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Valjean was fond of reading.
Javert had once thought that it had always been so. Valjean looked so at peace when he sat before the fire with a book, his eyes enraptured, his breathing steady, calm. One might have thought him a scholar from his youth - or a monk, more like, in his asceticism. But they have told each other all, now, of their pasts, and so when he sees him read, a part of Javert winces, knowing the place he'd learned.
Nothing good breathes in Toulon, his fellow guards used to say, and though Javert never replied, he had agreed. Watching the prisoners grumble and tussle and deal each other blows for scraps of bread, Javert had looked upon them and felt only disdain. He had lifted himself out of that muck, that human sludge, had cleaned and pressed and shined and buttoned all trace of it away. They could never do the same.
But somehow, in that place, with barely a scrap of shirt upon his back, Valjean had learned to solder letters into words, to weld sentences into armor to shield him from the ravages of mind that slew too many, there. What had Valjean read? The Bible, for a start, as it is what the sisters taught from, but he'd soon left it behind. Its comfort, to him, was empty. The prison had no library to speak of - only a shelf, on which was kept a few religious texts, and the last decade’s penal codes - but Valjean turned to these, perusing them so often he could seal them in his memory. It was a skill that served him later, in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Javert wryly recalled.
Now, though, Valjean sank into his books like a seed into the soil, with all the enjoyment and satisfaction of harvest-time in the garden. When he turned a page, he seemed to lift a berry-leaf, its gleaming fruit revealed with equal relish.
Javert preferred not to partake.
But when, one day, Cosette brought the children for an afternoon stroll, the rain arrived close behind them, following in pouring sheets outside the windows.
“Thank goodness,” Valjean said, “the plants have sorely needed it,” and handed both the children a fresh-plucked flower, in their favorite shades of red and orange, and Fantine and Georges-Jean’s dejected faces turned to smiles. The smiles turned to excited gasps when he motioned them to the rose-cushioned setee - a gift from Cosette, who had insisted they accept - and pulled down a gilt-edged volume from the shelf.
The book was large, enough to cover Valjean’s lap and thighs completely as he sank down upon the seat, and as he opened it, the spine let out a satisfying creak.
“I found this in the bookseller’s last month, and thought the children might enjoy it,” Valjean explained somewhat sheepishly, though not a one of the assembled would have reproached him for the purchase. There was still something of the ascetic in Valjean, still the guilt of having, when any other possessed less. But both Javert and Cosette had coaxed him, through the years, to allow himself some comfort, and when he did, they shared a glance of triumph.
“It's beautiful, Papa,” Cosette exclaimed, and her enthusiasm was echoed by the children, who begged him to read a story. A little flustered, though clearly pleased, he opened the book at random, and began to rifle through the pages.
It was a book of fairy tales. Javert was unacquainted with the genre. The only fairy tale he'd known had been one his mother had told him, one night when the wind lashed bitter in the frost and the rags they stuffed under the door did little to keep it from their cell. The cold pressed in, seeping from the floorboards, wafting through the hairs-breadth crack in the window. For warmth, they'd huddled together, though neither looked at each other - his mother had taught him well, and so both their eyes darted, keeping vigilance for the danger that could arise with so many in such close quarters. Silence was safety - so Javert had been surprised to hear her voice, after a while. The cold had lent it hoarseness, but it was still soft, still low and warming, and as she spoke, he had found its rhythm calming.
“Once there was a viper,” she had said, “and a farmer found it lying in the snow. The farmer knew that it was dangerous; she'd seen serpents like this bite others, had seen their venom kill, but she was foolish.”
Her mouth had twisted, then, a bitter smile.
“She pitied the poor creature. She picked it up, and when it did not move, she held it to her breast and tucked it inside her cloak. When she had gathered all her firewood, she came inside to set it down, and rested, for a moment, by the hearth. When she took off her cloak to dry it, out sprang the serpent, revived from the heat. It killed her then, of course.”
During the tale, she had been gazing into the distance, but with its end, her hand turned Javert’s chin towards her face, made him look into those burning eyes.
“Remember this, my son.”
Her voice was a fierce whisper.
“Never trust a viper.”
Javert had not thought of the tale in years - not until the night Valjean had pulled him from the Seine, and he'd wanted to spit venom, to throw the man’s help in his face for presuming that he would want to be saved. As guileless as the farmer, Valjean took him into his home, warmed him by his hearth, and Javert had looked on with horror as he felt himself begin to thaw.
When would it happen, he had wondered. When would his nature show itself, and slay his rescuer? But his soul had coiled around Valjean’s and could not leave his warmth, and Valjean had never seemed to mind.
So now, Javert stood behind the sofa and watched Valjean upon it, a grandchild on each side, and the man looked happier than he had ever seen him as he opened up the book and flipped through its pages. Glimpsing an illustration, Fantine shrieked in delight and put her little hand upon the page, stalling Valjean’s browsing.
“Read this one, grandpapa,” she chirped. “Georges-Jean, look, the silly wolf is riding on a pig!”
Her brother joined her laughter, and Valjean smiled his assent.
“Once there was a wolf,” he began, “who found himself in much need of a meal.”
