#and gesturing at Valjean

[ueinra]

Every time I see something about Valjean saving all the amis, all I think about is how Valjean will get them home with Javert's help as they did with Marius…

They will cram the amis bodies into Javert's little cart while their feet are outside the windows and at every house they stop at, Javert will say to whoever opens the door "This is yours. He's dead." and he goes away, leaving the body on the doorstep while Valjean behind him making all the gestures that denied what he said.

[tygerland]

In the late fall of 1888, artists Vincent van Gogh and Paul Gauguin lived and worked together for two months in Arles, France. Weeks earlier the two exchanged these self-portraits with each other as a gesture toward what they hoped would be a fruitful collaboration:

Vincent van Gogh Self-portrait (as a bonze, a Buddhist monk) dedicated to Paul Gauguin. September 1888. Oil on canvas: 59 × 48 cm (23 × 18 in). Inscribed "à mon ami Paul Gauguin" across the top.

Paul Gauguin Self-portrait (as Jean Valjean from the 1862 novel, Les Misérables) with portrait of Émile Bernard. September 1888. Oil on canvas: 45 × 55 cm (17 × 21 in). Inscribed "à l'ami Vincent" above the signature.

[secretmellowblog]

It’s fascinating to see how much Jean Valjean’s characterization lines up with modern descriptions of PTSD. When Jean Valjean is triggered by upsetting reminders of the galleys —or believes he might be forced to go back to the galleys—he often forgets where he is, has “panic attacks” where he becomes disconnected from reality, doesn’t hear people when they’re talking to him, and behaves frantically/desperately or attempts to flee as if he’s being attacked even if no one is actually attacking him.

When he comes across the chain gang with Cosette, he becomes frozen in terror and seems to believe for a moment that he is the one being pursued:

Jean Valjean’s eyes had assumed a frightful expression. They were no longer eyes; they were those deep and glassy objects which replace the glance in the case of certain wretched men, which seem unconscious of reality, and in which flames the reflection of terrors and of catastrophes. He was not looking at a spectacle, he was seeing a vision. He tried to rise, to flee, to make his escape; he could not move his feet. Sometimes, the things that you see seize upon you and hold you fast. He remained nailed to the spot, petrified, stupid, asking himself, athwart confused and inexpressible anguish, what this sepulchral persecution signified, and whence had come that pandemonium which was pursuing him.

(….)

Jean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed. Such encounters are shocks, and the memory that they leave behind them resembles a thorough shaking up.

Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not observe that, on his way back to the Rue de Babylone with Cosette, the latter was plying him with other questions on the subject of what they had just seen; perhaps he was too much absorbed in his own dejection to notice her words and reply to them.

In Arras, he spends most of the night overwhelmed by a sense of unreality that often turns to terror, and at one point even blindly runs through the empty halls of the courthouse “as if pursued” in a moment of panic:

He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment when there is the greatest need for attaching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where the judges deliberated and condemned. With stupid tranquillity he surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment, where so many lives had been broken, which was soon to ring with his name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it should be that chamber and that it should be he.

(…)

As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had almost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples.

At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, “Pardieu! who compels me to this?” Then he wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night taper of invalids, the corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued.

When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall. The stone was cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow; he straightened himself up with a shiver.

In the bishop’s house, he panics at the sound of a door opening:

He decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push, more energetic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry.

Jean Valjean shuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment.

In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenly assumed a terrible life, and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one, and warn and to wake those who were asleep. He halted, shuddering, bewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire household, like the shock of an earthquake; the door, pushed by him, had taken the alarm, and had shouted; the old man would rise at once; the two old women would shriek out; people would come to their assistance; in less than a quarter of an hour the town would be in an uproar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thought himself lost.

He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of salt, not daring to make a movement.

He often behaves as if on autopilot, mechanically doing actions without seeming to understand what he’s doing or hear who he’s speaking to, the way he unfortunately does with Petit Gervais:

“My piece of money!” cried the child, “my white piece! my silver!”

It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron-shod shoe which rested on his treasure.

“I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!”

The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still remained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed at the child, in a sort of amazement, then he stretched out his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, “Who’s there?”

Prison had such a massive horrific effect on his mind, and on the way he interacts with the world. He’s constantly living under this sense of terror and paranoia that he’s being pursued, that he will be brought back to the galleys, a terror that often turns into blind almost-mindless panic.

It’s been mentioned before and is a kinda basic analysis, but Jean Valjean’s prison sentence was really far more than nineteen years— the severe mental physical and emotional trauma from those nineteen years lasts his entire life.

[lenievi]

am I still writing a fix-it? yes

––

“I’ll… bring you some dry clothes,” Valjean said, showing Javert into a dark drawing room on the first floor, and continued down the short hallway and disappeared behind the next door.

Javert stood in the doorway. Water dripped down on the floor. He took off his bicorne, a gesture more unconscious than deliberate, and held it in his hands, feeling the wetness soak through his gloves. He had spent his whole life raising himself above the circumstances of his birth; he’d worked hard to never stray, to never become like those in the prison hulks where his own father died a convict. The man’s law had ruled his every thought, his every action. His path had been righteous, and with every arrest, he’d taken himself further away from the hulks. With every arrest, he’d raised himself higher until it was he who commanded the men at the police headquarters in Paris. His accomplishments and hard work had given him an intense sense of satisfaction, and he’d needed nothing more.

Except…

Javert put his palm on his breast, feeling the faint edges of his Medal of Honour under his coat. Jean Valjean had always been a shadow preventing Javert from full contentment. Knowing he’d been at large had given Javert many sleepless nights and led him to many wild goose chases. To catch him, to see him in chains again had been his greatest desire, nothing had been more important, but now…

He should leave. Walk down the stairs and sneak out of the house. Like a common thief.

For what else had he become than a thief who robbed the law of its criminal?

