Pont-au-Change Volume II: Sanctuary

By Arlene C. Harris

The second volume in the continuation of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables.

In 1855, while Victor Hugo continues to write Les Misérables on the Isle of Guernsey, he learns the story of Jean Valjean's continuing journey, taking him and his companion, the former Inspector Javert, from France in 1833 to the London of Dickens; from there the pair are drawn to the walled city of Québec, where awaits another attempted revolution which threatens Jean Valjean and those around him.

Meanwhile, Marius and Cosette travel to Montreuil-sur-Mer and discover her history and her legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arlene C. Harris
• Release date: Jun 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476447186

Arlene C. Harris

Arlene C. Harris started writing at a very early age. Her first works were epic tales involving Snoopy in his "Red Baron" mode teaming up with the cast from "Hogan's Heroes", mainly because at five years old she didn't know there had been not one, but two, World Wars. In 1996 she was the Grand Prize Winner of the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award for her short story "His Best Weapon." Shortly after that, she embarked on her six-book series Pont-au-Change. She has a few more books in the pipeline at this time. Arlene lives in California.

Book preview

Sanctuary

Copyright 2001, 2019 Arlene C. Harris. All rights reserved worldwide.

nota bene: Despite the fact that some of the characters and institutions and situations described herein are based on actual persons, places, and events, this is a work of fiction; and certain liberties with regards to actual historical events have been taken—particularly with regard to the events surrounding the death of Lieutenant Weir. In previous versions of this book, the name was changed because of said liberties; his name has been restored in this version, but the caveat remains.

Be that as it may, any other similarities to any other persons, places or events—living, dead, or otherwise—are entirely coincidental.

PONT-AU-CHANGE

Being the Continuation of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables

Volume II: Sanctuary

Arlene C. Harris

Cover by Mireille Sillander

Dedication:

To Laura, for providing me with Sanctuary

Contents

Section One: Guernsey, November 1855

Section Two: Strangers In A Strange Land

Section Three: Church And State

Section Four: The Art Of Subtle Change

Section Five: The Ruins Of The Past

Section Six: Brave New World

Section Seven: Mignon

Section Eight: Amnesty

Section Nine: Benefit Of Clergy

Epilogue

Section One:

Guernsey, November 1855

I

THE AUTHOR IN EXILE

THE COLD THAT surrounded the Channel Islands in October deepened in November; gray rocks jutted up out of the gray sea, nearly indistinguishable against the gray skies. The inhabitants of Guernsey knew better than to test this foul weather, as witnessed by the numerous shipwrecks the island had hosted over the years, the relics of which could still be seen on its many inaccessible stretches of shoreline. The natives preferred to bundle themselves up indoors, away from the windows, huddled together by their hearth-fires; thus the middle-aged man walking vigorously through Saint Peter Port, up High Street on his way to the reaches called Hauteville, set himself apart from those born and bred to the island. A storm was coming up, and the fishing boats had come in early, but this man defied the weather, having no business being out in it save to follow his usual habit. He carried no cane, but he kept his hat on his head with one hand and his coat tight about him with the other, his black cravat whipping freely in the stiff wind.

Every afternoon since his arrival some weeks before, the exiled writer Victor Hugo walked the island, from the beaches to the heights, through the town and back. On most days he walked with company, usually in the person of a beautiful woman with prematurely grayed hair and a fine though not entirely maidenly figure, his mistress of over twenty years, the actress Juliette Drouet. Today, though, the weather was too inclement, and she was feeling poorly; undeterred, he ventured off alone to better acquaint himself with his new environment, the cage he had chosen for the confinement of his person, if not his writings.

His wife had arrived shortly after his mistress, with their three remaining children and over thirty trunks of their furnishings. M. Hugo had only remained at l’Hôtel d’Europe a few days until he had located a house for let up on the ridge overlooking the harbor. He and his son, and later his wife and the rest of the household, took possession of number 20, Rue Hauteville, and began to bring some order and stability into their highly unstable lives.

The house he had taken, like so many other rented residences, had the kind of décor that all but screamed its functionality. The furniture, though it matched itself in a fashion, still had about it a style that was incongruous with the inhabitants. No one would ever believe that such a man would purchase such furnishings. Still, it was comfortable, and large enough to accommodate Hugo’s expanded household, which included not only his wife, his sons Charles and François-Victor, and his daughter the young Adèle, but also the young man who was his acknowledged disciple, Auguste Vacquerie. Auguste’s brother Charles had married Hugo’s cherished eldest child, Léopoldine, and he had died with her, drowned in a boating accident on the Seine, a scant six months after their marriage.

His mistress and her faithful maid Suzanne he kept separately, in a little house nearby, not because of the family (who knew of his long-term arrangement and were on friendly terms with the woman) but because of the island. Guernsey at its heart was Norman, but on its breast it bore the Union Jack; until he planted himself so firmly on this rock that he could not be removed but by his own will, he dared not affront the sensibilities of the locals by flaunting Juliette publicly. Still, the afternoons were hers, and he dined with her every other day.

