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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2022 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Javert opened the front door as quickly as he could, fumbling with the key in the darkness. A cold rain fell on him, and he shivered as he and Emmanuelle hurried through the door. As soon as they were inside, he dropped his hat on the ground in the entryway, and furiously resumed kissing her.

“Entirely too much wine,” he murmured, as he managed to wiggle out of his overcoat and hang it on the rack next to the door. Emmanuelle giggled and reached up, wrapping her arms around Javert's neck. He leaned down and swept her off her feet, one hand under her knees and the other behind her back. She squealed and laughed as he charged down the hallway and up the stairs, finagling open the bedroom door when he reached it. The room was pitch-black, chilly, and quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle. When they were inside, Javert set Emmanuelle down on the bed and ambled over to the fireplace to build up the fire. He turned back to her and growled. “You look delicious,” he said, stalking back to the bed. “I've wanted you all night.”

“Well, now you can have me,” she said seductively, taking off her hat and twirling a curl around her finger. She slipped out of her wool cape and let it fall behind her. Javert reached down and grabbed her hand, pulling her off the bed. She made a little sound of protest but rose quickly, standing in front of him. He spun her around so her back was to him and began unbuttoning her turquoise gown. His fingers were clumsy as he tried to move quickly, and he cursed under his breath with a laugh.

“I can't see straight,” he drawled, leaning down to kiss the back of Emmanuelle's neck. She sighed and reached behind her, caressing his cheek.

“I've never seen you like this,” she told him, shaking her head.

“I've never been like this,” he replied, straightening back up to finish unbuttoning her dress.

“No? Not even with the girl in the tavern?”

“Ugh. Can't we pretend she never existed?” he begged plaintively, sounding slightly disgusted. He finished with the buttons, made a triumphant noise, and tugged on Emmanuelle's sleeves to pull the gown up over her head. He laid it over the foot board of the bed, smoothing it carefully.

“I'll bet she got naked pretty quickly for you,” she said sadly.

When he stepped in front of her and tipped her chin up to look at him, his voice was serious. “Emmanuelle, stop it,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” she said timidly.

He kissed her fiercely then, crushing her mouth with his and plying his tongue roughly against hers. When he finally broke away, he looked down at her with his trademark crooked smile.

“Can I finish undressing you now?” he asked. She smiled gently and nodded. He swept back around her, his boots clicking loudly on the wood floor. He set to untying her corset and sighed umbrageously. “Far too many clothes,” he lamented under his breath, and she laughed.

She took a few deep breaths when he managed to loosen the ties of her corset. He smiled and helped her shuck the corset and put it on the ground. The rest of her garments were quickly removed, and when she was standing nude before him, he made a little grunting noise and kicked off his boots. He climbed up on the bed and patted beside him. She followed, sitting propped up against her pillows on top of the blankets.

Javert traced her curves with his fingertips, relishing the silky smoothness of her skin beneath his own roughness. She shivered at his touch, her nipples hardening and goosebumps rising on the surface of her skin.

“Why am I naked and you still have all of your clothes on?” she asked quietly, laughing. He grinned back at her and unbuttoned his jacket, untied his tie, and untucked his shirt, which he also unbuttoned. She pushed it all back, baring his torso and arms. He tossed the clothes aside and she continued to touch him, stroking the hard lines of his chest with her soft hands and brushing her satiny lips through the nest of graying hair on his sternum.

He buried his hands in her curls and pulled her head in close against his chest. She pressed her ear against his skin and listened to his heart for a moment as he stroked her scalp.

“Emmanuelle?” Javert murmured softly, and she pulled back to look up at him with inquisitive eyes. “Touch yourself for me,” he said, flashing her a devious grin.

She sat up and raised her eyebrows at him. “What?!” she asked incredulously.

“I'm sure you've done it a thousand times,” he said nonchalantly, rolling his eyes.

Emmanuelle scoffed. “I have not!” she said indignantly, tucking her knees up to her chest.

“No? Not even when you were reading the Marquis de Sade?”

