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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
- 12
- 13
- 14
Three days later, Javert worked an exceedingly early shift, from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon, because the day before, the body of a bourgeois merchant's wife had been found in Saint Michel. Javert spent the day interrogating inhabitants of the slum, seeking out witnesses to the woman's strangling murder and the accompanying robbery. He'd only been able to find four people that had seen her alive three streets away from where she was found, and nobody seemed to know anything about how she died. Javert was frustrated. The residents of Saint Michel had a sort of code of silence, a common oath not to reveal to police crimes they had committed or witnessed. As Beasse often said, “They protect their own.”

He returned home at around a quarter after four to a quiet house. Emmanuelle was at her mother's, he knew, and wouldn't be home until supper time. Jeanette was sitting in the parlor when he walked through the front door. She was mending a pair of woolen stockings. Javert sighed. He missed the solitude of a truly empty house he'd had when he'd lived alone. He wasn't used to having a home full of people.

He trudged up the stairs and into his bedroom, tired from rising so early that morning after working until three the night before. He'd only had about three hours of sleep. He decided to take a good, long nap before Emmanuelle got home.

He stood beside the bed, shucked his shoes, and unbuttoned his woolen jacket. He glanced over at Emmanuelle's bedside table and noticed the drawer was ajar. He furrowed his brow, curious, and stepped over to the table. He slowly nudged the drawer open and saw a few of the things he would expect to see in the table: Emmanuelle's beloved silver hairbrush, a couple of discarded hair ribbons, a pair of earrings, and a candle snuff. But at the bottom of the drawer was something quite curious indeed – a leather-bound book that looked worn and heavily handled. There was no writing on the cover, no title. Javert reached for the book and pulled it out of the drawer, opening it to a random page.

There, in Emmanuelle's neat, tidy script, was handwritten material. It was a diary. Javert raised his eyebrows and bit his lip. He knew he should put it down, back in the drawer, and tell Emmanuelle he knew where it was. But he couldn't help but wonder...

He scanned the dates at the tops of pages as he flipped through them, searching for October. At last he came across the date he was looking for, October 2^nd, and stopped flipping. He scanned the neat writing quickly and read what Emmanuelle had written.

“Inspector Javert came back today, and what a fool I made of myself! I told him I'd dreamed of him, and then I cried in front of him, and I feel like a complete idiot now. But he was so wonderful about it, and he even said he'd come back tomorrow! Then, joy of joys, he kissed me on the cheek on his way out the door! I nearly hyperventilated after he'd left. I think he's just about the handsomest man ever to walk the Earth. Monsieur Alexandre Marpais has nothing on Inspector Javert. He's much older than me, but I don't care. He probably has a wife. But then, he didn't have a ring (I looked yesterday), and why would he offer to come back and see me if he was married? Maybe his wife died. I wonder if he has children. So many mysteries.”

Javert smiled to himself and turned the page to the next day, October 3^rd.

“He kissed me!!! Miracle of miracles! It was the most wondrous thing that's ever happened to me. Of course, he got flustered after it happened and left, but I'm seeing him again tomorrow, at his house. I wonder if he'll kiss me again. I hope so. I want to kiss him a thousand times. The wild thing is, I told him to do it! How brazen of me. But he did! And then I -”

“Find anything interesting in there?”

Javert jumped, startled. He hadn't even heard the door open. He looked up quickly to see Emmanuelle standing in the doorway, looking at him expectantly with her arms folded across her chest.

He shut the diary and lowered his eyes, biting his bottom lip. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly, his cheeks growing hot and red.

“Why were you reading that?” she asked, her voice oddly calm. She shut the door behind her and took a step into the room.

Javert hesitated. “I was reading October. Early October,” he said finally, still looking at his feet.

“Oh. Well, at least now you know I really liked you,” she said, laughing quietly.

Javert looked up at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I'm so sorry,” he said again, “I-”

“Didn't expect me home until supper. I know.” She nodded and smiled gently at him.

