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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2021 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
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Javert spent most of December trying his best to be happy that each day he grew closer and closer to going back to work. Yet he realized that going back to work would mean not seeing Emmanuelle all day, every day, and so he cherished their time together. He took her to the opera, they went to Advent Mass every day, and he took her to the nicest tavern in Saint Germain for lunch.
On the twentieth of December, Javert's Captain came to the house and met with Javert and Doctor Tournette.
“I see no medical reason why Inspector Javert could not work at this time,” Doctor Tournette told Captain Marceau. “I will be removing his stitches in two weeks, but the wound has sealed together nicely, and his cognitive and physical functions are back to normal.”
“Javert,” Captain Marceau said, “Be at the station tomorrow at seven. You've been sorely missed.”
Javert had nearly cried tears of joy. Instead, he solemnly told the Captain how eager he was to return to work, and thanked the doctor for giving him the all-clear.
“I'm very happy for you,” Emmanuelle told him that night at supper, looking at him across the table. “I know you're tired of being cooped up here with me all day.” She looked sad.
“I'll miss seeing you all the time,” he told her, tearing apart a long piece of bread.
Emmanuelle swirled her spoon around in her soup and stared at it.
“What's wrong?” Javert asked, dipping bread into his soup.
She looked up at him, tears rimming her eyes. “I started bleeding today,” she said, her voice cracking.
Javert sighed sadly and felt his heart sink, but he looked at Emmanuelle and gave her a little smile. “That's all right,” he said. “It's only been two months. God works in his own time.”
She nodded and tried to smile back at him, but there was sorrow in her eyes.
“I know you want a child,” she told him.
“I do,” he confirmed, “But right now I'm happy just being with you.” She smiled genuinely then. “Show me the smile I fell in love with,” he said to her, and she flashed him her bewitching grin. He laughed, and they continued eating their meal happily.
There was a knock on the door, and they looked at one another, puzzled. Javert rose and began walking toward the door, but Jeanette hurried into the entryway and flung the door open.
Henri Boisson stood in the doorway, snow swirling behind him.
“Jeanette, go back upstairs,” Javert said, his voice monotone. Jeanette looked confused but did as Javert said.
“Emmanuelle,” Boisson said, looking at her. She looked back at him with an expression of horror.
“Do not dare address her,” Javert said menacingly, approaching the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
Boisson was still looking at Emmanuelle. “I love you,” he said, and Javert moved to slam the door shut. Boisson jammed his foot in the doorway and looked at Javert. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. As Javert tackled him, the gun went off, and Javert heard Emmanuelle scream. He also heard the sound of shattering glass and a loud crash. Javert wrenched the gun from Boisson's hand, tossed it aside, and rotated the student onto his stomach. He shoved a knee into Boisson's back and grasped his wrists.
“Emmanuelle?” he called. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“I'm fine!” she said. “It hit the mirror.”
“Go upstairs. On the bottom of my wardrobe, there's a set of handcuffs and a small key on a leather loop. Bring them to me, please. Hurry!”
He heard her running footsteps and heard Jeanette call out, “Monsieur! Mon Dieu!”
“Stay inside, Jeanette; I've got it under control,” Javert said. He never took his eyes off Boisson. “You chose the wrong man to try and shoot,” Javert growled at him.
“You don't deserve her!” Boisson spat into the wood of the threshold. Snow was blowing into the house through the open doorway.
“You could have shot her!” Javert's voice was menacing. He tightened his grip on Boisson's wrists and shoved his knee harder into his back.
Emmanuelle's running footsteps padded on the rug behind Javert, and he looked up to see her panting, a terrified expression on her porcelain face.
“Thank you,” Javert said, taking the key and shackles from her with his left hand. “Do not even try to move,” he said to Boisson, and unlocked the shackles. He put them around Boisson's wrists and hoisted him up and onto his feet. Javert grabbed the scruff of his coat and yanked him into the house, shoving him down onto a chair in the parlor. “Emmanuelle, go get my shoes, nightstick, and overcoat, please,” he said, “and put on a cape and bonnet. We're going to the police station.”