She blushed and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head back and forth. “All right, perhaps once or twice,” she admitted, her voice muffled.

He laughed wickedly and pried her hands off her face. “I think it was more than that,” he teased. “I think you've touched yourself loads of times.”

She looked at him pointedly. “Oh, because you've never done it.”

“Did I say that? I did it immediately after I first kissed you, as a matter of fact. But I haven't done it since I've been married to you... except for the few times you've been next to me, I suppose.”

“You did it after you kissed me?” She looked amazed.

“Didn't I seem a little worked up?” he asked plainly.

She tittered. “So that's why you rushed out on me. So you could run home and... do that.”

“Well, I couldn't very well ask you to do it for me,” he reasoned, rubbing her arm gently with one hand and touching her cheek softly with the other.

“You made love to me the next day!” she giggled at him.

His hand stopped stroking her arm then, and he sighed deeply. “I did,” he said slowly. “And I shouldn't have. What if you'd decided you didn't like me after all, and you wanted to marry someone else? Then what?” he pursed his lips and rubbed his forehead.

Emmanuelle scowled at him. “I knew I wanted to be with you. I knew what I was doing. I'm not stupid.”

“I didn't say that you were! But I'm old enough to be responsible about that, and -”

“So am I!” she insisted.

“You're not!” he said firmly, biting his lip and throwing up his hands. “Clearly you're not! You insisted that I do it!”

“I'm not a whore! And I'm not a child!” she shouted. “You could have said no!” She slid off the bed and reached for her chemise, carelessly crumpled on the floor. She hastily flung the garment over her head and stormed over to the chairs in front of the fire. She flopped down in one and huffed, leaning her cheek onto her fist.

“Emmanuelle!” Javert sounded shocked. He jumped off the bed and stalked quickly to stand in front of Emmanuelle's chair. He folded his muscular arms across his bare chest and looked down at her with bewildered eyes. “You are not a whore, and you are not a child,” he agreed, shaking his head and shifting his feet. “And I would never call you those things. I just meant...” he hesitated and sighed. He bent down on one knee, bracing his hands on Emmanuelle's thighs. She looked into his eyes skeptically. “I just meant that you were worth the wait,” he said, very softly, giving her an apologetic look and reaching up to brush her cheek with his fingertips.

“So I'm not just a girl you ravaged and then felt compelled to marry out of guilt?” she asked bitterly.

“I'm rather offended that you would even suggest that,” he answered, looking annoyed. “I love you very much, Emmanuelle, and I had many reasons for marrying you.”

“I just wish you hadn't been so angry the first time,” she mumbled.

“Well, I'm sorry I was, and I promise that tonight, I'll show you how very not angry about making love to you I am now,” he smiled.

She clutched his hand in hers and pressed his palm against her cheek, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes.

“Tell me a story,” she said quietly, looking calmly at him.

He shook his head and narrowed his eyes, grinning confusedly at her. “What kind of story?”

“Tell me the story of meeting me.”

“You were there,” he laughed softly and stroked her cheekbone with his thumb.

“I want to hear your side of it,” she told him, smiling gently.

He shifted to his other knee. “Will you come back to the bed with me?” he asked. “Please?”

She nodded and rose, holding his hand as he walked her back to the bed and hoisted her back up onto the blankets. She propped herself up again on the pillows and he sat facing her with his arms around his knees.

“So,” he said with a sigh, “Meeting you. I heard you scream.” He grinned at her, fingering one of her curls. She smiled shyly at him and squeezed his hand. “I heard you scream and I ran toward you. The second I saw you, I thought you were beautiful. I chased down Marnier and brought him back to you, and, even though you were crying, I still thought you were lovely. At the station, you took my breath away when you let your hair down. When I was holding you... when you tucked your face into my chest and I stroked your hair... I...” he looked away, embarrassed, and laughed rather piercingly under his breath.

“You what?” Emmanuelle prodded, reaching for his face. Her voice was soothing, like warm milk, and he cleared his throat and looked back at her.