“I was going to take a nap, and the drawer on the table was open, and I saw the book, and then I was really curious, and I only just now turned straight to October, and I'm really, truly sorry. I shouldn't have done it,” he rambled, a pained look on his face.

She laughed again and walked toward him, taking the book from his hands. “Mine,” she said in a mockingly firm voice when she took the book. She put it back in the drawer of the bedside table and turned back to him, giving him a fleeting kiss on the lips. “So, what did I say about you?” she asked.

“Aren't you angry with me?” Javert was incredulous.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she sighed exasperatedly. “Even though I know it's probably a sin and is completely the wrong thing to do, I know if the situation were reversed, I almost certainly would have done precisely the same thing.”

“Oh,” he said meekly. “Well, I'm sorry, but I don't keep a diary.”

She laughed jovially. “I can't exactly see you venting your emotions to the page.”

He sighed. “I'm really sorry.”

She kissed him again. “Please stop apologizing,” she whispered. She paused and scanned his gray eyes. “Just don't read any more of it,” she said quickly. “I got a bit testy after the trial, and then again in late November after you got hurt.”

“Well, that's understandable,” Javert said, frowning. “I probably deserve whatever you said.” He stepped back and yawned, and Emmanuelle giggled.

“Take your nap,” she told him, walking toward the chairs in front of the fire.

“Alexandre Marpais,” Javert said suddenly.

“What?” Emmanuelle asked, turning quickly toward him.

“Who is Alexandre Marpais? You said a Monsieur Alexandre Marpais 'had nothing on me.'” He looked at her curiously.

She smiled, rather condescendingly. “He's a businessman,” she said simply. “He owns one of the largest factories in Paris.”

“Did he ask you to marry him?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said uncertainly, shifting on her feet and looking down.

“Well, what did you mean, he 'has nothing on me'?”

She looked up at him and frowned. “He's about your age, but he looks much older. His hair is entirely gray and he's got wrinkles. And he's rather fat. And he dresses like a dandy. His clothes are, well, flamboyant. He thinks he's pretty impressive.”

Javert stifled a grin. “So you like me better?” he asked, and she smiled meekly at him.

“I like a man in uniform,” she said slyly.

He laughed and took a few steps toward her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her softly on the lips. “Why are you home so early?” he inquired.

Emmanuelle smiled sadly. “I got into an argument with my mother.”

Javert frowned. “About what?”

“It's not important.”

“Yes, it is,” he insisted, pulling back from her and furrowing his brow.

She sighed heavily. “My mother thinks I should go to Beatrice's wedding without you.”

“Oh, for God's sake!” he bit his lip angrily and stepped back, throwing his hands up and shaking his head.

“I know! I told her she was being ridiculous.”

“Did you buy the damned lace tablecloth?” Javert's eyes were wide and maniacal.

“Yes, but -”

“Then we're fine, aren't we? What's the problem, exactly?” He shook his head again.

“Do you really want to know?” Emmanuelle's voice was thin, and she looked terrified.

“Yes!” Javert nodded fervently.

She wrung her hands and gritted her teeth. “Well... my mother asked me today about where you were born and grew up, and...”

“What exactly did you tell her, Emmanuelle?” Javert's voice was low and monotone, but his eyes glistened with fury.

“That you...” Emmanuelle's voice trailed off and she began to cry, tears welling up in her wide green eyes and her red curls trembling.

“That I what?”

“That you had a gypsy mother who was put into jail for fortunetelling, and that's where you were born, and that you didn't know your father, but you knew he was a criminal.” She dissolved into tears, covering her face with her hands and shaking violently.

Javert was silent. He wanted to scream with rage, wanted to cry with embarrassment. He was so overwhelmed, though, that he simply stood there in motionless silence, too stunned to move or speak. He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. His skin was dark, as though he'd been out in the baking sun of the Toulon quarries in summertime. It was the telltale sign of a half-gypsy, he thought to himself. He swallowed hard and stifled the bitter, angry tears that wanted to form in his eyes. He looked back at Emmanuelle, who was staring at him with frantic eyes, heaving with sobs.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked plaintively. “Make something up? She asked me directly!”

