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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2020 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
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Four years before the uprising shown in Les Miserables.
PARIS, 1828
It was a drizzly autumn day, and Inspector Javert let the rain soak through his woolen uniform as he patrolled the fetid slums of Saint Michel. The nest of urchins and pickpockets never failed to provide a crop of criminals for Javert to haul off to the police station. As he turned a corner and authoritatively strolled through the Latin Quarter, dirty women lowered their eyes and scurried out of his way. Men bowed humbly to him. Javert held his head high. He was the law, and he was determined to bring this den of sin into the light. If that meant the authorities constantly patrolling through the streets, so be it.
His pensiveness was broken by the sound of a shriek up ahead. Javert grabbed his whistle from around his neck and blew it furiously, running toward the sound. He had a firm grip on his nightstick, and as he ran, boots sliding precariously on the wet cobblestones, he saw the situation that had caused the scream.
A young woman with flaming red hair, dressed in a fine silk gown, was screaming as a man physically accosted her. At the sound of Javert's whistle, the man bolted. Javert pursued him, crying, “Halt! Halt in the name of the law!”
They dashed down an alleyway but hit a dead end when the close ended at a stone wall. Desperate, the man whirled around. His face was filthy, and his gaping mouth revealed missing and rotted teeth. His matted hair snarled around his head in dirty clumps, and his clothes were no more than dusty rags. Javert cornered him. Thunder rumbled, echoing Javert's rage, as he approached the criminal.
“You are under arrest for assault,” Javert said gravely to the man, “And for evading the police.” He unlocked the shackles from around his belt and placed them around the man's wrists.
“All I wanted was her money and a little feel,” The man said, his voice oily and wry. He grinned at Javert wickedly. “The bourgeoisie come strolling through Saint Michel... what do you expect?”
Javert said nothing, yanked on the man's arm and headed back to the scene of the incident. The young woman was still standing there, gasping, with tears streaming down her lovely face. Javert was instantly struck by her beauty, but shoved the thought from his mind. He was on duty. He was shocked at himself for even thinking about the victim of the assault like that. He cleared his throat and his mind.
“Mademoiselle,” he said to her, “I am taking this man to the police station on the Rue de Seine. Do you know it?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” she replied, her voice timid but clear. “It's quite near where I live.”
“If you would, please meet me there as soon as you can to make a statement on this incident.” Javert yanked on the criminal's arm to make him stand up straight. “Are you quite all right in the meantime?” he asked.
“I will be fine,” the young woman replied determinedly, straightening her bonnet and flattening the skirt of her green dress, mottled by the rain. “I will be at the police station shortly.”
“Thank you,” Javert replied, bowing to her politely. With that, he led her assailant away in shackles.
********************************************************************************
At the station on the Rue de Seine, Javert sat at his desk to fill out paperwork on the incident in Saint Michel. The suspect, named Jacques Marnier, was locked in a holding cell in the back of the police station, where he would stay until officers arrived to take him to jail. Javert was completing his own witness account of the incident when the door of the station opened and the red-haired victim walked in.
Javert rose from his desk. Inspector Beasse, seated at another desk in the station, also rose when the young woman entered. She untied her bonnet and red waves of hair came tumbling down her back. Again, Javert found himself resisting his attraction to her. Not many women wore their hair down, and hers was lovely. She looked paler than he'd seen her in Saint Michel, as if she were unwell.
“Inspector,” she said, strolling over to Javert's desk.
“Mademoiselle,” he replied, inclining his head. “My name is Inspector Javert. I shall be assisting you in the reporting of your attack. May I ask your name, please?”
“Emmanuelle Douvant,” she responded.
“Please sit, Mademoiselle Douvant.”
“Please, call me Emmanuelle.”
Javert raised his eyebrows. “As you wish,” he said skeptically. She sat in the chair opposite his, and it was then that he noticed the glazed look in her eyes. She swayed in her seat.
“Inspector, will this take long?”
“Are you all right, Emmanuelle?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Let's begin, then. No, this won't take long.” Javert pulled out a report form and his quill pen. “Emmanuelle, why were you alone in Saint Michel?”