He stalked over to the door, bent down to grab the pistol Boisson had shot, and shut the door. He walked over to the broken mirror and looked for the bullet. He found it on the Turkish rug, lying among shards of mirror. Javert picked up the bullet and put it in his pocket. He tucked the pistol in his vest. Emmanuelle appeared with his shoes and coat. She held his nightstick out like it was dirty; like she was afraid of it. Javert stood in front of Boisson and bent to tie on his shoes.
“If there's one thing in this world that annoys me, Monsieur Boisson, it is the criminal who escapes punishment. You committed a crime when you forced yourself on my wife, though I had no way of proving in court that it happened, and you got away with it. But you come to my home with the intent of shooting me dead... well, let's just say you can expect some penalization. You are not only condemnable; you're also a complete dolt.”
“I wouldn't have been caught because I wouldn't be here,” Boisson said in a monotone voice.
“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” Javert looked up at him and began putting on his overcoat.
“I was going to shoot you, then Emmanuelle, then myself,” Boisson said sadly. “If I can't have her, no one should.”
Javert was silent for a moment. He looked up at Emmanuelle, who stood, horrified, behind Boisson's chair.
“Well, thanks be to God in Heaven it didn't work out that way. As for you, I would gladly give you back this pistol and send you out in the street to shoot yourself if I thought you'd honestly spare us. But I don't trust you an ounce, so you're going to prison, and I don't particularly care what happens to you.”
“Henri, why would you kill me?” Emmanuelle asked, her voice shaking.
“Don't talk to him, Emmanuelle -” Javert began.
“Because you never loved me,” Boisson answered. “At least not the way that I love you.”
“Come on,” Javert said, hoisting him up by his arm. “That's enough. Not a sound out of you. We're going to the station now.”

Javert and Emmanuelle both made witness statements at the police station. Javert gave Beasse the pistol and the spent bullet, which Beasse took into evidence. They would not have to testify at a criminal trial, as Boisson was going to plead guilty. He made no attempt to deny what he did or what his intentions were. Javert's only worry was that the worm would wind up in an insane asylum instead of a prison. He wanted Boisson, the frilly little art student, to spend many long years working the quarries at Toulon, and he made that request clear.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Javert and Emmanuelle returned home. Jeanette was cleaning up the broken mirror, searching the Turkish rug for tiny shards of broken glass.
“Don't cut yourself,” Javert said cautiously to her when they'd come back through the door.
“I'm fine, Monsieur, just fine.”
Javert and Emmanuelle went upstairs to bed, supper forgotten. Javert undressed Emmanuelle and she went to get herself into night clothes. As he undressed, Javert felt his hands trembling. He'd had close calls on the job before, but never had he imagined having to save Emmanuelle's life from a murderer.
They climbed into bed and Emmanuelle sobbed in his arms, tears of dismay and shock. Javert held her and kissed her forehead and let her cry herself to sleep.

Javert woke up suddenly, wrenched out of a dream in which Boisson came to fetch Emmanuelle and she ran away with him. He awoke with a sheen of cold sweat on his face, and he shook himself to rights. He looked around. Emmanuelle wasn't in the room. Javert panicked. His heart started racing. Where was she? What time was it? He looked at the clock on the mantle above the fire. Nine-thirty. He'd slept for ten hours. He sighed and calmed a bit. She must have been awake for a while now. She was probably downstairs.
He put his uniform on, even though he didn't have to work until seven in the evening. As he was buttoning his trousers, the bedroom door opened and Emmanuelle walked in.
