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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's first night back on the job made him forget all about Emmanuelle's mother and his nagging feelings of inadequacy. He'd spent hours at home in the afternoon stewing, walking through the flat and wondering if this rug looked shabby, if that chair's wood needed polishing. He went to Emmanuelle's wardrobe and examined her clothes for wear and tear – did anything need to be replaced? He'd always been very careful with his money, and he had a large amount in savings. Even now, with Emmanuelle's added costs, his monthly budget had a comfortable cushion that went into savings at the end of each month. He could spend more on her, he thought. Maybe they could move to a bigger flat. He'd gone out at around three o'clock, went to the jeweler's and bought her an emerald pendant necklace to match her eyes. He'd give it to her at Christmas along with the silk and satin corset and sapphire earrings he'd already bought her. He'd given her a bit of money so she could buy him a gift, but he found it funny – receiving a gift bought with his own money.
He took supper alone at the tavern up the road and had looked around him, wondering for the first time in his life what other people thought of police officers.
But when he arrived at the police station and had been given a swath of streets to patrol, he had grinned and walked with a bounce in his step. He was practically gleeful when he walked into a tavern in the Latin Quarter on patrol and recognized a known pickpocket. The man had run when he and Javert made eye contact, and the thief darted out the back door, knocking over chairs as he fled. Javert had pursued him, running for the first time in ages, and had caught him in an alley, subduing him viciously with his nightstick. It felt good, and all of Javert's cares and worries were gone.
Doing his duty, enforcing the strict distinction of good and evil, right and wrong, made Javert feel worthwhile and useful, something he hadn't felt in all his time convalescing from the attack in the boulongerie. This was his purpose in life: rescuing society from itself, from its darkest impulses and most wicked digressions. He believed in his heart that men had but one important choice in life: save society, or help bring it down in flames. He had made his choice long ago. One does not come from such unfortunate origins without facing this choice head-on, and Javert had realized very early in life that it was his destiny and function to uphold the law, to reward morality and to prosecute vice.
And so, when he strode happily through his front door at three in the morning, Javert finally felt like himself again. He jogged up the stairs and quietly opened the bedroom door. Emmanuelle looked up from a book she was reading by candlelight and smiled at him.
Javert shook his head, smiling back.
“Why are you always awake when you should be sleeping?” he chuckled.
“I wanted to see how work was,” she told him.
“That could have waited until morning.”
“I knew you'd come home happy,” she said, ignoring his statement and laying her book on the bedside table.
Javert made for the wardrobe and began to disassemble himself. “Oh, it felt so good, Emmanuelle, you have no idea. I chased down three men tonight,” he bragged, unlacing his boots.
She giggled. “Are you quite tired?” she asked.
“No,” he insisted. “Besides, running keeps you warm in the cold.” He grinned.
“You're practically giddy,” she observed, grinning back at him.
He walked quickly across the room toward her in his woolen stockings and bent down.
“You are so beautiful,” he said simply, and took her face in his hands. He kissed her passionately, intertwining his tongue with hers and being playful with her mouth. He was forceful and pressed his mouth hard against hers. She squealed at his aggressiveness and he let her go, half-smiling at her and rubbing his thumbs over her temples. She laughed and put one hand on his cheek and her other hand on his chest, gently pushing him away.
“Go get undressed,” she giggled.
He kissed her forehead and walked back to the wardrobe. “See?” he asked, unbuttoning his woolen jacket. “I don't need wine, or Chartreuse for that matter, to be happy. I just need work.”
“What about me? Don't I make you happy?” Emmanuelle pouted at him.
Javert chuckled and gestured to the bulge in his trousers he'd gotten from kissing her. “You make me very happy,” he said playfully.
She laughed again and started unpinning her hair. The braided chignon came down and left long, crooked waves trailing down her back. She took the hair brush she kept stashed in the bedside table drawer and began brushing out the curls framing her face, but the mash-up of styles was messy, and she huffed. She plaited the whole head of hair into one thick braid coming down over her left shoulder and sighed contentedly.
Javert had been watching her the whole time, standing by his wardrobe in his trousers and stockings, gazing at Emmanuelle.
“What?” she asked self-consciously, running her fingers nervously over the braid.