“I got... aroused... that's all,” he mumbled, averting his eyes after he'd said it. She giggled, her laughter like bells in the silent room, and he grinned in spite of himself.

“I know you did,” she told him matter-of-factly. “I could feel it through my skirts.”

He looked embarrassed again. “You didn't say anything,” he murmured, picking absently at the blanket.

“What would I say?” she blurted, flabbergasted. “'Pardon me, Inspector; perhaps you ought to stop touching me, because I can feel your cock'?”

Javert burst into laughter, sillier laughter than she'd ever heard out of him.

“You're drunk,” she told him, smiling.

“I am not,” he insisted jovially. “I'm tipsy is all.”

“Your eyes are glazed.”

“Oh, hush.” He leaned forward and put his hands on her cheeks, pulling her face into his and thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She squealed but let him in and kissed him back, swirling her tongue against his in a clumsy dance. He reached for the hem of her chemise and inched it up her legs to her waist, and she moved to pull it off over her head and toss it back over the side where it had lay strewn before.

“Once again,” she said, “I am naked and you are not.”

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked, his voice rather pathetic.

“No,” she sighed. “We will never agree on what happened that day, but I love you... very much.” She punctuated her assertion with a firm kiss on his lips, and he smiled dreamily at her. “Now what was it you wanted me to do?” she asked, grinning wickedly.

“Touch yourself for me,” Javert said again, running his knuckles up her calf. He flashed her his half-smile, more crooked than usual from the wine.

Emmanuelle laughed nervously. She reclined her head back onto the pillows and slithered down the bed, parting her legs a bit as she did. Her eyes fluttered shut and she slid her right hand between her legs, pushing her middle and ring fingers into the silky folds of her slick opening. She began grinding her clitoris against the palm of her hand, cupping her left hand over her right to push her fingers more firmly inside of herself and grind herself harder. She moved her hips in a swirling figure-eight motion, bending her knees and planting her feet firmly on the bed. She tipped her head back and crushed her curls against the pillow as she moved, biting her bottom lip and clenching her eyes shut.

As she carried on, Javert sat beside her gaping in wonder, beholding the sight hungrily and with boundless lust burning in his eyes. His breathing accelerated, growing rapid and uneven and ragged as he watched her thrust her fingers inside herself and grind against her palm. He became harder than he thought possible, and his erection strained obdurately against his trousers.

Emmanuelle began whimpering softly from beside him, thrashing her head slowly back and forth.

“Please touch me,” she said softly, little gasps escaping her mouth. She peeked at him and began bucking her hips hard against her hands.

“No,” Javert told her, brushing his fingertips over the bulge in his pants. “I want to see you finish on your own.”

“Ugh!” Emmanuelle groaned, but she resumed the bucking motion. “Do you want to know a secret?” she asked, rubbing her wetness in circles against her clitoris.

“What?” he said, staring her nether regions, enthralled.

“A few times, I've done this when you were at work.” She giggled maniacally and gasped as she rubbed herself, plunging her fingers back in and grinding against her hand again.

He laughed heartily. “I'm glad to know you keep yourself busy while I'm earning our money,” he said through his laughter. “Now I can wonder while I'm working if you're at home doing this.”

She began panting and clenched her eyes shut again. “Ah!” she cried out, her movements becoming jerky and erratic.

Javert growled, stroking the lump in his pants more firmly. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled his member out. The silky tip throbbed, pink and enlarged, and glistened with fluid. He spread the fluid down over his hardened cock, gliding his hand over the firm shaft and back up to the quivering tip.

Emmanuelle finally let out a boisterous cry and twitched spasmodically under her hands. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed, driving her head back into the pillow, her breath heaving.

Javert made a noise of approval and stroked her arm with his left hand for a moment. After a minute or so, she looked up at him, her cheeks pink, and grinned.

“There,” she said rather triumphantly. “Happy?”