“You could have told her it was none of her business,” Javert said quietly.

“How? How do I tell my mother that she can't know about my husband's parents?” Emmanuelle said incredulously.

“Does she know I raised myself?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes, I told her that, but now she just thinks you're a bastard street urchin!” she exclaimed.

“I went to school! And worked!” Javert said defensively.

“I know that! I tried explaining everything, but it's so complicated, and she didn't want to hear it.”

“No one at that wedding knows anything about my past,” he hissed angrily.

“I know! But she said, 'Now, looking at him, I should have known all along.'” Emmanuelle did a snide imitation of her mother.

“Well, fine, then. Go to the wedding without me. I don't like weddings, anyway.”

“No! That's horribly embarrassing, to go to a wedding without my husband! You're coming!” Emmanuelle insisted, stomping her foot like a child.

Javert crossed his arms over his open jacket and sighed. “I need to speak with your mother.”

“What?” Emmanuelle stared at him with frightened eyes.

“A civilized conversation, just the two of us.”

“Right this instant?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head adamantly. “I'm far too upset right now. I'll go tomorrow.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“Didn't I just ask you that same question five minutes ago?” Javert smiled crookedly at her.

“Are you?”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No, Emmanuelle, I'm not angry with you. You told the truth, even if you could have been more delicate about it.”

“I'm so sorry.”

He stepped toward her and kissed her again, this time with a sense of urgency. He grasped her face in his hands, feeling the damp of her tears beneath his skin. He kissed her fiercely, and she squealed quietly into his mouth. He put his hands on her waist and walked her over to the bed, not breaking their kiss as he did so.

He finally pulled away from her to hike her up onto the bed, and she wiped the last remnants of tears from her eyes and looked at him curiously as he climbed up with her. He hovered over her as she lay on her back, his open jacket falling down onto her red brocade gown.

“Do you love me?” he asked as he leaned down to kiss her.

“Yes! I love you!” Emmanuelle exclaimed after he broke away. “You're doing it again, aren't you? Being frustrated and taking it out by being physical with me.”

“Yes.”

He sat back on his knees and reached down, hiking up her skirts and petticoat until he reached the ties of her pantalettes. He untied them quickly and began yanking them down, pulling them all the way down her legs and off over her feet. Emmanuelle squealed in surprise and he laughed quietly, tossing the pantalettes off to the side.

He began touching her all over, rubbing his hands over every inch of her body he could, until he put her hand over his trousers so she could feel the hard lump within. She grinned up at him and he smiled crookedly back. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down a few inches, pulling out his tucked-in shirt. He pulled out his hardened manhood, stroking it gently. He hiked Emmanuelle's skirts back up and perched himself over her, urging her legs apart so he could guide himself in.

“What are you doing?” she asked exasperatedly, laughing and sighing.

“Being impatient,” he answered briskly, pushing into her with a satisfied huff of air.

She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut, and he began thrusting into her hard and fast, his breath heavy.

“You better not... get my dress... dirty...” Emmanuelle panted.

“Oh, hush,” Javert told her, laughing silently to himself. He felt the pang of anger at her mother's bigotry course through his veins like fire, and he grunted as if in pain, and thrust harder.

She gasped again. “You are going to make me pass out in my corset from breathing like this!” she exclaimed.

“Don't breathe so quickly,” he instructed authoritatively, continuing his rapid tempo of pistoning. He groaned contentedly, leaning down to kiss her on the neck.

“Oh, God! That's making it worse!” she cried, panting frantically.

He stopped kissing her neck but continued his frenetic pace of thrusting, and he watched as she tried to take slow, deep breaths in her tight corset. She moaned and squeezed her eyes shut, and that only egged him on.

He felt his orgasm building quickly, and he pumped furiously. He thrust through his climax, stopping moving only when his hypersensitive member could take no more.