He couldn’t arrest Jean Valjean even if it meant—

Valjean’s “Inspector?” got lost in the thunder, but Javert heard it loud and clear. He gripped the bicorne hard. He’d given priority to his conscience, his… personal feelings and brought himself and the police service into disrepute. How could he continue after this?

“Don’t call me that,” Javert said hoarsely.

Another thunder sounded, and Javert walked into the drawing room. He was too tired for another pointless conflict with Valjean; he could never win against his stubbornness. It had been true in Montreuil, and it was true now, and it was terrifying how clearly he could see it, how clearly he could see the true meaning behind Valjean’s actions in Montreuil when they were no longer done by someone Javert had thought wicked.

Were there others like Valjean? The thought shot through him like a bullet, followed by an onslaught of many others Javert had buried and ignored for they went against the established order, against what he’d believed. The gale shattered everything in its path and left only devastation.

“Javert?” The tone had an odd urgency.

Javert looked up at the source of his turmoil. “I wish you had killed me.”

Everything smelled of wetness and the sewers.

“I can’t help you with that.” Valjean watched him with a strange, almost perplexed expression. “The dry clothes are on the sofa,” he added, nodding at the piece of furniture behind Javert.

Javert blinked and looked around. The lamp on the desk had been lit; the warm light drove off the darkness and created large shadows on the walls.

Valjean moved towards the fireplace and with some difficulty knelt on the floor in front of it. His waistcoat was torn at the back, and the wet shirt stuck to his neck and biceps. Javert watched Valjean’s shoulders move, ignoring his jumbled thoughts.

Before long, the fire burnt, and Valjean stood on his feet again. “Stay here and—” He waved between Javert and the sofa where a bundle of clothes lay. “I’ll come back.”

Javert took a step closer. “Why are you doing this?”

“Where’s the carriage, Javert?”

Javert stayed silent.

“I’ll come back,” Valjean said firmly.

On his way out, he closed the door.

[cometomecosette]

Once again, I'm feeling sad about Jean Valjean's flaws as a parent. I forgive him, but Cosette deserves better.

Of course, the way most adaptations present it, even the musical to an extent – "He's a controlling father who isolates Cosette from the world and needs to let her go" – is a vast oversimplification. The novel's Valjean always tries to make Cosette happy, is never harsh or overtly controlling, and tries to give her as full, free, and normal a life as his status as an ex-convict allows. But recent posts in Les Mis Letters by @secretmellowblog and others have reminded me of the subtler, more insidious ways that he arguably becomes her "jailer” (as SparkNotes says), keeps her "chained to his side” (as a recent post says), and prevents her from living her life to the fullest.

Of course, the most glaring problem is his jealousy of Marius and his efforts to separate Cosette from him, which causes Cosette so much pain that she doesn't even feel free to express. If it were a matter of protecting Cosette from a possible predator or cad, it would be more sympathetic, but instead of thinking of the danger this young stalker might pose to her, he makes it all about himself and his fear of losing her. In his private thoughts, he seems to view complete, exclusive possession of Cosette’s love and attention as a reward that he deserves for all his past suffering. He left the convent earlier because he knew it would be wrong to deny freedom to Cosette by keeping her there and making her become a nun, but then when the possibility of her falling in love and leaving him arises, he deeply regrets having left.

Meanwhile, there are other problems too that aren't Marius-related. Valjean's chronic guilt and lack of self-care unintentionally force Cosette to be his caregiver, in a way that's not natural for a child to be to a parent. He keeps so many secrets from her and avoids important conversations, ostensibly to protect her from pain, but probably more to avoid pain himself. And Cosette's docile, conflict-avoidant, sadness-swallowing tendencies mirror Valjean's own, so she's arguably learned unhealthy habits from him. Although it's debatable whether she behaves that way just because she sees her father do it, or because she has a traumatic past too, even though she doesn’t consciously remember the Thénardiers.

Even Valjean’s gesture of giving Cosette the main house at Rue Plumet with all its luxuries while he lives in the porter's cottage, letting her be the active mistress of the house who does all the money management... While on the surface it's a loving, generous, empowering gesture (as well as practical for him, since it lets him keep a lower profile), I suppose it can also be seen as giving her too much responsibility at too young an age. In a way, he doesn't want her to grow up, and does what he can to prevent it; but at the same time, he unintentionally makes her grow up too fast and be a (platonic) wife, mother, and daughter to him all in one.

Cosette deserves so much better than that.

I can’t even take my usual approach to plot points in the novel that I don’t like – preferring the musical – because I don’t think the musical is any better. Yes, it omits Valjean’s jealousy of Marius and his attempt to separate Cosette from him, and yes, it omits details like Valjean refusing to see a doctor for his wound and Cosette having to nurse him alone. But the song “In My Life” emphasizes Cosette’s loneliness and yearning for answers, which Hugo’s Cosette doesn’t feel until she’s separated from Marius, and it has Valjean explicitly refusing to tell her about the past, when in the novel she hardly ever asks, and when she does, he just sadly smiles and says nothing at all. The 2012 film drives home the point even further with its repeated symbolic imagery of Valjean closing windows and doors, and with Cosette and Marius singing "A Heart Full of Love" separated by the garden gate's prison-like bars.

My rational mind knows that all these problems are realistic and necessary for the plot. There's no such thing as a perfect parent. Whether intentionally or not, all parents hurt their children. Besides, it's important for a protagonist to have flaws. All of this is what saves Valjean from being an insipid saint in his old age. If he weren't possessive of Cosette and didn't block her romance with Marius at first, then his later heroic rescue of Marius for Cosette’s sake wouldn't be meaningful; there would be nothing redemptive about it.