“Not yet,” he said, sliding his trousers off and tossing them off the bed. He moved so that he was on his knees in between her legs. He grabbed a pillow from his side of the bed and slid it under her backside, propping her hips up. He clutched her tiny ankles in his large hands and moved them to his shoulders, so that her body was angled at ninety degrees. He guided himself into her, hissing through his teeth as he felt her sodden entrance envelop his throbbing member with wet warmth. He pushed all the way in, venturing deep inside of her and relishing the sensation.

Emmanuelle moaned, clutching the blankets in her hands and plaiting them restlessly. Javert began thrusting in earnest, his member very well lubricated by Emmanuelle's intense arousal. He shut his eyes and felt himself panting undependably as he pumped in and out of her, his pistoning hard and constant. His sculpted abdomen was hard with exertion as he moved, and the muscles in his lean shoulders and arms rippled as he clutched Emmanuelle's legs.

“Oh, it's so deep!” she cried, and he looked down at her. As he thrust into her, her ample breasts undulated up and down in a graceful, erotic motion, her nipples hard and her skin glowing in the firelight. Javert groaned. The sensation of her moist heat and the depth of his thrusts coupled with the image of her body as he moved within her was too much to endure.

His climax built quickly, a raging inferno burning out of control from his very core. Too soon, he felt an explosion in his mind. His ears grew hot and started ringing, he seemed to be floating in the room, and the feeling of his fluid bursting forth in uneven volleys was so intensely pleasurable that he moaned loudly, saying Emmanuelle's name over and over, until he came down from his cloud. He gently pulled out of her, smiling dizzily at her and lying beside her on the bed.

She nestled into him, tucking her head between his shoulder and chest, casting an arm and a leg across him, and pulling her body flush against his.

“You're right,” he said finally.

“About what?” she asked.

He kissed the top of her head. “Making love to you was the best decision I ever made.”

Javert arrived at the police station the following day to find that he and Beasse had been summoned to the station at the Jardin du Luxembourg. There had been a murder, the summons said, and Javert and Beasse were needed as inspectors in the case. Javert had sighed and rubbed his forehead upon reading the summons. Another murder on the Left Bank, in the Latin Quarter, in such a short time? What on Earth was wrong with this city? Sometimes he was simply confounded by the sheer amount of violence in Paris. To make matters worse, he had something of a splitting headache from imbibing the previous night at the wedding, and working such an early shift the morning after his day off had put him in a dour mood.

“Let's go, then,” Javert said to Beasse, crushing the summons in his hand. Beasse put his overcoat and hat on and followed Javert out the front door of the station. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until the younger man cleared his throat and spoke.

“I've been distracted the last few days,” Beasse said.

Javert raised his eyebrows, and, though he didn't particularly care about Beasse's personal life, it was true that Beasse had been quite attentive while Javert was convalescing from his head wound. If nothing else, Beasse's attempts to be friendly were rather amusing to Javert. The closest thing Javert had ever experienced to friendship was his camaraderie with his fellow soldiers in Napoleon's army and the other guards at Toulon. Of course, his relationship with Emmanuelle was not only romantic and physical, but also friendly and convivial, and that was a first for him. But Beasse's attempts at outreach baffled Javert. He was anything but approachable, he thought, not even remotely affable in the workplace. Yet, here they were, walking together to the Jardin du Luxembourg, and once again Beasse was attempting to make conversation.

“What's the distraction?” Javert asked, humoring his colleague.

“It's Louise,” Beasse told him. Louise was Beasse's wife, Javert knew. He remembered when they'd gotten married, three years previously. Javert had begrudgingly attended the paltry wedding that had been thrown when Beasse got married – Louise was the poor daughter of a shoemaker, an old bride at twenty-six when she married the then thirty-five-year-old Beasse. She was not altogether a bad-looking woman, but rather simple, with plain, straight brown hair and a round face. She was tall and broad, as Javert remembered. Not particularly Javert's style of woman, and she looked a bit silly beside Beasse, who was an inch shorter than her and much thinner. Nevertheless, they had seemed like a happy couple at the time. Javert sighed quietly to himself. Was Beasse about to give him some sob story on the pitfalls of marriage?

“What's wrong with Louise?” he asked cautiously.