Victor Hugo had spent his entire life traveling from one furnished residence to another, always renting. His father, a military man, had set this pattern in his life, and as a man himself Hugo followed the same course, whether he wished to or not. At every turn when he thought himself established, he found himself uprooted. And here, in exile some twenty miles off the coast of his native France, he determined to make his stand.

He resolved to purchase a house. Jersey, by some arcane law, would not allow foreigners (for which read: non-English) to own property. Guernsey, however, being somewhat more of a blend between the Gallic and the Anglo-Saxon, had no such reservation. So Hugo could purchase property on Guernsey, if he had the money for it—which, having made a hasty retreat from Jersey, he did not.

But he would get it. Every time he needed money he promised his publisher another book—in this case, a book of poetry, the first in seventeen years: Les Contemplations. He had amassed eleven hundred lines’ worth of material over the years, all non-political in nature so there would be no just cause for Napoléon le petit to have it banned in France; this meant it could be sold openly to the people for whom Hugo intended it, his countrymen. The volume was all but complete, with merely the finishing touches to apply to it, and already his publisher was champing at the bit for it! Such was the promise of his name on a book cover. Once he had the advance in hand, he could purchase the house, and that he had already selected as well. He had gone so far as to select a name for it, too: he would call it Liberty House.

Victor Hugo stood on the rocky outcrop overlooking the port. Guernsey was an island in the shape of an amphitheater, a crescent-shaped wedge set in defiance against a harsh sea. In the center of the arc stood the town and the harbor, the commercial section of the island. As one backed away from the harbor’s mouth the land sloped upwards and houses replaced shops; those of the tradesmen lay closer to the harbor while those of the landed gentry sat above them, overlooking all from the heights. Hugo stood below the highest reaches, that part of the island called Hauteville or High Town, and surveyed the scene before him—directly ahead, at the end of the Castle Walk, the ancient Castle Cornet guarded the harbor; far beyond that lay his former haven of Jersey. Just to his left stood the smaller islands of Jethou, Herm, and Sark, while the fourth of the minor islands of the archipelago, Alderney, lay to his extreme left, situated just off the Cape de la Hague on the tip of the French coast.

Behind him, at his back, stood the house, like a widow on the walk: empty, abandoned, isolated. It had been built at the beginning of the century, so the townsfolk said, by an English corsair. Others said it was haunted. This met with Hugo’s approval, as he had since the death of his dear daughter Léopoldine taken a serious interest in the occult, even to the extent of holding séances for communing with the sages of antiquity. Hugo saw in this three-storied, gray manor-house something of himself, something he could both embrace and build upon.

The house was in deplorable condition, the walls damp and moldy, the windows boarded up, the floorboards warped. If not for the fact that the frame of the house itself was solid and sound, Hugo would consider razing it to the ground and rebuilding it to his exact specifications. As it was he already envisioned adding a fourth floor, a conservatory, a glass house from which he could see everything down to the sea and beyond....

But such plans were contingent on his actually purchasing the property. But he had no doubt in his heart that, once the advance from the publisher came through, he would be able to purchase the house outright. And then no one could drive him from this little rock in the middle of la Manche, not even Queen Victoria herself. To be master of his own destiny, for once, perhaps for all—that was his greatest dream.

As he lowered his gaze from the house, turning, he caught sight of a pair of figures on the promontory, just below the house. Hugo strained to identify them. Two men, their faces hidden behind hats and mufflers, their hands deep in the pockets of their long coats, stood at the edge of the cliff just beneath a large, windswept oak tree. Hugo regarded them for several minutes.

It was only when one of them removed his hat to wipe his brow with the back of his gloved hand that Hugo caught sight of the brilliant white hair of Jean Valjean. The sight astonished Hugo. What was he doing up there, on that property?

The moment Hugo thought that question, the men above him noticed him staring up at them, and they both nodded to him in acknowledgement. Then they backed away from the cliff and disappeared from view.

II

THE HOUSE AND THE WOMAN

HUGO HURRIEDLY RETRACED his route up to the street, arriving just in time to meet the two men outside the mansion’s front gate. He had not spoken with them since their first meeting, although he had given his notes to Mlle Drouet for her to transcribe, and felt he had a better beginning, and a better direction, for the book than his first drafting had been. To think that, twenty years before, he had completed a manuscript for Les Misères, and yet because the publisher to whom he had promised it would not give him the money he wanted for it, he had withheld it from publication. Now he saw how inadequate a work it would have been, had he relinquished it as it was—surely Providence had lent a hand in that decision! How much better the new volume would be, with the assistance of the very man whose life Hugo had chosen to chronicle! The author was convinced that this book would be the one he would be best remembered by, when Posterity listed him, not among France’s greatest men of letters, but among the world’s.

Hugo reached the top of the hill just as Jean Valjean shut the rusted gate behind him. He did not see the writer’s approach. The man beside him, Javert, spotted him at once and thrust his hands deeply into his pockets, raising his chin slightly, glaring at him. He murmured something to his companion; when Valjean turned around, on recognizing Hugo he nodded his head.

After the perfunctory greetings, Valjean’s reception markedly warmer than Javert’s, Hugo marveled as the aged ex-convict locked the gate. You have a key to this estate?

The owner allows us to look after it now and again, said Jean Valjean. An empty house at the end of a road is too great a temptation to leave unguarded.

