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The stars shone, bright in a night cold enough that Javert’s breath clouded before him as he walked. The hour was not a late one, not so late as he used to keep, but the late November light had faded away with the chime of the bells at four o’clock. He knew the precise hour because he had, for once, been away from his desk and out on the streets. Javert could not deny his delight at being on the hunt again, a hound after a wily fox, and he had at first led the pack, down one side street and into another. They were on his old ground, after all, the beat that had belonged to him and him alone, or may as well have done for all the inhabitants ignored most police presence except his own.
It had been as they were crossing the square that he began to slow, until the young pups had all but overtaken him and he lagged behind. François, his desk sergeant, had accompanied him on the rare foray out of the office, and was careful to keep to Javert’s side even as the younger officers rushed off on their chase. The man had not said a word but Javert knew he was being watched, and tried to keep the exertion from his face. By the time they arrived, the gang they had received a tipoff about had been mostly rounded up and there was little for Javert to do, other than to inspect the snarling prisoners, presented to him by young men desperate for his approval.
“Very good,” he grunted, finally, and the collective sigh of the officers present would perhaps have made him laugh, on a different day. As it was, he nodded and allowed the prisoners to be loaded onto a cart and taken away.
Javert hung back deliberately until the rest of the chattering policemen had taken their leave, then began a slow walk to the station. François was still at his side, mercifully silent, and Javert did not have the heart to dismiss him. At least the man did not ask questions, or draw attention to Javert’s accursed weakness. Since that night, eight years ago, when he had thrown himself into the river, his left leg was hampered by a limp that looked very much the mirror of those the men in Toulon had been gifted by their years in shackles. It was a reminder, he thought, from a God he had not believed in; a reminder that, no matter what he did, Javert was no better than any man he had treated with such contempt.
“Monsieur Inspector,” François said when they arrived at the station, so quiet that none of the others would have heard him, “Shall I order you a cab for this evening?”
“No,” Javert had said, and found that he did not mind the concern, “I will walk. I always walk.”
So he had set off, into the evening, bundled in a scarf and gloves, his chin tucked into the collar of his greatcoat. Despite the chill, a great many people were out and most bowed their heads respectfully as he passed. The uniform still had power; that had never changed, and he was grateful for its constant presence.
The churches struck six as he came to the Pont au Change, and lingered at one end, just for a moment. Every day, he promised himself that today would be the day he did not need to stand on that spot by the balustrades, and every day he gave in to himself. He approached it slowly, like an animal that would flee him if he rushed it, and when his boots came to that spot, he sighed and reached out, leaning on the stonework.
The Seine swirled beneath him, black in the moonlight, and he fancied, as always, that he could hear the water calling his name. For a brief second or so, he allowed himself to go back to that night, the night of the barricades, and the helplessness, the sheer terror of standing on the threshold of a world he would never be welcomed into. The leather of his gloves creaked as his hands fisted tightly, and then he forced himself to breathe and loosen his grip.
Raising his head to the skies, he counted the stars in their patterns, the rush of the water beneath him fading to nothing but a sound like a puff of breath in the darkness.
“Thank you,” he murmured, first to the moon and then to the water, before he finally turned and continued on his way. The river and the moon had saved his life eight years ago; Jean often said had it not been for the light of the moon and the curious reluctance of the water to swallow him whole, Javert would have been long dead before Jean found him. Jean called it God’s work, but Javert was not so sure of that. He did know that he owed his life to something, and gave thanks where it was necessary. If the water had not given him a new birth on that night, he would never have come to Jean.
Far from ending his life, the water had only washed him clean.
The thought of the other man, waiting for him, quickened Javert’s pace as he came off the bridge and back into the streets. He had never told Jean that he came here every night, to the place that so nearly ended him. He did not think, despite his great heart, that Jean would understand why he did it, when he could so easily thank God in his prayers and be done with it. Javert’s secret was safe, as long as he did not linger too long, and what Jean did not know had never hurt him.
The lights were burning bright in the windows of number 55, when Javert turned into the street. It was the library window that faced outwards, and what used to be Cosette’s parlour; neither room was ever in use when Javert came home, but Jean never allowed the windows to be darkened in the winter. Javert had told him, several times, that he did not require the light, that the candles were wasted for so small a whim, but Jean had only kissed him and smiled.
“Every night you come home is a blessing,” he said, “And I will thank God for it in any way I wish.”
Javert had not told him to douse the candles again.
The door opened as Javert climbed the stairs, suddenly very weary, and a pair of arms pulled him inside. He could not help himself; he collapsed into their embrace with a sigh that was almost embarrassing.
“My dear,” Jean said, taking Javert’s hat and tilting his own head back to look him in the eye, “What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Jean hummed and reached for the greatcoat buttons, loosening them one by one until Javert was able to shrug out of it, then his scarf and gloves followed in quick succession. Javert allowed himself to be undressed and, as thanks, pressed his lips to Jean’s forehead. They did not speak as Jean pulled him through to the kitchen, where a pot bubbled on the fire and a cup of coffee waited on the table. Javert was allowed to settle down with the cup before Jean spoke again.
“What is wrong?”
There was no point in attempting diversion. Jean had a keenly honed sense for trouble and worry, so anxious had his life on the run made him. He would only continue to ask until Javert gave in.
“You will think me foolish.”
“I doubt that.”
“I-” Javert stared down into his cup, “We apprehended the gang today. The people smugglers.”
“And?”
“I could not keep up with the youngsters,” Javert said, sounding petulant to even his own ears, “I struggled along behind them, like some lame dog. I am surprised one of them did not take a pistol and put me out of my misery.”
He expected Jean to laugh, to tell him he was being ridiculous. He certainly felt ridiculous, complaining of such a thing when he should not by rights even be –
“Oh Javert,” Jean sat beside him at the table, until Javert could feel the heat flooding through him from where Jean had pressed their shoulders together, “We are no longer young men, you and I.”
“I know that. I only –”
“Hush and let me finish,” Jean took Javert’s large hand between his own and traced the deep lines he found there with fingers that were still strong, despite his own advancing age,
“We are not young. Perhaps you will not be able to run with the young men and perhaps I will have to one day admit that I cannot kneel in my garden any longer, but we are here, are we not? My hair is white and yours is grey, but think of how blessed we have been, to live until now.”
“I suppose you are right,” Javert grumbled, feeling a small smile grace his lips when Jean leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, his cheek, his sideburn, his ear. The lips were warm, like everything about Jean was warm, when Javert had always been so cold.
“You come home to me every day, my dear,” Jean whispered, his voice thick, “And if we were young, if you were the reckless inspector still and I was the man on the run, you would not be mine and I would not be yours. So I am glad we are old. I would never wish to be young.”
Javert found he could not answer, around the lump in his throat. He gripped Jean’s hand as tightly as he could, tasted the tea on the Jean’s lips, and hoped that would be words enough.