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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
- 7
- 8
- 9
The next three days were miserable for everyone in Javert's flat. The first snowfall came, and the house grew cold as the windows shuddered in the wintry winds. Javert was incredibly bored, completely unaccustomed to going so long without working. Emmanuelle played at being his nurse, insisting that he walk down the stairs and around the flat, and back up the stairs, at least three times a day. Javert wanted to walk down the street to the tavern for lunch, but Emmanuelle had resisted so firmly that he relented and kept himself cooped up in the flat.
The doctor came daily to check on Javert's stitches for signs of infection and to monitor his mental and physical functions. Day by day, he felt stronger, and he asked on the third day when he could expect to go back to work.
“I should think in about a month, if you continue improving at the current rate,” Doctor Tournette had replied. That had made Javert irritated and put him even deeper into his sour mood.
Emmanuelle's bleeding continued, and one day she got blood on a cream-colored silk gown because she'd been sitting at Javert's bedside reading to him for so long. She had cried for an hour as Jeanette tried to get the stain out.
“It's only a dress,” Javert had said to her, annoyed by the hullabaloo. “We'll get you a new dress.”
She whirled and glared at him, venom in her eyes. “My father gave me that dress at my birthday last year, three weeks before he died!”
Javert gulped and looked down. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. He felt like he couldn't do anything right – his job, his marriage – he was a miserable failure. He sank into a deep depression and spent the next four days not talking to anyone unless he was directly addressed, and even then he gave monosyllabic answers in a gruff tone.
On the first day of December, he was sitting in a wing back chair in the bedroom staring blankly into the fire when he heard the door behind him open and then shut. Soft footsteps crossed the room behind him, but he kept his gaze fixated on the fire. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Emmanuelle sink into the chair beside him.
They were silent for a full minute before she finally spoke.
“Do you still love me?” Her voice was steady and dull.
“Yes.” His own voice sounded distant and foreign.
“Then why aren't you acting like it? You haven't kissed me in almost a week. You don't say 'good night' to me before you go to sleep. You haven't even laid a finger on me in four days.” Her voice faltered then, and he thought she might be beginning to cry.
He felt something inside him snap to attention, and felt like he was waking up from a bad dream. Had he been ignoring her as much as she was saying? He thought hard about it and couldn't distinctly recall their last kiss, or when he'd last touched her.
“I'm sorry,” he said simply.
She rose from her chair and walked over to him. She crouched down, the skirt of her blue dress billowing around her, and looked him square in the eye. He met her gaze, saw the look of need in her wide green eyes, and lost all of his buttoned-up self-control of the tumultuous emotions that had been bottled inside him for many days.
He broke down into tears, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, crying like a child. He had absolutely no recollection of the last time he'd cried, but he was so frustrated and defeated in this moment that he had no idea what else to do.
He felt hot tears squeeze out of his weary eyes, his back heaving. Then he felt Emmanuelle's tiny hand on the muscular expanse of his back, rubbing soothingly. Her other hand was petting his head, as he so often did to her.
“I know you want to get back to work,” she was saying, her voice calm and soft, “I know you feel like you've failed yourself somehow by letting all this happen. I know you're upset about the tension between you and me. I know you're bored. I know you're frustrated. I know, and I'm not angry with you... I love you, and I want to help you. Just tell me how I can make it better.”
She had him all figured out. She understood him in a way that he didn't quite understand himself. She saw the complexity of his self-loathing and foul mood, and still she forgave him. Realizing how absolvitory and perceptive she was only made him cry harder; he'd taken for granted one of God's most perfect creations and ignored her for days while he stewed in his own bitterness.
“I'm so sorry,” he sobbed finally. “Emmanuelle...” he reached out to her and looked up, searching for her emerald eyes, which gazed back at him with sympathy. She embraced him and he sniffled like a little boy, tucking his face into the crook of her neck.
“My knees hurt,” she said with a little chuckle, and he realized she'd been kneeling on the hard wooden floor.