“I was on my way to a doctor.”
Javert raised his eyebrows again. “Where do you live?” he asked her.
“Number 12, Rue Sainte Marguerite, in Faubourg Saint-Germain.”
That was the very street on which Javert lived, but he gave no indication. It was, of course, none of her business, no matter how beautiful she was. Javert studied her face for a moment. She had wide eyes that seemed to glow green, a dusting of pale freckles across porcelain skin, a delicate small nose, and a small mouth with thick lips of a dark rose color. Her bosom was ample and her waist small. She was quite short, perhaps only five feet tall. Javert was so mesmerized he had to yank himself back to his work.
“Saint-Germain,” he repeated. “Why wouldn't you see a doctor in Saint-Germain? Why cut through Saint Michel? Why go through the slums to get to a doctor?”
“I didn't want my mother to know I was ill. My grandmother passed away last week. I didn't want to create a fuss. So I thought I would go to a doctor far away from home, get a treatment for my illness, and...” she swayed again in her seat.
“Mademoiselle,” Javert said hesitantly, rising slightly from his chair.
“I feel rather faint,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, and then she slumped in her chair. Her face went ghostly gray and glistened with sweat.
Javert rushed to her, picking her up and cradling her. She weighed hardly anything in his strong arms. “Beasse!” he called. Beasse whirled around. “Go get a doctor!” Javert demanded. Beasse grabbed his hat and jogged out of the police station.
Javert went to the bench along the outer wall of the police station where visitors often sat and waited to speak with inspectors. He cradled Emmanuelle across his lap, propping her head up into the crook of his shoulder. Her face was still and lifeless, her eyes shut and her lips parted slightly. Javert stared into her face and listened carefully for her breathing. She looked as though she was sleeping peacefully. Javert felt his heart race with anxiety as he awaited Beasse's return.
After a few moments, Emmanuelle's eyes fluttered open, and she looked warily around her. Realizing quickly that she was in the inspector's strong arms, she smiled shyly.
“I'm so sorry, Monsieur,” she said weakly, her voice cracking. “I'll be fine. Please, can I come back to make my report when I am feeling better?”
“Emmanuelle,” Javert said with a wry smile and a sigh, “You fainted. We're fetching a doctor and then I will take you home. You're not going anywhere by yourself right now.”
There was a moment of awkward silence as Emmanuelle accepted the inspector's words and pondered that she was still cradled in Javert's arms.
He cleared his throat in the quiet of the station. “Can you sit, Mademoiselle?” he finally asked.
“I believe so,” she said, and he caught in her eye a look that seemed almost sad. She shuffled off of Javert's lap and sat beside him on the bench, crossing her hands delicately across her sage green silk skirt and staring at them as if they were fascinating. She bit her bottom lip.
Javert felt a strange pang of guilt ripple through his core. He'd made her feel rejection. Under what delusion was she living? He'd only been holding her because she'd been unconscious, after all. What was he supposed to do? Sit there, the two of them alone in the station, with a beautiful young woman splayed across his lap, her doll-like face mere inches away from his own? It was in that moment that Javert sensed attraction from the young woman. He'd never had a woman find him attractive. His own face was strong and Roman-looking, with a broad jaw and a severe brow line. He wore his graying hair pulled back into a low, short ponytail tied with a black suede string. His salt-and-pepper mutton chops extended down his sculpted jaw line. He kept his body lean and sinewy, his shoulders broad and his muscles strong. He had never been married, and no woman had ever pined after him. His standoffish air and haughty, authoritarian personality had always seemed to intimidate women. Why not this one? Why – how – had she found comfort in his arms?
Javert felt the foreign feeling of guilt once more as he sat and thought to himself. He'd made her feel rejected and unwanted. Did he want her? He found her quite attractive; there was no denying that. She seemed at once tenacious and delicate, a model of femininity. And she was, apparently, his neighbor. Her house was not a quarter mile down the street from Javert's modestly sized but richly appointed Faubourg Saint-Germain flat. The least he could do was show her some kindness, show her that he found her attractive in return.