“Nothing! Nothing's wrong! She's pregnant again!” Beasse grinned widely and looked quite proud of himself. Instantly, rather than the acclamatory happiness he ought to be feeling on Beasse's behalf, Javert felt a pang of jealousy course through his veins. Beasse already had one child, after all, and he, Javert, had none. “We only just found out, you see,” Beasse continued breathlessly, his words spilling forth as though he'd been anxiously awaiting his opportunity to tell Javert all about Louise's pregnancy. “Olivier will be so excited to have a little brother or sister.”

“Congratulations, Beasse,” Javert said, trying his hardest to sound congenial. He found himself walking faster, taking long strides, and the shorter man struggled to keep up at a walking pace. “Children are a blessing, truly.” He flashed Beasse the briefest of smiles and continued walking briskly toward the Jardin du Luxembourg.

“But of course, you'll be having your own soon enough,” Beasse said quickly, his voice conciliatory, as if he'd picked up on the tension in Javert's response.

Javert nodded curtly. “Soon enough,” he agreed shortly. For the rest of the walk to the Jardin, Beasse did not try to strike up conversation. He seemed content enough to rush alongside Javert in silence.

They arrived at the station near the Jardin and were immediately ushered out into the park, a few acres into the interior. The unseasonably mild air and the bright sunshine belied the grimness of the occasion for which the inspectors were in the park. When they neared the Medici Fountain, Javert saw two gendarmes with rifles standing above a heap on the ground beside the long water basin. His heart sank, and he sighed. As they grew closer, Javert could see that the heap on the ground was covered with a black sheet.

“There's a sight one never really wants to see,” Beasse said glumly to Javert's right. “They found him at eight o'clock this morning. This must be bad, or they wouldn't have needed both of us.”

Javert did not answer. They finally reached the gendarmes and everyone nodded in greeting. Javert crouched down and peeled back the sheet off the victim, revealing his head and face. When he did, he resisted the urge to jump upright and cry out in shock. He did gasp audibly, and looked up at Beasse with surprised eyes.

“I know this man,” he said.

“Who is it?” Beasse asked, sounding concerned.

“His name is Guy Laurent. I attended his wedding yesterday.” Javert, not easily rattled, looked visibly shaken, and Beasse put a hand on his shoulder. Javert narrowed his eyes and stared at Beasse's hand. “I'm fine,” he insisted.

“Javert, how did you know this man? His clothes are quite fine...” Beasse bent down and peeled the sheet the rest of the way off of Laurent, revealing the young blonde man's corpse, clad in fancy attire and a cashmere overcoat, lying on his side.

“He... I... his bride is a friend of Emmanuelle's,” Javert said, shaking off the shock. “Beatrice. This man, Guy Laurent, he owned a shirt factory.”

“What makes you think this is a murder?” Beasse asked the police captain who had walked the two inspectors out to the body. He rose and shivered visibly, though it was not cold out.

Javert answered the question for him. “This man is thirty-two years old and was in perfect health when I saw him last night. You can see with your own eyes that he is dressed immaculately. Clearly he didn't just fall down dead of his own accord.” He began prodding around the body gently and found a richly decorated silver flask. It was open and empty. Javert sniffed the flask. He made a face and looked up at Beasse. “Poison hemlock,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Beasse asked, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.

“Quite sure,” Javert told him. “It's got a very distinctive odor.”

“Do you think the wife is a suspect?”

Javert stood and brushed his hands together, shrugging his wide shoulders. “The wife is always a suspect, I suppose. Although, I think the most likely suspect is lying here dead.”

“You think it's suicide?” Beasse raised his eyebrows at Javert and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Ever hear of Socrates?”

“As I recall, Javert, Socrates was rather forced to drink that hemlock.” Beasse pursed his lips.

“Sentenced to kill himself. As I said, poison hemlock has a strong odor, and a strong taste, as well. It seems quite impossible to me that Monsieur Laurent would drink an entire flask of the stuff without realizing he was being poisoned.” Now Javert crossed his arms, and stared intently at the body.