“You are so beautiful,” Javert said simply.
“You already said that,” Emmanuelle tittered and yawned.
“Well, I must really mean it, then,” he told her, and finished undressing.
She looked at his nude body and made a little noise of approval. “You're not so bad yourself, you know,” she said seductively.
He felt his cheeks grow hot. He put on his nightshirt. “I'm old,” he said quickly, his smile gone.
“You don't look old. You just told me you chased down three men tonight. Do you feel old?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not tonight,” he conceded, strolling over to the bed and tucking himself under the blankets.
Emmanuelle blew out the candle beside her and wormed her way down under the covers. She stared at him.
“You're not old,” she said firmly.
“Your mother thinks I'm old.”
“That's because you're older than she is.”
“See?” he said. “I'm older than your mother. Old, old, old.”
She laughed and snuggled her body close to his. “You're not old,” she insisted again. “I'm just very young.”
“Now you make me sound very predatory,” he joked.
“It's almost Christmas!” she said jovially, changing the subject.
“Yes, and I have presents for you that I hope you'll like,” he told her.
“I hope you like your present. You're a difficult man to shop for,” she huffed in feigned frustration.
“Did you buy something for Jeanette?”
“Yes; I got her a straw bonnet with satin trim and ribbons and silk flowers on the side,” Emmanuelle gushed.
“I don't know if that's a good present or not,” Javert snorted.
“It is,” Emmanuelle insisted.
“I believe you,” Javert said. “And your mother?”
“I got her a porcelain vase with painted roses on it.”
“Doesn't she already have a lot of vases?” Javert asked skeptically.
“She likes them. My father used to buy her vases all the time,” Emmanuelle answered.
“Oh,” he said simply. “All right.”
They were silent for a long moment then, and Javert felt Emmanuelle's breath hot against his chest.
“Did you talk about me after I left?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted finally. “But I defended you.”
“Oh, well, thank you, most valiant knight,” he said sarcastically.
“She just said that she thought maybe we let the whole thing happen too quickly... that maybe if we'd been patient a wealthy suitor would have come for me,” Emmanuelle said.
“Do you wish that's what had happened?” Javert asked, feeling his heart race. She felt it, too, and put a hand on his chest.
“Calm down!” she said indignantly. She looked up at him. “How many times do I have to tell you this? I didn't want to be matched! I wanted to marry for love! And that meant you! If I'd fallen in love with the baker's son, I'd have married him and been poor for the rest of my life. But I didn't; I fell in love with you, so I married you, and I wouldn't have wanted any of those businessmen!”
“I thought I'd never marry at all,” Javert said quietly. “But you were... I had to have you. I can't imagine what I'd have done if your mother had told me I couldn't marry you.”
“Well, we'd have eloped, wouldn't we?” Emmanuelle asked plainly. “She doesn't own me, much as she thought she did. I didn't need her permission.”
“How many men asked your father for permission to court you?” Javert asked suddenly. “It couldn't have just been Boisson.”
She swallowed hard. “No, it wasn't. I don't know... probably four or five. Another asked my mother after my father died. Henri asked three times.”
Javert pursed his lips and sighed. He'd had no idea she'd been so actively pursued. But of course she would have been; she was a girl of higher circles, and she was intelligent and beautiful.
“Would he have said 'yes' to me?” Javert asked, though in his heart he knew the answer.
“I don't know, and I don't care,” Emmanuelle said firmly. “Why do you want to spoil your night talking about being old and what my mother thinks? You were so happy when you got home.”
He sighed again. “I don't want to spoil my night.”
“Then how can I make you happy again?”
“Kiss me,” he said simply.
She slid up so her face was even with his, and they kissed. She whimpered and moaned, and that just got him excited. She broke the kiss, both of them panting, and looked at him.
“What was the best thing that happened tonight?” she asked breathlessly.
“What?” He wanted to keep kissing her.
“Tell me. What was the best part?”
He sighed and laughed. “I got into a fist fight with a man who had just broken a window; he knocked my nightstick away so I had to fight him directly, and I brought him down.”
