Chapter Text
“Papa, are you certain you would not rather stay with us until Javert joins you next Monday?” Cosette tilted her head and shielded her eyes against the afternoon sun “It would be lovely to have you with us.”
“Papy, say yes!” Valjean’s two small grand-children leaned out of the coach window.
“Our house at the Delhomel’s near Étaples is large enough.” Marius joined in.
Valjean handed the large key of this summer house to the coachman who had just unloaded two worn trunks and leather valises from the back of the carriage. They watched as he carried that luggage across a short stone bridge into the low building, leaving them in its hall.
After a moment Valjean remarked. “I know you all mean well, but what if Javert comes earlier than he thought, and finds the house empty?” He shook his head. “It needs to be aired and made welcoming.”
“I would be astonished if Madame Delhomel, my friend Elisabeth, had not already asked Madame Richard to do so.” Cosette tried again.
“Ma petite, we will not be on opposing sides of France. It cannot be more than an hour away by coach, two at most, so we can surely see each other at any time.” Valjean shook his head gently at his daughter.
“It is very quiet and lonely around here.” Marius sided with Cosette.
"So nobody will be bothering about one or two old men.” Valjean smiled. “And there is the farm just across the path.”
The young woman looked fondly up at her husband before she faced her father again. “Remember that you will have fresh milk, butter, cheese and eggs from Monsieur and Madame Richard, the farmers. Dear Élisabeth saw to it.” Cosette nodded to herself. “I asked her to do so when we first made arrangements for these summer holidays. And Papa,” she indicated the coachman who had returned from the house, “Antoine will be here tomorrow around noon.”
“Then everything will be well. Now, you must be off or you will never make it to your house before sunset.” Valjean embraced his daughter firmly, and equally firmly pressed Marius’ hand. He would not say it openly, but he longed to be on his own with his thoughts. Soon after, affectionate waves from large and small white handkerchiefs disappeared around the corner towards La Caloterie , the nearest hamlet.
After one final glance along the shrub-lined path, Valjean stepped across the drain towards the house. Antoine had left the key in the front outside lock. Valjean pulled it out and closed the door behind him. He hung up his coat and loosened his cravat before turning towards the kitchen. From its doorway he watched specks of dust dance in low shafts of light that filtered in through the window.
Moments later Valjean looked at his fingers dusty from the long voyage. He opened his cuffs and rolled them up to mid-forearm. At the sink he washed his hands and wrists under the kitchen pump. The fresh water ran pleasantly cool over his skin into the basin under it. To him it was still a luxury that he no longer had to carry water in from the outside.
Valjean dried his hands on a towel by the sink. He slowly turned towards the table. Around a spray of wildflowers, someone, likely Mme Richard, had arranged a small basket of apples and grapes, a cheese dish, little pots of honey and jam, a jug of milk, another basket, this time with eggs and a covered pichet . A round loaf of bread was wrapped in a tea towel with simple plates and bowls by its side.
He smoothed a wrinkle out of the modest tablecloth before he slid onto the bench at the table. He folded his hands for a short prayer in thanks for the abundance on the table. Even after many decades he remembered how his sister and his nephews and nieces had often gone to sleep, starving. Food was not something he would ever take for granted.
Valjean was exhausted and wanted nothing more than sleep. He knew that he needed his wits about him in conversations not far from Montreuil-sur-Mer where he had once been M Madeleine, the mayor, and for this he needed to rest. The neighbours would just have to wait until tomorrow.
You will not go to bed without eating something, Jean Valjean. The deep voice resonating in his head was so real that he looked towards the door, only to chortle in embarrassment at his reaction moments later. After hardly four days apart, he already missed Javert.
Maybe he should heed those stern words? There was no wine, so he would have a sip of the local cider. Some cheese and a handful of grapes would go a long way, and he would not wake up from a growling stomach.
Valjean unfolded his simple Laguiole to cut a slice from the hard cheese. He chewed deliberately, alternating between thin wedges of it and grapes, leaving the bread untouched. It would have been too much. After having finished his bowl of cider, he wiped the blade clean and carefully folded his knife. He covered the food and drink, and deposited the simple plate and the bowl in the sink, letting a gush of water from the kitchen pump run over them.
Valjean locked the front door for the night, then hefted his jacket, his trunk and travel bag to carry them into his –large – bedroom. Tomorrow, he would take Javert’s luggage into the smaller bedroom across the narrow hallway. It would keep later tongues from wagging.
He lit the candle at his bedside and drew the curtains before he went about his ablutions. After he had donned his nightshirt, Valjean puffed up his pillow at the bed’s head-board and pulled the blankets up to his waist. He reached for his pocket bible, only to realize that his glasses were still in his jacket. Sighing, he threw the covers aside and padded to the hook by the bedroom door.