There are opportunists and rogues all through these islands, Javert added gruffly. The black market trade through here has increased at an incredible rate, and the émigrés, like yourself, often find themselves being charged twice what the inhabitants would charge one of their own. Such a house would easily be overtaken by men of dark intent.

Indeed? Hugo looked past the gate to the house, and the dirty windows in the upper stories through which he imagined he would one day look out. What it needs is a tenant, then, and not a guardian.

Javert snorted disdainfully. Valjean merely shrugged. The last tenant to lease the house was a minister. He stayed less than three months. He thought the place was haunted.

So I understand. Hugo gripped the bars of the gate and leaned forward, nearly willing himself through to the other side. Then he released his grip. Will you join me on my walk? I am unaccustomed to walking alone, but my usual companions are deterred by the harshness of the weather. I would be glad of your company.

We would be honored, Valjean replied quickly, just as Javert was opening his mouth. Tactfully, the old detective shut it again. I take it you wish to further interview us?

Interview, no. Not presently. I am still formulating the reconstruction of the material I lost in the harbor. But I do have some questions, if I may ask them.

You may ask, said Javert, but not all your questions may be answered.

Hugo cast him a quick sideways glance, wondering: if these two men had been so straightforward about the more delicate areas of their lives, what they had left to conceal?

You must allow M. Lenoir his suspicions, said Jean Valjean. Though Hugo knew well their true names, the two elderly men continued to refer to themselves and each other in public, from habit more than anything else, as Leblanc and Lenoir. We made the acquaintance of another writer, some fifteen years ago...and M. Lenoir considers himself badly dealt with in the arrangement.

We both were, Javert protested. But that’s long past, and besides, he’s dead, so it makes little difference.

Hugo’s heart skipped a beat. You have told this story to another writer? He tried to contain the panic that welled up inside him—this was to be his masterpiece, his! Had these men relegated him to the tawdry position of a copyist, like those cheap periodicals that plagiarized Charles Dickens’ work the moment it came out, to the profit of everyone but the original author?

Our story? said Jean Valjean. No. Not to another writer. There are some who know, to be sure—a small circle of acquaintances who have shared some of our, ah....

Adventures? Hugo suggested.

I would not go so far as to call them adventures....

Trials, more like, Javert muttered under his breath.

Episodes, Valjean countered. Like chapters in a book. Or say rather ‘affairs.’

And there have been many? Hugo pressed.

Jean Valjean looked at him with that strange blend of sorrow and resignation that seemed to both define and explain his essential self. He turned his white head towards the abandoned house behind them. Many, he repeated. Then he extended his arm and beckoned the other two men to resume their walk down the hill.

What do you think of that house, then? Hugo asked of Jean Valjean. Is it not a fine house?

Valjean nodded. Very fine. Or it would be, if it were better kept.

And why is it not? If I am permitted to know that, he added with a touch of humor. Javert did not find it amusing.

The mistress of the house is absent, Javert replied evenly.

Mistress? Hugo frowned. I understood it to be the property of a M. William Ozanne.

It is, said Valjean. He owns the house. But that does not mean that it is his.

You know M. Ozanne? Javert asked, or rather demanded.

Hugo did not acknowledge him, saying to Valjean, I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Either the house is his or it is not.

It’s.... Valjean gestured ambiguously, searching for the right word. Complex, he finally added.

The trio walked along High Street, down from the bluffs into the town proper, passing the shops that lined the promenade. Many of the stores were little more than trinket-shops, filled with antiques and bric-a-brac, fine English porcelain and coral from Genoa. They paused outside a jeweler’s stall and spied his display of glass jet. The shining black beads glinting in the amber glow of the shopkeeper’s gaslight mesmerized the men into thoughtful silence for some time.

So M. le Baron Pontmercy became a jet manufacturer, Hugo said suddenly.

Those words broke the spell around them, and Jean Valjean, startled, nodded quickly. Yes. He took my formula and my suggestion and he made a fortune. Made it and gave it away. He and his wife lived quite comfortably on the legacy I had given them, from my own savings earned in the trade, so they were able to give away all that they earned in their new endeavor. In fact, he said, turning again to the window, I would venture to guess that many pieces in this window were manufactured in his glassworks. See? He pointed to a choker in the display, three strands of perfectly spherical black beads joined by a single silver clasp. See on the clasp, there, just below the hook? The marque of the shop, two letters M entwined. That was his.

Was? Hugo frowned. So it is no longer in operation?

Another owns it now, Valjean explained. Under another name. And the new owner keeps his earnings...but M. le Baron has not been in the trade for some time.

Javert gently laid a hand on Valjean’s arm, hardly noticeable, but he understood his meaning at once. To Hugo, Valjean said, Of course none of this will be written in your book.

Of course not, said Hugo. A sudden thought gave him pause. What do you think it will mean to the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer when they read what I am writing, when they know the full story of what happened in their town?

Javert and Valjean exchanged glances. Then Valjean said, They already know as much as they wish to.

But surely, when they find out the truth....

Javert shook his head. It matters not a whit to them.

As Hugo stared at them, incredulous, Valjean said, When my son-in-law began to arrange to open a jet factory, he went to the source, to where he knew he could find skilled workers....

