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“I will wait for you here.” Javert’s very words; but when Valjean looked out of the window, he had been overwhelmed with amazement: the short street was empty; the police officer was nowhere in sight. Maybe when Javert said ‘All is well’ he had really asked Valjean to deliver himself into the hands of the police voluntarily like the Lord had once asked of his son?
For the first time in two days Valjean had time for a moment of contemplation. An image rose before him of Javert, hands behind his back, his head bowed as if crushed. How could Javert feel defeated when he had his prey in his claws; when Valjean had surrendered? This made no sense. He berated himself to have been so focused on Marius, but Cosette’s future seemed to depend on the safety of that young man, and his daughter’s happiness was his priority, but now he remembered the bleak look in Javert’s eyes. It touched Valjean’s heart more than he thought possible.
A faint sewer smell still clung to his hair and skin, no matter how hard he had scrubbed himself in cold water. It was past midnight, and he was exhausted, but all of a sudden he felt restless and reached for clean clothes and boots because everything else he had worn had landed in a dirty smelly heap waiting to be burned later. Why Javert should occupy his mind so completely now, he could not say. He could not rest easy though until he found the police man.
Valjean left a short note for Cosette, so she would not worry and then rushed to the end of the narrow lane in the light of its one lamp. No, Javert was not at the corner to the larger street, and that street was empty, too. Which way to turn? Valjean regretted that it was not winter; then he might have been able to follow footsteps in the snow.
Where could Javert have directed his steps? To the police? It was a wild hunch but it was what he had. Even if Javert was not there, Valjean could turn himself in because that was what might have been expected of him. So it was all one. Though he was drained and dragging his left foot more than usual he hurried along the streets that were almost deadly quiet in the aftermath of the uprising that had continued well into yesterday’s morning. He passed the Hôtel de ville on his way to the Seine, stopping often to scan the area before him even when it was difficult to see anything because clouds concealed the stars, letting only a meagre light through now and then.
Bells chimed the time when he spotted the lone figure of a man near the river’s parapet not far from the Pont au change. Rapids obscured the waters as Valjean well remembered. He advanced slowly, intent on not making a sound so as not to startle the man leaning over the quay at a dangerous angle. Then the dark silhouette took off his top hat in a gesture familiar to Valjean. Indeed he had found Javert. But within the blink of an eye, the man vanished
Valjean wanted to call out to the police inspector when a tall black figure appeared erect upon the parapet of the quay, bent over towards the Seine, then drew itself up again, and fell straight down into the shadows; a dull splash followed.*
After a second that left him rooted to the spot, Valjean limped forward as fast as his game leg permitted, shedding his coat and waistcoat on the way. He did not have time to unlace his boots before he hit the water moments later. He came up shortly, gasping for breath, filling his lungs so he could dive again. The Seine was murky and he did not really want to know what floated past him.
Undoubtedly it was the Lord’s will that he caught hold of a piece of dense material wrapped around a heavy body. He had no idea if this was really Javert, but nevertheless he hauled at the weight with lungs burning while he fought his survival urge to open his mouth at the same time. Finally he broke through the surface, his fingers still clenched in broadcloth.
He prayed to the Lord to give him strength needed for fighting the rapids and get himself and the body to the shore. The site was empty, deserted, not a solitary soul in sight. Understandable! After the uprising in the past days nobody was in a hurry to be on the streets in the early hours of the day and risk being shot by the guards patrolling the streets of Paris.
He shoved the body onto the pebbles of the shore; then he grabbed at larger boulders, drawing himself up until he lay nearly on top of the man dressed in soggy black. He drew breath upon breath until he had worked up the strength and courage to turn the body and look into the face of…Javert.
Javert, his face so calm as if he had finally found peace. Valjean did not have much hope, but he checked for a pulse at the neck. There was none. He tried again, maybe he had checked at the wrong pulse point? Yes, there. He felt a tiny throb, and was elated, until he realized that it was only his own heartbeat pulsing in his fingertips.
He struggled up, holding and cradling the inanimate body to his chest. He bent over him, pressing his brow to Javert’s hairline. There was a tiny cut at the temple and Valjean planted a gentle kiss on it. Needing to do something, he carefully smoothed the wet strands of hair from a face hardly damaged. Valjean briefly wondered where the ribbon had vanished that had held the inspector’s hair in a tidy queue. The Seine’s currents must have torn it away.
He ought to be relieved. Nobody in Paris knew of his past; Javert had been the only one left. And the policeman was dead. Valjean was free, but this freedom left a sour taste in his mouth. When he sent Javert away at the barricades, he had realized that the inspector had only ever done his duty: in Toulon, in Montreuil, here in Paris. At this new thought, tears welled in his eyes. He sobbed, gasping for air. Why had he not seen before that he and Javert, that they had both been slaves to the law. He clutched the dead body closer, bewailing a different world where they might not have been enemies, maybe even friends.
He looked up to the sky where a single star shone between banks of clouds. Valjean sought the Lord in this moment of trouble. The words of a psalm came to him: ‘in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refuses to be comforted.’**
Looking down at the still face he could only think of a few words that revolved and revolved in his mind. ‘I am distressed for thee…’***
Valjean’s legs had been bent in an uncomfortable angle for some time, but he did not feel the pain of it. He did not feel the weight of the dead body in his arms. When the night gave way to the dawn, the dim light found Valjean still cradling Javert.