Chapter Text
The drawing room in the Pontmercy residence was opulently decorated for Christmas. A fire burned in the fireplace, ornaments gleamed in every corner, a crèche stood near the window with fine sheep of white wool and the Magi in brightly painted robes, and a large mound of presents was waiting to be unwrapped.
Grandfather Jean had found refuge in an armchair by the fire. Great-grandfather Gillenormand was entertaining Marie’s parents at the table, where silverware sparkled and candles gleamed. Little Marie could not take her eyes of the presents. Any moment now it would be time to unwrap it, and perhaps there would be a new doll for her, as large as that of her older sister Jeanne.
Then the doors to the drawing room opened, and in spilled the crowd. The women wore beautiful robes, and the men were tall with impressive mustaches, all of them friends of her parents. There was only one man whom she had not seen before. He stood out from the crowd by his somber black coat and waistcoat and a pair of impressive whiskers. Georges thought that he had to be a retired officer, for he carried himself with a military straightness, and his face was dark and forbidding.
“An army needs a cavalry,” Georges now said in a hushed voice. He had been speaking of nothing but the chestnut horse and the cuirassiers for weeks, even though his collection of tin soldiers already took over half a shelf in the cupboard where their toys were kept. “Father knows that, don’t you think? Grandfather Georges had a sabre and a horse at Waterloo.”
The hum of conversation at the table increased. Glasses clinked, and Marie could hear her mother laugh. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, with a dress of violet damask and a satin pelisse. Marie’s gaze fell onto the mound of presents again, hoping that her doll would have long, auburn locks and a dress of damask. Perhaps she would call her Catherine, like her mother’s old doll she had sometimes mentioned. Or Violette, or perhaps Anceline.
All of a sudden it seemed to her that a shadow had fallen onto the room. The candles had dimmed, and when she looked up, she found that the stern man clad in black had passed before her. He was carrying a present, wrapped in black paper and tied with a bow of dark blue. As Marie watched, holding her breath, he carefully placed it with the other gifts.
A moment later, a bell rang out, and the candles flickered back into brightness. When Marie’s gaze returned to the presents, the man in black had vanished. In the corner, Grandfather Jean seemed to be asleep in his armchair. His brow was creased, and now he shifted uneasily, as though he was trapped in a nightmare.
“Monsieur le juge, I am glad you could make it,” her father now said warmly, shaking the hand of the man dressed in back. How strange—Marie had not seen him cross the room again.
“Father? Father,” Marie’s mother said. She had moved to Grandfather’s side, and now gently touched his shoulder. “Are you awake? It’s time for the presents. Don’t you want to watch the children?”
Next to Marie, Georges could barely hold back his excitement, and even her older sister Jeanne had forgotten her usual restraint. Soon, all thoughts of the stranger had vanished when her father began to hand out presents to them.
Jeanne received a new doll, even larger than her old one, with a dress of ruffles and beautiful, golden locks. Georges unwrapped a tin box with an assortment of cuirassiers.
“Look how brave they are!” he exclaimed, holding up an officer in a blue coat, a silver sabre held high in his hand. “What battles they will fight!”
Marie received a doll as well, as large as Jeanne’s. Her doll was more beautiful than Jeanne’s, with tresses of auburn to her waist and a beautiful dress of damask. Her face was of porcelain, smiling serenely, and Marie cradled her in her arms with excitement.
There was more to unwrap: illustrated books of fairy tales, another set of soldiers for Georges, and the most wondrous automatons that stood in a castle of clockwork, ticking and tocking and suddenly, as if at an invisible command, springing into motion. A princess turned and turned, her ball gown sparkling; a prince waved from atop his white horse; two soldiers raised their rifles; and behind the palace’s windows, silhouettes moved as if of couples twirling at a ball.
The room erupted in delight, the adults laughing and applauding while little Marie clapped her hands.
“Is it not wondrous, children? That gift was sent by Justice Joubert—who I believe is also an amateur clockmaker,” her father said. “Why monsieur, there you are! I cannot thank you enough; what a marvel! To think that such wonders exist.”
Her father seemed enchanted by the automatons, smiling as he shook the hand of the Justice. With sudden shock, Marie realized that he was the man in the black coat she had seen before, with his fearful whiskers bristling and his brow low and dark. Even now he kept silent, while before them, the little automatons kept turning in their small, mechanical motions.
After a while, as the evening progressed and the adults still stood in front of the toy palace, Georges returned to his soldiers, bored by the automatons that could only do their one motion, and would never ride off to war. Marie as well had begun to realize that the princess would never stop turning, and that the prince would never lift her on his horse to carry her away. Still cradling her doll, she moved away from the small palace on display—only to run straight into the Justice, who looked at her with a stern expression.