Returning to his bed, Valjean settled himself against the comfortable pillow before he unfolded his glasses. He thumbed through the little book for a suitable chapter, but nothing seemed to suit his reflections. Then he recalled certain lines and nearly smote his brow. Searching with renewed resolution, he finally found Psalm 23 and murmured it to himself.
L’Éternel est mon berger
Je ne manquerai de rien
Il me fait reposer dans de verts pâturages,
Il me dirige près des eaux paisibles.
Il restaure mon âme
After he had thus given thanks for his and his family’s safe journey, he prayed for Javert’s well-being, then browsed further to the familiar Song of Songs.
‘Qu’il me baise des baisers de sa bouche! Car son amour vaut mieux que le vin’ . Valjean felt a blush rise to his cheeks because these words reminded him how Javert had stolen a furtive kiss just before they had parted ways. He remembered the firmness of Javert’s embrace, had returned it in equal measure. With his thumb he brushed at the corner of his mouth as if he could still feel soft lips against it.
Valjean put the small book to the side, blew out the candle. He slid down in his bed, not before pushing his pillow into shape again. Turning on his side, he watched the pale moonlight filter through a crack in the curtains, painting tall shadows into a corner of the room. Briefly he imagined his inspector getting ready for bed. He sighed. Today was Wednesday; Javert would be arriving Monday. Almost five days to go. He pulled the blankets over his shoulders. His vision slowly blurred as he closed his eyes, exhausted from the long coach journey from Paris.
He woke to sunshine, feeling that the night had brought him closer to Javert. He lay awake for a few moments to savour the peace and quiet of the morning. He sighed because he had to get dressed and walk to the farm across the Chemin du Marais first. Breakfast would have to wait. He wished to thank the farmer’s wife for her kind help. Being familiar with the ways farmers and villagers thought, he knew he had to volunteer some information about himself and Javert if he wanted to keep strangers from poking their noses into affairs that were none of their concern.
“Madame Richard?” Valjean knocked at the frame of a large open door to announce his arrival.
“Monsieur Fauchelevent?” A short rotund woman in plain dress and long apron emerged from the kitchen to the side. A strand of brown hair had escaped her dark cap. She bobbed a curtsey, smiling. “So glad to know that you made it safely to La Madelaine. Do you know that many years ago a businessman with the same name as yours lived in Montreuil? ” She looked at him questioningly.
Valjean nodded slowly, biding his time to think of a good explanation. “Is that so? I recall that my father talked about one of his brothers having lived near Arras. They hardly kept in contact, so it could well be. A distant cousin, you know?” She dipped her head, so his explanation had obviously satisfied her. He continued, “My dear children and I arrived yesterday afternoon, so forgive me for not having waited upon you already.”
Mme Richard preened a bit at being addressed like gentry. “You must have been worn out by your long coach journey.” She did not add ‘considering your age’, but those sentiments were audible behind her words.
Though Valjean did not mind – after all, he was nearing seventy –, he changed the subject nevertheless. “That cider on my kitchen table, it is wonderfully fresh. Might I beg another pichet at some stage as a friend will be joining me soon? We are looking forward to the tranquillity of this lovely countryside and intend to walk a lot.” He pointed out good-naturedly, “You can imagine how noisy a city like Paris is.”
“The peace around here will do you good.” She beamed at him. “But do come in, and sit down. You must think me a bad hostess.” She gestured towards one of the chairs at her kitchen table. “The cider is our own, and you are welcome to it.” She inclined her head, confiding in him, “My Jean-François knows how to choose the best apples.”
“Its quality is remarkable.” Valjean’s words seemed to be well-received. He scrutinized the farmer’s wife. She appeared trustworthy to him, so he ventured a question. “Tell me, Madame Richard, would you know someone to come and clean the house twice a week? It will not be for nothing, I assure you.” He pulled out his purse and counted several coins onto the table.
He was not keen on having strangers about in his summer lodgings, but it would have been unfavourably noticed had he not inquired. Men were not thought to keep a house clean and in order. He looked down briefly to hide his amusement. Mme Richard would certainly never have met anyone like his Javert.
The woman regarded the francs before she wiped her hands on her apron and leaned towards him with certain complacency. “I will do it myself, M. Fauchelevent. Just let me know when it would be most convenient.”
“You are taking a weight off my mind.” Valjean looked her in the eye. “How about Saturdays and Tuesdays, in the mornings?”
“Will between nine and ten be convenient?” She added gravely. “My morning chores here must come first.”
It did not take them long to settle the conditions for Mme Richard’s work and for regular deliveries of food.