My rational mind also knows that it's wrong to put all the blame on Valjean for his mistakes. I even think some of the recent Tumblr posts about this subject have been too hard on him. After all, he has mental health problems that aren't his own fault. Also, his possessiveness isn't just a matter of not wanting to share Cosette; he must know all along that he can't possibly join another family as an in-law, so if Cosette marries, it will mean losing her completely. None of these problems would exist if he weren't an ex-convict, so ultimately, the unjust justice system is to blame.

Besides, Cosette is happy in their secluded life until Marius comes along. We can talk from an outside perspective about how unhealthy and what a gilded cage it is from the beginning, but Cosette doesn't agree: until she's separated from Marius, she's content. Why should Valjean assume she can't be happy again the way she was before?

But emotionally, it's not so easy to accept. While of course protagonists need flaws, some flaws are easier to forgive than others. For me, the harder-to-forgive flaws include any case of a parent emotionally hurting his child, or a male character emotionally hurting a female character who loves him, or any character whose love becomes self-absorbed and stifling to the loved one. Even if it's all done unwittingly and with good intentions, and even if the character redeems themself through selfless deeds later: my heart says they should have done better from the start. My heart says it's disgraceful that a man whose trauma revolves around imprisonment should become a "jailer" in any sense to his daughter. And it’s devastating that the bond Valjean and Cosette formed when she was a little girl, which was so beautiful, pure, and sweet, should become complicated, messy, and oppressive to Cosette in any way, no matter how much they still love each other through it all.

Sometimes, irrationally, I find myself thinking that maybe Valjean should have just left Cosette at the convent with a decent sum of money instead of adopting her; that maybe she would have been better off as a rich orphan. I know that's a ridiculous thought, but occasionally it crosses my mind.

I suppose the ideal Jean Valjean in my heart is neither the novel's Valjean, nor the musical's, nor any other adaptation's that I know. I'm not entirely sure how he would be different from those Valjeans, or how he would be a better father while keeping the plot intact and not becoming a dull saint. But somehow or other, he would still make mistakes where Cosette is concerned, yet less heartbreaking mistakes than in canon. For example, his concerns about Marius might be more focused on protecting Cosette from a potentially dangerous stalker than on his own self-centered feelings of not wanting to lose her. Maybe that would dilute Hugo's message, but this is my personal preferred version of the story, not his. I'm not saying I want to remove all the plot-essential conflict and turn Les Misérables into Les Happy Times, but is it wrong to see that Cosette deserves better and want to rewrite the story just enough to give her what she deserves?

[wilwywaylan]

HAPPY BARRICADE DAY TO ALL, I'm not too late !!!!

But I'm certainly dead. I sadly hated doing parts of that drawing, and that's a little sad... because I chose the wrong paper and did it all on marker paper, which I had never used... and which I hated so much because the colors were wrong and the markers kept acting like paint. Hiss ! Hiss !

But here it is ! inspired by the banquet at the end of the Asterix comics (idea courtesy of the amazing @rolls-of-the-tongue-nicely). Fitting everyone around the table wasn't that easy, but I managed ! (please ignore that Valjean is like two Marius' big.)

The aesthetic is totally @crow-songs-at-dawn's idea, she suggested the mix and I ran with it. Also hers is the Ikea influence... because we went to Ikea. So there.

(Blåhaj)

This year, even Patron-Minette made the cut, because they too deserve cake and watch Monty make a fool of himself ! ... next year, I'll add the cats.

HAPPY BARRICADE DAY WHERE NO ONE IS DEAD !!!!

And the progress gif !

(long description under the cut)

[image ID : a large round table sitting in the middle of rubble, with a fire burning high in the middle. All the Amis and friends are gathered around the table. They are all dressed in period-accurate fashion, except Jehan who's wearing a long coat and Vonda boots, and Grantaire who's wearing disco pants and platform shoes. At one hand, Bahorel (man with tan skin, long black hair, black eyes and a beard), is standing to make a speech. Feuilly (smaller white man with copper curls, golden eyes and freckles), is looking at him, smiling, while Enjolras (small white man with long blond hair and blue eyes) is still talking to him. Courfeyrac (small plump man with tan skin, wild black curls and brown eyes) is raising his glass and filming with his phone. He's leaning on Combeferre (tall man with brown skin, black hair in an undercut, grey eyes and glasses), who's reading something on a tablet. On the other side of the fire, Joly (asian man with brown hair and green eyes) is sitting on Musichetta's lap (tall woman with brown skin, long, pink wavy hair and brown eyes), and filming Grantaire with his phone. Grantaire (tall man with tan skin, stubble and black curls) is dancing wildly on the table. Beside him, Bossuet (black man with shaved head and dark blue eyes) is falling over, his glass flying behind him. Gavroche (white boy with brown short hair and grey eyes) is also filming Grantaire. Fantine (black woman with blond hair hidden by a headscarf and brown eyes) is sitting near him and looking at Valjean, Marius and Cosette. Javert (tall man with tan skin, long black hair, black eyes and large sideburns) is glaring at the table. Valjean (tall, stocky man with tan skin, long white hair, brown eyes and a white beard) is gesturing wildly while talking to Marius (white man with short black hair, blue eyes and freckles), who's looking down at his phone. Eponine (white woman with a pink sidecut and grey eyes) is cheering at Bahorel but looking at Marius. She's holding Cosette's waist, and Cosette (black, plump woman with braids dyed in purple and brown eyes) has a hand on Marius' back. On her left, Montparnasse (white man with slicked back black hair and brown eyes) is looking dreamily at Jehan (tall white man with a long copper braid, brown eyes and freckles) who's playing the harp along Bahorel's words, closing the circle. In the upper left corner, Patron Minette is sitting, with Babet (white man with cropped brownish gray hair) and Claquesous (white man with long white hair tied in a bun and a mask) eating cake, and Gueulemer (tall black man with black dreadlocks and black eyes) looking at Montparnasse. All around them are piled a lot of debris, including paving stones, old furniture, chairs, rafters, Ikea bags full of stones, and an Ikea shark. end ID]

[cliozaur]

Here comes the story of the mysterious ex-convict Jean Valjean. If I had to compile the top three saddest episodes involving Jean Valjean, this one would definitely be among them. His story includes another example of touching sibling relationships, where they take turns taking care of each other. His sister’s story is another illustration of the harmful outcome of society’s insistence on women’s absolute dependence on men (and the absence of birth control: seven children in just eight years!)