“That's so exciting!” she said, and kissed him again. He smiled to himself. She knew how to get his mood back in order. He felt her tongue flat against the roof of his mouth and groaned hungrily. He kissed her for a full minute before she broke away once more.
“You are so irresistible,” she told him, her breath heaving and irregular. “And so handsome.”
“Go get a towel,” he said firmly in response.
“Why?” she asked, trying to kiss him again.
He grabbed her hand and brought it down to where he was hard and throbbing. She giggled and ran across the room, darting back into bed with a rag. She kissed him fiercely, moaning insistently into his mouth and running her fingers through his untied hair.
He reached down, the rag in his left hand, and stroked his hardness, spreading the bead of liquid that had already formed on the tip down and over the shaft to lubricate it. It didn't take long at all, only a few seconds, and then he was climaxing, and he broke his kiss with Emmanuelle and flopped onto his back, moaning and grunting as he came onto the towel.
When he was still and quiet, Emmanuelle reached beneath the sheets to take the rag from him, and she jogged over to the laundry basket and tossed it in. When she came back, he was staring at her and smiling weakly.
“Happy?” she asked coyly.
“Very happy.”

It snowed on Christmas, big heavy globs of snow falling from the heavens, and that seemed appropriate to Javert. He had worked the night before, and it had been busy. It seemed like the entire city was drunk or set on breaking into people's houses to steal gifts. Javert had spent most of the night at a house that had been burgled, investigating evidence and gathering statements from the residents of the home. He'd returned late at night, realizing that it was already, in fact, Christmas morning.
He and Emmanuelle had gone to Mass before he went to work on Christmas Eve, so he felt that his Christmas duty to both God and the law was fulfilled. When he awoke, it was nine-thirty, and although he wanted more sleep, he noticed that Emmanuelle was gone from bed, and he forced himself up. He got dressed and ready for the day and took Emmanuelle's wrapped gifts from the drawer of his wardrobe where they'd been stashed for the last three days since he'd clumsily encased the boxes in paper.
He could hear piano music coming from downstairs, and he furrowed his brow. When he walked into the parlor, Emmanuelle was seated at his sturdy wooden piano, playing “Il est Né, le Divin Enfant.”
“I had no idea you could play so well,” he said behind her, and she startled and turned around.
“Merry Christmas to you, too!” she laughed. “I've been playing since I was four.”
“Why don't you ever play for me?” He frowned.
Her cheeks turned pink and she shrugged. “I don't know; I get embarrassed playing in front of people.”
“People?! I'm your husband!”
“I'll play for you more often,” she promised, smiling meekly at him. He smiled back, admiring her appearance. She was wearing a dark green and white striped taffeta gown with a richly decorated padded hem. Javert noted the color; perfect for the emerald pendant he'd bought her. He also noticed that she'd worn her hair down today, and he knew that was for him. Jeanette had styled it into big, loose curls, and Emmanuelle wore a thick, green satin ribbon tied around her head. She had no earrings or necklace on. She suspected that he'd bought her jewelry, Javert thought.
“You look lovely,” he told her genuinely.
“Thank you,” she nodded graciously.
“Are we going to your mother's?”
“No; I've already been. I'm not making you go there,” she said. “I gave her her vase. She liked it a lot. She scolded me for wearing my hair down. She's going to my grandfather's house with my aunt and uncle and cousins for luncheon, games, and carols. She said we were more than welcome, but I told her I wanted to spend our first Christmas together with you.”
Javert swallowed. He was so grateful that she'd avoided putting him in another lengthy, awkward social situation. “Thank you very much,” he said appreciatively.
She smiled. Javert heard the sounds of cooking from the kitchen. “What is Jeanette making?” he asked.
“Goose, and vegetables, and bread, and meringue pie,” Emmanuelle said happily. Javert's stomach rumbled. He'd never eaten supper the night before. “Are those presents?” Emmanuelle asked, her voice sounding like a child's. She rubbed her hands together and got a fiendish look in her eye.
Javert laughed. “Yes, they are.”
“Let me go get yours!” She dashed up the stairs and into her dressing-room, emerging a moment later with a small wrapped box. “Let's open them!” she said breathlessly.
They sat on the two chaises, facing one another.
“You first!” Emmanuelle insisted, handing him the small box. Javert paused and ran his fingers over it.
