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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 had spent two weeks preparing Emmanuelle for Marnier's trial, and he completed his own testimony with poise and rigid dignity. He had experience testifying in countless trials as the arresting officer. When Emmanuelle took the stand, however, he felt his heart race – out of concern for her, and out of concern for the case. Beasse had a point; their marital status was not going to help the case at all. The defense attorney had saved his questions about Javert and Emmanuelle's relationship for her testimony - for what he considered to be the weaker witness.
Emmanuelle had done splendidly well when she was answering questions for the prosecutor. She told her story with grace and tact, leaving no details out and embellishing nothing. She was matter-of-fact and unafraid, at least as far as appearances went. Javert knew better. He knew she was terrified to be in the same room as Marnier again. Just seeing the man made Javert want to knock the few remaining teeth the scoundrel had right out of his rotten skull, but he restrained himself from being inflammatory or protective of Emmanuelle in his testimony.
The defense lawyer, Paul Giganet, strode up to the box where Emmanuelle now sat, wearing the sage green silk dress she'd worn on the day of the incident. That was her costume for the trial, so she could show where Marnier had grabbed her.
Giganet cleared his throat, and the sound echoed in the expansive but empty courtroom. This was hardly a criminal case in which the public was interested.
“Madame Javert... known at the time of this alleged incident as Mademoiselle Emmanuelle Douvant, is that correct?” Giganet clasped his hands together. Javert inhaled deeply from his seat in the front row of the gallery.
“Yes,” Emmanuelle replied tentatively.
“What is the exact nature of your relationship with the inspector who has just given testimony – the only other witness to this supposed crime?”
“He... Inspector Javert is my husband,” Emmanuelle sighed, glancing down at her hands as she so often did when embarrassed or uncomfortable. She looked up at Giganet and said in a steadier voice, “But at the time of the assault we had never met before.”
“Please describe how it is that you and the inspector went from being total strangers to being man and wife.”
“Your Honor!” The prosecuting lawyer nearly jumped out of his chair. “The details of Madame Javert's personal life are irrelevant to this trial!”
The judge sighed. “I believe,” he said slowly, “That this relationship needs to be clarified to establish the legitimacy of witness testimony.”
The prosecutor sat down, indignantly crossing his arms.
“Madame?” Giganet prodded Emmanuelle.
“I – we – the inspector and I got to know one another after he visited me to get my statement on the crime. He returned several times during my convalescence to visit with me, and when I was well again we continued to visit one another. We very quickly fell in love, we were engaged for three weeks, and we were married three weeks ago.” Emmanuelle's voice trembled, and Javert could see that her hands were shaking, as well. He wanted to embrace her, to tell her that she was doing well. He wanted to kiss her to calm her nerves, but all he could do was try to catch her eye to give her a reassuring nod.
“Is it not plausible that the only two witnesses to a crime who begin such an intimate relationship with one another might collaborate and agree upon a common story to tell in court?” Giganet's voice was harsh now.
Emmanuelle looked stunned. She opened her mouth to speak, shut it again and swallowed hard, and then said, “That is not what happened. My report -”
“Madame,” Giganet interrupted, “Please answer my question. I asked whether or not such a situation would be plausible.”
Emmanuelle was silent for a few moments. She looked down at her hands again, then raised her eyes to meet Giganet's gaze. “I suppose,” she said shakily, “if those two people had some particular reason to put an innocent man in jail, then such a collaboration might take place.”
“And did you -”
Now Emmanuelle interrupted. “But, Monsieur, I must insist that that is not what happened in this case.”
“What exactly did happen in the events surrounding you giving a statement to the police? You do realize that it is a crime to make a false police report?”
“Of course!” Emmanuelle's voice was suddenly clearer and less afraid. “I did not lie! The inspector only came to my home to take my statement because I was bedridden with fever. I told him the complete and honest truth about what happened to me in Saint Michel. I watched him record it verbatim. The police report which bears my name is the full truth as recorded by an inspector I hardly knew at the time of the recording.”