Valjean’s care for his sister’s children—the way he doesn’t mind giving the best pieces of his food to them, the way he pays for the milk to cover up their trick, etc.—foreshadows him being a good caregiver to Cosette. And the most heartbreaking part of this chapter:

he wept, his tears stifled him, they impeded his speech; he only managed to say from time to time, “I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles.” Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it gradually seven times, as though he were touching in succession seven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was divined that the thing which he had done, whatever it was, he had done for the sake of clothing and nourishing seven little children.

The court, not seeing the need to provide for a big family as a mitigating circumstance, forever imposed this attitude on Valjean, who will never even mention mitigating circumstances concerning this or other episodes of his life. “There occur formidable hours in our civilization; there are moments when the penal laws decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minute is that in which society draws back and consummates the irreparable abandonment of a sentient being!” Another similar case was that of Claude Gaux, which Hugo knew too well and mentioned in his short digression.

Valjean’s poaching is mentioned! It is a very important reference for the barricade section of the book, don’t forget about it. Concerning poaching, I would like to add that this “crime” only existed because of the unfair expropriation of forests by lords.

“Jean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged impassive. He had entered in despair; he emerged gloomy.” That’s a sad summary of what happened to Valjean after he lost and made himself forget his family.

[b-dubs-valdubs]

the amazing supercool @bogusbyron and i have just finished collaborating on a fic :3!!!!!!! check it out on ao3, or under the cut!!!

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56217544

Title: Valvert Kiss Proposition That I Got Far Too Carried Away With, or, awesomecool collab

Word Count: 2,575

Relationships: Javert/Valjean

Tags: Canon Era, On The Barricade, Choking, (non sexual but you can read it however you like), Rough Kissing, Homoeroticism, Hate Kissing, is that a thing?, Javert Was Probably Into That, Valjean Is Conflicted, Brick-Adjacent Dialogue, Musical-Adjacent Events, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, i guess