He reached out, timid as a mouse, and extended his hand to her hair. He petted her head gently, soothingly, he hoped. Would she slap him?
She leaned into his hand, coaxing him on. Javert stroked her head again carefully and said, after clearing his throat again, “You have lovely hair, Emmanuelle.”
She did not look at him, but smiled broadly at her hands. “Thank you,” she said, so quietly that he barely heard her.
“The doctor will be here soon.”
“I feel faint again.”
Javert turned to her quickly and grasped her shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked, but looking into her face he knew that she was not. The glazed look came over her eyes again, and she shut her them, swallowed hard, and let her head fall to the side. She moaned meekly. Javert placed his hand on her forehead. She was scorchingly hot.
“You've got a fever,” he told her authoritatively.
“Will you hold me again?” she asked, her eyes still closed.
Where was Beasse?!
Javert once more felt guilt shred through his insides. This girl needed comfort. She was ill.
“Come here,” he said finally, pulling Emmanuelle back across his lap. Once more he propped her head up into his shoulder, just a few inches from his own. Emmanuelle burrowed her face into Javert's chest and made a small sigh. Javert petted her hair again, this time allowing his hand to brush her forehead and cheek. He felt the first stirrings of arousal from deep within and thought he ought to stop touching her. When he paused and hesitated, his hand hovering above her head, she turned her face to look at him. Her ashen skin and glazed eyes looked miserable, but she was still beautiful.
“Please don't stop,” she whispered, and Javert continued to stroke her face and head gently, trying to ignore the silkiness of her hair, the softness of her skin. It had been so long since he'd touched a woman at all, and he'd never really touched a woman to comfort her. The arousal inside him grew stronger, and he feared she'd feel his erection through her skirts.
If she did, she didn't care. She let him keep touching her for five more minutes until Beasse came blustering back through the door of the station, a doctor in tow. The doctor wore a suit and carried a medical bag.
“Javert,” Beasse said with some surprise, beholding the usually severe inspector cradling the weak young woman in such an intimate way. “This is Doctor Tournette.”
Emmanuelle seemed to awaken from a sleep-like stupor and scooted herself off Javert's lap. Javert stood quickly. It all looked suspicious, he knew. But Emmanuelle could not sit on her own, and he quickly found himself seated beside her, with the young woman leaning against his shoulder for support.
The doctor approached them. “Mademoiselle,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?”
“I feel faint and weak,” she told him.
“She's got a fever,” Javert said, sounding like a nervous parent.
The doctor eyed him askance and turned back to Emmanuelle. “I believe we should get you home, and I will make a thorough examination there.” He looked to Javert. “Is there a carriage available to take her home?”
“She lives quite close. I will carry her.”
“Do you know the way?” The doctor asked.
“She lives on the same street that I do,” he said, and Emmanuelle looked at him with thinly veiled glee in her glazed eyes.
“Very well. We shall walk,” the doctor said. “But we should get her home immediately.”
“Beasse,” Javert said, “I shall return soon.” Beasse nodded. Javert reached his arm under Emmanuelle's knees and picked her up, and he and the doctor departed the station for Rue Sainte Marguerite.
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By the time they reached 12 Rue Sainte Marguerite, Emmanuelle was unconscious again. She was dead weight in Javert's arms, but she was so petite that Javert did not mind carrying her at all. The doctor heaved the knocker against number 12's front door three times, and after about ten seconds, the front door opened. A maid stood at the threshold. She gasped and said, “Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle Emmanuelle!”
“Please, come inside!” she ushered them into the front room of the posh home. “Let me go get the Madame!”
Javert and the doctor waited for a few moments in the foyer. Javert took in his surroundings. The home was stocked with fine china vases, art upon the walls, and beautiful furniture. His surveying was interrupted by the sound of running feet bounding down the flight of stairs at the rear of the foyer.
A middle-aged woman, thin and elegant, came dashing toward the inspector and the doctor. “Lord in Heaven! What's happened to her?” she cried. Javert noticed that the woman wore black. Perhaps it had been her mother, the grandmother Emmanuelle had mentioned, who had passed away.
