***EPILOGUE***

The late summer night had turned unusually cold, his breath a grey mist before him. Did it signify ill luck? Javert shuddered that such superstition should so suddenly and fiercely grip his heart. Gypsy though born, he had never held sway with signs and omens. Was his mother's blood still strong within his veins? She had communicated with spirits, but he had read his Bible, attended church, followed The Law. Always so sure he had chosen the path of righteousness. Until a convict tore his beliefs asunder.

And though his footfall tapped steadily through the throngs and the night, he walked in shadows. Another face on the sweeping tide of life's ocean, to live or drown, to sail or die, cast among the feckless poor, among those he once condemned for their weakness. But doubts assailed him now. He who knew everything knew nothing.

Paris by night was both beautiful and cruel. Stars glittered in a velvet sky; a silent orchestra of moonlight played silver patterns on the black river; sweethearts shared kisses and secrets; drunken laughter echoed from long, narrow streets where songs and shouts and screams rent the air; wheels rattled busily by; and all the while The Notre Dame, kindly mother, watched tenderly over her city as its sights and scents and sounds grew louder and stronger. For as she kept her quiet vigil more and more and more of the human sewer rats rose up to greet the darkness. Beggars, harlots, merchants, murderers, thieves, the good, the bad, the loved, the lonely, and Javert among them, head down, hat pulled over his eyes, meeting no-one's gaze, speaking with none, yet swift of step and sure of destination.

Until at last he reached a long, quiet street away from the hub of the city. Here, crowds thinned and voices faded. And his feet became suddenly heavy as lead. He had acted hastily in seeking out Jean Valjean again. What after all was he to say?

He gazed up at the candle-bright window and for a fleeting moment imagined he saw a shadow there. But it was gone quickly as it came and the candle burned alone. For some reason he thought of the youth he had allowed Valjean to take home to his grandfather. Doubtless serving folk ran about with food, medicines and poultices, with coals for the fires and hot water for the invalid. Did he live? Oddly, he hoped so. Why? Why should he be concerned about someone who broke the law? The law was there for a purpose, to keep order, to keep moral values. Yet was the boy's life worth less than the life of the Lord of the manor? Was the life of a beggar worth more than his? So many, many questions.

He looked again at the window where warmth and light shone. Warmth and light he would never know. He would always be an outsider. None to love and none to give him love. Valjean had a daughter though not his own. The prostitute's child. Was it truly wrong for Fantine to have sold her body for profit? The law said it was but how else could she have provided for Cosette? Again and again doubt where once the path had been so straight. A grand carriage swept by and he quickly scurried into the shadows. Surprised to feel beads of sweat on his forehead and his breath stolen. Was this their life then, those who would flout The Law? Yet he was no criminal. A man, that was all he was. Weak and uncertain and flawed. He had no business here, seeking answers from someone he had pursued without pity or mercy.

But just when he would walk away forever the heavy door creaked open.

"Inspector Javert, Cosette said she saw you here. Thank you for allowing me time to say goodbye. I am ready to go now."

For the first time, Javert noted the weariness in the man's eyes, the white of his hair, the yearning to rest even as he stretched out his wrists, awaiting shackles. When none came, Jean Valjean raised his rheumy eyes in question. He had washed roughly. His clothes changed. The filth of the sewers no longer stained him.

"But I am not." Javert took a step inside and idly watched a spider freeze halfway across the floor. Spiders. Webs. Capture and death. Law spinning circles. What did it all mean? His mind was not his own tonight. Like the Seine itself, by turns tumultuous, then calm. A storm raged in his being.

His life and the life of Convict 24601 altered forever yet somehow intertwined. A silence ensued as Jean Valjean waited. Inspector Javert, so well versed in quoting The Law, had no words of his own.

But this night, this shadowy night, this summer night, had its secrets and its whispers. A breeze carried by the river slammed shut the half open door. Now. Both men stood together. And still no words to bind them.