She was all done up, her hair in curls around her face framing a braided bun on top of her head, the style that all the most fashionable wealthy women in Paris were wearing now. She had rouge on her cheeks, and she wore a pale pink velvet gown with a sheer, off-the-shoulder neckline gathered with a large silk rose in the front on her chest. The puffed sleeves tapered to her wrists. She wore a necklace of pearls, teardrop pearl earrings, and fine cream silk slippers. She had on white leather gloves. Over one arm she held a black velvet cape, and in her other hand she held a hat-like black velvet bonnet adorned with pink flowers.
Javert paused. “Why so fancy?” he asked pointedly. “You look like we're going to the opera.”
“I need to go to my mother's and tell her what happened with Henri,” Emmanuelle said. “And after last night, I just wanted to feel pretty today.”
“You're always pretty,” Javert said gently. “And you know I think your hair is most beautiful when it's down.”
“It's not fashionable to wear your hair down,” Emmanuelle said a bit haughtily.
“Then I don't like fashion. Besides, you're a policeman's wife, not a duchess,” he laughed.
She scowled. “You should tell me I look pretty.”
“Emmanuelle,” he said, sighing and tilting his head, “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said plainly. “Are you going to come with me to my mother's?”
“Do I have to put on striped trousers and a nipped-in long waistcoat?” he joked.
Now she laughed. “No,” she said. “I know what you like to wear.”
He continued getting dressed. “Do you feel like you have to dress up for your mother so she knows we're not poor?” he asked as he pulled on his boots.
“No,” she said, but she sounded uncertain. “But I grew up with money. She has... expectations.”
“She knew what I was when she consented to me marrying you,” he answered, pulling on his woolen jacket. “Did she think police were members of the upper class?”
“No,” Emmanuelle said again, but once more her voice was hesitant.
He finished buttoning up and walked over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. With his boots on, he was well over a foot taller than her, and he towered over her. “I take good care of you, don't I?” he asked. “You have a maid, and good food, and we go to the opera and the ballet, and we have fine things here, and I let you go to the dressmaker's and the milliner's, don't I?” he looked at her, uncertainty and curiosity in his eyes.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “You take very good care of me.”
“Then what do you have to prove?” he asked, shaking his head.
“Nothing, I suppose,” she replied.
“Do you wish I was a wealthy businessman?”
“I wish I didn't worry for your safety like I do,” she said.
“Henri Boisson would have tried to kill me even if I were the wealthiest merchant in Paris, Emmanuelle,” Javert said.
“But they wouldn't have attacked you in the boulongerie if you weren't a policeman.”
Javert took a deep breath. “Well, I am a policeman. And it's not just something I do; it's part of who I am – a big part. If you can't accept that, then... well, I don't know what to tell you.”
“Of course I can accept it,” she sighed, annoyed. “I wouldn't have married you if I couldn't accept it. It's part of what drew me to you,” she said, reaching out and fingering a brass button on his woolen uniform jacket. “I love you.”
“Then the next time we go to your mother's, do me a favor and wear your hair down, and wear a normal dress,” he said, raising his eyebrows. She nodded.

Madame Douvant was horrified to hear that Henri Boisson had forced Emmanuelle to kiss him, and speechless when she heard about his mephistophelian attempt to kill Javert, Emmanuelle, and himself. She was relieved to hear that Boisson was going to prison, but she teared up and looked at Javert.
“If his father were alive today, he'd be so ashamed of what Henri has become. And his mother – I can never see her again! She'll be disgraced. An insane criminal for a son. How shameful. I can't talk about it any more,” she said hurriedly, putting her hands up and shaking her head. “When do you go back to work?” she asked Javert, quickly changing the subject.
“Tonight, at seven,” he told her, trying to sound jovial and forcing a smile. “Hence the uniform,” he joked.
“I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything else except on your wedding day,” Madame Douvant replied, sipping her tea and taking a dainty bite of her madeleine.
Javert smiled shyly, clasping his hands together on the table. He opened his mouth to speak, didn't know what to say, realized he probably looked like a fish, and shut his mouth again.