He stood and pulled her upright, holding her diminutive hands inside his large ones. He guided her toward the bed and kicked off his shoes, climbing onto the blanket. She shed her shoes and climbed on beside him, and they lay facing one another.
Javert felt a tear escape his eye and run down his cheek, and Emmanuelle leaned over and kissed his cheek where the tear was, brushing it away with her lips.
“Everything's going to be all right,” she said softly. “You'll be back at work in a few weeks. You'll be more careful. Christmas is this month, and I know it's been ages since you actually celebrated it with anybody.”
“I've never celebrated Christmas with anyone,” he said quietly, looking ashamed.
She didn't look particularly taken aback. They had discussed his origins: his birth in a jail, his Gypsy mother and criminal father, his precarious life before he'd grown into a man and sworn his life to the law. “Well, then,” she said plainly, “It'll be your first joyful Christmas.”
He nodded at her, still not smiling.
“You're allowed to have wine again now,” she told him happily.
“The better to get drunk and be even more dispirited,” he said dejectedly.
She smiled. “Or the better to get drunk and be silly with your wife.”
He shook his head. “I'm not getting drunk.”
“I've never been drunk,” Emmanuelle noted.
“Good,” he told her. “Let's keep it that way.”
“Why?”
“I see drunks on the street every day in my work – drunken whores, drunken men sitting beside the rats in the alleys, drunken fights in the streets.” He shook his head again.
“I just want to get drunk once and see what it's like,” she said.
“No, Emmanuelle.” His voice was stronger now, and firm.
She looked angry. “You think you can tell me what to do all the time,” she said, sitting upright and looking down at him. “Just because you're older.”
“It's because I'm your husband, not because I'm older.”
“Well, that's not a good reason, either.” She pouted at him. “You've been ignoring me for days and now you start bossing me around.”
Javert sighed, resigned. “And what, exactly, would you like to drink?”
“Chartreuse,” Emmanuelle said instantly. “It's what my father used to drink.”
“Emmanuelle, that will burn all the way down to your stomach.”
She shrugged. “I want to try.”
He sighed again. “Fine,” he said finally. He mused that he had mistreated her badly these last few days, and that dress from her father had been ruined. Neither Jeanette nor the laundress down the street had been able to fix it. Javert probably owed Emmanuelle a bit of amusement. “But you'll drink it alone.”
“All right,” she agreed.
She lay back down beside him, that matter settled, and reached behind his head to untie his hair. She fingered his coarse locks, gently running her long fingernails over his tense scalp and massaging, careful to avoid the area around his stitches.
“Your hair's coming in grayer,” she noted. “It must be the stress and frustration.”
“Or it could be that I'm getting old,” Javert said bitterly.
“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” she asked suddenly.
He raised his eyebrows at her and half-smiled. “Emmanuelle,” he chastised.
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” he said awkwardly.
“I was twenty,” she said, giggling at him. “Still am!” That made him grin, and he looked down at the blanket, avoiding her eyes. She kept massaging his head. It was so relaxing, he shut his eyes and swallowed deeply. “Tell me,” she said softly.
“I was twenty-seven,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I wasn't even born yet!” Emmanuelle declared, and Javert frowned, because that made him feel very old.
“No, you weren't, and I haven't made love to anybody since then until you,” he said, a bite in his tone.
“You've been waiting my whole lifetime for me to grow up and be ready for you,” she laughed. He looked up at her and half-smiled.
“I suppose I have,” he conceded. “I'd almost forgotten how to do it.”
“Was she a virgin like me?” Emmanuelle asked.
“Why on Earth would you want to know anything about her?” Javert asked incredulously, giving her an odd look.
“Were you in love with her?”
“Emmanuelle!”
“Were you?” She was serious now, her emerald eyes staring deep into his gray ones.
He hesitated. Why did she want to know any of this?
“I've never been in love before you. I promise,” he said unwaveringly.
“I find that hard to believe,” Emmanuelle said with a sad smile.
“Why?” he demanded, looking offended.