“Madame Douvant,” Javert inclined his head. “My name is Inspector Javert. I found your daughter, the victim of an assault, in Saint Michel earlier today. She said she was going through there to find a doctor, that she was feeling unwell, and did not want to create a fuss due to a recent death in the family.”
“The lamb!” the woman cried. “My mother passed away last week. Why did she lie? She said she felt off and that she was going for a walk in the park to get some fresh air! Saint Michel! My God! Who attacked her?”
“We have the man in custody. When your daughter is well again, I will need a report from her.”
“Of course,” Madame Douvant said, nodding furiously. “And you are a doctor?” she said, turning to the other man.
“Yes, Madame. Doctor Louis Tournette. I can treat your daughter, if you wish.”
“Of course. Let's get her upstairs to her room,” Madame Douvant insisted. “Please, follow me.”
Javert and the doctor followed the woman up the staircase and down a hallway to a small but elegant bed chamber. The maid pulled back the sheets and down blanket on the bed so that Javert could carefully place Emmanuelle inside. He laid her down gently, the absence of her weight finally registering in his arms. The maid took off her shoes and pulled the blanket up over Emmanuelle's prone body. The Madame was chattering nervously with the doctor.
“Madame,” Javert interrupted, “I must get back to the station. I will return tomorrow to see if Mademoiselle Douvant has improved enough to give me a statement on her attacker.”
“Yes, of course,” Madame Douvant nodded absently. “Thank you for bringing her. Marie, please show the inspector out.”
Javert turned to glance back at Emmanuelle once more before he left the room. A small pain ripped through his chest as he turned away to leave. He hoped the doctor would make her well.
But for now, it was back to work, and Javert returned to the police station, determined to show Beasse that he was all business.
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The following afternoon, before Javert began a night patrol, he went again to 12 Rue Sainte Marguerite, knocking the door knocker firmly. Marie answered, and, as he had been expected, he was shown upstairs to Emmanuelle's room. To his carefully concealed delight, she was awake, though lying down.
“Inspector!” she cried out weakly as Marie left the room. She tried to sit up. Javert motioned for her to stay lying down.
“Emmanuelle,” he said. “I'm so glad to see you awake. What did the doctor say?”
“I just have a fever. It will break, and I'll be well again soon. Thank you for bringing me home,” she said, a grin crossing her pale face.
Her smile was dazzling. Javert cleared his throat and his mind. “I was just doing my job,” he said, and her smile disappeared. He'd upset her again. “I came to get your report on the incident in Saint Michel.”
Now Emmanuelle looked downright crushed. She swallowed and frowned at Javert, who swore he saw tears welling up in her large green eyes. Her lovely red hair was plaited into a thick braid that was slung over a shoulder, and she ran her thin fingers over the braid anxiously. “I see,” she said.
Then it dawned on him. She thought he'd come to visit her. For the second time in two days, he felt guilt, a most unfamiliar feeling.
“I could have sent Beasse,” he said quickly. “But I wanted to see how you were doing.”
The corners of Emmanuelle's lips turned up in a knowing way. She could tell he was flustered.
Javert took his report sheet, quill pen, and ink jar out from the bag he'd brought them in. “Right then,” he said, his cheeks flushing red, “May I sit at your desk to write?”
“Of course,” Emmanuelle replied. Javert sat at her richly carved wooden writing desk and spread out his materials. As he was doing so, Emmanuelle's timid voice rang out, “You said you liked my hair.”
Javert was silent. He could feel his cheeks flush even redder, and the heat in his head made him dizzy with embarrassment. Another unfamiliar sensation.
“Did you mean it?” She asked him.
“Yes,” he said simply, opening the bottle of ink.
“Thank you,” she responded plainly.
There was silence then, as Javert let his cheeks cool.
“I need some personal information first,” he said finally.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“Your full name, please?” he inquired.
“Emmanuelle Claire Josephine Douvant,” she answered, her voice cracking.
“Age?”
“Twenty.”
So young. Too young for him, he chastised himself. He was forty-eight, after all.
“Marital status?” This was a foolish question.
“I live with my mother,” she answered with a chuckle.