“Well? Are you not pleased by the automatons, mademoiselle Pontmercy?” he asked grimly.
Marie gasped in terror, clutching her doll tightly to her chest. When she did not speak, his expression seemed to turn even darker. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hand reach out. Almost she feared that he would snatch the doll right out of her hands to do something terrible to her in retribution, when she felt a hand gently touch her head.
“Look, Marie, there is a present left,” the familiar voice of her grandfather said. He smiled at her, although something about him seemed very sad, as it had always been.
When her eyes followed where he pointed, she saw that only the present wrapped in black paper had remained. Had not the Justice carried it in earlier?
But when she turned around, the man no longer stood in front of her. She could not see him anywhere else in the room. How strange it was that he had vanished, although she did not dwell on the thought for long.
Instead, accompanied by her grandfather, she went to unwrap the final present.
“Grandfather, look!” In delight, she held out the wooden figure she had uncovered. It was the figure of an officer, stiff and wooden, but with a uniform of blue and shoes of polished black. He had a large, strong jaw and fearsome whiskers, and when she opened his jaw, he showed a row of strong teeth.
“That’s a nutcracker,” her grandfather said. “Shall we give him a nut to crack?”
“I’m sure he must be a prince,” Marie said in delight. “How handsome he is—look how his shoes gleam. How much more beautiful than that Justice he is, although they both have such whiskers! But his uniform shines and his boots are polished. I’m sure he is brave and strong, just like a prince.”
Together with her grandfather, she sat down by the fire, and the nutcracker bravely cracked any nut he was given. Then her mother called for her, and Marie spent half an hour listening to her great-grandfather sing old songs that made the adults laugh. She had already forgotten all about the automatons, as had her siblings. Yet she had not forgotten about her brave nutcracker, and when her mother was at last busy with another guest, she quickly ran back to where she had left her grandfather behind with her prince.
But oh, to what a sight of disappointment she returned! There, where they had sat and talked about her nutcracker’s feats of strength, now her brother Georges sat with the nutcracker in his lap, surrounded by nut shells.
“Bah! He’s not strong at all. Why, my cuirassiers would have run him straight through,” Georges said and dropped the nutcracker to the floor. Marie could not hold back a sound of dismay, for her brave nutcracker’s jaw was open, and three of his teeth had fallen out, victim to the hard nut which Georges had tried to feed to him.
“Oh, my poor prince!” Sadly, Marie cradled the nutcracker in her arms, tears rising to her eyes as she looked at his broken jaw. She drew a ribbon from her hair and tied it around his head, bandaging his battle wounds—but even so her brave prince would look at her no more, the light gone out of the small, black eyes.
“Come, I will fix him for you,” her grandfather said gently when he came upon her. “There’s no need for tears. I’ll take him to a shop tomorrow, Marie, and then he will crack nuts again, just as bravely as earlier.”
Wiping her eyes, Marie nodded. In the distance, the small palace sprung into motion once more, the princess turning and the prince raising his sabre and the soldiers shouldering their rifle, but all Marie could think about was the wounded nutcracker in her arms.
“It’s late, Marie,” her mother said. “Let’s put those toys away into your cupboard, and then it’s time to sleep.”
Marie did not want to give up her brave nutcracker, but eventually, despite her tears, she allowed her grandfather to carry her to bed.
“Do you promise that he’ll be healed tomorrow?” she demanded, holding on to her grandfather’s arms. “Promise, grandfather.”
“I promise,” he said seriously. “He was very brave today. Tonight he needs to rest. Tomorrow, I will visit again and take him with me to a carpenter, and then he will be just as fine as today. But for tonight, you have bandaged him very well. He’ll rest now and sleep, just as you.”
Reluctantly, Marie nodded, although she kept holding on to her grandfather's hand. As she fell asleep, her head was turned towards the cupboard where now the dolls, Georges’ soldiers and the new, small automatons rested, the palace dark and the princess and prince no longer moving.
***
In the morning, when Valjean returned to the house in the Marais, he found the household in a flurry. Marie had been walking in her sleep during the night, it seemed, and had fallen, shattering the glass door of the cupboard where the children’s toys were kept.
