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The clock struck twelve and woke Javert with a start. His back ached, unused to the comfort of the overstuffed armchair that he had fallen so soundly asleep in. He blinked slowly and rubbed a hand across his face. He could not have been sleeping for long; his companions had not left so long ago for Midnight Mass, and the fire had not yet burned low. The clock continued to echo through the house and he counted off the chimes before forcing himself to his feet and further wakefulness. It would not do to be sleeping when they returned.
Valjean had been reluctant to leave him this night, hovering in the doorway long after the others had made for the waiting carriage. He had been wearing that look, the soft-eyed look that, even after all these years, still had the power to shake Javert to his very heart.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing,” Valjean had said, “I am so very glad for you, Javert.”
“Old fool,” Javert murmured, daring to slip closer to him and steal a kiss from that smiling mouth, “Christmas makes you too sentimental by far.”
“Perhaps. I will see you later.”
And he had gone, leaving Javert to sink into the chair and ponder the strangeness of the exchange. It was a well-worn routine they had established. Valjean and Javert, as his close friend, would be invited to spend the Christmas period with Cosette and young Pontmercy, at the house of Monsieur Gillenormand. They would eat well and all would attend Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, aside from Javert, who was explained to M. Gillenormand as an eccentric who did not do his worshipping in a church. The first year, the year when Javert was barely recovered from his fall, had been difficult. He had balked at the invitation, panicked he would ruin the festivity of a day that he had never practiced himself and did not know how to enjoy. It had taken Valjean, tracking him down to the old apartment to which he had fled, and their first, desperate kiss in the hallway of that building, to convince Javert that he was wanted at all.
Christmas was now, eight years later, an easier thing to understand. Cosette and Pontmercy, whilst overenthusiastic, did mean well in their determination to include Valjean and his odd friend in their celebrations, and Javert had learned to accept it all with as good grace as he could muster. Besides, Valjean revelled in the season, revelled in their joy and his part in it, and Javert could bear anything that made Valjean so very happy. It was not so difficult to think of it that way. With M. Gillenormand passed quietly away this last year gone, Valjean had become the figurehead of this little family and even more central in his role. If it was possible for him to have become even happier, Javert had seen it happen of late.
Javert began to slowly pace the library, stopping when the quarter past the hour struck to go to the window and look out. It was snowing again, and he was glad that Pontmercy had insisted upon a cab this night; Valjean walked a little slower these days, the old limp bothering him thanks to both age and the cold, and it would not do for him to be out in weather like this. Javert gazed down the street; he did not expect them home yet, but he was used to waiting.
He might have stayed that way until they returned, but a whisper of feet behind him made him start and turn. A small figure stood in the doorway, clutching a blanket in one hand.
“Uncle Javert? Where is Mama?”
Fantine, aged seven, and the eldest of the Pontmercy children, had begun to call him ‘uncle’ at some point after her third birthday, although no one had instructed her to and she could not tell where she had got the idea from. Since then, two more babes had come along, Little Jean and Georges, and both had followed their elder sister’s lead. It was one more example of something that Javert had not earned, but he had not demanded that the children cease, and neither had their parents. Javert suspected they had seen, just as he had, how Valjean glowed when the children accepted Javert as part of the family. Indeed, sometimes Cosette even indulged in the moniker herself.
“She has gone to mass with your father and grandfather,” he said, “And you, mademoiselle, should be asleep.”
Fantine ignored him and came further into the room, venturing to his side at the window and looking out.
“Oh! Look, Uncle Javert! It is snowing again.”
“It is,” he nodded tightly, “But-”
“Père Nöel has not come!” she interrupted, glancing towards the fireplace where three little pairs of shoes waited, lined up neatly on the rug.
The carrots that the children had tucked into them earlier that evening were still there, uneaten by the ridiculous donkey who was supposed to accompany that holiday spirit.
“Have you scared him away, Uncle Javert?”
“No, child. He – he is yet to visit this street tonight.”
To his ears, Javert’s lies rang hollow and false, but Fantine seemed to accept it well enough, for she came back to his side and reached up, tucking her small, cold hand into his larger, warm one.
“I had a bad dream,” she confessed, her voice a whisper, “I wanted Mama.”