“Unmarried, then,” he said simply, marking the appropriate box on the form.
“Unmarried, uncourted... on track to be an old maid,” she joked. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile at her humor. He couldn't help himself.
“Please tell me exactly what happened,” he prodded her then.
Emmanuelle took a deep breath and sighed. “I was walking through Saint Michel when I was suddenly grabbed from behind. The man snatched my bag and I fought him for it. He stopped trying to grab my purse then and began groping my chest. I tried to push him away and he slapped me. He stuck his hand down the front of my dress and rubbed his hand around my bosom. I screamed, and then I heard your whistle. He let go of me and tried to grab my purse one more time, but I held onto it. He ran away when he saw you coming. That's it.” She was quiet then, as if reliving the memory was painful.
Javert, who had been dutifully writing the dictated report verbatim, felt anger rush up through his spine. His cheeks grew hot again, this time with rage. This Jacques Marnier, the scum who sat in the jail cell, had groped Emmanuelle's chest?! The filthy scoundrel!
Javert finished writing and turned immediately to Emmanuelle. “I'm very sorry for what happened to you. I promise you, the man who accosted you will pay dearly for his crimes. He will be sentenced to hard labor for years and years. I will personally see to it that the man is locked away. I will see it done, Emmanuelle.”
She smiled weakly at him. “See, you do like me,” she insisted.
“I -” Javert faltered. “You shouldn't have been walking through Saint Michel,” he blurted, his defense mechanisms coming out in full force.
She frowned. “You sound like my father.”
“Well, he's right.”
“He died last year.”
Javert nearly swallowed his tongue. He'd blundered again. “I'm sorry,” he said quickly.
“He would have liked you,” Emmanuelle said quietly.
Once more, there was silence.
“I dreamed of you last night,” Emmanuelle divulged suddenly. Even she looked shocked at herself for saying it.
Javert didn't know how to respond. His cheeks flushed again. He shifted in her writing chair and it creaked loudly in the stillness of the room.
“I'm sorry,” she finally said. “I'm glad you have your report. Thank you for coming.”
Javert still did not move. After a long, pregnant moment, he rose, putting his ink and quill away and blotting dry the report. He placed it in his bag, moving slowly on purpose.
He stood beside Emmanuelle's bed, and she stared up at him, her lovely face streaked with tears. Javert knelt down.
“Why are you crying?” he asked her. His voice sounded far harsher than he intended it to. Old habits die hard.
“Because... because I told you I dreamed of you and now you think I'm some sort of harlot and I'll never see you again and you only came for the report and I'm never going to see you again anyway, and -” the words came gushing out of her in a sob.
Javert was filled with emotions he couldn't calibrate. He wanted her to stop crying. He wanted to see that beautiful grin cross her face again. And he certainly wanted to see her again after today. He himself had been delaying his exit of the room as long as he could.
“Hush, Emmanuelle,” he said quietly to her, in a voice he hoped was soothing. “You have no reason to feel ashamed. I am honored that you dreamed of me. I doubt any lady as lovely and charming as yourself has ever had a dream about me.” He smiled gently at her, and her sobs subsided. “And, if you'll have me, I should like to come visit you again tomorrow, around noon. No reports, no business. I just want to see you again.”
“You... you do?” Emmanuelle asked, her weak voice full of hope and her eyes glistening with elation.
“Yes,” Javert said, and Emmanuelle's dazzling grin crossed her porcelain-doll face again. He found himself smiling in return. “Will your mother allow me to visit you?”
“I'll tell her you're coming. She likes you. You brought me home in your arms. She thinks you're handsome and strong, and respectable. That's what she told me. I don't think she'll mind you coming.”
“Good. I'll be here tomorrow at noon, then,” Javert told her, putting his large, rough hand over her small, smooth ones. He was suddenly filled with want and desire, and he felt arousal boiling up inside him again. Wantonly, he leaned over and kissed Emmanuelle on the cheek. Her face instantly glowed a healthy pink, and his flushed red again. Her beautiful grin was flashed once more, and without another word, Javert rose and strode from Emmanuelle's room, being shown out of the house again by Marie.
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