Summary: When emotions are running high at the Barricade, people ahve a tendency to lash out mindlessly.

~~~

Javert made no move to acknowledge the sound of the door opening behind him — he had not the last few times, and he would not this time, either. The students frequently came and went, picking up the supplies they had stashed in the tavern, not acknowledging their prisoner. Occasionally he could feel a glare burning into the back of his head, but most of the time he knew they were far too distracted with the matters outside to worry themselves with the old spy they had tied to the table.

It was the same when he heard several of them file in and begin discussing their plans and revising what resources they still had left; the integrity of their barricades across the city, with the rebellion still lighting the streets with musket-fire and smoke, like a thick bonfire.

Javert listened. He knew he would not be likely to make it out alive, but what else had he to do in the meantime? If, by some gargantuan miracle, he did escape, the information might be useful; so he listened.

There wasn’t much to be said, but it sounded like Javert should not hold out much hope. It was likely he would be shot in the coming days after the barricade fell.

Twenty-six men was all they had, with eight surplus muskets. He almost felt sorry for their meagre effort, maybe even somewhat impressed — but they were his jailors and would be his executors, he had only disdain to spare them.

In fact, they discussed his execution, and it seemed he was to be put down like a dog. He had hoped his death would have been more dignified, but at heart he had expected this from the beginning, and he had accepted it. He closed his eyes and took a quiet breath.

It hitched when he heard the voice of Jean Valjean from the crowd. Blood rushed to his ears, the world around him beginning to spin — he kept his eyes shut tight. When his hearing returned, he heard Valjean make a request. To blow out that man’s brains myself.

It was then that Javert lifted his head and looked over, and saw the man standing amidst the group of students, looking expectantly at their commander.

“I think that would be fitting,” Javert said, solemn and level.

The commander, Enjolras, allowed it. Valjean took his place at the end of the table with a pistol in hand as the sound of trumpets pealed through the air outside. Everyone stood to attention, as they had planned.

A boy’s voice which was vaguely familiar cried out from on the barricade, and they all rushed from the room at Enjolras’ command. “You’re no better off than I am. I’ll be seeing you soon!” Javert called out.

Now, he found himself alone with Jean Valjean, who made quick work of untying him from the table and gestured for him to stand, to which Javert obeyed. Javert wore an unpleasant expression, the kind that creased his nose in a smile which more resembled a sneer, his steely eyes fixed on the other man as he stood up straight for the first time since his capture, vertebrae cracking slightly at the motion.

Valjean did not return such an expression, or any at all, only took Javert by martingale at his chest and tugged roughly, thus beginning their slow trek outside and across the barricade. Valjean took quick glances at the students, all stood at the ready atop their wooden battlements, muskets in hand. They reached a spot where it was low enough to be clambered over, where Valjean did not let go of the other man’s bindings as he awkwardly clambered over it, before following him shortly.

Once they were far enough into the alleyway as to not be seen by the schoolboys, Valjean halted suddenly. Javert stumbled a little but otherwise kept quiet, still smirking in the bare face of death. Valjean laid his palm flat against Javert’s chest, pushing him up against the nearby brick wall, watching as Javert rested the back of his head against it as if resigning himself to his fate: the resolute, stony inspector forced to yield and yet still triumphant in that he was right — that Jean Valjean would take his life in an act of brutal revenge and let him bleed out at the foot of the wall amongst the grot, that Valjean was still the violent convict he had always known. His face remained perfectly neutral, eyeing Valjean with an expression that sought to bore into his mind, a slight smirk playing upon his lips. He was still yet a sentinel, and knew that even in death — as brutal and undignified as one could be — he would remain righteous, the star hanging over the wretched to judge and condemn.

Valjean saw him; regarded him coolly. He watched how Javert was still under his gaze, yet had a form of energy about him, like a pot of water about to boil over.

“Go on,” Javert hissed, baring his fangs in a grimace, “Take your revenge - you’ve been hungering for this since Toulon. I know it.”

Not an ounce of expression was betrayed as Valjean reached for the pocket-knife on his person, the glint of the blade catching the dying moonlight in its cold, silver sheen.

In any man, the sight of the blade — of a knife such as this one — could only promise a drawn-out, painful death; it was to have your throat slit, choking and hacking on blood as it overwhelms the air in your lungs, forcing it out through your mouths in little gasps, and be left until the blood loss takes hold and brings you into the embrace of the Reaper. Javert was apparently not such a man to quiver at that notion. He only grinned more fiercely, his thin lip stretching over his gums in a snarl of victory.

“Ah, of course,” he gloated, goading Valjean, puffing out his chest, bound as he was, “A knife for a cut-throat criminal. It’s more fitting.”

Valjean’s palm pressed firmer against Javert’s chest, as if he were a lion pinning his prey in place on the ground. His brown eyes, the hue of intoxicating nectar, caught Javert’s own — superseding the coldness in Javert’s own gaze. Under his gaze, Javert seemed to retreat somewhat, leaning back against the wall; he held this distant contact as his chest expanded into the soft pressure of Valjean’s palm, inspiring a breath unusually slow and deep. As quickly as it had intensified, the pressure then released, and Valjean retreated a step.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

Javert obeyed, flashing a self-satisfied expression at Valjean as he did so. Valjean paid him no heed, reaching for Javert’s bound wrists and watching as the serrated knife-edge sawed through the bonds.

As the fraying ropes fell away, with their proximity Valjean noticed the muscles in Javert’s back tensing, and could hear the sharp intake of breath. Both men remained still.

Eventually, Valjean spoke the three words that had been told to him only as lies; ”You are free.”

Javert turned back to regard him. Gone was his smug expression, replaced only with fearful awe and trepidation. “I don’t understand,” he uttered, scarcely above a whisper, like one might murmur to themselves, entranced.

“Clear out,” Valjean muttered, his face close to Javert’s as if conspiring amongst themselves. At this distance, he could feel every faltered breath of Javert’s fan out over his upper lip, huffing from his nose sporadically.

A flash of rage crossed Javert’s face. “Take care, Valjean!” he exclaimed, paying no heed to the established noise level, his tone teetering on the edge of hysterical.

Valjean gripped the noose around Javert’s neck, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched — able to see each twitch of Javert’s eyelid as he held Valjean’s impassive gaze, his teeth bared like a cornered animal. Valjean studied him (acutely aware that Javert could hear each tremble of his lungs as he struggled to calm his breathing) only to slip the loop of rope over his head, freeing him of that as well, before reiterating: “Clear out of here, you are free.”

