep on his feet, stumbled to where they had placed Valjean's old crèche by the window. Frost had made flowers of ice bloom on the glass pane. The moon shone in, full and bright this night, its light reflected by the snow. The star atop the stable gleamed as Jean quietly took it all in.
Javert chanced a look at Valjean, and found that, while he had been watching Jean, Valjean had been watching him. Javert wanted to shake it all off, his shoulders twitching with the nervous restlessness of someone who still had not become used to his place in moments like this. Instead, he chose to remain silent. He wanted to take Valjean's hand, stroke the gnarled fingers that had served so long and so well until they relaxed, and then massage salve into joints and tendons until the room smelled of camphor. He wanted to listen to the sound of Valjean's breathing.
Quietly, he waited until Valjean gave him a tender look. It was no apology—they had moved past these things, and he thanked God for that. Thank God for that miracle that had allowed Jean Valjean to want to spend a Christmas Eve with a grandchild, and feel no guilt that he was causing a selfish old man jealousy over it.
Thank God also, Javert thought, throat dry, that Valjean accepted such emotions in him. Because he did not think he would ever not feel jealous of even the smallest smile bestowed upon another.
“Come, you can look at it some more tomorrow, Jean,” Valjean then said. “It's time to go to bed.”
Obediently, Jean turned away from the window and the crèche. He let Valjean steer him into the bedroom, and while Valjean began to undress him with gentle hands, Javert wordlessly began to prepare the bed that stood in an alcove in what had become their sitting room. The linen was cold, but the wood was burning brightly now in the fireplace. Soon enough, the house would be filled with warmth and would give ease to Valjean's aching joints. What did one night spent in the small bed here in the sitting room matter? In the long run, it did not matter at all.
And in truth, Javert thought as he quickly undressed as well, despite his petty jealousy, how could he begrudge Valjean his happiness on this night of all nights? They would make up for it in other ways. Or perhaps there was nothing to make up for. To live here together, to have found solace and companionship and—yes—love in one another, that was already a greater wonder than either of them had expected.
Well then. Certainly he could spend one night of the year grateful for all he had, instead of greedily wishing for what he did not have.
When he looked in on them again, the floorboards still cold against his bare feet, Jean was already asleep, the small, pale face with its unruly mop of dark hair nearly buried beneath the heavy comforter. Valjean was wearing nothing but his nightshirt. He stepped to Javert's side, resting one hand on his arm.
“Goodnight, Javert,” he said, his voice very soft. “Merry Christmas.”
His lips brushed Javert's cheek, and Javert sighed.
He looked at the bed again. The child was asleep. Slowly, he leaned forward to brush his lips against Valjean's.
“Merry Christmas,” he murmured. “Now go to bed, it's cold.”
Valjean's eyes creased, and the look he gave Javert was one of tenderness. Javert gazed at him, his heart swelling with so much feeling it seemed impossible to contain it all. There, in the light of the moon and the one candle burning near their bed, Valjean seemed strangely translucent. Age had not made him frail; although he had lost some of his strength over the years and some of the bulk of muscle, he was still imposing. His hair still curled in soft, white waves against his nape. He read as voraciously as he always had, although his eyes tired easily, and Javert would oblige him betimes and put on his own spectacles to read to him in the evenings.
And yet, although age had not changed him overly much, Javert could not fail to note how the winds of time had gently hollowed him. Valjean's skin was thin, blue veins standing out from the pale insides of his arms. His hair still shone, the venerable white pure as a saint's halo, yet now it was sleek like thin silk in Javert's hands when he stroked it. And Valjean's strong body had lost some mass—not from starvation or illness, this time. It was as though little by little, parts of Valjean had begun to shift, to leave and step behind a veil into some other world.
What a maudlin fool I am, Javert thought tiredly. There is no cheating death. No; even though he cheated Death for my life. But I am not him, and the Styx is not a river I can pull him from, even had I his conviction and strength.
