Chapter Text
Valjean did not allow himself to think of the chains that awaited him when he handed over the reins of his horse in front of the courthouse of Arras.
The palomino was out of breath, his golden coat wet with sweat. The Spanish gelding was one of the finest beasts in the entire department, or so the mayor’s admirers had often proclaimed, yet even so the horse had been driven to exhaustion by their relentless race.
But perhaps it hadn’t been enough. Perhaps even the palomino’s thundering gallop was not enough to stem the tide, to halt the merciless ticking of the clock. Perhaps he was too late, and the dreadful thing awaiting within would not come to pass after all...
At the shameful thought, the burn in his palm ached with renewed fury, driving tears to Valjean’s eyes. He had to blink them away before he announced himself to the man guarding the door.
Had he not done enough evil? Was the burn that plagued him even now not enough to teach him what must be done? He was a filthy thief, a monster who had stolen from a child—but even so, perhaps his soul might yet be saved.
But to take a willing step further into the darkness inside his heart, which had whispered all the way to Arras in his mind with the voice of the devil that he would be free at last if another were to take his place in the prison hulks...
Valjean was a monster to even contemplate such a thing. He was a man who had stolen from a child. He knew he deserved no mercy. But he was no murderer, not yet. He would not condemn an innocent to the hell that was Toulon.
When he entered the courtroom, people stared. Many recognized him, for he had built a good life for himself in Montreuil. For a few years, he had allowed himself to believe that a man could make up in such a way for past sins. And yet, what good were all the hospital beds in the world to the young boy all alone on that mountain road near Digne?
A shiver ran down Valjean’s back when he met Javert’s eyes. The Inspector sat on a bench at the front—ready, no doubt, to be called upon as witness.
Valjean swallowed, then forced himself to look away. It would all be over soon enough. Javert would have what he’d always wanted.
But an innocent man would remain free. And perhaps, at long last, the boy’s sobs that had haunted his dreams for so long would fall silent...
Valjean turned towards the judge and bowed before he took his place next to where the mayor of Arras sat, his white sash wound around his body.
Again Valjean’s gaze flickered towards Javert, who inclined his head with mocking slowness in return. A mere minute or two, and Javert would no longer be forced to address him respectfully...
Biting back a groan, Valjean cradling his aching hand. The burn still throbbed fiercely. Grasping the reins on the long ride had hurt—but was it not an agony he deserved? The pain flared with every beat of his heart now, a dull throb that filled his head. It took long moments until Valjean realized that the accused sitting on the chair near the judge was not a man his own age.
Was he truly too late then? Was the trial already over?
Something inside Valjean twisted, the burn flaring into new pain even as his heart skipped a beat with shocked relief.
His mind reeling, Valjean found himself staring at a woman. Something about her seemed strangely familiar. He'd expected a vagrant, a man his age—perhaps bearded, and dirty from his travels: the man Valjean had been, six years ago, when he'd walked from Toulon to Digne.
Instead, a young woman was sitting there—a woman in her twenties, with long, brown hair. Her face was wet with tears and her eyes red. The clothes she wore were simple, her dress visibly mended in several places—and on her face, which had been full of despair a moment ago, there bloomed now first recognition, then hate.
“You!” She spat the words at him across the room. “It’s you! Have you come to gloat then, you monster? It’s your fault that I’m here!”
Valjean flinched, unable to react when all of a sudden, recognition came flooding in. Fantine Thibault, the woman he'd been forced to fire...
“Fifty francs he gave me!” She laughed again in despair, pointing at him while the room erupted in excited whispers. “Fifty francs, when I have a young child that depends on me! Four years old, your honor; what is she to do without me? If she were older, she could work for her living—but at that age, they can’t yet care for themselves. Fifty francs, and he told me to go look for other work, when everyone knows there’s no other work to be had! I sewed shirts for nine sous a day. Even when one doesn’t eat, how is one supposed to support a child like that? And then she was sick, and the innkeepers kept sending for more money—I always meant back to pay what I borrowed. You see, I sold all my linen, all my clothes, I moved to the cheapest room beneath the roof—but nine sous a day, and the child near death, and the doctor wanting a hundred francs? I will pay it back, I swear it, but you must send for her—”
“Enough of that.” The judge’s hammer came down with a brutal finality. It rang in Valjean’s ear, even as a gendarme appeared.
“Take her away. A year of indentured servitude to the town of Montreuil—represented by Monsieur Madeleine here. I hereby place you, Fantine Thibault, into the custody of Inspector Javert, who will arrange all further proceedings.”
“But what is to become of my daughter—please,” Fantine said desperately, “I’ll work for the mayor, I’ll do whatever he asks, I’ll work for two years, five—if only my daughter will be cared for!”
Valjean didn’t realize that he’d stood until the room suddenly went quiet.