“Because you're forty-eight! There has to have been someone!” She raised her eyebrows.
“No! There's been no one!” Javert sat up now, and she did, too, and he looked at her with burning eyes. “My whole life, Emmanuelle, I've been focused on keeping the law. I've been married to my work. I started out at Toulon, then I was at Montreuil-sur-Mer, then I came here to Paris. All that time my life has been my work. I've never really looked at women with lust, much less love, in all those years. When I saw you in Saint Michel, it was as though I was seeing an angel descended from Heaven. As I got to know you, you made me feel things I had literally never felt before. I may be twenty-eight years older than you, but that does not mean I have twenty-eight years of romantic experience ahead of you.”
“Then who was she?” Emmanuelle prodded, and Javert slapped the blanket in frustration.
“Why do you care?” he growled.
“Just tell me!”
He sucked in as much air as he could and sighed loudly and pointedly, giving Emmanuelle an angry look. “It was my twenty-seventh birthday. I never celebrated it, but my fellow guards at Toulon found out it was my birthday. They insisted we go into town and make a night of it. We went to the tavern where we often ate supper and we got drunk. Very drunk. There was a serving girl in the tavern that I thought was pretty. She was probably about your age, but she was no virgin, and that was no secret. After I'd had entirely too much wine, she invited me upstairs to her room, and all the fellow guards laughed and insisted I go. I would have been terrified if I hadn't been so drunk.
She took me upstairs and we... well, you know, and, no, this girl was no virgin. I had positively no idea what I was doing. I'm sure I made a complete fool of myself. Afterward, I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning completely horrified and hung over. I left and never went back to that tavern. I never saw her again. I never forgave those guards for convincing me to do what I did. I've never had that much wine since, and I was never with another woman until you. That's it.”
Emmanuelle was silent. After a long while, she finally said, “Oh,” in a little voice. “I'm sorry I asked,” she said, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I got jealous for no reason.”
“You have absolutely nothing to be jealous of,” he said, laughing bitterly. “There was nothing – no one – in my life... until you.”
She leaned toward him and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. Her hair hung around her face in tight ringlets that had obviously taken Jeanette a long time to make this morning. Javert fingered one of the curls and brushed his fingertips over Emmanuelle's cheek.
“Kiss me again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse in the stillness of the room. She leaned forward and began to plant another peck on his lips, but he put his hand behind her neck, crushing her curls, and pulled her into a deep kiss. He spent a long minute intertwining his tongue with hers, sucking and nipping at her lips, and then she broke away.
“Did you kiss her?” she asked, and Javert looked bewildered.
He almost asked, “Kiss who?” but he knew she meant the girl from the tavern so many years ago, and he sighed.
“If I did, I don't remember,” he told her. “Didn't I seem a little rusty to you the first time we kissed?”
Emmanuelle giggled. “I didn't know any better.”
“This from the girl who's read the Marquis de Sade. 'Didn't know any better.' Indeed.” He gave her a wry, knowing smile and leaned forward to kiss her again. She reached up and put her fingers on his lips. She looked like she was going to cry. “What's wrong?” Javert asked, suddenly concerned.
“I have to tell you,” she said, looking roiled with guilt.
Javert was silent, but his heart raced. “Tell me what?” His voice was monotone.
“Something happened...”
He narrowed his eyes at her and pulled back.
“Two days ago, when I was at my mother's house... Henri Boisson came over for luncheon, and he stayed afterward, and -”
“Emmanuelle, what the fuck happened?!” Javert's voice rose, and he took deep, shaking breaths. His mouth was pursed in anger, and his eyes shone with rage. She looked terrified of him, and put her hands up as if to keep him from hitting her. She began to shake and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“He kissed me! I didn't ask him to; he just did! I slapped him – I slapped him hard, and I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. We were just standing there, and he put one arm around my waist and the other behind my head and pulled me toward him and kissed me – tried to stick his tongue in my mouth but I wouldn't let him, and, and I came straight back here but you wouldn't talk to me, so I didn't tell you, and I'm so sorry, but it wasn't me; it was him, and I promise I slapped him as hard as I could and told him to go home and not come back!” She was heaving with sobs now, her ringlets shaking.