Javert raised his eyebrows. She was doing superbly well. Her eyes flicked over to his for the briefest of moments, and he nodded quickly at her. She returned her gaze to Giganet.
“Why, do you suppose, did Inspector Javert come to your house to get your statement instead of his colleague, Inspector Beasse, who would have been a far more impartial participant in recording a witness statement?”
Emmanuelle was silent for a moment. Javert watched tears well up in her eyes. His heart sank. She knew she could not lie to the court. She had to tell them exactly what he'd said to her that day.
She sighed heavily and stared at the wooden railing in front of her. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “Inspector Javert came to my home to get my statement. Whilst there, he told me that he could have sent Inspector Beasse, but he wanted to see how I was doing.” She let her gaze drop to her hands.
“So this visit was not only business, but also personal?” Giganet said, sounding rather amused.
Emmanuelle bit her bottom lip. “I suppose so,” she said finally, sounding resigned. “Though, as I have said many times now, the statement that was recorded was the truth, and I swear that to our Lord in Heaven.” She looked as though she were about to burst into tears. “Jacques Marnier attempted to rob me, he assaulted me in a vile fashion, and I watched him run away from Inspector Javert. That is the truth, and no relationship or marriage alters that truth.”
“Very well. That will be all,” Giganet said, and returned to his seat beside Marnier.
“Madame Javert, you may exit the witness box now,” the judge said to Emmanuelle, and she stood, her hands trembling fiercely, and went to sit in the fourth row of the gallery, three rows behind her husband. She did not raise her eyes to look at Javert as she passed him.

All of Emmanuelle's tension and fear had vanished by the time she and Javert reached their flat. Marnier had been found guilty. Giganet had not succeeded in undermining either of their testimonies. After the verdict, Beasse told Javert that they'd gotten lucky, and that Marnier could have easily walked free. Javert had given him an icy glare and pointed out that the man had been sentenced to seven years of hard labor in prison.
When Javert and Emmanuelle got home, Javert built a fire in the sitting room fireplace and they sat side-by-side on one of the chaises. Emmanuelle nestled her head into Javert's chest, and he had a vivid flashback to the day they'd met – when she'd seemed so content in his arms, wearing this very dress. He began to pet her face and hair again and the memories washed over him like a wave onto sand. He shut his eyes and imagined them back on the bench in the police station, and when he opened them again, it took him a moment to process that this beautiful creature was permanently with him, that he would grow old with her by his side. He sighed contentedly.
“What is it?” Emmanuelle asked quietly.
“I love you,” Javert said simply. “You did very well.”
“Thank you. I tried my best. I didn't want to let you down.”
“You could never let me down, Emmanuelle,” he said reassuringly. “You're perfect.”
She wrapped her arms around his torso and leaned up to kiss him. It was a gentle kiss, tongues moving lazily around warm mouths, but her kisses always seemed to lead to something more advanced, and Javert pulled away from her.
“I can't -” he began, his voice trailing off.
“You can't what?” she asked, furrowing her brow.
“When I kiss you, I always want more, and I have to leave for work in ten minutes,” he said.
“I can take care of you in less than ten minutes,” she said, her voice sly and teasing. “Jeanette is visiting her sister and won't be back until nine.”
“Emmanuelle, it's too cumbersome getting undressed and putting everything back on in less than ten minutes.” He shook his head, smirking.
She grinned fiendishly at him and unbuttoned his trousers. She pulled his penis, partially erect, from the confines of the cloth, and leaned down to envelop his member with her mouth.
Javert gasped in surprise and watched as she began swirling her tongue around the tip, licking up the shaft, and occasionally diving in to take as much of his considerable length as she could in her mouth. When she had him deep in her throat, she swallowed hard, and the sensation felt so good that Javert found himself with his head tipped back, grasping the wooden trim of the chaise.
Suddenly, he stood up, and she knelt on the ground to put him back in her mouth. He clutched her head with both of his hands to keep it steady and began thrusting into her mouth as far as possible. She continued her swallowing, sucking, and swirling tongue movements as he drove himself into her mouth. She moaned seductively, and the vibration of the moan on his member only served to egg him on. He felt the familiar flame burning into an inferno inside of him, and with a visceral growl, he stopped and came into her mouth. She hungrily swallowed it all, grinning up at him as she did.
