Chapter Text
Chenildieu flinched when he saw the blue of the guards’ uniform from the corner of his eye and was on his feet before he realised it. Even after nearly ten years of freedom, some things were hard to unlearn.
Prigent made an apologetic face and Chenildieu sat down again, waving at an empty chair. The man had made good on his promise all those years ago, getting him on the Commissaire’s list1 in ’24 and because Monsieur Voisard did not want to lose him, he’d even gotten special permission to stay in Toulon2.
„What brings you here, Prigent?“ he asked with only a slight tremble in his voice.
„Sorry for the scare, Chenildieu, I should have waited until coming off duty,“ Prigent had the decency to look ashamed and Chenildieu waved it away. „A letter arrived for you today. It’s been sent to the bagne. Know anyone named Fauchelevent?“
Chenildieu shook his head, looking baffled at the letter Prigent had put on his desk.
„From Paris?“ The only people he could think of knowing him in Paris where former colleagues — and gambling partners. But the name did not strike anything. „But thank you for bringing it, I’d think Monsieur le Chef de Salle has better things to do than carry mail to a humble, pardoned forçat.“
Prigent chuckled. „Please, Chenildieu, you are many things, but ‚humble’ is not one of them.“ Chenildieu grinned widely. He tended to give the naval port a wide berth, but with Prigent he’d struck up something of a friendship after his pardon. „And this letter isn’t the only reason, I meant to see you anyway. I need some bottles of nice wine.“
„Something to celebrate?“
„Premier Adjudant3 Tiriode is retiring in a month and I’m going to be his replacement.“
Prigent beamed with pride and despite Chenildieu’s misgivings about the whole system of the bagne, he congratulated him on it. And Prigent getting the job would probably be good for his still enslaved brothers. He wasn’t a bad man and took his duty seriously without being cruel about it.
„Let’s see what we can find for you.“ He put the letter in his pocket and rose.
After he’d sent Prigent off with a crate of nice but not too expensive Bordeaux, there was a misunderstanding to be settled with one of their carters and he forgot about the letter until he arrived in his small room in the upper storey of one of Monsieur Voisard’s warehouses. It was nothing special, but it had a chimney, a table and chair and a real bed. And it was his alone. He was a man who enjoyed the company of others, but he still relished that he had won back the right to close the door on the world and exist entirely for himself.
He sat down on the chair and lighted the oil lamp to look at the letter again. The sender was one Ultime Fauchelevent at an address in Paris as Prigent had said. Chenildieu scratched his head and broke the seal.
Mon ami, (he raised his eyebrows at the familial address)
I apologise for the long silence on my part, and what pain it might have caused you, but I had a job to do. I hope you did not mourn overmuch at the cruelty of the Hunter, he was kinder than it looked.
I am happier than I have ever been, with a Daughter who is showering her affection on her ageing father, a granddaughter I can dote on and another child on the way. (Her husband is, of course, not good enough for her, but which man ever is in the eyes of a father?) And I’ve found a spouse in someone I would never have expected. I hope my dearest first wife will forgive me.
You are not forgotten, Chenildieu. Let me know, if there is anything I can do to ease your life. I’m quite comfortable and my son-in-law has connections that might be of use.
In the hopes that this letter finds you in good health — or better yet, not at all, may the King’s grace come down on you —
I remain your affectionate friend,
UF
Chenildieu stared at the words in shock, hand trembling so hard he had to put the letter on the table. The line about the hunter had puzzled him, as had the fact that an apparent stranger was telling him about his family. For a moment he’d wondered if there had been some mix-up and turned the letter around to look at the address. But it had his old number as well as his full name on it, no chance at a mistake. And that this stranger knew not only his first name but also his slave number said a lot.
I hope my dearest first wife will forgive me.
„Big guy, is that you?“
The ship Jean Valjean had tumbled to his death from — or so he’d thought -- hadn't it born the name of Orion, the mystical hunter? There had not been a body, true, but everyone had thought he’d drowned. He’d mourned him, more than he’d mourned any death before.
„Oh, you sly fox, you pulled it off again!“ Chenildieu laughed loudly. It had to be him! ‚Ultime Fauchelevent’, ha!
He felt as happy as on the day he’d held his pardon in his hands and the iron had been struck off his ankle. Valjean was alive! Still in hiding, apparently, but alive! And he’d reached out to him after all these years.
‚Mon ami,’ he thought. ‚Oh, my friend. How happy I am to hear from you.’