“No one's ever given me a gift before,” he told her.
“Never?” she breathed.
“No,” he said wistfully. “This is my first present.”
“Well, it shan't be your last,” Emmanuelle said confidently, her dazzling grin frozen on her face. “Open it!”
Javert carefully unwrapped the present, uncovering a square velvet box. He opened the lid, and saw a brass pocket-watch staring back at him, its cover open. It was stately and elegant, and he took it out of the box with a smile.
“It's so you'll always know exactly what time it is when you're on patrol,” Emmanuelle told him excitedly. “I couldn't believe you didn't have one already!”
“It's lovely,” he beamed at her. “Thank you very much.”
“Look at the back,” she prodded.
Javert turned the watch over. It was engraved with carefully scripted words. “Il sera notre temps toujours,” Javert read. It will always be our time.
He felt tears welling up in his eyes, and he rose and walked over to Emmanuelle. He knelt before her and embraced her tightly. “Thank you very, very much,” he said again. He kissed her on the lips and stood.
“I'm glad you like it,” she smiled happily. “I was afraid you might not like it.”
“That would be impossible,” he insisted. “It's perfect, just like you.” He walked back to the opposite chaise and nervously passed Emmanuelle his three boxes.
She grinned fiendishly at him. “You got me more presents than I got you. That's not fair.”
“It's all my money,” Javert reasoned, shrugging and giving her his cocky half-smile.
She laughed and opened the biggest box first. Before she took the top off the box, Javert warned her in an anxious voice, “I'm not very good at picking out presents. I've never given gifts, either.”
She grinned at him. “I'm sure you did just fine,” she said, and pulled the box open. She gaped down at the luxurious corset and ran her fingers over the silk and satin. The corset was white, with pale pink piping and embroidered roses. Javert had been embarrassed buying it, but the corsetier had told him this was the finest one in the shop, and of the style all the wealthiest women were wearing now, with pink satin laces up the back and shiny thread in the embroidery. Javert had taken the corsetier at his word, shelling out a pretty penny for the garment. “It's beautiful,” Emmanuelle breathed, holding it up and admiring the back.
“I wouldn't have brought that to your mother's house,” Javert laughed.
“I can't believe you stepped foot in a corset shop,” Emmanuelle grinned at him and giggled.
“I just wanted to get you something pretty.”
“Well, it's lovely, and you have very good taste; I've never had a pretty corset, only plain ones. This is like all the best in the fashion journals. They don't make them any better than this. I can't wait to wear it. I'll feel so extravagant,” she gushed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You're welcome,” Javert said calmly, feeling much relieved that she appreciated it. “Open the smaller ones.”
Emmanuelle set the corset aside and opened the smallest box. She took out the little velvet box and tipped open the lid, beholding the round sapphire earrings inside. “Sapphires!” she exclaimed. “Oh, won't they look lovely with my blue dress, and they're so sparkly!” She took them out of the box and put them in her ears, looking up at Javert. “How do they look?” she asked, smiling broadly.
“They look beautiful,” he told her.
“I love them,” she said confidently.
“There's one left,” he reminded her, gesturing to the last box. She tore the paper and opened the box, marveling at the oval emerald dangling from the gold chain. She gasped.
“Emerald,” she breathed, “To match -”
“Your eyes,” Javert finished for her. She looked up at him.
“I was going to say 'this dress',” she laughed.
“No,” Javert said seriously. “It's to match your eyes. Your beautiful, mesmerizing eyes.”
She looked like she was going to cry, but instead she hurriedly put the necklace on, letting the emerald fall on her snow-white decolletage. She looked up at him, and he smiled, his lips tight together.
“Beautiful,” he said quietly, almost to himself. She rose and rushed over to him, sitting across his lap so he held her in his arms just like he did the first day they met.
“You're very good at buying presents,” she said softly, leaning up to kiss his cheek.
“So are you,” he replied, leaning down to return her kiss, this one on the lips.
She gazed into his eyes and smiled delicately. “Merry Christmas,” she whispered.
“Merry Christmas, Emmanuelle.”

