Actually, Marius was “the prisoner” of Jean Valjean. Through the thick smoke of combat, Valjean did not want to be seen watching Marius, but if the truth were known, he had barely taken his eyes off him. Therefore, when the shot hit Marius, Valjean had moved toward the young man with the agility of a tiger, pounced on him as though he were his prey, and carried him away.
The street was in turmoil as Valjean quickly surveyed his situation. A house blocked one direction while the barricade blocked another. Bewildered, he stared at the ground as though he would have liked to pierce a hole in it with his eyes. Then, as if his wish were miraculously being fulfilled, something near his feet caught his attention. Amid the paving stones of the street he saw an iron grate about two feet square. The stones meant to hold it in place had long since been broken and displaced so that the grate was loose. Valjean looked through it quickly and saw a dark opening that looked like the flue of a chimney or the water pipe of a cistern.
Valjean moved rapidly, as his old art of escape abruptly rose within him. Almost by instinct he pulled the grate aside and lifted Marius’s dead weight to his shoulders. With the strength of a giant and the swiftness of an eagle, he descended the iron foot bars into the darkness of the hole, stopped to balance himself as he replaced the grate, and continued descending.
Some ten feet below the street, in some long, subterranean corridor, Valjean found himself with Marius, who was still unconscious. Now safely away from the shooting, he was in a place of profound peace and absolute silence—yet total darkness. Suddenly Valjean’s thoughts took him back to another time—the night he had jumped from the wall into the convent. His feelings were much the same—only this time he carried Marius—not Cosette.
Valjean found himself in the sewers of Paris. Marius did not stir, and Valjean did not know if the man he was carrying was a living being or a corpse. As he stood in that “grave” below Paris, his first sensation was one of blindness. Having gone from the daylight of the street to the darkness of the sewer, he could not see anything. However, after a few moments, his eyes became adjusted, and soon he was able to see from the little ray of light shining through the manhole he had just descended. Yet a few paces ahead the light became so dim he found himself plunging into a damp, massive gloominess, with Marius still across his shoulders.
He trudged forward, holding both of Marius’s arms with one hand and groping along the slippery wall with the other. Valjean felt a warm stream of blood coming from Marius’s head wounds that was trickling onto him and finding its way underneath his clothes. The mouth of the wounded young man was near Valjean’s ear, and he knew Marius was alive from the humid warmth of the faint respiration he could hear in the silence of the sewer.
He moved ahead with deliberate steps but with a feeling of anxiety, for he could not see and did not know where he was going. All he knew was that his life, and that of Marius, was now fully engulfed in the hands of Providence Himself. Each time he encountered a branch splitting off from the main sewer, he felt the opening and then continued along the larger of the two. He reasoned correctly that the narrow opening would ultimately lead to a dead end, serving only to delay his progress toward finding a route to safety.
Valjean’s trek became more and more strenuous. The height of the sewer was a mere five and a half feet at best, so he walked stooped over in order to keep Marius from striking the top. Valjean was quite tall, which made walking in this way even more difficult, yet despite his age, he was still very strong. Nevertheless, carrying Marius in this way quickly began to sap his strength. Finally, around three in the afternoon, he reached a major junction of the sewers. He was amazed by the sudden widening and soon was standing in a much larger passage. It was large enough for him to walk upright and was so wide that even with his arms outstretched he could not touch both walls.
Minutes later Valjean walked under the relatively bright light of a manhole. He stopped for a moment, and with a true gentleness one brother would extend to another, set Marius on a somewhat dry ledge. Marius’s bloodstained face appeared ashen under the light, like ashes scattered at the bottom of a tomb. His eyes were closed and his hair was matted around the temples with clumps of dried blood that caused it to look like it had been brushed with red paint. His arms and legs were limp and felt cold and dead. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth, and puncture wounds to his body had thrust the fabric of his shirt into the wounds themselves. Through Marius’s torn clothing, Valjean placed his hand over the young man’s beating heart and realized he was still alive. He then tore his own shirt and bandaged Marius’s wounds as best he could, stopping the flow of blood. However, after doing all he could to save the young man’s life, he gazed at the unconscious soul before him with a feeling of inexpressible hatred.