The fire was burning brightly when Javert slipped into the narrow bed in the cot. The house was warm; it pleased him, as it always did, to know that he was here to make certain that Valjean had the comforts he deserved.
The house was quiet. The cot was not uncomfortable, but it saw little use, and Javert was not used to sleeping without the warmth of another body next to him. Instead of the sound of Valjean's breathing, there were only the soft sounds of the fire: the occasional hiss; a soft crack when a log would shift. He must have dozed a little eventually, for the wine had made his limbs heavy and his thoughts sluggish, but when he opened his eyes again, the fire had not yet burned down. The moon still shone in through a window, and he saw its light reflected off the small star that shone over the roof of their little crèche. Their crèche—when had he come to think of these things as his?
But they were now. He had affixed the star with Julie in the past year, when they had taken the crèche out and the star had fallen off and the donkey had mysteriously lost a leg. There were more sheep now, too. Valjean had made them himself to Jean's delight, when Jean had still been very small, fabricating soft, fluffy animals from bits of sheep's wool and sticks. Javert had watched and pretended to scoff for a moment, but even he had been forced to admit that the animals were more than passable as honor-guard of the old, battered shepherds Valjean had brought with him from the Convent.
Javert stood, suddenly restless. On his bare feet he walked across the room to the fire. The floor was no longer cold and the air was warm enough that Valjean's joints should not plague him too much; still, Javert added another two logs just to make certain that it would keep burning all through the night.
Then he stepped towards the window. Snow was still falling. The path that had been cleared from the gate to their house was already covered once more. It was very bright outside. The moon's light made the snow shine and the frost on the trees sparkle. Icicles gleamed. As Javert watched, an owl suddenly rose from a branch one of the leafless trees stretched out. It hooted softly, and then glided away, perhaps in pursuit of a mouse that had dared to brave the snow.
He thought of the first Christmas they had spent here. How far they had come. And was it not worth it to give up his place by Valjean's side for a night when it meant that no tears had been shed in this house this eve?
After a while, the bed made a creaking sound. Javert waited. The owl returned once more, flying silently, its shadow sliding across the snow. Javert wondered whether it had been successful in its hunt. Then, eventually, there came the soft sound of feet. Javert did not turn, but when Valjean at last stepped to his side he reached out for his hand and drew it tenderly to his lips.
“You should be asleep. It is late.”
“The same is true for you.” He could hear Valjean's small smile in his words, but he kept his attention on his hands. Had his joints been bothering him? The skin was dry against his lips, the knuckles swollen and hot. Javert turned his hand, breathed calmly into his palm, then pressed a lingering kiss into it. Valjean allowed it all, and when Javert drew away at last, Valjean rested that hand against his neck.
“I woke. I could not sleep. I will go back in a while,” Valjean murmured. “You know how it is.”
“Yes.”
Again they stood silently. Javert kept watch for the owl, but it did not return. The moon shone so brightly that he could see shadows of branches sway against the snow.
Eventually, Valjean released a breath. He had lifted a hand, thoughtlessly rubbing his fingers with those of the other, and Javert sighted quietly, then led Valjean back towards the fire. They did not speak, but Valjean settled without protest into the comfortable, large settee that stood there. Valjean took the pot of salve from a cupboard. When he opened it, the familiar scent of camphor and juniper berries filled the room, mingling with the fire's scent of apple wood and smoke.
He settled next to Valjean. Valjean closed his eyes, his head coming to rest against his shoulder as Javert drew his hands into his lap. Silently, he began to smooth the salve into the inflamed joints, breathing in time with Valjean as the fire hissed and sputtered. The dry skin soon gleamed from the rendered fat, and his fingers slid easily across the palm that he had come to know as well as his own. Valjean's fingers were shorter than his, but thicker; gnarled now from the ache in his joints, though they relaxed more and more as Javert massaged him patiently, until at last Valjean's palm lay relaxed in his own.