Javert was silent. He didn't know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do, of course, which was to go to wherever this bit of pond scum named Henri Boisson lived and beat the living daylights out of him. But that would be illegal; it would be assault. Even in court, he'd be found guilty, he suspected. He'd never felt such rage before, but he had no way of assuaging or rectifying it. Technically, what Boisson had done was assault itself, but Emmanuelle's testimony alone would never get a conviction. He needed to go to Boisson's home and make it clear in no uncertain terms that he was never to lay eyes on Emmanuelle again.
“Please don't hit me,” Emmanuelle's voice rang out meekly as Javert stewed. He looked sharply up at her.
“Why on Earth would I hit you, Emmanuelle?!” Javert looked offended and surprised.
“I know how angry you must be, but it wasn't my fault, and I'm sorry I saw him at all, just please forgive me and don't hit me!”
Javert reached forward and Emmanuelle winced. Javert sighed with consternation and wrapped his arms around Emmanuelle. He pulled her close to him. He stroked her hair and kissed her head. “I am not angry with you,” he said gently, trying to be docile with her despite the rage boiling inside him. “I'm furious with him, and I'm going to tell him so myself. I'm not going to do anything illegal, and I'm not going to land myself in prison.” Javert did find it curious that Emmanuelle had been asking so insistently about his former experiences, and had waited so long to tell him this, but she had been so good and kind to him recently, and he was determined to be merciful and compassionate with her.
“I love you,” she said, her words muffled by the fabric of his shirt.
“As I love you... which is why I am going to take care of this,” he said.
“I already took care of it!” she exclaimed, looking up at him. “I slapped him and told him not to come back anymore!”
“I think he needs to hear that from me, too,” Javert told her, squaring his jaw.
“I thought he was so innocent... just an art student I've known for years and years,” she lamented plaintively.
“This isn't your fault,” Javert told her. “He assaulted you.”
“He's going to tell you I kissed him back or something – he'll lie!” Emmanuelle sobbed.
“Well, I believe you over him,” Javert said confidently. He let Emmanuelle go and scooted off the bed. He walked over to his wardrobe and began to change clothes into his Inspector's uniform. He hadn't had it on since the night he'd been attacked. It felt good to have his outfit of choice back on again.
“What are you doing?” Emmanuelle asked from the bed.
“Where does he live?” Javert answered by way of reply.
“You can't go right now! You're not well enough!” Emmanuelle insisted.
Javert paused in buttoning his trousers and gave her a deliberate look. “I'm going,” he said firmly. “Tell me where he lives, Emmanuelle.”
Her voice shook. “It's not far. He's a student at the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts - “
“Not for long.”
“What?” Emmanuelle asked.
“When I go to the school and tell them one of their students forced himself on a married woman, I doubt they'll want to continue having him enrolled,” Javert said.
Emmanuelle sighed. “Well, in any case, he lives with three other students in a flat on the Rue Jacob near the school. I think it's number 88.”
Javert finished buttoning his woolen jacket and pulled on his winter overcoat. He tied his hair back up, slid leather gloves onto his hands, and grabbed his hat. He looked up at Emmanuelle. “Thank you for telling me,” he said.
“Please don't get hurt again!” she exclaimed, “And don't kill him!”
“Emmanuelle, what did I say? I'm not going to do anything illegal. I don't break the law. I fight to keep it.” Nevertheless, he picked up his nightstick as he ambled toward the door. He still wasn't quite walking like himself. He wondered if he would get in trouble if his Captain found out he was doing this in his work clothes while on leave. He shook the thought off and looked once more at Emmanuelle. “I love you,” he said. “I'll be back soon.”
“Be careful!” she said as the door closed behind him.