“Emmanuelle, you look lovely today,” Madame Douvant told her daughter. “This man must take good care of you.”
Javert felt his ears grow hot and he stifled a sigh. Of course she was going to touch on this sensitive nerve that had been the source of emotional discussion for Emmanuelle and him earlier.
“He does,” Emmanuelle said gently, looking him in the eye and biting her bottom lip. “You should have seen him last night. He saved us, and he was quite the hero. If I hadn't been so frightened, I'd have swooned.” She smiled at the both of them.
“Your father would be so proud,” her mother pressed. “But, of course, we wish you weren't in such a dangerous job! When will you retire, do you think? Or will they move you into an office situation, especially after this attack in the boulongerie?”
Javert scowled at Emmanuelle. Her mother stared down at her cookie and pursed her lips.
He cleared his throat. “No,” he said thinly, licking his lips. “I'm going on patrol tonight. And I'm not planning on retiring any time in the near future. Not for many years. My work, and Emmanuelle, of course, are my life.”
Madame Douvant looked up at him and raised her eyebrows. “I see,” she said demurely, and she and Emmanuelle began discussing the Russian ballet company that was coming to Paris.
Javert looked down at the prissy teacup he was drinking out of and sighed. He didn't think he wanted to come back here any time soon. With Emmanuelle he could be himself: the dedicated lawman with an occasional sense of humor and a hidden gentleness triggered by her and her alone. Here, he had to pretend that he was “nice.” Well, he wasn't “nice,” and he wasn't going to retire early or take a desk job to put this woman, who was six years younger than him, anyway, at ease. Emmanuelle knew what he was and accepted it, and that was all that mattered.
“Darling?”
Javert snapped out of his reverie and looked up from the cloudy abyss of his tea.
Emmanuelle and her mother were looking at him expectantly. Emmanuelle looked mildly amused that he'd been so distrait and inattentive; Madame Douvant looked vaguely irritated.
“I'm sorry?” Javert said meekly.
“I asked if you'd finished your Christmas shopping,” Emmanuelle's mother said slowly, as though he were stupid.
“Oh. Yes, of course. Just the day before yesterday, I got the last gift,” he said, forcing a smile. “Jeanette is helping me hide everything.” He tried to laugh at what he thought sounded remotely like a joke.
“Who is Jeanette?” Madame Douvant turned to Emmanuelle.
“Our maid.”
“Oh,” Emmanuelle's mother nodded knowingly. “Yes; I remember now, from when I had supper at your flat. She spilled wine on the tablecloth.”
“She's usually very good,” Emmanuelle said, but her cheeks turned pink.
This was a disaster, Javert thought to himself. The sooner he got himself out of this situation, the better. He needed some excuse to leave. He looked up at the clock. It was only half past noon. He had nearly seven hours until his shift started.
“Shall we play some Brusquembille?” Madame Douvant suggested, smiling broadly. She rose from the table, her pattered silk shawl draped around her elbows and behind her back. She opened a cupboard in the hutch in the dining room and extracted a deck of cards. She turned around and waved them.
Oh, no, Javert thought. He'd be here for hours if he played a card game – and he despised card games. His fellow guards and Toulon had forced him to play cards with them, and he disliked the competitive nature. He also found cards to be dull.
“I – there's quite a bit of paper work I need to fill out about my sick leave,” Javert was lying through his teeth and internally cursed himself for doing it. “I'm not sure how long it will take. It's probably best that I'm off to the station now so I can complete any forms or statements they need, then take some supper later before my shift starts.” He smiled with his lips shut tightly together.
Emmanuelle frowned at him, furrowing her brow, and Madame Douvant looked disappointed.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, a hint of acid in her voice. “What with your work being your life...” she grinned widely, a fake smile, and Javert sucked in his bottom lip and blinked slowly. He rose, taking his hat in his hand and reaching for his overcoat off the rack.