“There’s been a mistake,” he heard himself say. “I made a mistake. I’ll pay whatever her debts are—”
“It’s too late for that.” Javert spoke evenly, but even so there was a look of satisfaction in his eyes. “The contract was signed before you entered, Monsieur le Maire. For her debts, she is now a servant of the city of Montreuil—represented by myself.”
“And myself,” Valjean said, the throb of the burn increasing until it was nearly unbearable.
“Of course, Monsieur le Maire,” the judge now said impatiently, “but as the inspector rightfully pointed out, the case is closed, and there is nothing more to be done. She is in your custody now; I’m certain you’ll find a use for someone like her.”
There was barely veiled laughter in response, leaving no doubt at all to what both judge and audience assumed would come to pass. Valjean struggled to breathe as the brand throbbed.
Javert nodded to an agent of police who had stood in readiness. “Take her away.”
Again Valjean hesitated. If he were to do what he’d planned to do, he would plunge this woman into despair. As the mayor of Montreuil, perhaps he could find a way to repay her debts himself—and there was a child.
He remembered now that Fantine had talked of the child. Fantine had wept and begged, and he—he’d been so lost in fear for himself, and himself only, that he’d ignored her. What was it he’d been so afraid of back then? That to be seen harboring dishonest women under the roof of his factory would reveal his own falseness, with Javert’s suspicious eyes already constantly upon him?
The brand ached so fiercely that his eyes stung again. He struggled to breathe. What was he supposed to do? What path was he supposed to take? To save her would mean to condemn another. To save Champmathieu would mean to condemn her and her child...
She spit into his face when she was led past him, and the courtroom erupted into cries of shock.
“That’s enough!” Javert said sharply. “Shackle her for that. We’ll deal with her once we’re back.”
“No,” Valjean said. “Let her be.”
Javert gave him a derisive smile. “Monsieur le Maire, this was an insult of the honor of your office—”
“An insult of myself,” Valjean said just as sharply. “And I tell you, let her be. It was my honor that was attacked, and mine alone. I will not see her punished for it.”
Javert leaned back on the bench. “As you say...” he murmured with another smile, as if he was not surprised at all that Valjean would side with a woman who'd been forced to sign her own life away.
Javert gestured at his agent. Fantine was led out of the room, her face full of a furious despair that cut Valjean to the core. Then the judge’s hammer came down once more, the room still filled with the excited noise of the crowd that had come to watch the spectacle.
“Our next case,” the judge began. “Bring in the prisoner Champmathieu.”
His heart racing in his chest, Valjean sat down as well. He struggled to breathe. His shirt was clammy with sweat, sticking to his skin. The burn was still aching relentlessly. What was he to do?
Valjean watched quietly as the trial began to play out. The man Champmathieu was clearly confused—and why wouldn’t he be? The claims against him were clearly false. Valjean himself was the living proof of it.
Then three witnesses were lead into the room. They were chained, clad in the distinctive red of the prison hulks.
A shudder went through Valjean as he looked at them. For a moment, the sounds of the courtroom fell away. He could hear the sound of the waves, taste the dust of the quarry, smell the stink of a hundred men chained to the same planks there in the belly of the ship. At times, in his factory in Montreuil, the remembered horror of those years had been so incomprehensible that he’d been half convinced that it must have been a nightmare. Now, with Cochepaille, Chenildieu and Brevet right in front of him, it felt as if a storm had blown the salty air of Toulon straight into this place that had become his home, and it seemed as if those five years of comfort and respectability had been the dream.
Was it not unreal that a man like him should wear the mayoral sash, should command workers—should even command Javert, who had seen him in his shame, trembling and chained?
Valjean closed his eyes against the cacophony of noise inside his head. He clenched his burned hand until the pain flared, a brilliant white that cut through the agony in his mind. Even the face of Fantine fell away, and there was at long last only the cries of a young boy.
“Enough! Enough, I say!” The pain flared again as he jumped forward from his seat and slammed his hand down upon a book.
The crowd gasped in shock, then they reluctantly quieted. Breathing heavily, Valjean allowed his gaze to return to Javert, who was watching him with a small, satisfied smile.
Valjean exhaled. Let Javert have what he wanted. Even Javert’s satisfaction would not hurt as much as the agony that awaited him, should he allow this innocent man to be sentenced to hell in his place.
“I am Jean Valjean.”
He had not spoken that name in five years. After all this time, after all the shame, he had not thought that it would be a relief to say it—and yet, for a brief, blessed moment, it felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
He cold hear himself speak as if from a distance as he addressed the three convicts—three men who had suffered just as he had, who still wore the chains and the red coat of their shame, and who had nevertheless agreed to condemn an innocent and drag him down into their own hell.
Instead, it would be Valjean who would be chained by their side once more, soon enough. Despite the terror that clenched around his heart even now, Valjean found that he did not truly fear that fate. To live with that lie, to live with the burden of his sin squeezing the breath out of him day and night, for all eternity... would that not have been worse?
“Here are the forty sous I stole from the child Petit-Gervais.”