The snow continued after Christmas, but of course it didn't seem whimsical after the holiday. The new year came and went, and everyone welcomed 1829 with drunken revelry that Javert happily quashed wherever possible. The next day was his birthday, and he had warned Emmanuelle that he did not want to celebrate it. She had asked him for money to buy him a gift, and he had refused her; in fact, he'd made sure she had no money at all in the days leading up to his birthday. He'd given Jeanette strict orders not to bake a cake, no matter what Emmanuelle said.
When he opened his eyes at ten o'clock on his birthday, Emmanuelle was wide awake next to him in bed.
“Happy birthday!” she said excitedly.
He groaned. “Emmanuelle, don't... just don't say that, please.” He flung his arm over his eyes and shook his head.
She sat up and hovered over him, wrenching his arm away from his eyes.
“You should celebrate your birthday,” she said patronizingly, “Because it means God has given you another year on this Earth to live.”
He snorted and laughed bitterly. “One year closer to death,” he said sardonically.
“You can't look at it that way!”
“You'll understand when you're older,” he told her.
“Well, I'm not older, and I don't understand,” she said childishly.
“Don't whine,” Javert scolded, finally looking at her. Her long red hair was plaited into pigtail braids, and the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks was accentuated by how pale her skin was in the winter. She looked very young, he thought, younger even than twenty, because she was so petite and had a doll-like face. She looked at him with a petulant stare, making her look even younger, and he shut his eyes and sighed.
“What is it?” she asked softly.
“You should have married a man in his twenties,” Javert said sadly.
“Why? They're little more than boys,” she said, sounding disgusted.
“And you are little more than a girl,” Javert responded. “And today I am twenty-nine years older than you. I could have been married with multiple children on the day you were born.”
“Well, you weren't, and you waited for me!” Emmanuelle said, making her voice sound merry.
He scoffed. “I wasn't waiting for anyone. I was ignoring everyone,” he said.
“I think you were waiting for me, and God gave me that fever, because if I hadn't been ill, you never would have held me in the police station, and you never would have come back to my house, then come back again to my house – In fact, if I hadn't been ill, I never would have been in Saint Michel, and I never would have met you in the first place.”
“Maybe that would have been better for you,” he said woefully, turning his head to stare out the window at the swirling snow.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice firm now. He did. “Meeting you was the best thing that's ever happened to me,” she told him deliberately. “You act like you regret meeting me at all,” she said, tears welling up in her wide eyes.
He sat up and held her face, looking her square in the eye.
“No, Emmanuelle,” he said, his voice soft and gentle. “The moment I saw you, I wanted you. I just don't think I deserve you.”
“Well, deserve me or not, I'm yours... forever. So you should act happy about it,” she pouted.
He half-smiled at her and kissed her on the lips. He pulled back, but she grasped his face and pulled him back, kissing him again. She looked at him with a gaze full of uncertainty.
“I gave you my virginity three days after meeting you,” she told him, as if he didn't know.
“You rather insisted that I take it from you,” he replied, setting his lips in a flat line. “And then you rather insisted that I take you multiple times after that before we were married.”
“Well, you should have had some self-control. I'm five feet tall and weigh a hundred pounds. I couldn't force you to do anything,” she raised her eyebrows and grinned crookedly at him. Mocking him, he thought to himself.
“Emmanuelle, you successfully snuff out all trace of self-control that I possess,” he told her, pursing his lips. “And you are a little seductress.”
She giggled. “Do you regret it?” she asked.
“I wish we'd waited until we were married. I feel badly for taking your maidenhead like that.”
“I don't regret it,” she said, shaking her head.
“I know you don't,” he sighed.
“And I wouldn't have done that with any of the twenty-somethings or businessmen who wanted to marry me,” she said authoritatively.
“That's good to know,” he said, biting his bottom lip.
“Do you still want me?” she asked, her wide eyes glistening.
“Every hour of every day,” he answered, putting his hands on her shoulders.
“Then you should never do anything except work and make love to me,” she said, grinning.
He licked his lips and smiled. “That sounds splendid,” he said.
“Won't you at least celebrate your birthday by ravishing your wife?” she asked, giggling playfully at him.
He growled at her and pulled her toward him, and he did just that.
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Emmanuelle