Valjean quickly searched through Marius’s pockets and found two things: a piece of bread the young man had stuffed into his pocket the previous day, but that he had forgotten, and a small notebook. Valjean ate the bread and then opened to the first page of the notebook. On the page he saw the words:
My name is Marius Pontmercy. Please take my body to my grandfather, Monsieur Gillenormand, 6 rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in the Marais.
After this short break, Valjean put Marius on his sturdy back once again, with the young man’s head against his right shoulder, and resumed his laborious march along the sewer. He trudged through the darkness like this until his miserable situation abruptly became even worse. A downpour the previous day had filled this part of the sewer with a huge amount of water, and it seemed as though the pavement below his feet was washing away. He found himself standing amid a pit of slime in a cavern of absolute night. He moved ahead in what seemed to be water on the top and thick slime on the bottom. As he walked, he plunged deeper and deeper into the mire, until the water ultimately reached his shoulders.
Suddenly he felt he was sinking and only his head was above the water. He struggled with both arms to keep Marius’s head above the muck and mire. With nearly supernatural strength and sheer force of determination, he forged ahead, yet with great difficulty. Nearing exhaustion, he made one last desperate effort to find secure footing just as his foot struck something solid. This one secure foothold became for him the first step on a staircase leading back to life. He stood there for a moment, bracing himself against the flow of the filthy flood. After a brief rest, he moved forward and came to realize he was standing on what appeared to be a gradual incline leading out of the water.
As Valjean emerged from the quagmire and was finally safe, he dropped to his knees on the stone floor of the sewer. With Marius still across his shoulders he reflected on what had just taken place and realized this humble position was quite appropriate. He remained there for some time with his soul absorbed totally in words of thanks addressed to God. Finally, he rose to his feet. He was shivering with cold, foul smelling, dripping with slime, and bowed beneath a dying man. Yet somehow his soul was filled with a strange and glorious light.
Jean Valjean set out once more, now at a more deliberate pace. He walked briskly for about a hundred steps, almost without drawing a breath. Suddenly he saw what appeared to be daylight at the far end of the corridor in front of him. Indeed it was a way out of the sewer, but across its archway was a heavy iron gate. The gate was clamped shut with a thick lock, which was red with rust and looked like an enormous brick to him. In the daylight beyond the gate he could see the Seine, and although its bank was quite narrow, it would be sufficient for his escape.
Hours had passed while he had trudged through the sewer. It was eight-thirty in the evening and the sun was beginning to set. Valjean carefully set Marius against the wall and then clenched his fists around the gate. He shook it vigorously, but it did not budge, and he began to realize he had only succeeded in escaping into a prison. With his back to the gate, he dropped to the pavement next to Marius, who was still unconscious. Valjean sat with his head between his knees, drinking his last drop of anguish. In a state of deep depression, he had only one thought. He did not think of Marius or himself. He was thinking of Cosette.
At each jolt over the pavement a drop of blood fell from Marius’s hair.
In the midst of this despair, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder. Then a quiet voice said to him, “We’ll split it.” Beside him stood a man holding his shoes in his hand. Evidently he had removed them in order to reach Valjean without his footsteps being heard.
Unexpected as this encounter was to Valjean, he did not hesitate for even an instant to recognize the man. It was Thénardier. Yet Valjean perceived that Thénardier had not recognized him. The two surveyed each other for a brief moment in the growing darkness, as though sizing up one another. Then Thénardier broke the silence by saying, “How do you plan to get out of there?” Valjean did not answer, and Thénardier continued, “You know, it’s impossible to pick that lock. But I tell you what—we’ll split the spoils.”