An unreadable expression crossed Javert’s face before the tiger pounced at Valjean, fisting his paws into Valjean’s shirt. “I know you, Jean Valjean. I am warning you: you attempt to exchange my freedom for yours? There will be no such transaction with me. I am not you — I cannot be bought with promises of freedom, I will not steal my life unlawfully such as you have done, I will never be you, Jean Valjean. Do you understand me, Jean Valjean? I know you — yes! — I know you, I can see your motives plain. You plan to buy me — well! Javert cannot be bought. You will still answer to the Law for what you have done, do you hear me, 24601?” He spat those numbers like he was spitting grit from his bread.

With a slight flicker across his eyes, Valjean lashed forward with his large hands and they found their way around Javert’s thick neck, the force of the attack knocking him backwards and his back collided with the wall once more. Javert spluttered, his eyes wide and crazed, as he clawed Valjean's arms before settling their clasp on his wrists. For a moment Valjean worried that he had seriously hurt Javert when a glassy sort of look waned over his eyes, before fixing themselves back to glare at Valjean. His scowl became a look of submission, clearly realising the strength Valjean held over him as he felt the flexing muscle of the arms he was clutching onto for dear life.

When Javert’s knees began buckling clumsily from underneath him, Valjean knew he had the upper hand. He had the upper hand from the start, Javert had been his prisoner, at his mercy, his life in his hand - but that is exactly what Javert had wanted, and he had been determined to keep it that way. Though he huffed under Valjean’s grasp at his throat, it was not tight enough to be a serious threat. The look in Javert’s eye told him he knew it. Valjean meant only to intimidate.

For a moment, before he spoke again, he watched the scene in front of him with a kind of awe; their faces were still close, now almost level with each other, Javert’s ragged and desperate breaths disturbed the loose hairs that had fallen into Valjean’s face in the tousle. Javert’s eyes, which were often squinted in that haunting leer of his, bulged from his head as the skin around them flushed. Valjean let his eyes wander to a trail of spit which had broken from his lips and ran down his chin.

If their situation were not so dire, Valjean might have pushed closer. He blinked hard, choosing not to get distracted at this moment. Instead, he uttered; “You’re wrong, Javert. I am only a man. Nothing more, nothing less. It is not my right to end your life.”

Javert continued to stare at Valjean with that oddly open gaze, his mouth falling open in little gasps and grunts. Then, the grip around his throat lessened, and he found himself being relinquished. He teetered on unsteady legs for a moment, falling into the weight of Valjean’s chest as his knees refused to support his weight.

That strange, glassy expression was still worn even as Valjean righted him again, holding him under the arms until Javert could stand on steady footing again.

“If I make it out of here alive,” Valjean sighed, feeling as if his next words could overturn his very life, “I reside at number seven, Rue de l’Homme Armé, under the name of Fauchelevent.”

The very confession was like a seal, like the coffin lid closing over the living corpse of Jean Valjean. His life would be no more; all that mattered was Cosette’s happiness, and after he had rescued her true love, he would have no space in her life — her happiness would no longer be dependent on him after today. It was for the best. It was the love that she deserved, rather than that of an old convict.

He nailed his own coffin door shut, blocking each hole with a strange form of grief, allowing no air for his escape.

His lungs could hardly intake breath as he regarded Javert; it would not be the last time.

“Go.”

For a moment, Javert did not move, still hunched slightly and breathing deeply, his heavy arms hanging at his side. His gaze was fixed on Valjean’s, his icy blue eyes piercing him with a contempt which shuddered and faltered like the decaying foundation of a building. Then, as his chest expanded with an inhale, he stiffened, letting the military posture return. His slack jaw snapped shut and set, his brow furrowed and he scowled. He said nothing. He stared at the space above Valjean’s head rather than at him.

Valjean found that Javert’s hands had suddenly made their way to the sides of his head, and before he could have asked about it, thought about it or even looked at the other man to read his expression: his face was far too close to have done so, and felt the heat of another mouth on his, rough lips on rough lips, almost bowled over by the force at which Javert had launched himself at Valjean.

He couldn’t help the shocked noise that escaped him. Javert was kissing him, roughly, though it was hardly a kiss, all teeth and lips, no tongue like passionate lovers shared in their private rendezvous. It was more like a predatorial bite.

What surprised Valjean most is the fact he found he didn’t really want to pull back from the embrace at all.

Javert gripped the other man’s head tightly from either side, fingers digging into his hair, the heel of his palm pressing uncomfortably against his cheekbone. It was harsh. It wasn’t affectionate by any means, perhaps desperate. But the tear that fell from Javert’s eye onto Valjean’s cheek did not go unnoticed.

It was over as soon as it had happened, like it had never happened at all. Javert shoved Valjean’s shoulder fiercely as he turned on his heel without a backward glance.

Valjean stood, in stunned silence, watching Javert’s figure retreat through the alley and turn the corner, out of sight. With shaking hands, he brought two fingers to his face to touch gently upon his lips, still slightly slick with spit. His breath hitched, as if enchanted, and stuttered out, breathing over his fingers that still remained pressed against his lips, passing a chill over the wet spot left by Javert’s own mouth.

Valjean shuddered, wiping it away with the back of his hand resolutely, before hefting the musket aloft and firing into the air.

He wondered if Javert had heard the bang that had resounded as he made his way back to the tavern.

“It is done,” he announced.

Yet it did not feel finished: not for Valjean, nor Javert, as Valjean’s thoughts could only fixate on the tingling sensation he still found on his lower lip where Javert’s teeth had collided, frowning to himself slightly.

His mind fell back to the alleyway, when he watched Javert writhe under his hand. He was thankful for the call of the students from the barricades as the National Guard began an attack once more.

[bread--quest]

just watched my first ever performance of les mis and i'm experiencing every emotion ever and i need to write them all down quickly before i go to sleep so i don't forget them .ok . in some approximate order

the prisoners during look down would each like. look up for their individual line and then whoever was next to them would reach over and pull them back down which i thought was so good

hoogh the staging. the STAGING .

several of the scenes looked (i think very intentionally) like.....religious paintings...??? im sorry i dont have a better way to describe it im not catholic but like. the first one im thinking of is jean valjean and the bishop during the "i have bought your soul for god" scene . there were like definitely Intentional Pauses so you could Admire the Staging and Lighting. which i did

incidentally i wasnt counting the amount of times people crossed themselves in this show but it was A Lot

after "i'll escape now from this world... from the world of JEAN VALJEAAAAAAAAAN" the stage went black and then the words "les miserables" were projected on the screen and my dad (who was next to me) went "OH that was just the PROLOGUE??"

ohhhhh god fantine's death scene hit me like a truck. that was the first moment i cried at and oh god i cried really hard. i had forgotten that it was to the tune of on my own. awuagh