“The doctor just left,” Cosette said, her face very pale. “Her arm is bandaged, and she fell back asleep at last. I’m afraid she might have a fever. Oh father, the things she dreamed…”
Valjean allowed himself to wrap his arms around Cosette with guilty delight. He knew that Pontmercy was not pleased to see him here, but as much as Valjean agreed with Pontmercy’s opinion that a man like Valjean had no place in such a home as that of the Pontmercys, it had been impossible to withdraw himself as completely as he knew he should. Cosette had not allowed it, and Pontmercy had eventually relented when the years passed and chances of the scandal being unearthed decreased. Now, Valjean came to visit regularly, watching the children and how they grew, listening to Cosette call him father, and he thought that he was lucky to die like this, with Cosette unaware of who he was.
In the children’s bedroom, Marie was asleep in her small bed, her hair matted with sweat and her arm bandaged. Against the wall, the cupboard that held the children’s toys stood. The glass door was shattered. A servant must have cleaned the room already, for there were no more splinters to be seen—but Valjean could still make out a smudge of blood on the floor, and here and there, further tiny red tracks, almost as if a mouse had run through the blood.
“Grandfather Jean,” Marie said, waking when he sat down by her side. Her eyes were fever-bright, but when he reached out to rest his hand on her forehead, he did not feel any telltale heat. “The nutcracker—”
“Are you still going on about that thing, Marie?” Pontmercy asked. He was very pale as well, but in his eyes, Valjean could see a worry he had not seen since Cosette had given birth. “I should never have let you take it with you into the bedroom. What a ghastly gift; it must have given you nightmares. I don’t even know who brought it—”
Tears began to run from Marie’s eyes. “Father, no! The nutcracker is very brave. He is a prince, and he saved me tonight when the mice attacked—”
“Good God, that tale again!” Pontmercy said and turned away, although Valjean could see that his hand was trembling when he raised it to his mouth. “Enough of that now. You are sick, Marie; you need to sleep, and when you wake, cook will have some broth for you.”
“I’ll stay with you.” Cosette gently touched Marie’s hair.
When their fingers touched, Valjean looked up. Cosette’s eyes were focused on Marie, but there were lines of worry around her mouth, and her eyes were red. She looked very weary. Valjean reached out for her hand, gently pressing it even though Pontmercy was in the room.
“No. You should sleep as well, Cosette. You must have been awake with her half the night and all morning. I’ll watch over her. Go and sleep, and then you can watch once I leave.”
Cosette hesitated for a long moment. Her lips were trembling. Involuntarily, Valjean raised his head, fearing that Pontmercy might be displeased by his offer—but Pontmercy’s eyes were on Cosette, and he too looked exhausted.
“He’s right, Cosette,” Pontmercy said. “Come and rest for an hour or two. You look very tired, and now that the doctor was here, surely the worst is over.”
Cosette looked back down at Marie. After a moment, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her hair.
“Goodnight, Marie,” she said softly. “Grandfather will stay with you for a while, and I’ll be back before you wake up again.”
Then she touched Valjean’s hand, and pressed a kiss to his own brow. A wave of joy ran through him, enough to make him tremble at that heavenly benediction—followed by shame, for surely Pontmercy, who knew what he truly was, was still watching him.
“Grandfather,” Marie said softly. “Will you make sure that the mice stay away?”
He raised his eyes again to look at Pontmercy, who could only helplessly shake his head.
“I will,” Valjean said gently, pulling the covers tightly around Marie. “I promise. No one will harm you while I’m here. Now sleep. I will tell you a story, if you want.”
Pontmercy and Cosette extinguished the lamp when they left Marie’s bedroom. The curtain was drawn, and there was a curious twilight that filled the room. The house still smelled of cinnamon and aniseed and allspice, and the fat of the goose that had cooked in the oven yesterday. Outside, the garden was covered in snow, which brightly reflected the light. But in Marie’s bedroom, there was now only the light of a candle by her bed. In its flickering illumination, Valjean found himself eyeing the broken cupboard once more where the nutcracker sat with Marie’s ribbon tied around his jaw, and where the dolls rested still and silent next to the tin soldiers.
How strange it was now to think of that Christmas so many years ago, when he had hidden a golden coin in the wooden sabot of a half-starved girl.
Tenderly, Valjean smoothed Marie’s hair out of her face.
“It’s a story I read your mother once, long ago, when she was your age,” he began. “It’s a story about the nut Crackatook, the hardest nut in the world.
“There was once a princess called Pirlipat, who lived in a beautiful castle. Her mother was the queen, and her father was the king. One Christmas, they had prepared a beautiful feast. But the Mouse Queen came to visit the queen and demanded to be fed. Afraid, the queen allowed her to take some of the bacon—but at night, all the mice returned. Together, they devoured all of the bacon and all of the lard.
