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It can only be called a frisson of recognition.
Valjean feels it as he enters the café near the Piazza Navona and inadvertently locks eyes with the impeccably dressed gentleman seated alone at a table in the far corner. It is the table Valjean himself would have chosen, the better to observe without being observed. A glass of wine sits untouched in front of him, beside what appears to be a small snuffbox. He is unmasked in the middle of Carnevale, but that is because his face is itself a mask, silent and grave.
A smile tugs the corners of the gentleman's mouth, and he suddenly seems much younger, closer to Marius' age. It is something else, then, that has etched those lines on his brow, the hollows in his cheeks.
"Buona sera," he says in what even Valjean can tell is flawless Italian. "Or perhaps bonsoir."
Something seems to melt in Valjean's veins at the sound of his own language, and it seems the gentleman sees that too, for he laughs. "There is nothing like it, no?" he continues in the same language. "How long has it been for you?"
It is Valjean's turn to laugh as he seats himself, the invitation assumed. "You'll think me provincial, monsieur. I crossed the border barely a fortnight ago."
The mask slips a little and he sees a flash of pain. His companion raises the wine glass and takes a sip. "Thus ever for Frenchmen. What brings you to the Eternal City? I think we are neither of us here to sow wild oats."
At that, his gaze drifts to a clutch of young men laughing at a table near the window. Valjean winces, seeing other faces, faces blown to bits on a barricade, and says a brief inward prayer for Marius Pontmercy's long and fruitful life. "My daughter is married, newly married. She must start her own life now; she does not need a doddering father to distract her."
"Do you approve of the young man?" Valjean's expression must speak for him, for the gentleman grins. "Not the correct question for a father, no doubt."
"He is what she wants, and he will make her happy. That is all that matters to me." One of the few waiters in the place approaches their table, and Valjean waits while his companion orders something inexplicable in Italian. The waiter, he notices, is scrupulously attentive, his left hand shaking beneath his tray.
Leaning back in his chair, he studies his companion more closely. He has the dark hair and eyes of the south and, in spite of his expensive clothing, the complexion of a sailor, though somewhat faded. His hands are crisscrossed with scars, and it is as Valjean examines them that he realises he himself is being watched.
"You are observant, monsieur..."
He has seen nothing of Javert since the night the barricades fell. And yet he still glances round briefly before supplying his name. "Valjean. And you?"
A moment too long to be called a pause lingers before the gentleman replies. "Dantès," he says, almost too softly to be heard. "Edmond Dantès."
"Was that so hard?" Ironic to hear himself say those words, as though a name were no more than another word and not a shackle hard as iron. He is, after all, still growing into his own again after all these years. "You come from Provence, Monsieur Dantès."
"As do you, Monsieur Valjean."
The waiter reappears then with a dusty bottle of wine. The glass before Dantès is empty and a second appears before him. As he drinks, unthinking, tears prick the backs of his eyes, for he can taste cassis and the faint tang of citrus and it's as though he's drinking the home he'd long forgotten. "It has been a long time since I was last there," he finally says, retrieving the handkerchief from his pocket. "I was living in Paris with Cosette."
"Your daughter." After a moment and a substantial sip of wine, Dantès asks, "Does he have enemies, this young man of hers?"
"Enemies?" The word turns Valjean's blood to ice. There are those who would deem Marius guilty of sedition, a traitor to his country, if it were to come to light that he had been on the barricades during those dreadful days in June. "Why are you asking me this?"
"For your daughter's sake, Monsieur Valjean. And for yours too." He looks into his glass as though into the depths of the ocean. "It is not for nothing, Monsieur Valjean, that envy is the sixth of the deadly sins. Is your daughter beautiful?"
"She is."
"Then let her husband beware. Some men see envy as reason enough to destroy the innocent. But you already know that," he looks up and Valjean meets his eyes, dark and cavernous, "don't you, monsieur?"
He nods. "I've lived a very long time, Monsieur Dantès. I would not presume to call you a young man, though I daresay you could be my son."
Something starts in the younger man's face, something raw and hungry. "My father is dead. I beg your pardon, Monsieur Valjean, but it was not very long ago that I...that it happened."
"My condolences, then, on your loss, Monsieur Dantès." So much of his life before the galleys is little more than a faded shadow-play whose outlines he can barely recall. He no longer remembers his parents, nor the sister for whom he crept into the night so many years ago to steal a loaf of bread. "A strange coincidence that two men of Provence should meet in Rome."
"I don't believe in coincidence, Monsieur." Dantès drains his glass once more. "Surely you do not, having lived so long."
"I believe in God, Monsieur Dantès. That is enough for me." Rising, he retrieves his hat from a nearby hook. "I bid you good evening."
"Good evening, Monsieur Valjean."
***
He doesn't intend to come back, and yet finds himself outside that same café the following evening. Once again, Dantès is there, seated at the same table. This time, he already has two glasses beside the bottle of wine, and as Valjean sits, he motions for the waiter to serve them.
"Would it offend you, Monsieur Valjean, if I were to make you a business proposition?" asks Dantès, as soon as the waiter is out of earshot.
Valjean smiles. "That would depend on the proposition, Monsieur Dantès, but you have my attention."
"I am in need of a man of your...stature." Leaning forward, Dantès grins, his expression one that could easily be found on a Parisian gamin. "I can't promise it will be completely safe, but I thought you might not object to that."
He could object--Dantès is even giving him the chance to do so gracefully--but on what grounds? What other occupation has he? It is his fourth day in Rome and he has already walked the Forum and the Coliseum, and stood open-mouthed beneath the soot-faded glory of Michelangelo's ceiling in the Vatican. There are churches aplenty with treasures in each, and he could spend a lifetime exploring this city, but something stirs nonetheless.
So, rather than object, he merely shrugs. "My stature, you say? I assume whatever it is cannot be performed with a footstool."
Dantès' laughter seems to surprise even him, as he sneaks a covert glance toward their presently distracted waiter. "No, you would be correct. You needn't do anything, or say anything. In fact, it would be preferable. You need simply follow me from my hotel this evening and remain with me until I return."
"And what do you plan on doing, Monsieur Dantès? I have no desire to break the law."
"You will be doing no such thing, Monsieur Valjean. And I promise you will know nothing of what I am doing, and may thus rest assured that you are not involved." That grin resurfaces and he shrugs. "It is not breaking the law. It is, however, involving myself with those who do, as sometimes one must."
A frozen night and a yellow-haired girl intrude on Valjean's thoughts, as do her erstwhile guardians, still breathing and scheming when last he heard. Thenardier may have done him a good turn in the end, but it was only through his own foolishness. "Yes, sometimes one must. But in return, Edmond Dantès, you must tell me the truth. The whole truth."
Dantès holds out his hand. "You have my word on it."