“Well, is there a note on him?” Beasse asked.

Javert bent back down and searched all of Laurent's pockets. He examined the inside of the deceased man's overcoat and shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered finally. “Perhaps at his house.”

“You don't have to go,” Beasse told him. “Since you know the wife. I'll take it from here.”

“No,” Javert insisted. “I'm quite certain this is a suicide, and it'll be better for everyone if Beatrice knows the police she's dealing with... she's only nineteen. And if something seems suspicious, well, I'm more likely to get her to talk than you are.”

“Where do they live?”

“Rue de Grenelle. Adjacent to the Esplanade des Invalides.” He stood once more, bracing his hands on his thighs and feeling an ache in his knees from crouching so much.

“That's quite a walk from here,” Beasse noted.

“No doubt he took a carriage,” Javert said authoritatively. “It seems no coincidence to me that he died here, right beside the greatest landmark in the gardens.”

“Well, let's go to his house to find out why he died, now that we know the how of it.” Beasse looked grimly at Javert, who grimaced at Beasse's attempt at dark-humored wit.

The inspectors arrived at Laurent's town house an hour later. As they approached the door, Javert glanced at Beasse.

“Let me do the talking, at least until she's comfortable,” he said, and Beasse nodded his consent.

They stepped through the wrought iron gate and walked across the little courtyard in front of the town house, stepping up to the door. Beasse fidgeted nervously, but Javert confidently reached for the rope to pull the doorbell. He heard it clang inside and waited. About thirty seconds later, the wide green door opened, and a tall, gangly young maid answered. She looked distraught.

“Good afternoon,” Javert said, for it was now half past noon. “Is Beatrice – Madame Laurent – available, please? We're inspectors with the Paris Police.”

“Did you find him? Did you find Monsieur Guy?” The maid erupted into tears. Footsteps came bounding down the staircase at the rear of the town house, and Beatrice came bursting into the foyer. She was a slender girl of medium height, about five inches taller than Emmanuelle, and her hair was the same pale blonde of her husband's. She was a year younger than Emmanuelle, but Javert thought she looked older. Today, she looked wretched. She was wearing a nightgown with a silk floral robe tied around her and satin slippers on her feet. Her hair was still styled in curls from her wedding the night before, but stray hairs and frizz made her look messy and unkempt. Her face was red and swollen, puffy from crying and streaked with salty streams of tears. She appeared suddenly in this indecent state, clutching a crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

“Inspector Javert!” She dashed across the foyer and collapsed onto Javert, grasping his arms and weeping pitifully into his chest. Javert glanced, bewildered, at Beasse, then back down at Beatrice. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up.

“Can you stand, Beatrice?” he asked, trying to make his voice as gentle with the grief-stricken girl as he was with Emmanuelle.

Beatrice rose shakily and looked miserably up at Javert. “Tell me he's all right,” she sobbed, her blue eyes gleaming. “Tell me he's alive!”

“What have you got there, in your hand?” Javert asked. He swallowed hard and averted his eyes away from her immodest state. Beside him, Beasse sniffed and shifted uncomfortably.

“He's dead, isn't he? Guy is dead!”

Javert pursed his lips and nodded slowly, looking her square in the eye. “Yes,” he said finally. “We found him in the Jardin du Luxembourg, at eight o'clock this morning.”

Beatrice thrust her fists onto Javert's chest and yowled execrably. “The fool!” she cried. “My father would have helped him! He didn't have to do this! And now he's left me! I knew something was wrong last night, after the wedding! See here!” She thrust the paper at Javert and stepped back, swooning slightly. “Oh, I feel ill,” she said, her face going gray.

“Fetch her a pot!” Javert said to the maid, who ran off to the kitchen. He stepped forward and grasped Beatrice's shoulders. “You'll be all right,” he said, though his voice sounded harsh to his own ears.

“Does Emmanuelle know?” Beatrice sounded distant and faint.