A step, a rustle of movement, a half sob. Cosette halted on the rickety wooden stairs before she reached the last, an angel of light in the darkness, the candle flame flickering in her soft breaths, wisps of hair blowing across her pale face. She is small and frail yet there is a great strength within her.

"Father." She glanced towards Javert and he shuffled uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Mademoiselle," he muttered, with a brief nod of his head and almost imperceptible touch to the brim of his hat.

"Cosette," Valjean spoke tenderly, his aged face aglow with a deep love for his daughter. "Go to bed, child, as I asked of you. The portress will be here in the morning and will take care of you until I am able to do so again."

She hesitated, unwilling to leave him, unwilling to disobey. A drop of wax splashed on her small hand and she gasped in sudden pain she tried to conceal too late. Her pain is Valjean's and ten times more, agony etched in his face. He would run to her, console her, but he awaited the mighty retribution of The Law and would not give false promise.

"I will be brave, Father, as you wish me to be," she whispered, with frightened smile and moistened eyes. The convict smiled too. Sad and gentle, wistful and kind. The love from parent to child and from child to parent borne of a love stronger than Javert had ever known. But he saw it now. He saw clear as day in this night of shadows.

"I wish to speak with you." Javert's voice, albeit a trifle impatient, is at odds with the man he was. Unassuming, polite. Jean Valjean's brow creased. He had never addressed him in such a way before. "Somewhere...not so open to all and sundry. Or the elements." It was true the hall was draughty, the breeze creeping determinedly under the heavy oak door, try as it might to keep it out. It was also true he was unaccustomed to humour. The child, almost a woman, stared at him with distrust.

"Of course, Monsieur Javert, forgive my thoughtlessness." The convict turned to climb once more the wooden stairs and the daughter – Javert cannot think of her as anything less – hurried to help him. Their quiet rooms, modest and clean, are at the very top. The Inspector indicated the scrubbed table and Valjean obediently sat and watched him drape his greatcoat over the back of the chair, take off his hat, remove his gloves, fold his hands before him and fix with brooding stare the man who had so troubled his mind and heart.

"Will I bring anything, Father?"

Valjean looked askance at the Inspector.

"Water," he said simply, only now aware his throat was dry as a desert.

"Water, if you please, Cosette."

"Of course." She smiled and he returned the same gentle smile. So much conveyed when nothing spoken. Love is a powerful god.

Cosette flitted here and there like a silent ghost, keen to attend to her father's comforts. She brings a jug, stirs up the glowing red coals of the fire, blows out the candle, lights a second and sets it down on the table to burn brightly as a star. Javert stared pensively into its yellow flame. With its hopes and dreams and sadness and joy, life, too, flickered for but a moment and then was gone. He looked curiously around the room. It was homely and welcoming and with small feminine touches. The flowers on the window-sill. Two well-polished silver candlesticks on the mantelshelf. The picture on the wall. The pretty home-made sash tied around the pretty home-made curtains. He heard himself give a long, drawn out sigh as he took the pewter mug and brought it to his parched lips. The water tasted cool and refreshing as if lately drawn from a mountain spring. How strange to think the same liquid that almost stole his life now gave him life anew. Cosette has taken it upon herself to bring plates of bread and cheese and Javert suddenly realised he was hungry. When did he last eat? He couldn't recall. A thousand years, two thousand years, seemed to have have passed by in a second. He broke off some bread and ate slowly.

"Inspector, I must know for the sake of my daughter. Am I to be transported to the Bagne de Toulon tonight?"

Javert blinked, his cobwebby mind trying to make sense of the question. Why would they go to the Bagne de Toulon? And then he remembered. Ah, yes, he was inspector of the police. A good citizen, a God-fearing man, a pillar of the community, who adhered to every rule The Law demanded he follow. But, no! He cannot reconcile himself with being that person any more. He not only allowed a convict to slip through his fingers but gave him leave to do so. If he were truly an upholder of The Law, he would arrest Jean Valjean immediately. But he cannot. He cannot. How can he who has sinned cast stones against a sinner?