He moved on to the other hand. Every finger received the same, careful treatment. Every swollen joint, every cramped tendon, every old callous was soothed by his firm touch and the liniment he spread.
Valjean was breathing calmly. Almost it seemed that he had fallen asleep, but when at last his hands rested relaxed in Javert's own hands, Javert saw that he was watching the fire.
His white hair was tinted by the flames with shifting shades of yellow and orange and red. Javert took a deep breath. He could smell nothing but the camphor. The scent had come to mean Valjean to him: that quiet, shared intimacy of moments when even an increasing feebleness led only to a different, deeper connection.
“If there is no snowfall tomorrow, my hands will be better,” Valjean said at last.
Javert watched the flames, just so that he would not look at the soft hair that he had kissed and brushed and caressed while slowly, year after year, bit by bit, such things were taken from him.
Whence came this mood that had suddenly taken him? Certainly a Christmas night was no time for such dire thoughts. And yet—how many nights like these yet remained?
He covered Valjean's hands with his own. He had never learned to pray as Valjean did, who surrendered himself to the will of Another with every breath he took.
Who are you to take Valjean from me? Javert asked as his eyes moved past the copper crucifix on the wall. Then, embarrassed, he bowed his head and looked at where his own, larger hands covered Valjean's.
Valjean was still breathing quietly. Javert saw that his eyes were resting now on the silver candlesticks that stood on the mantelpiece.
“I wonder, does God love you as much as I do?” Javert asked at last. He was embarrassed as soon as he had spoken the words, but he could not take them back now.
Valjean released a deep breath, nearly a sigh. He did not speak, but after a moment, he raised their hands and pressed a kiss to Javert's fingers. His breath was hot and damp against his skin. The camphor still lingered in the air, and Javert imagined it sharp on Valjean's lips.
“What brought this on?”
Javert tried to shrug, but suddenly found his eyes pricking with tears he had not expected. The camphor, he told himself, although he did not turn his head away. Valjean lowered their hands to his lap. His thumb traced the lines of Javert's fingers, explored the fleshy part of Javert's thumb where an old cut had scarred.
After a moment, Valjean leaned against the backrest of the settee. His face was patient, despite the softness of interrupted sleep and the warmth of the fire.
“It is just,” Javert said, suddenly fighting with the words and the lump of grief in his throat, “that it will never be enough. I have tried to be a patient man. I have tried to be the good man you deserve. I can understand that at last you will be taken from me—from all of us. But oh. I try to think of life without you, and there is nothing left.”
“Javert,” Valjean murmured, wetting his lips as he searched for words. “This... this is enough.” He swallowed thickly. His hands tightened a little around Javert's.
“If I could make this moment last for all eternity, I would. Every single of those moments. Your voice when you read to me, the coarseness of your whiskers against my cheek, the way you...”
He broke off, and Javert turned his hands in his, intertwined their fingers.
“It is enough,” Javert said with great difficulty, “and it will never be enough.” He pulled one hand away to stroke Valjean's cheek. “How many holidays are left?”
“I do not fear it,” Valjean said. The fire hissed. “Do you?”
Mutely, Javert shook his head.
“I fear very little now,” Valjean then murmured. “Fear used to be as familiar as breathing to me. It has not been for years now, Javert. I no longer fear. Is that not strange and wondrous?”
“I fear,” Javert said. “I fear, because I love you too much, and I do not know how to be without it anymore. And here I sit with you, and talk to you of love and death and fear. I, Javert, who was once so...”
Valjean leaned forward a little. Their foreheads touched. Then their lips met, the kiss chaste, and it was enough to make Javert wind his arm around Valjean's neck and pull him closer.
“Every Christmas is one year less with you by my side,” Javert said at last, his voice hoarse.
“Every Christmas means one additional year of love. More love than I deserve. How...”
