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Valjean stopped before the guard and opened his coat for inspection. He was swaying a little with tiredness while the man checked his pockets and ran his hands over his body, looking for contraband — money, files, alcohol — anything not allowed to the convicts.
„9430,“ he called to the man minding the board who marked him off as returned. Any escape during work hours would be discovered in the evening.
„12854,“ came the call for his chain-mate, a man named Jacques twelve years into a twenty year sentence. He hadn’t asked what his crime had been and had been asked no question in return. They’d barely talked a dozen sentences with each other since they’d been wed, he’d had worse chain-mates.
If the man had any ears to hear, he’d heard about him anyway. The salle had been full of whispers of le Cric returned. Before they could walk toward their salle for their evening meal, another guard called Valjean’s number and he turned towards the man, head bowed, shoulders hunched so he didn’t tower over him quite as much. He'd taught himself a straight posture in his time as mayor, but that would only get him unwanted attention here.
„Monsieur le gardien,“ he said respectfully.
„You’re the one they call le Cric, no?“ Most of the guards he’d known during his first time were no longer in service, this was a new one he hadn’t learned the name yet.
„Yes, Monsieur.“
„Come with me. I need a strong man.“
Jacques muttered something under his breath as they followed the guard, cross about not getting to eat most likely.
A cold dread came over Valjean when he realised where they were taken. Punishment. But not for him, he’d have been treated differently, if that were the case.
‚I need a strong man’
No.
The man to be punished was already spread out on the bench, hands tied, back bare.
„Executioner fell ill, you’ll do nicely as his replacement, 9430. Twelve lashes,“ the guard told Valjean, holding the tarred rope towards him. "12854, make yourself useful, hold his feet."
Valjean shook his head, taking a reflexive step back.
„You get his wine ration for today.“ As if that were a reward.
„No,“ Valjean ground out. „No!“
„Don’t be stupid, Jean,“ Jacques muttered. „Just get it over with.“
But he couldn’t. He’d done it before and had thought little of it, but that had been in his darkest time, when years of suffering had turned him into little more than a beast. He was better now. He would never loose his humanity again. He had to hold onto it, he needed to be whole to save the child.
„No,“ he said again, meeting the guards eyes.
„Insubordination, 9430?“ The man laid his hand on his baton in warning.
Valjean lifted himself to his full height and felt the guard tense. „I will not do this, Monsieur,“ he said calmly but firmly. Let there be no doubt that he meant it. „There is nothing you can do to me that will change my mind.“
The man would be punished anyway, he knew that, he could not spare him. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lift his hand against another human being in violence.
The guard held his gaze for a long, tense moment. He could not let this slide, Valjean was aware of that. He would be punished for this, the question was only how. He did not know this guard, he had no idea of his temperament. He could not even anticipate if he’d try to make him obey by force.
„A week in solitary, 9430, to think on your attitude.“
Valjean tried not to show his relief. The guard seemed to be a reasonable one, he didn’t insist on fighting an argument he could not hope to win.
„12854, you’re not so weak yourself, are you?“ Jacques shrugged and let go of the man’s legs to grip the lash.
Valjean turned away, the sounds of the rope hitting naked skin, the grunts and moans of the man on the bench, made him feel sick to the stomach.
Valjean sat curled in on himself, forehead on his knees. The chain around his ankle scraped against the wood of the bench that was his bed whenever he moved. It was bolted to the bench and had enough slack for him to move to the door and the small window beside it that led into the hallway. It was tolerated by the guards for the prisoners to look outside, but not to talk to the cell neighbours. There was little to see apart from the rare visitor. He had reasonably fresh water in a bucket next to the bed and some air from the tiny window — his chain was not long enough to reach it.
‚It’s only a week,’ Valjean thought at the animal part of himself that would have gnawed off his own leg to run.
He’d spent much longer here after his escape attempts, he could bear a week. He certainly didn’t miss the chatter of the other convicts. Except that had been a distraction — as had been the exhausting work. In this cell there was nothing to distract his thoughts from the fact that he’d failed.
He’d promised Fantine to help her daughter. He’d failed Fantine before, when she’d been dismissed from his factory and now he’d failed her again, when he’d been caught before he could make arrangements for her child. The money was save, that was something. It would be there, if he ever made it out of here. But to get out of here!
It had to count this time. His first try had to work. If he was caught, they’d put him in double chain for years and then escape would be nearly impossible. He couldn’t wait too long, either. The child was sick, although he had some doubts about the sincerity of the innkeepers, he was not willing to risk doubting that. If she died because he’d waited too long for his best chance, he’d never forgive himself. He already had so many sins on his soul, he could not add the death of a child to them.
He rose slowly when the key was turned in the lock of his door and pulled his cap from his head when one of the senior guards entered, a man named Corvée. A violent man, when drunk, but also strangely curious and caring when not. He didn’t smell of alcohol today and that relieved Valjean, he still made sure to exude the proper level of deference.
„Tell me why you disobeyed Gille’s orders.“ His baton was propped lightly against his shoulder, relaxed but ready should he need it.
„I am not an executioner, Monsieur,“ Valjean answered.
„You have done it before without complaint.“ Corvée was one of the guards he’d met before. „23514 has broken the rules, he was punished accordingly.“
„I have no taste for this kind of punishment, Monsieur, however just.“ He had his doubts about the justness of anything that happened in the bagne, but he was not foolish enough to say that. „It is true, I have been made executioner sometimes before, and I did not disobey in these cases, but that was before.“ Before meeting the bishop. Before having his eyes opened to God’s mercy. „I have not lifted my hand against another human in eight years and I will not start now. You do not want an unwilling executioner, Monsieur. And there is nothing you could offer me – or threaten me with – that would make me change my mind.“
Corvée cocked his head. „Really? Half-chain, small labour – scribal work maybe, I hear you’ve become quite educated. You aren’t so young anymore, the work on the docks must be exhausting for you. And punishment is inevitable, it really does not matter who executes it. Does that not tempt you?“
Valjean smiled sadly. He was exhausted, his body ached from unceasing labour by day and hard wood at night. And half-chain would mean better opportunity to escape. But the price for these amenities would be his soul. And that already belonged to God.
„We are tempted in manifold ways to forget our principles. They are to be overcome. No, Monsieur, that is not a bargain I could make and still look myself in the eye. It might not matter to the punished man, who executes his punishment, it matters a great deal to me that I not be the man who wields the lash.“ Valjean steeled himself to be threatened with the consequences of his refusal now. It would be easier to refuse – even if Corvée decided to give him a taste of it – than the temptation of office work away from the burning sun.
But Corvée only muttered, „Interesting. You are different from what I remember. Though still stubborn as a mule.“ He shook his head. „This matter is settled then. You’ll finish your week in solitary, then go back to hard labour. The offer will not be made again, le Cric.“
Valjean bowed his head in silence and sank back on the edge of his bench, when Corvée left his cell. He had won, even if it didn’t feel like it. This had been a test of his strength, whether Corvée was aware of it or not, and he’d passed it. He spoke a quiet prayer that He might firm his resolve and help him through this darkness.
‚For the girl,‘ he thought. ‚Allow me to undo the injustice I committed. Let me save the girl.‘