VI
Javert awoke suddenly. He was certain that he'd heard someone enter the room, but he'd failed to rouse himself in time to see who it was. No matter…he was perfectly alert now, and he began to focus on the unfamiliar surroundings. He occupied a large bed, with a white headboard. All the bedding, including the quilt, was white. For that matter, so was the borrowed nightshirt that he wore. He barely remembered putting it on. It was of a fine fabric, much more expensive than anything he'd ever allowed himself. And just where was his uniform? Perhaps he'd no longer be needing it, he thought, a bit ruefully.
There was a small window, simply adorned with a white curtain. All of the furnishings were white as well. The distinct contrast between this room and the environs that Javert was accustomed to was almost overwhelming. His eyes were drawn to the painting. The woman in the portrait was beautiful. All the color in the room was hers. She was a delicate flower… He reflected yet again, on everything he'd been denied, either, by his circumstance, or by his own discipline. It was a relentless pursuit…to survive the unfortunate lot he'd been born to. To somehow break the bonds of his heritage…he pursued the Law, embraced it… And now… he was not dead. Could he return to his old, carefully ordered existence? More relentless pursuit to finish what he'd started. Jean Valjean would be his for the taking. Valjean. More than twenty years…wasted. No, Javert had changed. As impossible as that had been, God had accomplished this, no one else. Javert would follow the convict's example of transformation, God help him. He closed his eyes in prayer. When he opened them again, he was startled to see Victoria's deep brown eyes staring back at him.
V
VII
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