“Not yet,” Javert told her. The maid came jogging back into the room with a pot, and Beatrice promptly vomited in it. Beasse recoiled, taking a few steps backward, and Javert felt slightly queasy, owing to the previous night's indulgence, which now seemed distinctly distasteful and misguided.

While the maid was tending to Beatrice, Javert read the crumpled paper she had handed him. In shaky script, it read,

“My dearest Beatrice,

It is with great sorrow that I leave you now, but I have no other option, for I am ruined. I am sorry to have not told you this before the wedding. It was wrong of me to marry you without revealing the true nature of my status in this world; this has been a long time forming and has been a serious matter for some time now.

You know that I fancy gambling, that it is a past-time of mine. It seems, my darling Beatrice, that I have liked it too well, for I have made myself a fine mire of debt of it. I owe nearly eighty thousand francs now, a Brobdingnagian fortune. This colossal debt has quite ruined me; even if I sold the factory, I would likely get only fifty thousand francs for it and would still owe thirty thousand, and even then I do not know how to stop gambling.

I can not fathom bringing children into this morass of financial ruin. I can not imagine a marriage for you in which you are reduced to abject poverty. Please, with haste, find and marry another man who will provide amply for you and give you children. I love you too much to make you pay for my errors, Beatrice. Farewell, my charming beauty, my enchanting flower.

Love, Guy”'

Javert smoothed the note and handed it to Beasse, who scanned it and raised his eyebrows at Javert. Beasse folded the note carefully and tucked it away in his pocket.

“How did he die?” Beatrice asked, her voice cracking. “How did my husband die?” She was leaning on a side table and had resumed crying.

“He... he poisoned himself. With hemlock,” Javert told her matter-of-factly.

“Hemlock?! Where would he have gotten that?” She looked baffled.

“It would seem as though he was planning this for a while,” Javert suggested, shrugging his shoulders.

“Then why did he go through with the wedding?” Beatrice's voice grew shrill as she got more agitated.

“I don't know, Beatrice. I'm very sorry.”

“What'll I do? We can't even have a funeral, since it's suicide! He can't even be buried in hallowed ground!” She threw her hands in the air, bemused.

“I'm sure your father will help you. And you know Emmanuelle and I are always available. You have friends and family.” Javert shifted awkwardly on his feet. He wasn't particularly good at comforting people, he knew.

“I need to get dressed and get to my parents' house,” Beatrice said distractedly.

“We can go over there and let them know what's happened; have them come here to you,” Javert offered.

“Who is this man?” she asked abruptly, looking at Beasse.

“Inspector Beasse, Madame,” Beasse said, bowing deferentially to her. “I'm working the case, along with Inspector Javert.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes at him and nodded. She looked back at Javert. “Please, fetch my parents and have them come here,” she begged plaintively. “And tell Emmanuelle I'll see her just as soon as she'll come.”

“I'll send her over soon, and I'll get your parents here immediately,” Javert promised. “My sincere condolences, Beatrice.”

Javert was as good as his word and fetched the Trudeaus to the Laurent house as soon as he and Beasse left Beatrice. Emmanuelle was nearly as shocked to learn about Guy Laurent as Beatrice was, and she had dissolved into a mess of tears upon learning the bad news.

“Shall I go see her today?” Emmanuelle asked Javert, crying into his shoulder on a chaise lounge in the parlor.

“No; I think both of you need a day to process what's happened. Go tomorrow.” He stroked her long hair, still damp from a bath, and kissed her forehead.

“It's not always glamorous, is it? Your work,” she said glumly, sniffling. “It's not always tackling people and slapping handcuffs on criminals.”

“No,” Javert answered. “Sometimes it's quite macabre. On days like today, one just hopes that the next day will be better. So I just hope that tomorrow will be better than today.”

“It can't get much worse.”

“Don't jinx it, please,” he half-smiled grimly.

“Please don't ever leave me like Guy left Beatrice,” Emmanuelle beseeched him.

“I won't ever leave you on purpose,” Javert promised, kissing her head again.

Emmanuelle looked up into his gray eyes. “I won't ever leave you at all.”
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