He pulled out of her and collapsed beside her, buttoning his trousers again. He tossed his woolen jacket off the bed and lay his head heavily onto the pillows. He dug his fists into his eyes, hissing through his emotion.

Emmanuelle panted beside him, struggling to catch her breath. She coughed once, looked at him, and said, “Corsets are not the appropriate attire for that activity.”

He laughed. “Sorry,” he said blithely.

She heaved herself off the bed and put her pantalettes back on. “Go to sleep,” she told him. “I'll wake you before supper.”

“I'm too worked up to sleep,” Javert argued, but his eyelids were heavy.

“You look exhausted,” Emmanuelle insisted, tipping her head to the side. “Just rest. I'll come get you to eat.”

“All right,” he agreed, and she left the room without another word.

He tucked himself under the blankets and rolled onto his side, thinking for about ten minutes about Emmanuelle's mother. Why did she loathe him now, when she had seemingly liked him so much when he'd courted and married Emmanuelle? What had he done? He supposed he would find out on the morrow. Before he could ponder it too deeply, he was fast asleep.

After supper, Javert and Emmanuelle headed into the parlor, where he built up the fire. He sank heavily into a chair before it, soaking up its warmth contentedly. A moment later, Emmanuelle sat down in the chair beside him and gazed at the dancing flames. They were quiet for a minute, and the clock on the mantle ticked in the silence.

“Do you remember the Revolution?” Emmanuelle asked suddenly.

Javert laughed silently and smiled wryly at her. “Which one?” he asked.

She grinned. “The first one,” she said impatiently.

“Yes,” he answered. “I was nine when the Bastille fell. I was living alone in Toulon, but news came a few days after it happened in July, and I was rather terrified, to tell the truth. We didn't know what would happen next. Then came the Great Fear, when the aristocrats were trying to get help from other states and everyone was engaged in class conflict... and, of course, the next year, the new government established so many rules against the Church. Everything was upside-down, a great confused mess.”

Emmanuelle stared at him, wide-eyed and fascinated. “What did you do?” she asked.

“Me? I was only a child,” he told her dismissively. “All I cared about was food and shelter. I didn't know the first thing about politics; all I knew was that there was mass chaos surrounding me. When they started the killing... well, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. First the royal family, then the aristocrats, then themselves... the revolutionaries were ruthless, and eventually they became cannibalistic with the guillotine. It seemed like every day the news from Paris grew more frightening and more bizarre as tales of their actions and decrees of their new laws came. A new calendar? We all thought that was foolish, but we didn't dare say.”

Emmanuelle nodded, and Javert stared back into the fireplace pensively. He didn't often think of those times, of his tumultuous childhood. He preferred to look forward.

“And you fought for Napoleon?” Emmanuelle prodded.

Javert looked at her and smiled gently. “Yes,” he affirmed. “But that was before you were even born.”

“Where did you fight?”

“I joined the army when I was seventeen. First, we took Malta, then we fought in Egypt against the Ottomans.” Javert furrowed his brow at the memory of war.

“Did you have to kill anybody?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Was it hot?” Emmanuelle asked innocently.

Javert laughed uproariously and grinned at her. “Yes, it was very hot,” he said through his laughter. “It was July in the desert.”

Emmanuelle looked embarrassed. “I'm sorry; that was a stupid question,” she said quietly.

Javert's laughter subsided, but he kept smiling at her. “No, it wasn't,” he asserted, reaching over to pat the arm of her chair. “It was very hot. Much hotter than Paris in July. Much hotter than Toulon in July.”

“When did you go back to Toulon?”

“Why are you so curious about all of this?” he asked her, narrowing his eyes.

“I just want to know what you did before I was born,” she shrugged. “It sounds like you did a lot.”

He laughed again. “Yes, it was a very busy twenty-eight years,” he admitted. “But, then, I've always been busy. Too busy, perhaps. Anyway, I went back to Toulon in 1804, when I was twenty-four, after fighting all over the place for Napoleon. I was so sick of war, so tired of the death and gunfire and marching... having a room of my own in Toulon was heavenly. And being a guard at the prison was so easy.”