Emmanuelle licked him clean and tucked him back into his trousers, buttoning them back up for him.
“There,” she said rather triumphantly, “Now you can go to work.”

Javert was tired working the night shift. It had been a long day. He'd awakened at three in the morning and had been unable to fall back asleep, far too nervous about the Marnier trial. The trial itself had started at noon and had lasted until six. Now, here he was, gazing up at a clock that told him it was ten at night. He'd been awake nineteen hours and suddenly realized he hadn't eaten anything since a bit of bread and cheese at eight in the morning.
And so, with a rumbling stomach and heavy eyes, Javert conducted his patrols, falling further and further into one of the worst moods he'd been in for quite some time – certainly he hadn't been this disgruntled since he'd met Emmanuelle.
To make matters worse, it seemed like all the worst criminals in Paris were doing their best to irritate him tonight. He had turned a corner to find a gang of four unwashed men attempting to break into a house. They all ran when they saw him; he was only able to catch and restrain one of them. He'd had to use his nightstick to subdue the man before putting cuffs on him, and had made the long walk to the nearest police station practically dragging the stubborn, uncooperative suspect.
Once he was back out on the streets, he passed a drunkard sitting in an alleyway.
“Oy, Police!” the man called as Javert passed the alley. Javert turned and gazed through the darkness, trying to make sense of the dark silhouette of the man. “Go fuck yourself!” the drunkard shouted, and, without warning, hurled a half-empty bottle of wine directly at Javert's head. Javert swerved and the shot missed, but the bottled smashed against the wall behind him, leaving broken glass and red wine all over the street. Once again, Javert had to drag a very unwilling criminal back to the police station, and this one had tried to maim him.
He went on patrol to an area known for prostitutes soliciting customers. A petite red-haired whore that reminded him vaguely of Emmanuelle didn't flee like the others, but rather tried to talk and seduce her way out of trouble.
She wore only a tight corset from which her breasts were nearly exposed, a tattered skirt, old shoes, and a shawl, though winter was coming on fast and the air was quite cold (another reason Javert was so grumpy).
“Inspector,” the prostitute said, her voice oily, tilting her head to the side and batting her eyes at him in the dim streetlight's glare. “Let's make a deal. You let me off, and I'll get you off. Free of charge.”
The girl couldn't have been any older than Emmanuelle, and Javert was disturbed by the proposition. She seemed genuinely shocked when he told her to run off with the other whores; that he wasn't interested in rounding up prostitutes tonight; that he had absolutely no interest in her offer of free sex in an alley.
By midnight, Javert was exhausted and extremely unhappy. He spent the next three hours growing more and more weary, and more ill-tempered. He found himself using his nightstick on far more criminals tonight than he usually did.
Fifteen minutes before his shift was over, he spotted a man of about sixty, clad in bourgeois attire, strolling down a street. Javert's heart began to race. He knew that face. He knew that walk. It was Jean Valjean.
“Valjean!” he shouted, running briskly across the street. The man did not turn. Javert blew his whistle, and the man turned around toward the sound, a look of confusion in his eyes. Javert stopped dead in his tracks. His mind had been playing tricks on him. He knew Valjean's face; he would never forget it. This was not Jean Valjean.
“Forgive me, Monsieur; I had you mistaken for someone else,” Javert was flustered.
The man nodded, fear mixing with the confusion on his furrowed brow. He turned and continued up the street. Javert stared after him. Rage and disappointment coursed through his veins. He had thought he'd had the rat – but his exhausted mind and tired eyes had failed him.
He stalked somberly back to his flat, in one of the worst moods he could ever recall.

Javert opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could and tiptoed into the room, trying not to let the heels of his boots click on the wooden floor. He didn't want to wake Emmanuelle.
But she was awake, reading Voltaire by candlelight, and said simply, “Hello,” when Javert entered the room. She smiled at him.
Startled, Javert nearly jumped. He was in no mood to be startled. He let out a deep gust of breath and frowned.