Valjean fell silent without ending the sentence. Outside, the owl hooted again. Then Valjean stood, and Javert allowed himself to be pulled along to the window. The crèche stood in its familiar place, illuminated by the moonlight. Javert remembered again how they had knelt before it, that first Christmas in the empty house. How many years had followed? How many happy memories?
“But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,” Valjean said. “Javert, my own heart is so full with wonders I keep that I fear it will burst.”
Javert dared not tell him that even now, the memory of what grace they had been given could not outweigh the grief of the knowledge that one day, a day would come when Valjean would not be there.
A shadow raced across the white snow outside. The owl dove down, then rose again. Had it found its prey at last? Javert could not say whether that was a hopeful omen or a reminder of darker days.
The star had fallen from the top of the stable, he now saw. Had it happened while they had talked? Perhaps it was to be expected. The crèche had aged with Valjean. Life had left its marks on it.
He remembered Valjean's tales: how a convent cat had eaten the first sheep he had made. How he had painted the little figurines in the light of a candle. How strange it had been to realize that Valjean's life was a mystery of its own, that Valjean had known all of joy and love, friendship and grief during the long years Javert spent hunting a shadow.
Now Valjean reached out for the star. He tried to affix it to its place above the stable's roof once more, but despite the massage, his fingers trembled and Javert could see that the joints still refused to bend. Gently, he took the star from Valjean. He could not get it to remain in place either. The tiny wire that had held it had broken off, and Javert frowned at it in the moonlight.
“It will wait until tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “A small nail will fix it, I think.”
He put the star down next to the manger with the sleeping child.
“Do you think you can sleep now?”
Valjean leaned against him, still solid and warm. Javert looked at the crèche. A nail would do it, he thought again. One of the small ones; if he placed it right, the star would hide it. He had fixed one of the stable's walls in a similar way a few years ago, and it still held up well.
Tenderly, Valjean's hand came to rest on his cheek. Javert breathed in deeply, the sharpness of the liniment welcome and familiar. Valjean's fingers were warm on his skin. His thumb brushed tenderly against his whiskers which still grew plentiful despite their gray.
Javert eyed the crèche again. The sheep that Valjean had crafted for Jean gleamed in the moonlight. Old Fauchelevent had gathered the branches for the stable in the convent, and Valjean had built the tiny shelter with his own hands. The little figurines—Mary, Joseph, the Magi—Cosette had painted with the help of Valjean, a long time ago, when she would have been not much older than Jean.
Javert took a deep breath. Perhaps it should comfort him, that here was something that would remain. Perhaps one day, when little Jean was grown, when he had children of his own, the crèche would stand in their sitting room. Valjean's great-grandchildren would look with wide eyes at the stable Valjean had built and the star Javert had affixed. Something of them would remain. Should that not soothe his heavy heart?
Valjean's lips brushed his cheek, the touch lingering with immeasurable tenderness for a heartbeat, and then he turned to join Jean in their bedroom once more.
Javert looked at the crèche, his heart lifting a little—not at the thought of what he would leave behind, but at what he had, here and now, and would have until the day of his death.
He had left his mark in Valjean's life. There it was. As much as Cosette and old Fauchelevent, he had contributed to the building of that little stable that now stood quietly in their window.
The owl hooted again, perhaps returned from the hunt, or still in wait for further prey. Javert added another log to the fire and then made his way back to the cot.
It would never be enough, he thought again. He had taken—greedily, gratefully, he could not even say—all that he could. He had tried to give just as much.
But it would never be enough. Never.
“You cannot possibly love him more than I do,” he quietly told the crucifix, and then, embarrassed, drew the blanket over himself. The smell of the liniment lingered on his skin, sharp and comforting.
He would have to remember to massage more salve into Valjean's hands tomorrow before they went outside again. And then he would take care of the star. Perhaps he could even find some wire to fix it as it had been.
The owl hooted again. In the bedroom, he could hear Valjean turn in their bed. When Javert at last fell asleep, the scent of camphor and juniper berries was still sharp in his nose.