“And four years later, I was born!” Emmanuelle exclaimed.

Javert shook his head and half-smiled, looking back at the fire. “Yes,” he conceded, “and that makes me feel very, very old.”

“Oh, stop it,” Emmanuelle huffed. “You've seen and done so much more than me. It isn't fair.”

“Because you would have been so eligible to be in the infantry at the Battle of the Pyramids,” Javert joked.

“I could if I were a man!”

“Well, I'm very glad you're not a man,” he insisted. She giggled furiously at that, and he smiled again. “Any more questions?” he asked.

“Not right now,” Emmanuelle answered, grinning her signature smile at him.

“I have a question for you,” Javert said thoughtfully, putting his elbow up on the chair arm and resting his chin on his fist.

“Oh?”

“How did you learn so much?”

She laughed. “I had a tutor, Monsieur Georges Allard. He had been a professor at the university but was retired. He started tutoring me when I was three. I learned all sorts of things – languages, history, science, mathematics. I stopped lessons when I was eighteen. Monsieur Allard died a few weeks after my father did. He was a very good teacher.”

“I should think so. You know a lot of things.” Javert looked at her and raised his eyebrows mockingly. “It isn't fair,” he said, mimicking her.

“Oh, hush,” she said dismissively. “I'd rather know things from experience than from books. I know what happened in the Revolution. I know all about Napoleon's wars. I just wish I had seen it all.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I wasn't in Paris during the Revolution. I wasn't exactly loitering in the square watching people get beheaded day after day.”

“Do you like Paris?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I thought you said you didn't have any more questions,” he said sarcastically.

“I lied.” She tipped her head to the side and looked at him expectantly.

“Of course I like Paris. You're in Paris.”

“Did you like it before you met me?” Her eyes were bright with curiosity.

“There's a lot more crime here,” he said thoughtfully.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Emmanuelle furrowed her brow in confusion.

Javert thought for a moment and sighed. “It's bad for society. I wish people had more respect for the law. I'm not sure how to imbue that respect into the general populace. I'm not sure why this city seems to be crawling with criminals the way it is. But it keeps me busy and gives me a purpose.”

Emmanuelle looked back into the fire. “You love your work,” she noted. “What are you going to do when they make you retire?”

“I'm not retiring until I'm a very old man,” Javert said determinedly. “They'll have to drag me out and confiscate my uniform.” He looked at Emmanuelle and smiled weakly. “I'm glad you don't see me work. I don't think you'd like me very much.”

“I have seen you work, the day that we met,” she reminded him. “And it was ridiculously attractive.” She grinned. “And I saw you take down Henri. That was very heroic of you.”

His cheeks grew red. “I was just doing my job,” he mumbled.

“You rescued me, both times,” she insisted. “No one's ever saved me before like that. Only you. And you've done it twice.”

“Perhaps it's a testament to how dangerous I am for you that you've needed rescuing twice in my presence,” he said, and she laughed. “Perhaps you would have fallen in love with Inspector Beasse if he'd been the one to save you from Jacques Marnier,” he suggested.

“Eww! He's not attractive! And he's married!” Emmanuelle scoffed.

“I'm not attractive,” Javert insisted.

“Why do you put yourself down? You're very attractive!”

“A dark, old man,” he murmured.

She sighed deliberately and slapped her hands on the arms of the chair. “What are you going to say to my mother?” she asked pointedly.

He looked into her eyes and shrugged, shaking his head. “I'm just going to ask her what I did, Emmanuelle. And what I can do. And tell her that I'm a good man who loves you and takes care of you.”

“Are you coming to Beatrice's wedding with me?”

“Yes. I'm going to the wedding with you.” He nodded slowly. “What would you like me to wear?”

“Your uniform.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes. Quite sure,” she answered.