There was a relief in setting the coin down on the table as well. It gleamed in the light of the many lamps that lit the room, his shame exposed for everyone to see. Nevertheless, to admit his sin, to no longer carry it as a dreadful secret within his heart, had made it easier to breathe freely.
“Will you surrender yourself to the custody of Inspector Javert?” the judge demanded while the whispers all around him rose up once more.
Valjean could hear Javert come forward, every step an echoing portent of what was to come. Valjean did not turn around. He knew, after all, what would be on Javert’s face.
Instead, Valjean gave the judge a slow nod. He could already feel the chains that would click in place soon enough; even so, there was nothing but relief in his heart. “Willingly.”
“No,” Javert said.
Shocked, Valjean found himself turning after all. Javert was watching him intently, his brows drawn together. Even the smile had disappeared from his lips.
“I don’t want him sent to the prison hulks. He’s tried to escape four times, your honor. He needs a more personal supervision. And his crimes were against the honor and integrity of Montreuil itself, against every honest citizen of our town. His punishment, I’m sure you’ll agree, should match his crime. Indentured servitude, here in Montreuil, for life.”
“Monsieur Javert,” the judge began, “I can see the sense in your words, but there is no legal precedent—I cannot just condemn the man to such a thing, much as I might want to. The law is explicit. He must sign himself over, as that young woman just did—”
“I’ll do it.” The words broke free before Valjean had even had time to think about it. “Until the end of my life. Until Inspector Javert believes that I have paid enough. Under one condition.”
“You are hardly in the position to make demands, M. Madeleine,” the judge said sternly.
“No. Let him speak.” Javert was smiling once more, although his eyes were cold when Valjean turned to face him. “What are you planning, Valjean?”
“I’ll sign myself over, just as you want. Indenture to the town—I’ll be under your command, as you know.” It was a horrible custom, or so Valjean had always thought—and yet the town had been prosperous enough, there had been work enough in his factory, that the barracks by the station-house for indentured servants had stood empty for most of his years in Montreuil.
He’d thought that he’d saved his people from such a fate—until the case of that young woman, Fantine, when he’d allowed his own guilt to close his eyes and his heart to her situation.
But perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps, even now, there was a way to spare her further suffering—or at least her child.
“Why would you do that?” Javert demanded. “If you think you’ll be treated gently here, you’re mistaken.”
“I know.” Valjean smiled sadly. “I know that I cannot expect kindness from you, Inspector. But you heard Fantine. She has a daughter. I will sign myself over to your custody if the daughter is cared for. Send a monthly allowance to the innkeepers, just as she did, and I’ll sign the contract right now.”
“That is highly irregular—” the judge began.
“Done.” Javert’s smiled widened.
Something inside Valjean’s chest clenched with terror as he looked at Javert, the fate that awaited him looking back at him from Javert’s dark eyes. He knew what was in wait: the exposition, the hundred humiliations that would follow, the unbearable shame of chains and toil not in the quarry, where he was one of many, but right here, where people had spoken his name with respect and admiration.
Valjean drew in a shuddering breath. “Thank you,” he said calmly.
It felt as if everything was happening to a different person—nevertheless, when Javert’s hand shot out, his fingers clenching around Valjean’s wrist, Valjean thought that he could feel the frightened beating of his own pulse against Javert’s thumb.
“Don’t thank me,” Javert murmured. He drew in a deep breath as he stared at Valjean, who could only helplessly watch, his hand remaining in Javert’s grasp. “I’ll make sure you’ll never, ever forget your degradation again.”
Valjean swallowed, then bent his head. “I would expect nothing else. And the child?”
“I’ll honor our arrangement. As long as you’re aware that your labor will make up for the cost to the city’s coffers.”
“That is fair,” Valjean said hollowly.
A moment later, Javert released his wrist and stepped aside. Even as he called out for the cuffs, Valjean could feel his gaze on him. It was heavier than the iron of the shackles that now closed around his wrists—heavier than the weight of his sin.
For one terrifying moment, it seemed impossible to bear the intensity of what was burning in Javert’s eyes for day after day, until the end of his life.
In the prison hulks, there had always been the thought of escape. They had caught him every time, of course—but still, Valjean had been able to dream. He’d been able to saw away at a chain day after day, a fragile lifeline that kept him connected to the blue sky that stretched beyond the despair of his prison.
This time, he would be a willing prisoner. This time, he’d made a deal. There would be no escape for him. No dreams of blue skies stretching above him. Not for as long as the fate of a young child depended on him.
Valjean shuddered when Javert grasped hold of the iron connecting his wrists.
“Come along,” Javert said, another smile playing on his lips. “Let’s see what your fine town will say now.”
Valjean followed without protest, for what other choice was there? Whatever would come to pass could be borne, as he had borne everything else. And now, when everything had fallen away but the taste of iron on his tongue and the weight of Javert’s gaze, even the burn had ceased to ache so fiercely. Perhaps, at long last, the shame that was to come would also silence the cries of the young boy in his dreams.