He paused, adjusting the book on his lap, as the children bent their heads towards the page.
“So he went to a farm nearby. Almost at once, he found a hefty ram.
“I am going to eat you,” declared the wolf.
The ram scoffed. “How can you? You're not even a wolf.”
The wolf paused with one paw up, perplexed.
“I am!” he protested.
“If you are, you must do it like this,” said the ram. “Go down to the bottom of that hill, and stand with your mouth wide open so that I can see your teeth. When I see that you really are a wolf, I'll run right in.”
The wolf did as he said, and waited, and the ram began to run - but, of course, he ran right past the foolish wolf, and was far away in only a few moments.”
The children laughed, but then Georges-Jean tugged at Valjean’s sleeve.
“Why did the ram not know he was a wolf,” he asked. “Doesn't he know what one looks like?”
“No, he knew,” Fantine insisted. “He meant to trick him,” and Georges-Jean looked a bit embarrassed as Valjean murmured, “Well, sometimes wolves do not always show their teeth.”
Offering Georges-Jean a reassuring smile, Valjean continued.
“The wolf decided to try again, so then he came upon a horse. He started to leap towards her, making sure to have his teeth in excellent view, until the horse neighed a rebuke, and he paused.
“You can't be a wolf,” the horse laughed. “If you were one, you'd surely realize I'm far too thin to make a proper meal.”
The wolf, taken aback once more, did not know what to say.
“If you are a wolf,” the horse said, “come here behind me and start eating at my tail. Meanwhile, I shall eat some grass, and when you get to the rest of me, I will have grown much fatter.”
The wolf wondered why the horse was so agreeable to be devoured, but his hunger stabbed at him like knives, and he agreed. But no sooner did he set his teeth upon the tail than the horse kicked him with her powerful hind legs, and he scuttled away, yelping.
“Ouch!” both children gasped, but agreed that it was a clever ploy.
“Will he try again?” asked Georges-Jean.
“Some don't, after they've been deceived,” Valjean said softly.
“But the pig,” urged Fantine. “There's still a pig in the story, we saw him in the picture, and he hasn't come in yet.”
“You're right,” Valjean conceded, and read on. “The wolf was lying in the grass, licking his wounds, when a pig came wandering by. Despite himself, the wolf’s mouth began to water, and he decided to forestall any further tricks.
“I really am a wolf,” he announced, “and you are round and ready for my meal! Prepare yourself!” And the wolf tried to rise, but the soreness of his body made the task a challenge.
“See, here,” said the pig, “I believe you are a wolf. But you don't look too comfortable here, and it is about to rain. Why don't you climb on my back? I can carry you to the village, and you can feast under a roof.”
The wolf, relieved at both the fact the big believed him and the chance to rest his bruises, did not think further, and climbed up on the pig’s broad back to travel. But when he came to the village, a great howling rose up around them - it was the village hounds, who had come running out, laughing to see the sight of a wolf seated upon a pig.
“I am a wolf!” the wolf protested, but the dogs’ laughter did not stop, and their teeth flashed as they drew in towards him.
“Of course you are,” they said, “and we are this place's guards. And wolves do not belong near a village.”
The dogs set upon the creature, and if he got away, this writer does not know. But no farm animals were harmed that day. Thus cleverness conquers bluster. ”
Valjean set the book aside, and stretched, lacing his hands behind his back. Both children peered at him, confused.
“Is that the end?” Georges-Jean asked.
“It can't be,” Fantine demanded. “A storyteller's supposed to know what happened. It can't be over til we know.”
“And what did the wolf eat?” Georges-Jean inquired. “He couldn't eat the ram, or horse, or pig. And when you get hurt, you have to eat more to get strong again.”
“Who's taking care of him?” Fantine asked, a tiny frown of worry on her brow. “All creatures have to eat, even the scary ones. Maman says,” she concluded, and looked confidently toward Cosette, who nodded fondly.
“Well, ah…”
Valjean was nonplussed.
“I have not read this story before, and…”
“The wolf left the town,” Javert cut in, stepping from behind the couch to stand behind Valjean. Valjean looked up in surprise, then smiled, a pleased flush spreading over his features. Javert could not help but be amazed by how easily the man smiled now. For years, Javert had seen nothing on that face but fear or grim resolve or righteous anger, not til the barricades and that incomprehensible look that he could not decipher, not til long after when he'd seen it enough times to know its name - compassion. It had not been until later, so much later, that he'd seen happiness there.
“The wolf wandered,” Javert said, and did not know where to go. He did not want to be tricked again, or doubted, which was worse. But then he found -”
“Food?” Georges-Jean questioned.
“A place to rest?” Fantine guessed.
“Both,” Javert said. “He found another wolf, who did not ask what kind of creature he might be, nor drove him away. He shared his food, and helped him.”
His eyes flickered to Valjean’s, then down, a flush suffusing his face.
“And the wolf helped his new friend too,” Valjean said.
Javert looked up to find Valjean’s eyes on him, knowing, warm.
“And they both cared for their young. They didn't need to prove anything,” Valjean said, smiling upward at Javert.
Javert’s lips curved up in answer as he added -
“And there were no more tricks.”