To Montreuil-sur-Mer? Hugo gasped.

Valjean nodded. He sought to reopen the factory there, but.... He turned away from the window.

I don’t under—

Enough, said Javert, his voice a low growl. To Hugo he said, This subject grows tiresome. Find another one.

Hugo drew himself up and glared at the old policeman. He was no longer intimidated by Javert, as he had been on their first meeting; now he was merely annoyed by his gruff and rude demeanor, tolerating him only because he knew that Jean Valjean might not be so forthcoming were Hugo to snub his companion. But it was clear to Hugo that Javert did not like him, and that suited him well enough, because he did not like Javert, either.

Again Jean Valjean interceded between the two men. Messieurs, he said congenially, it’s too cold and too public to continue this discussion here. Let us resume our walk.

Javert turned away from them, tapping his cane on the stony walk, heading down farther into town, towards the harbor. After a brief pause, Valjean and Hugo, walking more slowly, followed him down.

Then tell me, said Hugo, of the woman who possesses that house on the hill.

It belongs to an English widow, Valjean explained quietly, as they maintained their distance from Javert’s brisk pace. She is currently lecturing in England. M. Ozanne in fact owns the title to the house, but some years ago it was arranged for Mme Nichols—the widow whom I have mentioned—to take possession of the house in everything but name.

Hugo cast another glance over his shoulder, as the house receded behind the tall buildings along their route. If she is English, certainly she could take the deed herself. I know it is not forbidden for women to own property here; I have myself...arranged a similar situation. Tact was not among his strong points, but Hugo was not certain how Jean Valjean would react to Juliette Drouet, whom he called Madame the friend of my heart as opposed to Madame the mother of my children. He had taken steps to purchase a small cottage for her just down the hill from his intended residence, and knew that it was permitted for him to put the deed in her name outright. That being the case, he continued, why will she not allow the house to be put in her own name?

For her own good, said Valjean. She has a tendency to sell off her possessions and give the money to charity. If she doesn’t own the house, she cannot sell it. He spread out his hands. That is the way of it.

That seems something less than complex, Hugo pointed out.

That she has on more than one occasion sold her own roof out from over her head is not a complicated matter, Valjean admitted. She has a generous nature, a gift for charity and compassion the likes of which I have never before encountered.

Other than your own, said Hugo.

At this Valjean stopped in the street, stricken. Hugo stopped beside him, frowning.

Javert, who at the moment Valjean stopped had doubled back, gave Hugo a withering glance.

I did not mean to offend, Hugo stammered, unsure of where the offense lay.

You didn’t offend him, said Javert gruffly, taking a bewildered Valjean by the arm and urging him onward. Sometimes he forgets that other men might admire him now and again....

Valjean pulled his arm away, looking from one to the other. Is that how you see me? You see this great embodiment of goodness, of charity, of benevolence...do you see nothing else? You make of me a, a....

Saint, said Javert. Yes, yes. We’ve been through that before....

But I’m not! I’m not this shining light of virtue you make me out to be, either of you! You seem to think it’s easy to live this kind of life, to deprive oneself of family, of comfort, of dignity sometimes, even...well it is not! For more than eighty years I, I have suffered all that a man might suffer, and more! I have left my blood on every stone, on every thorn and post and wall; where the world has dealt badly with me I have returned kindness instead; where I have known injustice I have been just: I have spent more than a lifetime righting every wrong I have known, both the wrongs I myself have done and the wrongs others have done me. I do this not because I am a saint, by any means; I do these things because I am not....

Hugo put his hands on Valjean’s arms, and the old convict reared back, startled by the gesture. Monsieur, said the writer, you are incorrect. You misjudge yourself grossly, and us, if you think we believe that of you. He leaned in, lowering his voice rather than shout it in the street. If it were simple to be such a man, then we would all be such men. We admire you, and are bidden to admire you, not because it is easy, but because it is hard. Because the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Jean Valjean looked down at the man, so short in physical stature but so great in personality, so forceful a writer and speaker that he commanded attention as well as assent. I have lived my life first in ignorance, then in despair, then in wickedness, and finally in privation...I make the life I live now in order to atone for the life I lived then. He looked into Hugo’s eyes. You see that?

I do see it, said Hugo. If I did not, I would not expend my energies to help others see it, through this grand work I envision...a work that is greater than any one man within it.

Javert stood beside his companion, and regarded Hugo with a forceful glare. Some people are all heart...all heart, and no ribs, you understand? He touched Valjean on the shoulder, steadying him. Grand hearts are vulnerable, exposed—they need protection, now and again. Even the strongest among them, he added.

Hugo nodded.

Javert jerked his thumb back up the street, toward the bluff, and the house. Mme Nichols is also such a person, but she is only a woman. She needs greater protection, or her great heart will be crushed. The house up there, it is part of her protection. And we protect the house in her absence.

Valjean straightened himself up, having composed himself while Javert spoke. Still he was visibly affected. I think perhaps we should leave this discussion as well, he said quietly. Certainly it does not belong in the street. Perhaps tomorrow you will permit us to call on you?