Javert arrived outside number 88, Rue Jacob feeling dizzy and discombobulated. He hadn't walked nearly this far in all of his convalescence. He steadied himself and knocked on the door, stifling the rage that boiled inside him. He heard laughter and talking inside the small flat, and knocked again, more loudly this time.
The voices paused, then resumed as footsteps approached the door. It swung open and a tall, thin young man with blonde curls opened it. He was grinning, but his smile disappeared when he saw Javert's nightstick.
“Officer,” the young man said by way of greeting. “How can I help you?”
“I'm an Inspector with the Paris Police,” Javert said. “I'm looking for Henri Boisson.”
“He's in here. Please come in,” the young man said, his voice wavering slightly, and Javert followed him inside, removing his hat. He had to duck his head in the narrow corridor that led to a small flight of five or six stairs leading up to a tiny parlor. Upon their arrival, the three other young men sitting on rickety furniture in the room grew silent. The flat was a mess with art supplies and paintings, but the young men wore fine clothing. These were the sons of well-off fathers, frivolous bohemian schoolboys playing at art, Javert thought to himself.
“This Inspector needs to speak with Henri,” the blonde young man said, and a shorter young man with dark brown hair clipped close to his head stood up. He wore black striped trousers and a high-necked shirt. Javert thought he was dressed like a dandy, and almost guffawed when he stood. This was his competition? Laughable.
“I need to speak with Monsieur Boisson in private,” Javert said, not taking his eyes off of Henri.
“Of course,” the blonde said, and the three others grabbed overcoats and hats off a brass rack in the corner and filed out the door. When they were finally gone, Henri spoke.
“I'm assuming you are Inspector Javert,” he said, his voice defiant but trembling.
“I am.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” Henri Boisson asked impetuously.
Javert tipped his head to one side and bit the inside of his cheek. “You can give me your word you'll never come near my wife again.”
Henri Boisson pretended to be confused. “Why would I do that?” he asked.
Javert raised his eyebrows. “Is a slap in the face not obvious enough for you?”
Boisson was silent, but gave Javert an insubordinate look. After a moment, he spoke again. “She loved me, before you came along,” he said. “When she was seventeen, I asked her father for permission to marry her.”
“It would appear as though he told you 'no',” Javert raised an eyebrow at Boisson.
“He told me that when I had money of my own and a good place to live, he would seriously consider it.”
“Well, you're still living here, with three other little boys, aren't you?” Javert's voice was acrid. “And he's gone.”
“He never would have let Emmanuelle marry you,” Boisson said bitterly. “An old man who's never been married!”
“At least I can support her and give her a good life!” Javert shot back. This discussion was getting petty.
“Until she's forty and you're nearly seventy,” Boisson spat.
“And this gives you license to kiss her? Are you familiar with the Ten Commandments? 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.' 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.'” Javert shook his head and raised his hands in sarcastic expectation.
“I am not a man of God, Inspector.”
“That is obvious,” Javert snorted. He was growing weary of this conversation. This Boisson was a conceited, unrepentant little worm. “As I said, never come near my wife again. Or me. I'm a man of the law. I'm not here to start a fight. But I don't care how long you have known Emmanuelle. Your relationship with her is over. You do not kiss my wife against her will.”
“You have no idea what happened.”
Javert glared. “I don't ever want to see your face again, Monsieur Boisson. It would serve you well to stay as far away from us as you can.”
Boisson's face was blank. Javert nodded at him at turned to leave. He ducked his head through the narrow corridor and stepped out the door into the bright, cold sunlight. He took a deep breath, put his hat back on, and began strolling back to his flat. He felt marginally better after his interaction with Boisson. He still felt horrible about what had happened to Emmanuelle, but Boisson was no threat. He was a short, petulant little weakling, little more than a child. And he was an art student, contributing nothing to society, in Javert's opinion. Even better, Emmanuelle's father had turned down his request to marry Emmanuelle. Of course, there was the matter that Emmanuelle hadn't told him that Boisson had asked to marry her. All this secrecy was irritating Javert.
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