“What do you mean by that?” Valjean asked.
“It’s quite obvious to me you’ve killed that man and probably emptied his pockets. I couldn’t care less about him. But I have something you need—I have the key to this lock. I’ll open the gate for you if you give me half of what you found in his pockets,” Thénardier said with a sneer on his face.
Valjean realized Thénardier mistakenly took him for a murderer. Thénardier reached under his tattered shirt and temptingly held a large key before Valjean. Then he continued, “First, let’s settle our business. You’ve seen my key; now show me your money. For half I’ll let you out of here.”
It was typical for Valjean to have some money in his pockets, but on this occasion he had been caught unprepared. He fumbled through his blood-soaked pockets, turning them inside out, yet only produced one Louis d’or, two five-franc pieces, and five or six sous. With a look of sadness on his face and a curt tilt of his head, Thénardier stated, “Man! You’ve killed him for nearly nothing!” Not quite believing what he had seen, Thénardier began searching Valjean’s and Marius’s pockets for himself. Valjean let him do so unhindered, for his primary concern at this point was keeping his back to the light, hoping to remain anonymous.
As Thénardier searched the pockets of Marius’s coat, he removed a torn piece of fabric from it with the skill of a pickpocket. Valjean did not notice what he had done, so Thénardier was able to quickly conceal the strip of cloth underneath his own shirt. He thought the cloth might serve to be useful later in identifying the dead man and his killer. And as he searched Marius, he found another thirty francs. Then, commenting on the small amount of money on both men, he took it all, forgetting his words “We’ll split it.”
Having finished his search, he took the key, turned it in the rusty lock, and opened the gate halfway. Then he said to Valjean smugly, “Now, my friend, you must leave. This is just like a fair where you pay as you leave. You’ve paid. Now clear out!”
Valjean put Marius on his back once again, and with just enough space to squeeze through the opening, found himself in the open night air. Thénardier closed the gate, gave the key two turns in the lock, and plunged toward the darkness. He made less noise than a mere breath and seemed to walk away stealthily on the velvet paws of a tiger.
Upon reaching the river, Valjean set Marius on its bank. As the darkness of night cast its shadows across him, Valjean could not refrain from basking underneath what appeared to him to be a vast sea of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic silence of the eternal heavens. His sense of duty to his fellow man weighed upon him, and he bent down to dip some water with his hand, then sprinkled a few drops on Marius’s face. The young man’s eyes remained closed, but he continued to breathe through his half-opened mouth. As Valjean dipped his hand once more into the river, he had the uneasy feeling someone was standing just behind him.
Still crouching toward the ground, he spun around and was shocked to see Javert towering above him. When Valjean had allowed Javert to leave the barricade, Javert had caught sight of Thénardier and had pursued him as far as the river. Yet shortly thereafter Javert had lost sight of the escaped prisoner. Javert had waited by the river, only to see Valjean emerge where he had last seen Thénardier. With Valjean’s face cloaked by the darkness, Javert asked, “Who are you?”
“I am Jean Valjean.” At this Javert placed both hands on Valjean’s shoulders, squeezed him with a vicelike grip, and stood him to his feet. Valjean continued, “Inspector Javert, you have me in your power. In fact, I have regarded myself as your prisoner since early this morning. I did not give you my address with any intention of escaping from you. You may take me into your custody. Only I ask that you grant me one favor first.”
Javert did not appear to hear Valjean but simply kept his eyes riveted upon him. At last he released his grip, straightened himself, and murmured, “What are you doing here? And who is this man?”
“The favor I ask concerns him,” Valjean began. “Dispose of me as you see fit, but first help me take him home. That is all I ask of you.”
Javert wrinkled his brow, as someone who is incapable of ever making a concession. Nevertheless, he did not say no. He bent over, dipped his handkerchief in the water, began wiping Marius’s bloodstained face, and finally said, as though speaking only to himself, “This young man was at the barricade. He is the one they call Marius.” Then Javert grabbed Marius’s hand and searched for a pulse.