He nodded again. “All right,” he agreed. “You'd better brace yourself,” he said pensively. “God only knows what the fallout from tomorrow will be.”

Javert arrived at the Douvant house exponentially more nervous than he'd been the month before at Henri Boisson's flat. He'd bathed that morning, and he was wearing the uniform that was freshly back from the laundress. As he stood before the door, his hand hesitating over the heavy brass knocker, he glanced down at himself and surveyed briefly. He sighed. He thought he looked perfectly respectable. He cleared his throat and knocked three times on the door.

After about twenty of the longest seconds Javert had ever experienced, the door opened and Marie stood in the doorway, a surprised look on her face.

“Inspector,” she said politely. “What can I do for you?”

“May I speak with the Madame, please?” Javert asked, trying to sound as congenial as he could and mustering a small smile.

Marie nodded curtly. “Please, come inside,” she said reluctantly, and she stepped aside to allow him passage into the entryway. “Let me go get her.”

“Marie! Who is it?” Madame Douvant's voice called from a room at the back of the house. Javert took off his hat as she came sweeping into the hallway. “Oh,” she said simply when she saw him, stopping in her tracks, “Hello.”

“May we speak?” Javert asked, squaring his jaw.

“Of – of course,” she stammered, gesturing into the parlor. He followed her in there and sat in a chair opposite the chaise on which she sat. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked, folding her hands delicately over her lap and looking down at them, just as Emmanuelle did.

Javert sighed. “I am well aware of the nature of your sentiment toward me. I understand you are concerned about my origin and childhood.”

“Well, dear,” she said, “The way we are raised truly does have an influence on the rest of our lives.”

“Please,” Javert stopped her. “Please. You may be my mother-in-law, but I am six years older than you. Please do not call me 'dear.'”

“Well,” she huffed, “If we are to do away with all niceties, then, by all means, call me Mathilde.”

He tipped his head to the side and bit the inside of his cheek. “I think, if anything, I was made a stronger man by my experiences,” he said quietly, “and I'm determined to be a good father to my children because I didn't have that.”

She nodded once and raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“As for my mother,” Javert said delicately, “She is of little consequence. I have arrested dozens of gypsies in my career; I feel no particular affection for them.”

Mathilde studied his face as though looking for signs that he was different. “Well, that's good to know,” she said finally.

“But, yes, your grandchildren will be a quarter gypsy. Can you live with that?” Javert sat back and raised his hands expectantly.

She bit her lip and said nothing. “When did you tell my daughter about this?” she asked.

“The day after we got engaged,” he answered immediately. “She's known all along.”

“What exactly did you do to her, the night before you got engaged?” Mathilde asked, narrowing her eyes and pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “When she spent the night with you?”

Javert pursed his lips and looked down. He felt his cheeks grow hot, and he cleared his throat. “That's really none of your concern,” he said, “but I think you know the answer to your own question.”

“Is that why you married her?”

He looked back up. “No,” he said firmly. “I married her because I fell in love with her. I love her very much. I take good care of her. Nothing about me has changed, Mathilde. Only your view of me has.”

Mathilde sighed exasperatedly. “I need to be certain about Emmanuelle's safety, security, and comfort! She's my daughter!”

“She's my wife!” Javert said loudly. “She's my wife,” he said again, more quietly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“She certainly is proud of you. She never stops boasting. It's unseemly.” She waved her hand dismissively.

He was silent and looked at the fireplace. “I'm going to Beatrice's wedding,” he said calmly, still not looking at her, “and Emmanuelle is not going to be embarrassed of me.”

“At least wear a suit,” Mathilde begged him.

He looked back at her. “I am an Inspector with the Paris Police. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

She bit her lip and frowned. “Very well,” she said after a moment.

“I'll be going now. Thank you for seeing me,” Javert said, rising from his chair and taking his hat in his hand. She followed him out to the entryway, where Marie was waiting to show him out. Javert nodded at the maid and put his hat on. He turned to Emmanuelle's mother and bowed politely.