I would be honored, said Hugo. I am at number 20, Rue Hauteville. Call at mid-afternoon and I will be at your convenience. He straightened his coat and tucked the tails of his unruly cravat into his black vest, and with a lingering last look he retraced his steps up to the heights.

III

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

CAN YOU IMAGINE? Javert said to Valjean as they sat by the hearth in their small, low-roofed rooms near the wharves. I see it in his eyes. He asks too many questions about the house and the status of its ownership. He knew Ozanne by name. He wants to buy Hauteville House. That man! Imagine! He put his cup of strong coffee on the mantle and rubbed his hands together quickly. As if she would permit it!"

Jean Valjean sat in a large armchair to one side of the fireplace, a blanket drawn across his knees. You do not like Monsieur Hugo, do you?

He’s a pompous egoist, puffed up like a bullfrog...of course I don’t like him! I don’t like what we’re doing here, either, helping him to aggrandize himself....

I for one am not helping him aggrandize himself, Valjean countered. He is writing a work I believe to be of great merit, a worthy undertaking. He writes of society, and change; he is not writing our biographies; he is using the example of our lives to illustrate his argument. He will write of our experiences whether we wish him to or not, I am certain of that, and if it is so, then I intend to help him write them correctly.

You don’t have the heart of a writer, Javert said with a shrug.

I thought you said writers have no hearts.

My point exactly. He turned his back to the fire, lifting his coattails that they might not get singed. And if it will keep that cocksure poet from rising on a cloud of his own pretentiousness, the fact that she would never agree to relinquishing the house gives me a great deal of satisfaction.

Valjean swirled the liquid in his cup, meditating on the motion of it in silence. Without looking up he said, I think she should give up the house.

What? Javert sputtered, reaching back toward the hearth for support; he touched the iron band beneath the mantle by mistake and drew away, cursing. As he rubbed the mark on the palm of his hand, he continued, Are you mad? Give up the house? To him?

She should give up the house, Valjean corrected. That M. Hugo wishes to buy it is all the better.

Better?

Indeed. He is a man looking for a stable residence. He has an excellent income, and he wants a place with as individual a character as he himself possesses. If any house fits that description, it’s Hauteville House. As Javert’s expression changed from shock to horror, he added, You said yourself she should go home. This might be what she needs to urge her to do so.

But.... He slicked back his long gray hair. Valjean, really! That man? In that house? It would be like, like, well, it would be like turning a church into a brothel! Valjean shot him a cold glare and he immediately regretted his choice of words. You know what I meant....

Yes, I know what you meant. But it’s clear that you are far more concerned with keeping M. Hugo from acquiring something he wants than you are with the welfare of Mme Nichols.

Javert’s face reddened, and he folded his arms across his chest, staring down at Valjean reprovingly. Are you saying I don’t care for her welfare?

I am not saying that. I am saying, however, that with regard to this matter, you are more interested in vexing M. Hugo. Whereas I am trying to consider what’s best for all concerned: M. Hugo, Mme Nichols, even us. And for the house, too....

The house? Javert boomed. You’re concerned with the welfare of a house?

Valjean spread out his hands. And why not? It’s a large house, with lovely gardens and a view unlike any other anywhere in all these islands. It would make a tranquil haven for any soul, whether one believed him deserving of it or not, he added pointedly. Such a house needs a family in it; it needs to be filled with laughter and the voices of children, and the warmth that shared love brings with it. Such a house requires such occupants as M. Hugo, who can afford to restore it to glory, and his family, who can dwell there in peace and happiness and contentment in the knowledge that they have a home. Surely you can see that! He sat forward, clasping his hands together. Such an arrangement is beyond Mme Nichols’ ability, as you well know. Besides, her real home lies half a world away from here, in San Francisco, in the house built for her by her late husband. Hauteville House makes a poor substitute, but it’s the very thing that prevents her leaving....

I’ll tell you something, Javert roared as he grabbed his coat and hat from the rack and reached for the door to the stairs. I will be cold in my grave before that man sets one foot in that house!

After Javert shut the door behind him, Valjean pensively regarded his hands in his lap. Presently he said to the empty room in a perfectly calm and natural voice, Stubborn old goat.

A moment later he heard the door creak open again. You might do well to remember, Javert growled as he reached for his walking stick, not to speak after a person until that person is beyond earshot!

If I had done that, said Valjean without turning around, then you would not have heard me.

Javert clenched his teeth and stuck his cane under his arm. He slammed the door behind him with such ferocity that the windows rattled in their sashes and the room vibrated with the force and the echo as if a temblor had jolted the island.

When at last the sound died away, Jean Valjean reached for the book beside his chair, the Bible he had received as a gift long ago, on another continent. It was a Protestant Bible, but that did not matter to Jean Valjean, who felt at home in any church; it was written in English, which Valjean had learned to read when he left France in his own state of exile. He closed his eyes as he put his hand on the cover; he drew a deep breath and opened the book to a page at random, letting his eyes fall where they would:

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth itself not, is not puffed up.

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophesies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.

But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man I put away childish things.

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part; but then I shall know even as also I am known.

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

Jean Valjean held the Bible tightly against him and shut his eyes again. Against all this he remembered Javert’s words of long ago: It is easy to be kind. It is difficult to be just.