“Thank you for a very nice luncheon,” he said. “I'm sorry we came with such bad news. I'm only glad he chose to act on his insanity at a policeman's house. He didn't stand a chance.” Javert was fighting back, now. He had his coat on and held his nightstick in one hand, his hat in the other. “Emmanuelle, I'll see you tomorrow morning,” he said, giving her a quick little smile.
“I'll walk with you to the station,” she said, her voice grave. She rose from the table and put on her cape and bonnet. “Mother, I'll be back soon.”
Madame Douvant had a smug look on her face. “Of course, dear; I'll see you shortly, then.”
Javert and Emmanuelle stepped out into the frigid air, and Javert walked quickly. Emmanuelle practically had to trot to keep up with him.
“Slow down!” She finally said loudly.
Javert slowed his steps, his boots clicking on the cobblestones. He looked straight ahead.
“Stop,” Emmanuelle commanded, grabbing his shoulder and halting.
Javert turned to her and looked down.
“I'm sorry she was so horrible to you,” Emmanuelle said, looking ashamed.
“She hates me,” Javert said simply, sounding unaffected.
“She doesn't!” Emmanuelle insisted.
“She seemed to like me just fine when I was courting you and when we got married,” Javert noted bitterly.
“It's her friend, Camille Trudeau,” Emmanuelle said breathlessly, shivering in the cold. She hugged her cape more tightly around her as her teeth chattered.
“Who is that?” Javert was irritated. “You're going to freeze to death,” he said harshly.
“You're out in the cold for hours in your work,” she remarked.
“Who is Camille Trudeau?”
“My father's company – Douvant Textiles – Raoul Trudeau was his right-hand man, his second-in-command. After my father died last year, Monsieur Trudeau took over the company and gives my mother her pension. Camille – Madame Trudeau – and my mother are close friends. I used to be friends with their daughter, Beatrice. She's nineteen. She's getting married next month to another important businessman who owns a shirt factory and buys textiles from Trudeau, Guy Laurent. My mother is jealous because Beatrice is marrying Laurent and will be very wealthy. And he's thirty-one... maybe thirty-two; I can't remember. Now my mother thinks she made a mistake and married me off to a middle-class man who's too old for me. But I always told her I wouldn't be matched; that I was going to marry for love.” Emmanuelle looked weary and embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to the scarlet heat of humiliation shading Javert's face.
He cleared his throat and stood up straighter.
“Do you think there was a mistake, Emmanuelle? Do you want to be rich, married to a younger man?” There was ice in his voice, and she frowned.
“Of course I don't think there was a mistake!” she exclaimed. “We have plenty of money! And I don't care how old you are!”
“I turn forty-nine in twelve days,” he reminded her, his jaw jutting forward.
“I know that! I know when your birthday is!” Her voice was shrill and desperate now. She took a deep breath, shaky from the cold, and steadied herself.
“So this is why you dressed up so nicely today,” he nodded, looking at his shoes.
She sighed, shivering. “Yes,” she confirmed.
“I can't change who I am, Emmanuelle. You married the bastard son of a Gypsy. I have no pedigree. My education is limited. I am an officer of the law, and I am paid a respectable wage for that. That's who I am.”
“No,” she said, putting her hand under his chin and forcing him to look at her. “You are a dedicated servant of the law. You are a devoted husband and a provider. My life with you is more than enough. I am happy to be your wife.”
Javert looked around. No one was nearby on the street. He leaned down to kiss Emmanuelle, and she let out a little “Mmm...” into his mouth. He stood up and she wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing him tightly before stepping back.
“I love you,” she said slowly and deliberately, looking him square in the eye. “And I always will. Now go back the other direction and sit at home for a while. I know there's no paper work.” She grinned wryly.
He chuckled and they turned back. He crossed to the other side of the street when the reached number 12 and hustled quickly by, in case Madame Douvant was looking out the window. Emmanuelle disappeared into the house and he continued up the road, back to his more modest dwelling.
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Emmanuelle