“I'm sorry,” she said plaintively, as he turned to walk out the door.

“Emmanuelle?” Javert called, straightening his cravat and walking out the bedroom door. He'd just finished polishing his black boots to a brilliant shine, and he'd just shaven, and he thought he looked fairly well put-together. He walked down the hall to Emmanuelle's dressing room, knocked on the door lightly with his knuckles, and pushed the door, which was ajar, open. Emmanuelle stood with her back to the door, and Jeanette was yanking hard on the ties of the elaborate corset Javert had bought her for Christmas.

“One more deep breath in, Madame,” Jeanette said quietly, and Emmanuelle sucked in breath. Jeanette pulled the ties tighter and began tying them as Emmanuelle leaned on her boudoir for support. After Jeanette had finished tying the corset, Emmanuelle turned and looked over her shoulder.

“That looks... comfortable,” Javert said, raising his eyebrows and smiling crookedly.

“Pain is beauty,” Emmanuelle said with a laugh. Her hair was carefully styled into a tightly coiled, perfectly smooth bun on the top of her head surrounded by tight curls. It shone and glistened with a touch of oil, and the red color was luminous. Her pale face was decorated with cosmetics; her eyes were shadowed and her cheeks rouged, and her lips were a dark pink. She had on teardrop pearl earrings and a double strand pearl necklace. “I'm almost ready,” she told him, as Jeanette fetched her turquoise satin gown from her wardrobe. “You look very nice.”

He looked down at himself. “I think I'd feel better wearing a suit,” he mumbled.

“Nonsense,” she said dismissively, as Jeanette brought the gown down over her head, carefully avoiding her face and hair.

“The carriage will be here in five minutes,” Javert told her, looking rather anxiously at the pocket-watch she'd given him.

Jeanette began buttoning up the back of Emmanuelle's gown. Emmanuelle maneuvered her feet to slip on cream-colored satin low-heeled shoes, reaching on her boudoir for her white gloves. “Very nearly ready,” she said again.

Ten minutes later, they were situated in the carriage, rolling down the cold cobblestone street toward Sainte Chapelle. When they arrived at the church, dozens of other carriages were there, unloading passengers dressed in their finery. Emmanuelle encountered many people she knew on their way into the church, and even more after they'd been seated. Javert shook all the men's hands and bowed politely to the women. He got some odd looks in his uniform, but everyone treated him with respect.

At the reception, he talked his way through dinner in what he thought was an estimable fashion. He and Emmanuelle were seated with (naturally) Emmanuelle's mother, as well as some young colleagues of Guy Laurent. One of them eyed Emmanuelle with what Javert thought was a bit of a wandering eye, given that the young man was at the wedding with his rather unfortunate-looking wife. Javert shook it off; Emmanuelle didn't even seem to notice. Thankfully, Emmanuelle's mother was friendly enough to him throughout dinner. Javert even danced a few songs with Emmanuelle, though he was a horrible dancer and warned her of that. He managed a few waltzes, and she mercifully released him from dancing after that.

“See, that wasn't so bad, was it?” Emmanuelle asked when they were in the carriage on the way home. “Everyone was nice to you.”

“It was fine,” he conceded. “You know how I am about social affairs.”

“Well, thank you for not acting miserable,” she said, patting his hand. He squeezed her hand gently and smiled at her. “I love you,” she told him.

He leaned over and kissed her on the lips in response. Before he could pull away, Emmanuelle grasped his face in her hands and pulled him back in for another kiss. She plunged her tongue into his mouth and kissed him fiercely, and he grunted in surprise. He kissed her back, lacing his leather-gloved fingers through her curls and crushing her mouth with his own.

“Ungh – too much wine,” he said, breaking away from her. “What are we doing?”

“Kissing in a carriage,” Emmanuelle said, laughing.

“Kiss me some more,” he told her. “I'm going to ravage you when we get home.”

“Good Lord,” she said incredulously. “You really did have too much wine.” Then she plunged back into kissing him.
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Emmanuelle