“He is wounded,” Valjean offered.
“He’s a dead man,” Javert answered.
“No, not yet,” Valjean insisted.
“So, you’ve brought him here from the barricade?” questioned Javert.
Valjean simply nodded and said, “He lives in the Marais on the rue des Filles-du-Calvaire with his grandfather. I don’t remember his last name.” Then Valjean pulled the notebook from Marius’s pocket, opened it to the first page, and offered it to Javert.
After a moment, Javert looked toward the street and shouted, “Carriage, please!” Then he thrust Marius’s notebook into his own coat pocket. Seconds later Javert himself placed Marius on the backseat of a carriage and sat down on the front seat next to Valjean. Finally, he slammed the door and the carriage rapidly drove away.
By the time the carriage reached its destination on the rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, it was completely dark outside and everyone in the house was asleep. Valjean grabbed Marius under the arms while the carriage driver held him underneath his knees, and together they carried him toward the gate. Javert addressed the porter stationed there in a tone befitting a government official, saying, “Sir, we are looking for a gentleman by the name of Gillenormand. Is he here?”
“What do you want with him?” the porter questioned.
“We’re bringing his grandson home,” Javert answered with a hint of irritation in his voice. The porter, not wanting to wake the master of the house, woke another of the servants instead, a doorman by the name of Basque. Basque then woke Marius’s aunt Gillenormand, who made the decision to let the grandfather sleep, thinking he would hear of the matter soon enough in any case.
The men carried Marius to the main level of the house and set him on a sofa in Monsieur Gillenormand’s waiting room. Basque immediately set off in search of a physician, and just as he left, Valjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder. Javert motioned to him, and Valjean, knowing what he meant, walked out of the house and toward the carriage once again, with Javert following directly behind him. As they climbed aboard the carriage, Valjean asked Javert, “Inspector Javert, may I ask yet another favor?”
“What is it?” Javert demanded, harshly.
“Let me go home for just one minute,” Valjean pleaded. “Then you may do whatever you want with me.”
Javert remained silent for several moments but then lowered the window of the passenger compartment, and said, “Driver, 7 rue de l’Homme Armé at once!”
As they approached the rue de l’Homme Armé, Javert and Valjean stepped from the carriage, for the street was too narrow to accommodate one its size. When they reached the door of the house on the deserted street, Javert said to him, “Go on in.” Then with a strange expression on his face, as though he were exerting great effort, he added, “I will wait for you here.”
Valjean simply stared at Javert, because this certainly was not in accord with Javert’s past habits. Yet he quickly dismissed any usual thoughts, supposing he should not be surprised by any amount of haughty confidence Javert might exhibit. He saw it as being the kind of confidence a cat has when granting a mouse the freedom to travel only to the length of its claws. Besides, he reasoned, Javert must now realize he had made up his mind to surrender and to put an end to his running. With this thought firmly in his mind, Valjean opened the door and entered the house. He climbed the stairs, but before entering his room, he noticed the window on the landing was open. Without fully understanding why, he paused for a moment, and then leaned out the window to glance at the porch below. Valjean was overwhelmed with amazement by what he saw.
Javert had departed.
Police Inspector Javert walked slowly along the rue de l’Homme Armé with his head down and his eyes downcast for the first time in his life. He took the shortest route to the Seine and walked halfway across a bridge near Notre Dame. With his elbows on the wall of the bridge and his head in his hands, he stared at the rapids below. It was a dangerous stretch of water, known by French sailors to be the most dreaded point on the Seine.
He considered his situation, which to him was intolerable. To owe his life to a criminal and to be indebted to this fugitive from justice was more than he could bear. He had been set free by Valjean and, for the first time in his life, had repaid one good deed with another. Yet he had betrayed the law and society by remaining true to his conscience, and had sacrificed his duty under that law to his personal motives. He was overwhelmed by the absurd thought that there could possibly be a law superior to the law he had known all his life—something he had never imagined before and something his mind could not reconcile with his heart.