Valjean departed, carrying with him a basket with a bottle of vin du pays, a square of home-made cheese, a couple of saucissons , a jar of duck rillettes as well as seasonal vegetables and fruit. Together with what had been on the table, the summer house larder would be well-filled to last him for days. Silently he also thanked Cosette for having packed coffee, tea, sugar and salt in his travelling bag.
“Madame Delhomel has arranged for a horse and carriage for you. The cabriolet is already in your shed. In the afternoon my eldest will settle one of our horses in there.” Mme Richard called after Valjean who waved his agreement.
While a large pot of his favourite tisane stewed, he roasted a slice of bread in a pan. With a few droplets of honey it was everything he could ask for. He sipped slowly from his mug. Moments later, he checked his pocket watch and pushed himself up. He had to get more suitably dressed, after all it was warm and sunny, meaning that a lighter suit was called for since the Pontmercy coach would arrive soon.
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On M Richard’s suggestion Valjean went for a walk in the woods near the village on Friday. He followed a narrow path which led him along ponds that held water from draining the swamp. After a while it opened into a view of the meandering Canche . He followed its towpath towards a wooden bridge across a bend in the river. After having pushed back his hat, he shaded his eyes against the brilliant sun. There was hardly a cloud in the sky even though he was not far from the sea. White sails shivered and blurred down-stream.
A lonely bird-of prey – too high up to recognize it without doubt – drew its circles in the sky in search of food. The faint toc-toc of a woodpecker sounded from the copse near the farmhouse on the other side of the river. Wildflowers littered the grass left and right of the path. Together with the still dark green of the trees behind him and across the water, they made for countryside worth contemplating again and again.
Valjean pulled out his watch to check the length of his walk. It felt like roughly an hour, but that might have been due to the heat that had slowed him down. He found that less than forty minutes had passed since setting out. He looked around. There was so much for the children to discover! If the coach were to set the Pontmercys down on the other side of the wooden bridge, they could stroll along the waterway, and on arrival at the summer house he would have everything ready for a garden picnic. They would love it, he was certain.
He resolved to draw a map and write down descriptions for Cosette and Marius to give to them tomorrow, when he joined them and his grand-children near the shallow waters of the baie . He had already let Mme Richard know that he would be spending the next two days at Étaples. The coach would pick him up around noon, so he had better return to pack his evening bag.
Valjean wiped his kerchief across his brow and folded his hands behind his back as he started walking back to the house, thinking that a large glass of M Richard’s cider mixed with water would be welcome. He stopped in his tracks when he re-entered the woodlands, because tomorrow was Saturday, then only two more nights and then – Javert. He smiled to himself at the thought of many days stretching out before them when they would take their ease. There would be not only days but also balmy summer nights.
Several years ago he had thought it impossible to find warmth in his heart for anyone but Cosette. Then he found it for another man; not just any man, but Javert. And had it returned in equal measure. Now Valjean could no longer imagine a time without him, without his embrace in the night, without a strong heart beating under his hand. ‘Que sa main gauche soit sous ma tête, Et que sa droite m`embrasse! ‘ He smiled to himself.
Sometimes Valjean doubted that he was deserving of this much happiness and love. But he had soon come to cherish the nights when Javert found ways to disabuse him of those morose thoughts. Heat spread from Valjean’s neck at the memory of some of his inspector’s ministrations, and he needed the rest of his walk to find a semblance of control over his wayward thoughts, feeling all kinds of fool, but no longer feeling guilty about them.
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Notes:
To Chrissy24601 for encouragement and handholding.
My thanks to Groucha and Iberiandoctor for beta, suggestions and valued remarks.
More Notes:
1. Étaples
2. La Caloterie/La Calotterie is a hamlet nr La Madelaine-sous-Montreuil
3. Pichet (site in French) or Flagon
4. Montreuil-sur-Mer or Montreuil-Pas-de-Calais
5. Laguiole
6. Valjean reads aloud the first part of psalm 23 "L'Éternel est mon Berger – The Lord is My Shepherd“
The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul
7. Valjean recalls or reads part of The Song of Songs:
Let him give me the kisses of his mouth: for his love is better than wine.
The Song of Songs bilingual
8. Chemin du Marais (transl: Swamp Path/Way) is a narrow road/path in La Madelaine-sous-Montreuil, a village, nowadays known for Alexandre Gauthier’s La Grenouillère, a top-end restaurant.
9. Saucissons (thick, dry cured sausage)
10. Rilettes (preparation of meat similar to a pâté
11. Cabriolet (light horse-drawn vehicle with one horse)
12. La Canche (River near Montreuil-sur-Mer)
13. La Baie de Canche (Canche Bay) the site is in French
14. From The Song of Songs: His left hand is under my head, and his right hand is round about me.