“The next day, when the king discovered that there were no sausages at the feast because the mice had stolen all of the bacon, he was very angry and declared a war against the mice. He hired a clockmaker, who invented many traps and killed many of the Mouse Queen’s sons and daughters. But in revenge, the Mouse Queen placed a curse upon the king’s daughter. The beautiful princess Pirlipat was turned into strange figure of wood, with a square face and a strong jaw that could crack even the hardest nut.”
“A nutcracker,” Marie murmured sleepily. “Pirlipat was turned into a nutcracker.”
“And the king sent out many wise men to find a way to break the curse,” Valjean said earnestly. “They returned with the answer that only the nut Crackatook could break the curse. It is the hardest nut in the world, and it had to be given to the princess by a man who had never shaved nor worn boots. When the clockmaker finally found that nut and the right man, the king was overjoyed. But when the man gave Pirlipat the nut, the Mouse Queen was hiding in the bedroom, and she interfered at just the right moment. So when the curse was broken and Pirlipat was turned into a beautiful princess once more, it was the man who had saved her who was turned into a nutcracker instead.”
“Did the princess kiss him to break the curse?” Marie mumbled. “The nutcracker is so very brave…”
“No, Marie, she did not,” Valjean said sadly. “She was scared by the nutcracker’s terrible face, and even though her father had promised her hand to the man who saved her, she refused and demanded that her savior be exiled.”
“Oh no,” Marie said, “grandfather, that can’t be right…”
“He is still looking for a way to break the curse even now,” Valjean said as he leaned forward to press a kiss to Marie’s hair. “So you are right. The nutcracker is very brave. And to see beyond his wooden face to the bravery and courage within is the sign of a good heart. I don’t doubt that your nutcracker will defend you from all harm tonight.”
“The Mouse King attacked us last night,” Marie murmured, blinking sleepily up at him. “He fought very bravely, but he had no sword, you see. Grandfather, I’m afraid. What if the mice come back tonight? They wounded him yesterday.”
“I’ll be by your side,” Valjean assured her. “And when the Mouse King attacks, I’ll protect you.”
“But what about the nutcracker? He has no sword.”
Valjean smiled. “I’ll bring him a sword. Will you sleep then?”
Marie nodded, and Valjean stood from his place by her side. He went over to the cupboard. There, on the lowest shelf, rested Georges’ oldest soldiers, who had been wounded in battle and retired.
“May I, monsieur?” he asked of an officer who had lost an arm to a cat, then added, “very kind,” ceremoniously resting the soldier’s sabre against the side of the nutcracker.
“I hear that you are a brave and valiant man, and I hereby command you to defend my granddaughter bravely and allow no mice to come near her again,” Valjean said seriously.
At the same moment, something made the candle sputter. For a heartbeat, it seemed as if the black eyes of the nutcracker gleamed at him. Valjean’s breath caught in his throat.
It was only now that he took a closer look at the nutcracker. Something about the face of the figure was strangely disconcerting; had there ever been a nutcracker with such fierce, bristling whiskers before? The uniform the nutcracker wore was blue, its boots black, and for a moment, Valjean found himself staring at what seemed to him a distant ghost of the past: the inspector who had so hounded him, and who had vanished without a trace after Valjean had pulled him out of the river years ago.
Then the candle burned brightly as before, and all shadows receded. The nutcracker was but a toy, and Javert, of whom Valjean had not thought in many years, became a shade of the past once more—perhaps dead, perhaps living elsewhere, but after so many long years, surely no longer a concern of his.
Relieved, Valjean turned away from the silent toy. In the bed, Marie rested calmly, a smile on her lips as her eyes finally closed. Once more Valjean sat down by her side, covering her hand with his, and then he watched her sleep.
***
A trumpet sounded. Soldiers marched. In the distant palace, the princess clutched her chest while the prince’s white horse reared up.
And Valjean woke to find Marie’s bed empty while above him, the fearsome figure of the nutcracker loomed, Marie’s ribbon still wrapped around his jaw.
As Valjean stared up in terrified confusion, the nutcracker pulled the ribbon away. His eyes gleamed fiercely, and his whiskers bristled. From somewhere, he had borrowed a coat—a coat, Valjean vaguely realized, that looked very much like the black cloak of one of the cuirassiers. Now it covered his blue uniform, giving him the appearance of a dark shadow.
It was a shadow which Valjean knew well.
From the square, wooden face of the nutcracker, it was the cold determination of Inspector Javert that glared down at him—and a heartbeat later, Valjean found a sabre pressed against his throat.