One thing amazed Javert—that after all these years of being pursued, Jean Valjean had set him free when he had the opportunity to kill him. And one thing terrified him—that he had returned the favor by setting the criminal free. He sought to comprehend his situation but could no longer seem to find his bearings. He reeled as he examined his two possible options—neither of which was acceptable to him. To hand Valjean over to the authorities seemed unthinkable, and to give Valjean liberty seemed equally abhorrent.
Jean Valjean was an enigma to Javert. Here was a benevolent criminal—a merciful, gentle, and helpful convict; one who repaid evil with good and hatred with pardon and who preferred pity above vengeance. Valjean chose to ruin himself rather than to ruin his enemy, and to save the one who had wanted him dead. Here was a man who knelt on the heights of virtue itself and responded more as an angel than a man. Javert was forced to admit that someone like Valjean existed, and he saw Valjean as a hideous monster.
As Javert had sat in the carriage face-to-face with Valjean, the legal tiger of the law had roared some twenty times or more within himself. He was forever a prisoner of the law, and the law could do with him as it wished. Yet in the depths of his being, he had heard a voice crying out to him—a voice unknown to him, which said, “Very well! Have your savior killed. And while you are at it, why not ask for the basin of Pontius Pilate to be brought to you as well, so you can wash the filthy deed from your claws?”
A whole new world was dawning within Javert’s soul. For the first time in his life, he had accepted a kindness and had repaid it with a kindness. He was seeing new things, such as mercy, forgiveness, and the possibility of a tear in the eye of the law. He stood in the shadow of an unknown moral sun rising in his soul, and it horrified and blinded him. He was forced to acknowledge that goodness existed—even within a convict. And now he had experienced something unprecedented in his life—he had done something good as well. But he saw it as becoming depraved.
His religion was law and order, and it had been enough for him. His faith was in the police, and he reported to his superior, yet to this point he had never dreamed of that other Superior—God. Tonight, however, he had unexpectedly become aware of Him, and he felt embarrassed and ashamed as he stood before Him.
In the light of this unforeseen Presence, Javert could not find his bearings. He did not know how to respond to this superior, yet he knew a subordinate was always obligated to bow and obey. He knew he should not argue, debate, or place blame in the presence of someone so amazing and much greater than he. He did not know what to do but finally concluded his only option was to hand in his resignation. But how was he to submit his resignation to God?
His thoughts swirled around him, yet one overriding issue kept rising to the top and dominated his thinking—he had committed a terrible infraction of the law! Two options waged war with each other in his mind. He could march resolutely to Jean Valjean, arrest him, and return the convict to his prison cell. And the other was to …
Javert immediately straightened himself to his full stature, turned from the bridge, and began walking with a quick and determined pace. He headed to the closest police station, walked inside, took a sheet of paper and a pen, and began writing. At the top of the page he wrote, “My observations for the good of the Police Service.” Then he listed ten abuses against prisoners he himself had witnessed many times and suggested these were “unworthy of the police who were to be servants of a great civilization.” He signed the note, “Javert, Police Inspector of the 1st Class, June 7, 1832, 1:00 a.m.,” left it on the table, and headed to the bridge once again.
With his head bowed, Javert gazed into the water. All he saw was darkness. He could hear the sound of the rushing water but could not see the river. He remained motionless for several minutes, gazing into the roaring blackness. He removed his hat and placed it on the wall of the bridge next to him. A moment later, a tall black form, one any distant passerby would have mistaken as a mere shadow or an apparition, stood erect on the wall of the bridge. The dark form bent over the Seine, stood erect once again, and fell into the shadows.
A dull splash followed as the obscure form disappeared beneath the rapids.