He sat thusly for some time, thinking on the passage he had found by accident—or had it been accident? He had read over those words many times, the old Bible’s spine creased to the page where that passage lay. Perhaps that’s why he had found it so readily? Or did it really matter how he had found it, so long as he found it?

Now he regretted what he had said to Hugo in the street, complaining of his long hardships in charity’s name; he felt even more unworthy of the good will the writer had bestowed on him, that he had brought it to the man’s attention at all. Charity does not declare itself to the skies; it works in secret, in shadow, where none see but God and the giver and none know but God and the recipient.

And now Javert was angry with him. It did not matter whether Valjean was right or wrong, or whether Javert was right or wrong. What mattered was that Javert was angry, and anger and stubbornness made for a bad combination. Valjean cast his blanket aside and stood up. His legs were not as strong as they once had been, but he still had vigor in him, even after such a long, strenuous walk in the bitterly cold and damp November air. He donned his own coat and hat and left the fire to die untended and abandoned as he made his way back through town once more, as twilight deepened into evening on its way to complete darkness.

IV

AGAINST THE WIND

HE FOUND JAVERT precisely where he knew he would, back at the house at the end of the Rue Hauteville. The gate was open; Javert had a key of his own.

Javert had retaken his post beneath the oak tree, just before the cliff, where they had been standing that afternoon immediately before their meeting with Hugo. His arms were folded defiantly across his chest as his greatcoat billowed out behind him, snapping in the high wind; stray strands of gray hair flew out from beneath his tall black hat, obscuring his eyes. In the combined darkness of the evening and the overcast sky, the lights of the harbor far below him hardly reached him, and he was nearly indistinguishable against the tree but for the glowing ember at the end of the cigarillo he held between his teeth.

He didn’t acknowledge Valjean as he approached, and the older man did not announce himself. Instead he stood against the tree in a similar attitude, his arms wrapped around himself as poor proof against the cold.

There’s a storm coming, Javert said without preamble. He took a long drag from his cigarillo and flicked the ashes into the face of the gale. It’ll rain before we reach home.

Yes, said Jean Valjean.

After a protracted silence, Javert said, You think I’m wrong to feel this way, don’t you?

I never said you were wrong. I just—there’s too much to consider. He shrugged. And I did not mean to suggest you did not care what happened to Mme Nichols.

Javert nodded. If ever a woman deserved a measure of happiness, it’s that one.

Then she should go home, Jean Valjean insisted. If she could make a home of this house, if she could live here without remembering, without reminding herself of what happened, I would be the first to encourage M. Hugo to find another house. But she cannot part with the association.

Can you say the same about the cottage in San Francisco?

She was happy there. His scarf came unwound and he fumbled with it, retying it and stuffing the ends between his coat and his vest. She has known very little happiness here.

And if she leaves? Javert glanced at him. Who will stand with her then? Or do you propose we send her packing without an escort?

Valjean sighed. Do you want to go back to California?

After all we’ve been through, what’s one more ocean voyage? Javert shrugged. Why? Do you want to go back there?

I had not thought about that.

In truth I had not thought on that myself. I spoke in haste just now. Besides, if I dared to take you to America with me Madame la Baronne would be quite cross with me.

With both of us. Valjean nodded. I agree that Mme Nichols should not make the journey unaccompanied, but surely that decision can wait until after the current situation is resolved?

All right. He rolled the cigarillo between his thumb and forefinger absently. He had given up snuff years ago, exchanging one habit for another. This one was less expensive, but more addictive—even so he made certain not to indulge indoors, out of respect for the sensitivity to smoke that Valjean had developed. So she should give up the house, Javert said with a disappointed sigh. To him.

She should give up the house, Valjean repeated, but whether to him or to another is her decision. But first we must convince her to part with the house.

Well then, let’s see if we can arrange this affair with less tribulation than our other debacles, shall we? For her sake. He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke in rings as he had learned to do in the wilds of the Barbary Coast. Certainly not for M. Hugo’s, he added offhandedly.

Valjean nodded, a wry smile on his lips. And for the house.

The house.... Javert snorted. Valjean, tell me, do you ever get tired of being right all the time?

At that Jean Valjean laughed openly, easily, without his usual restraint. I have not always been in the right, he protested.

That is true, said Javert.

Valjean glanced at him, still smiling. And you? Don’t you ever tire of being stubborn all the time?

Javert opened his mouth and Valjean half-expected him to counter with I have not always been stubborn, but instead he began to laugh himself, aloud, which was unusual for him, shaking his head as he did so. No, he admitted. I like my stubbornness. I need it. It’s another habit, like this. He held up the cigarillo. Every old dog needs a bone to gnaw on, Valjean, and my stubbornness is mine. He looked up into the night sky, empty of stars, and he could smell the rain in the wind waiting to pour down on them. I feel like this tree, Valjean: rooted to the bluffs, the wind howling and buffeting it, railing against it incessantly. Its branches have molded themselves to the wind, flying back against it, but the trunk leans into it, standing defiant against its power. It’s the same with me. The winds of change are not my friend. I will always stand fast against them. It is my nature.

Javert turned to look at him, and was surprised at the expression on his companion’s face. That’s quite profound, said Jean Valjean.