Cosette stole softly to Valjean's side and rested a hand on his shoulder as if she would keep him safe there forever. She seemed to notice more than ever his weary age and was the parent looking tenderly down on her child.

The inspector cleared his throat. "I have neither the authority nor the desire to transport you there," he muttered to his locked hands. "I wish to speak with you alone," he added aloud.

Valjean nodded. "Cosette?"

"But if I am needed, you will call at once. Promise, Father."

"I promise, Cosette." Half satisfied, she kissed his forehead and Javert waited until the door closed softly behind her.

"Here. Take this." He drew something from his coat and, puzzled, Valjean accepted. With perplexed brow, he held the silver police badge in open palm and gazed at it as one might gaze at a butterfly captured from the summer meadow no more to know the sweet green of the grass or the carpets of flowers blossoming under endless blue skies. Was this some perverse game for the inspector's amusement? For himself, though he coveted his freedom, he had no qualms. For Cosette, he was troubled.

"I have no need of it now. I am not...worthy to wear it."

Valjean's frown deepened. "With respect, I must strongly protest, Monsieur Inspector. You have always done your duty."

Images of black waters and of himself sinking further and further into its depths suddenly began speeding through his mind's eye and Javert's voice grew louder, he more belligerent. "No. I have not. And do you know why I have not? Because of you! A convict! A dog! A common thief! You confound and confuse me. The Law is right. The Law is wrong. How is this possible? I ask again, how is this possible?" The demons refused to leave him be. He fancied he could feel the Seine's iciness and a weight pulling him down, down, down into the darkness. Half crazed with fear, the inspector crashed his fist down hard on the simple table. Ah, but his mug was empty! He picked up one of the two jugs Cosette had provided and, his gaze wild, poured anew, bringing it thirstily to his lips, surprised to realise the girl had provided both water and wine and it was the latter he tasted now.

"Inspector Javert," Valjean spoke with quiet concern. "If I can be..."

"If I drink and eat then you too must drink and eat. We are as equals now! Eat, man, eat!" Javert cried desperately, pushing the bread towards his nemesis, watching greedily as Jean Valjean broke off bread and chewed. He poured wine into his cup. "Now drink!" Valjean took a mouthful.

The inspector sat back, panting heavily for several minutes before he found breath enough to speak. He glanced warily at the door. "Does she hear?"

"Cosette would scorn to do so."

"Very well." Javert shuttered his eyes but the image of his watery grave was only stronger behind closed lids. "Tonight I stood on the brink of the Seine. I could not bring myself to follow through with my intentions. Say something," he added, looking desperately at Jean Valjean. "Tell me what The Good Lord gives us is not ours to throw away."

"It is not my place to judge." Valjean watched in sympathy as his companion clenched his fists to better control the quivering within. "Monsieur Inspector, perhaps..."

"How?" Javert burst out. "How did you turn from the darkness to light? To whom did you sell you black soul?"

The convict smiled quietly. "Long ago the Bishop of Digne bought my soul for God."

Inspector Javert followed his gaze to the two silver candlesticks resting on the mantelshelf. "Then I also sell my soul to God." The inspector made the sign of the Cross. "For the bread and wine we ate and drank in His name. Amen."

"Amen," Jean Valjean rejoined, blessing himself.

Inspector Javert proffered his hand, relieved when his companion shook it warmly. "I must go." He prepared to take his leave but Jean Valjean stayed him.

"No. I will ask Cosette to prepare a bed. You must stay here among friends."

"Thank you," Javert whispered emotionally. Left alone, he walked trembling over to the window where the solitary candle still burned and looked out on to the city with its secrets and its shadows. How dark the night had been. And how brightly the stars and his eyes shone now with the promise of tomorrow.