“What are you doing awake?” he demanded, his voice harsh.
Her smile disappeared.
“Are you all right?” she asked quietly.
“Why aren't you asleep? It's three in the morning,” he said.
“I woke up an hour ago and figured I would stay up until you got home,” she said, tears welling up in her wide, green eyes. “What's wrong?”
He relayed the salient points of his disastrous night to her, his voice gruff and angry. He undressed as he spoke, carelessly tossing pieces of his uniform across one of the wingback chairs near the fire.
“I'm sorry,” Emmanuelle said timidly, after he'd finished his story.
Javert turned to her from the chair and said hoarsely, “Come here.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Just get over here,” he said, his voice tense. He spoke through clenched teeth.
Emmanuelle looked genuinely frightened of him, but he didn't care. She rose from the bed and walked quickly to where he stood by the chair.
“Take that off,” he ordered her, gesturing to her lacy nightgown. Her eyes wide with trepidation, Emmanuelle slipped the garment over her head and let it fall to the floor.
Without warning, Javert swept her off her feet, one arm behind her back and the other under her knees. He walked briskly to the wall beside the fireplace and slammed Emmanuelle's back against it.
“Wrap your legs around me,” he commanded, and she did.
He guided himself into her, but she was dry, unaroused, so he spit into his hand and rubbed the liquid against her orifice. He slid into her and immediately began pounding her into the wall, his thrusts erratic and uneven, but each burying him to the hilt inside her. She didn't moan for him; she stayed perfectly quiet, the look of fear still in her lovely eyes.
He gazed down at her body. Her nipples were soft, her skin pale and dry. She was biting her bottom lip. She was completely unaroused by this, silent and submissive, and utterly passive in the entire experience.
He didn't care. After a night like tonight, he needed an outlet for his anger and frustration, and this was going to be it. With Emmanuelle still attached to him, he made for the bed and flopped her down on her back. He knelt and hoisted her ankles to his shoulders. He placed his hands on her backside to elevate her into a better angle, and began thrusting hard and fast.
“Ah!” Emmanuelle cried out, and it was not a cry of ecstasy. “It's too deep,” she said quietly. He ignored her. He closed his eyes and fucked her as hard as he could, until he heard her crying.
He stopped suddenly, opened his eyes, and saw her beautiful face streaked with tears. Her chest was heaving with sobs, and she wiped tears from her eyes.
“Please stop,” she begged, her voice trembling. “You're hurting me.”
Javert pulled out of her, and, rapidly, his erection disappeared. He clutched her ankles and put them down on the bed. Emmanuelle reached down and grabbed her crotch, rolling onto her side and tucking her knees up to her chest. She was still sobbing.
“That was not making love,” She said, her words bitter and broken up by little sobbing gasps.
“I'm sorry!” Javert said urgently, his voice miserable.
He put his hands on his face and tipped his head forward. He felt like crying himself. What had he done to his lovely little flower? He'd upset her, and, worse, physically hurt her. What kind of a cad, how evil a villain, was he to take her like that?
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he said over and again, his voice a pathetic moan stifled by his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.
He felt his hands being pried off of his face and felt her mouth against his. Shocked, he parted his lips, and Emmanuelle kissed him deeply. She ran her tiny, smooth hands over his sinewy back, trying to elicit some tenderness from him as she kissed him.
“Let's just go to sleep,” she whispered in his ear.
“I love you. I'm sorry,” he said again, sounding broken.
“I know,” she said simply, and scooted off the bed to go put her nightgown back on. She walked slowly back to the bed and tucked herself under the covers. She blew out the candle beside the bed and laid her head on her pillow. Javert was still propped up on his knees, agony and self-loathing coursing through his veins and making his head pound. Emmanuelle pulled on his arm to get him to lie down, and he wiggled himself, nude, under the blankets beside her. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.
She moved closer to him and threw an arm across his stomach and nestled her head between his arm and chest. Javert thanked God he didn't have to work the next day, because he didn't sleep a wink. He just listened to the slow breathing of his fragile little angel, and prayed all night for forgiveness.
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