after little cosette sang "she says...cosette, i love you very much..." i distinctly heard someone in the audience GASP and go "ohhhhh...."

madame thenardier was GREAT, she sang every line like she was rolling her eyes. also she made some. Gestures with a baguette during master of the house

beautiful little moment: after jvj gave cosette the doll she gasped, kind of backed away from him in shock, and then paused and ran towards him and hugged him, and then there was a noticeable moment where he sort of didn't know what to do for a second and then hugged her back and scooped her up to carry her away. waugh

look down paris 1832!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAA

i didn't realize until just now that it works so well to have gavroche be singing what's basically the intro to "okay so here's what's happening now. this is paris and it sucks," because gavroche is the character introduced at the start of the 1832 book!!! the gamin expresses paris!! i love that!!!! also gavroche was excellent. adore that boy

marius was such a dork <3

eponine fully Threw his book across the stage and he was like "haha i love the way you..... tease. Hm"

the paris sets were so cool!!!! they were like. whole apartment building sets and actors would pop out of windows and stuff!!! very neat

one of the women had a "vive lamarque" sign hanging out her window lmao. rip

grantaire kept hugging people/flopping on them

enjolras was Very Blond and Very Enjolras-y. when grantaire tried to flop on him he pushed him away and then they made Intense Eye Contact about it

gavroche delivered "general lamarque is dead" surprisingly solemnly and quietly, and there was a moment of silence that i thought really brought in the gravity of the moment well

also he got up on a table to say it and afterwards enjolras patted him on the shoulder (which he did a lot) and then picked him up and lifted him off the table :)

DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING <3 AAAAAAAAAAA

grantaire kept pulling gavroche back from joining with the rest of the revolutionaries :(

marius actually CLIMBED OVER THE GATES to cosette's house, i was very impressed

ONE DAY MOOOOOORE was sooo good

the thenadiers peered out of one of the really tall windows and had a little periscope (??) to look at the revolutionaries with

the barricade was very striking, if lacking in Symbolic Coffin. very pointy looking though

my dad said "is that javert??" a few minutes after javert appeared at the barricade and his reaction to the reveal was EXCELLENT

gavroche flipped off javert LMAO

little fall of rain was very good but the thing that hurt me the most was that towards the very end gavroche came on stage, saw what was happening, stepped towards her, and was pulled back a bit by grantaire. and then after she died gavroche went forward and picked up her hat and gave it to marius, and then walked away, and when grantaire reached out towards him he just kind of walked past. it was a really really good bit of like. subtle characterization and plot and just AAAAAA

"is your life just one more LIE" in drink with me was very directly addressed to enjolras, who then had another moment of Very Intense Eye Contact with grantaire. then they stormed off to opposite sides of the barricade and gavroche, who was sort of standing between them looking worried, looked back and forth a few times and then went over to grantaire and hugged him :((

the barricaders in general were so good

jvj hit an INSANELY high note at the end of bring him home

THEY DID SOMEHTING VERY CRUEL AND FUCKED UP and had gavroche's song of little people be interrupted by a gunshot and a gasp from the barricade, and THEN he started singing AGAIN, and everyone seemed relieved, and he came back up over the barricade and THEN. GUNSHOT. and. enjolras caught him and held him and then like. passed him down the barricade to grantaire??? in this incredibly lit and really like. again. like it looked like a painting . i am rapidly losing coherency. it hurt so bad man

the one thing i am sad about (WELL. IM SAD ABOUT A LOT. BUT I MEAN SPECIFICALLY ABOUT THE ADAPTATION FROM BOOK TO MUSICAL) is that grantaire and enjolras didn't die holding hands :((

at least they got one more moment of Very Intense Eye Contact in (after gavroche's death...)

oh GOD enjolras in the cart hurt so bad. WITH THE FLAG. i really thought he was evoking some famous painting but i could be wrong

javert knelt down over gavroche's body, shook his head, crossed himself, gently tapped gavroche, and then stood up and pointed at him so the cart guy would take him away

enjolras had like. one hand dangling out of the cart when it came in, but as it was leaving the stage the other hand dropped which was a FANTASTIC acting moment . also damn those actors were great at pretending to be dead

javert's suicide was BRILLIANTLY staged, somehow the actor really made it look like falling while standing up the whole time (possibly being raised somewhat? unsure)

he was also the only character who's death was not shown in illuminating light . which. damn.

turning turning hit me unexpectedly hard. ooooof

and then empty chairs at empty tables was. well. i dont think i need to say more. the lights were a fantastic choice

i think i started crying at "it is the story of those who always loved you" but honestly the entire last song was really blurry. IT OPENED WITH JEAN VALJEAN LIGHTING THE CANDLESTICKS. THE CANDLESTIIIIIICKS

THE BISHOP CAME OUT AND HUGGED JEAN VALJEAN. AUGH

also gavroche was standing between enjolras and grantaire when they first came out which i have to think was intentional

there was basically nothing on stage but the actors for the last song which made it incredible imo . i briefly considered becoming french. a lady offered me a tissue. the end

[wanderinghedgehog]

I got another thing to add to my list of hilarious confrontation choreography in high school productions of Les Mis. This production I’m watching seems to be very good overall, but the confrontation is absolutely bonkers. The first round of fight choreo is very basic until Valjean backs away and gestures like “WAIT A MINUTE put the fight on hold I wanna talk to Fantine.” And Javert is just fine with that????? But now it’s time for round two, so the fight choreo is back. Valjean then proceeds to punch Javert, knock his hat off, and fucking BOOK IT offstage. Javert then has to pick up his poor hat before storming off to chase Valjean.

You just don’t get stuff like this from watching professional productions. Brilliant.

[breadvidence]

Subjective ranking of I.VI.II versions, chapter title “Punish Me, M. le Maire”. Judged primarily based on horniness and comedy.

1. The Brick. The silent treatment. “The strength of your loins.” “It is lucky that you recognize the fact.” The long aside about accents and the evolution of names, because Victor Hugo wrote this, which somehow does not derail the vibes. I have serious thoughts on this scene but this list is not about literary analysis, it’s about how much Javert wants to be licking M. Madeleine’s boots (to the max), Valjean opposite him with actual dom energy (present), and the lol factor (top of the line).

2. ’98. No, hear me out. Rush’s Javert despairingly tries to lead Neeson’s Valjean to the right conclusion like an experienced sub guiding a vanilla top through a scene. Neeson is bewildered. Rush exudes frustrated erotic energy. I am having flashbacks to bad hookups and dying on the inside. A+

3. A hundred different fanfic rewrites of this scene in which dicks touch. Bless y’all.

4. ’78. Perkins doesn’t bring as much frustration to the table as Rush, making this less funny, but in his defense he’s opposite Jordan, who is as vacant as a beach ball. Solid rendition regardless.

5. ’25. Faithful to the novel, but lacks spice. Best moment occurs when Gabrio gestures with open arms and Toulout looks blankly horrified, as if thinking Gabrio might go in for a hug.