Javert scoffed, waving away the compliment like a bothersome gnat.

No, really, it is. I would expect something like that from another man, but not from you.

By another man, you mean Hugo.

Well, yes.

Hah! Javert pushed himself away from the tree, surveying the harbor below. I don’t know why you’re so surprised by it. After all, I learned it from you.

From me?

Yes. Remember? When you taught me gardening. You called it ‘the art of subtle change.’

Jean Valjean cupped his hands and put them to his face; his nose and cheeks were burning from the cold. He exhaled into his hands. So I did. I had forgotten.

I never have. There’s so little I forget. Even the things I would wish to. Javert tossed his cigarillo, still lit, over the edge of the cliff; it sparked against the rocks one by one as it fell, like a shooting star, extinguished before it touched the ground. At that moment Javert felt a drop of water on his face, and he looked up just as a light drizzle commenced. He took Valjean’s arm and guided him towards the garden gate. Come on, he said roughly. You’re too old to be out on a night like this. For that matter, so am I....

Section Two:

Strangers In A Strange Land

I

THE JOURNEY INLAND

THE PACKET-SHIP that bore the émigrés from France sailed north to Dover, arriving with the dawn. But as the ship lay at anchor and passengers debarked, two remained behind, two older gentlemen with grim expressions and French passports. For surprisingly little extra, the two were permitted to continue the journey northward, skirting the eastern coast, following the curve of the land to the mouth of the Thames. Once there, the ship unfurled at full sail to catch all the wind it could hold, in order to fight its way inland against the flow of the river, upstream to the center of London.

Unlike the rest of the passengers, huddled in the bowels of the ship to ward off the cold of the night and the season, the two men had remained above decks for the journey, secure in their heavy coats with their bags at hand, always looking across the prow, facing forward, not behind them. Through the night they had taken turns sleeping, as if on watch, and the speculation among the crew determined that the pair were likely veterans of the war that cost them their emperor, and too used to military regimen to do otherwise. On occasion a sailor passing them would make some remark containing the word Waterloo or Trafalgar, Wellington or Nelson, plus a few choice words of a more colorful nature. The Frenchmen never gave any indication of understanding a word of English, however, so the sailors felt safe enough engaging in one-sided arguments they could not fail to win.

As the ship meandered down the center of the river, nearing the great sprawling city at the island’s heart, the pastoral reeds and marshes gave way to houses and factories, and as the ship passed the flat tide-marshes on the south bank the river’s color deepened to a dark green-brown and the putrid smell arising from the water intensified. Even at its worst, and at low tide, the Seine had never presented so foul a concoction as what the Frenchmen now saw floating past them toward the sea.

The river turned in an oxbow and the ship turned with it, guided by the men at the sails and the hands on the rudder. As the ship eased through the bends in the river the Frenchmen caught new words in English, Woolwich and Deptford among them. The ship navigated yet another bend in the river, and as it turned three ships at anchor along the river’s bank revealed themselves. They were huge ships, square-hulled and heavy in the water, and as the Frenchmen watched an assortment of uniformed men busied themselves like ants on a hill. But the ships showed no sign of being loaded, or unloaded, and indeed it appeared as if they had not sailed for some time, as algae hung like lace on the anchor chains above the waterline. For all the military movement they appeared to be merchant vessels, without cannon-bays or indeed any portholes at all. The Frenchmen found themselves unable to turn away from the strange ships, nor to speak of anything else.

As the packet ship passed the Deptford docks, entering the last stretches of the Thames before arrival at the center of the city, the older-looking of the pair, a stone-faced somber sort with gray hair and eyes to match, asked of one of the sailors in broken, halting English, Those ships there, what are they?

Startled, both by the question and the language in which it had been posed, the young tar scratched his face and said, Wal, they be halks, sorr. Them’s as doan go nowheer tilleys goin’ nowheer, they is. With that, he went back to his work, coiling ropes on the prow.

The Frenchman thought on this for a moment, scowling, his lower lip pushing upward as he set his jaw. Then he returned to his companion on the foredeck. If that was English, he said in French, then I studied the wrong text.

Must be a dialect, said the other gentleman, whose passport read Jean Leblanc. I’ll find an officer. Perhaps he’ll speak something closer to what we learned. He turned back towards the cabin door, taking a leisurely stroll around the deck, appearing for all the world not to be looking for anything in particular, when in fact, he was. The other man, whom the first called Lenoir, shook his head, disbelief mixed with more than a little admiration; Leblanc had spent the last fifteen-odd years of his life reinventing himself, turning from his darker nature to a life of piety and repentance, but in doing so Leblanc had become far more adept at concealment and subterfuge—both acts being the tools-in-trade of the scoundrel—than he had ever been while he was still inclined towards villainy.