“I’m sorry. All you have is me for now.”
“I do not mind. Your hands are warm.”
He did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Fantine, the first child he had ever had to please, never seemed to need very much from him, as though she was born understanding that she could not ask him for more than he gave. Not that he did not try for her. How strange it was to think that this child’s opinion of him could matter so much. How strange to think of who he had become, and how!
“Would you like me to accompany you back to your chamber?”
“Oh, yes please, Uncle Javert. Marie left a light on in the nursery, but the stairs are dark and I do not like them much!”
Hand in hand, they left the library, she pulling a little ahead as she led him up to the first floor. In her little white nightgown, with her yellow hair loose, she could almost have been an angel. Who needed mass, he thought, when angels walked here amongst men?
In her darkened chamber she climbed into bed and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Hesitating, Javert perched on the edge and smoothed her hair back.
“You will sleep now?”
“I think so,” she pouted, eyes scanning his face carefully, “Uncle Javert, you never lie to me, do you?”
“Never.”
“My friend Sarah says that Père Nöel is not real. She says that Mama and Papa take the food for Gie and put the lovely things in the shoes! Is she right? Does he not come?”
Her eyes were full of tears, shimmering blue like a river in sunlight, and Javert knew then what her dream had been about. He bit the inside of his lip and looked away from her, because he was not a suitable candidate for such a conversation, and he did not know what to say. He did not lie often, even now, and she had asked him directly. How he wished for Valjean. He would know what to do.
His eyes fell on a doll, propped up at the far side of the bed. The doll was Catherine, he knew, Cosette’s most precious childhood toy, who had been recently given to Fantine with great seriousness and ceremony. Catherine had been the first toy that Cosette ever owned, her very first Christmas present, and was a reminder, constant and true, of Valjean’s adoration. He had cried when he told Javert the story of a little girl, dressed in rags and wooden shoes, sent into the snowy night to draw water from a well. A little girl, no older than Fantine was now, who had been almost ruined beyond repair by being made to grow up so soon. Javert, without knowing why, reached out and stroked Catherine’s hair. He knew what to do.
“Do not listen to such nasty rumours, Fantine,” he said quietly, “You must believe what you want to believe.”
It was not a lie, not outright, but the little girl’s face broke into a relieved smile and she threw herself forwards, giving his cheek a messy kiss before she retreated back to her blankets.
“I knew it! Thank you, Uncle Javert. Thank you!”
“Good night, darling.”
“Good night!”
Back in the library, he must have once more fallen asleep in the chair, because the next thing he became aware of was Valjean leaning over him and waking him with a kiss. His lips were cold against Javert’s but soon warmed, as did the nose that he pushed into Javert’s sideburn.
“You could have gone to bed, if you were tired.”
“It is for the best I did not. I had an important task this night.”
Valjean quirked an eyebrow and began to unwind his scarf as Javert related his story. By the end of it, a tear ran down his cheek as he pressed his face to Javert’s neck.
“Thank you,” he whispered, “For keeping her innocent just a little longer. I could not bear to see her grow up so fast.”
Javert did not speak, just wrapped his arms around Valjean and waited for him to compose himself. Cosette crept into the room with a small bag of gifts in her hand and went to the shoes by the fire, taking out the carrots and replacing them with toys and coins and chocolates. Javert did not know exactly when she had made it clear that she knew the real nature of his relationship with her father, but it had led to moments like this, surreal as they were, and he could not say that he wasn’t grateful. He would keep a secret for the children, and especially for Fantine, but it was harder to lie about himself. It was a relief, truly, to not have to lie to Cosette. And, if she knew, Pontmercy would too.
“Goodnight Papa,” she swooped in and kissed his cheek as he pulled away from Javert, “Sleep well. Goodnight, Uncle Javert. Do not keep him from his bed too long, please. He is very tired.”
“Of course.”
“I am very glad of you,” Valjean murmured, when Cosette had made her way upstairs, and he pulled Javert by the arm towards their suite of rooms, tucked away in the bottom of the house, “I am always glad, but especially on a blessed night such as this. I do not tell you that enough.”
“I know. And you do. Happy Christmas, Valjean.”
“And to you, my love. Always to you.”