6. 2012 (Hooper). I debated the ranking but this *is* a scene that launched a thousand fics, so while it seems to me that Crowe’s Javert needs aftercare more than a spanking (so wrung out), clearly fandom disagrees. Loses points for lack of comedy.

7. Stage musical. “But Bread,” you might say, “The musical doesn’t adapt this scene.” I am counting the end of “The Runaway Cart” as an honorable mention, since it still includes Javert embarrassing himself.

8. ’35. All I remember is Laughton quivering and maybe a repetition of the line about laws good, bad, and indifferent (a line which reflects such a misunderstanding of the character I can only squint). Erotic levels at 0%, not amused.

9. ’52. I have zero recollection of how the scene plays out and can’t be fucked to rewatch.

10. BBC 2018. I do recollect this scene and I wish I didn’t. I watch, I’m bewildered, Oyelowo telegraphs meaningfully into the camera, his meaning is unclear, none of the implications are derived from the source text. Oyelowo tries to look like he’s experiencing gay lust and fails. They shake hands, I clutch my pearls. -100

[psalm22-6]

Source: The Daily Illini, 18 March 1928

[Actor Gabriel Gabrio] was changing his make-up as Jean Valjean to that required for M. Madeleine when an interviewer questioned him regarding this important part of screen work. "Make-up? Ah, there you are asking a big question! You cannot understand all that these two words mean to an artist. Make-up is at once his safeguard and his danger. A good make-up can improve a role and make a first-class character: but reverse is also true, and the most beautiful part in the world can be spoilt by a clumsy make-up. I think that the art of make-up is an essential part of an actor's training. One might say it is his second trade, and in filming it is of the first importance for, under the relentless eye of the camera, film artists appear, to the public exactly as they are, and there is no chance of tricking. A clumsy make-up will spoil the harmony of a character. You may have the most attractive appearance, the most correct gestures, and the most expressive miming, but if your make-up is bad, everything goes for nothing.

[pureanonofficial]

LES MIS LETTERS IN ADAPTATION - To Wit, the Plan of Paris in 1727, LM 2.5.5 (Les Miserables 1925)

Nevertheless, the hour, the place, the darkness, Jean Valjean’s absorption, his singular gestures, his goings and comings, all had begun to render Cosette uneasy. Any other child than she would have given vent to loud shrieks long before. She contented herself with plucking Jean Valjean by the skirt of his coat. They could hear the sound of the patrol’s approach ever more and more distinctly.

“Father,” said she, in a very low voice, “I am afraid. Who is coming yonder?”

“Hush!” replied the unhappy man; “it is Madame Thénardier.”

Cosette shuddered. He added:—

“Say nothing. Don’t interfere with me. If you cry out, if you weep, the Thénardier is lying in wait for you. She is coming to take you back.”

[secretmellowblog]

I love the moments when Valjean suddenly transforms from a kindly old man into a buff action hero….he really was the original dilf

He had improvised an intrenchment out of the table; and the man, who but an instant previously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, had suddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust fist on the back of his chair, with a formidable and surprising gesture.

This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply.

[pilferingapples]

Cosette " abandoning" Valjean : "You are no longer my father? I am no longer Cosette? `Monsieur Jean'? What does this mean? why, these are revolutions, aren't they? what has taken place? come, look me in the face. And you won't live with us! And you won't have my chamber! What have I done to you? Has anything happened?" ....

"I don't understand anything about it. All this is idiotic. I shall ask permission of my husband for you to be `Monsieur Jean.' I hope that he will not consent to it. You cause me a great deal of pain. One does have freaks, but one does not cause one's little Cosette grief. That is wrong. You have no right to be wicked, you who are so good."

He made no reply.

She seized his hands with vivacity, and raising them to her face with an irresistible movement, she pressed them against her neck beneath her chin, which is a gesture of profound tenderness.

"Oh!" she said to him, "be good!"

And she went on:

"This is what I call being good: being nice and coming and living here,-- there are birds here as there are in the Rue Plumet,--living with us, quitting that hole of a Rue de l'Homme Arme, not giving us riddles to guess, being like all the rest of the world, dining with us, breakfasting with us, being my father."

He loosed her hands.

"You no longer need a father, you have a husband."

Cosette became angry.

"I no longer need a father! One really does not know what to say to things like that, which are not common sense!"

...

I am furious," she resumed. "Ever since yesterday, you have made me rage, all of you. I am greatly vexed. I don't understand. You do not defend me against Marius. Marius will not uphold me against you. I am all alone. I arrange a chamber prettily. If I could have put the good God there I would have done it. My chamber is left on my hands. My lodger sends me into bankruptcy. I order a nice little dinner of Nicolette. We will have nothing to do with your dinner, Madame. And my father Fauchelevent wants me to call him `Monsieur Jean,' and to receive him in a frightful, old, ugly cellar, where the walls have beards, and where the crystal consists of empty bottles, and the curtains are of spiders' webs! You are singular, I admit, that is your style, but people who get married are granted a truce. You ought not to have begun being singular again instantly. So you are going to be perfectly contented in your abominable Rue de l'Homme Arme. I was very desperate indeed there, that I was. What have you against me? You cause me a great deal of grief. Fi!"

And, becoming suddenly serious, she gazed intently at Jean Valjean and added:

"Are you angry with me because I am happy?"

(all text Hapgood, the Lower Chamber)

*Abandonment solely seen via Valjean's patented Traumavision!

[eleancrvances]

thinking about how in 1.1.7. it was established that the silverware was the one reminder of his former life the bishop still wasn’t quite ready to give up.

It must be confessed, however, that he still retained from his former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle [...] “I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver dishes.” To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt.

this silver he so readily gives up is not unimportant to him. the candlesticks are a gift from his family. he’s already given away everything else, those were still in his house for a reason. myriel’s final gesture is a pivotal, fundamental moment in valjean’s life, but it’s important to the bishop too. it’s not as impactful as other moments were, such as the meeting with conventionary g-, but it is the pinnacle of his journey from the person he used to be, the privileged nobleman charles myriel who devoted his life to “the world and the gallantry”, to the person he decided to be when he returned to france, monsigneur bienvenu. this is the start of valjean’s path to a new life, and the culmination of myriel’s. not only does the bishop impact valjean’s life and pretty much single-handedly make the rest of the novel possible - the two of them influence each other. it’s a brief meeting defined by a small gesture and they will never see each other again, but it’s important to them both. and the fact is, myriel doesn’t even know if this man will use his family’s silver as he hopes he will - he takes a leap of faith. he gives him the chance to try and change as he changed.