And Lenoir, who had shunned such activities all his life, who had made it his purpose to hunt down such infamous creatures and bring them to justice—or rather justice as prescribed by law—had in the span of a few months committed a few such sleights himself. He had concealed from Leblanc that he had made the acquaintance of the man’s daughter, or ward rather; he had contrived to borrow (or steal) Leblanc’s keys in order to secretly convey information to the girl’s fiancé. He had promised Leblanc that there would be complete candor between them, that Lenoir would harbor no secrets, with the expectation that Leblanc would behave in the same manner, and yet Lenoir had gone back on his word. Although, on a technical point, since he had given his word of secrecy to the young mademoiselle before he had given his word of honesty to Leblanc, it was not exactly a breach of promise, but it was for Lenoir a lie, and burned him all the same. Found out on all counts, Lenoir had restated his promise of honest dealings, and truly meant to hold to it—except for one small detail....

Before the packet ship had left Calais, while Leblanc and his daughter had exchanged whispered farewells and embraces, her husband, the Baron Marius Pontmercy, had drawn Lenoir aside. In hushed tones he said, And what will you live on? He has given us all his money, and I daresay you cannot have any.

Lenoir scoffed. What else is there to do? We will find work. There is always work, if one knows where to look for it.

Yes, well, be that as it may, in the meantime.... The young man withdrew a small packet and pressed it towards the older man. If Cosette thought her father was living in poverty she would never forgive me. Here.

Lenoir did not move. He looked at the packet, then into the baron’s earnest face. Why give it to me?

Because I think if I gave it to him he would refuse, and I cannot have that. Here, take it—quickly! he hissed.

And why should I? said Lenoir, drawing himself up indignantly. What makes you think I want your charity? I can barely tolerate his. He nodded sharply towards Leblanc.

The baron’s face flushed angrily. Sir....

I have made a promise to him that I intend to keep. I will not lie to him, I will not withhold information from him. How can you now ask me to go against my word?

Oh good God! He breathed heavily through his nose as his lips curled into a frustrated snarl.

I cannot accept your gift, any more than he can, Lenoir continued. And even if he did accept it, he’d just give it away....

Then it’s imperative that you take it.

I cannot.

The baron stared at him. The ex-policeman stared back impassively. They stayed thusly for what seemed to them a great deal of time, but what must have been brief in reality, else they would have been noticed by the baron’s wife and father-in-law. The younger man lowered his eyes, thinking. Then a flicker of comprehension ignited into a fire that blazed in his dark eyes. Well, then, sir, you may permit me to compensate you for your property.

Lenoir blinked. My what?

A year ago, you lent me the use of two pistols. I have since lost them, unfortunately, but they did serve me well at the time.

Pist—oh. Yes, I do recall that. Lenoir’s jaw set. Saved your life, then, did they?

Not mine, but that of my dearest friend, and that of a young boy. The baron held out the roll of bills once more. I trust this will be sufficient, both for the loan, and for the loss.

Lenoir regarded the young man with increasing admiration for his awareness and reasoning. In this way, the money would become Lenoir’s outright—a cushion in case they could not find work in England and Leblanc’s generosity to others proved to be their own ruin. And if Leblanc pressed him about the money, he could honestly say he acquired it through the sale of his own possessions. The corner of Lenoir’s mouth turned up slightly as he took a quick glance at Leblanc and his daughter; the pair was oblivious to the conversation of the other two men. Then, like a snake striking, Lenoir snatched up the packet and stuffed it into his breast pocket before the baron had time to react.

You will forgive me that I cannot make out a receipt, he said dryly.

Now, on the ship approaching the dockyards of central London, Lenoir stood at the rail quite conscious of the small fortune with which he had been entrusted. He hadn’t needed to count it, the roll seemed to be made of hundred franc notes, and was in diameter half the size of Lenoir’s fist. No doubt it had come directly from the packet Leblanc had given the baron on the eve of his wedding. Lenoir knew enough not to count it out, or even to touch the breast of his coat, because that’s where a pickpocket would unerringly venture the moment he gave any sign of having such a bundle. But during the night, when Leblanc lay fast asleep on the deck with his own coat wadded up into a pillow for his head, Lenoir had surreptitiously divided the packet into several parts, leaving one in his coat while assigning another to the inner pocket of his vest, another into the cuff of his right boot, still another inside his hatband, and so on. Lenoir knew his way around pickpockets, hadn’t been touched in years, but the packet had been too large and too tempting a target. A diligent and resourceful thief might find one of those places, or two or three of them might strike independently—but they could never find them all. In fact, it was Lenoir’s intention that they find none whatsoever, and he made of it a game, a cat-and-mouse arrangement in which, having tied a piece of cheese to his own tail, he would watch and wait for the mice to dare to try for it.

Lenoir’s attention returned to the present as his companion returned from his inquiries; Leblanc looked gravely perturbed, an uncomfortable aura penetrating his usual shield of beatitude. Well? said Lenoir.

I spoke with four of the crew and got four different and equally unintelligible dialects, Leblanc began, gripping the rail before him in his broad, strong hands. The fifth one spoke French. He did not look at Lenoir as he stared out over the water, as Woolwich and the strange ships passed from view around another turn in the river. They’re called ‘hulks.’ They—they’re convict transports. Bound for Australia.

Lenoir straightened up, looked back at the hulks sitting low in the greasy waters, saw that there were no portholes along the side nor even grills for ventilation, saw that even as he looked on a skiff

Reviews for Pont-au-Change Volume II

[Mango · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A fun romp, Javert and Valjean are a great team