The summer brought in an oppressing heat that crept in the cracks under the doors and pressed up against the glass windows, each day was spent walking the streets giving money to the poor and each evening was spent in her cotton nightdress and silk robe watching the small shake that the wind brought through the leaves in the garden. Cosette would spend hours, head cocked slightly to the side and resting against the window frame as she watched the quiet garden, still at first glance but ever-changing under the inspection of a watchful eye. The wind was slow and infrequent, but when it came it bustled the overgrowing vines and lifted the petals up to blush under the light of the moon. Roses, butterflies, weeds, ladybugs, gardenias all wove up and around each other, each wanting a chance to kiss the sky. Purples and blues swirled around the heat, the white of the moon embraced the greens and yellows of the creatures in her garden, and Cosette felt at home in the place of peace and love.
Valjean had long ago locked himself up in his room on the floor above her own, not questioning her nocturnal habits but promising himself it was something a wife would have been able to explain to him if he had been able to grant Cosette a mother. Cosette, of course, thought this logic was beyond reason but would never hurt her father's pride by even letting him know she knew of these self-deprecating thoughts. A mother could have accomplished nothing more than what Valjean had given her himself, Cosette was sure a mother would have been nice as she rose through puberty and bloomed into the confused young woman she was, but her father had done his best and could do no more so why bother placing unneeded blame upon his shoulders?
No, she never reassured him of any of this though, she enjoyed the hours in the evening when he burrowed himself away and she was able to spend her time as she pleased. Letters to imaginary pen pals, to the beautiful student in the market place, wrote themselves in her bouts of loneliness, the ink spilling from her quill with little thought to what she was saying. She spoke of her father and her disrupted childhood of moving from home to home in France, the nuns she had made friends with at a young age, the pigeons she enjoyed feeding after mass, the longing for a man's kiss. And when the letters were written she sealed and hid them away in a box beneath her bed, before she stepped into her evening slippers and went out to greet her garden.
The heat dissipated slightly when she was able to push the doors of her bedroom open and embrace the beauty of her little spot in nature. The bushes of gardenias called to her the most, their fragrant perfume a scent that she wanted to consume her, a scent that filled her with a longing she did not understand, but was a longing for something much more than the little white flowers she held. The night was mostly silent, except for a small clicking noise she could not pretend to recognize, but she was drawn to it. Like a nymph with her blue robe billowing about her bare ankles, Cosette moved quickly and quietly, nearly floating to the edge of the garden, the iron wrought gate that Valjean had been insisted would enclose the garden and make it their own. She had been wise to not make a comment about the gate keeping the world as someone else's each time she was locked behind it, but had simply nodded, because yes she could appreciate her father's want to keep this garden for themselves'.
Curious to the clicking sound, but knowing she was as close as she could get to it from behind her bars, Cosette remained hidden in the greenery with the vines wrapped up and around the gate and butterflies suckling the nectar of little white flowers that grew from the vines. The moonlight bounced from the iron but she was cast in shadow of the crosses made as she stared out at the sight of the building across the street, a sight she was not accustomed to. This side of the garden was too close to the sounds of the real world, she often stayed as deep within her garden as possible to feel as if she was truly lost and out of France as a whole and in her own greenhouse in somewhere exotic and romantic like the New World. Standing lost in the shrubbery, she had to contain a gasp at the sound of the clicking growing closer and closer, bouncing off the grey cobblestones until it had rounded the corner and revealed itself to be the click of boots. Boots that had uniform pants tucked into them, that led up to a severely ironed uniform jacket, and dimpled chin, hook nose, and grey eyes that found her hiding form sooner than she had thought possible. A chill ran down her spine at his discovery.
He did not speak, but kept his eyes on her cowering figure as he took her in. Moving closer, he tipped his hat, revealing leather gloves that she had not noticed before which shined in the moonlight. How silly of her to have thought she would be the only person on this Earth awake at such an untimely hour, when of course the city police were paid to make rounds at this time of evening, or was it morning? The man was older but not elderly, surely a few years or so younger than her papa, and not unhandsome for his age. Tall and broad shouldered matched with his grey eyes and severe chin made the uniform all the more intimidating. The clicking stopped as he stood still on the other side of the gate, a look of amusement playing in his eyes as he repeated his motion with his hat.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle."
"Bonjour." His smile in response disturbed her; it was a smile of wolves, "Do you know me, sir?"
"Do you live in this house?"
"Oui."
"Then no, I do not know you. Who are you?" She shook her head, smiling as he grew closer and set his large hand next to her much smaller one on the gate. His black leathered gloves gleamed and made her pale hands look fragile in comparison.
"Who are you?" He ducked his head to hide his grin at her interrogation and a warmth, that she did not understand, filled her.
"I am Inspector Javert, do you know me?" It did sound familiar, she was sure she had heard of him through gossip in town at most, perhaps papa had spoken of him before, this did not surprise her as her father knew of everyone.
"I don't think so."
"Will you tell me your name?" Javert stood to his full height, then, and revealed that he towered over her by a good foot or so. His stature was large and daunting, casting more shadows over her blush-filled face. She had never had such a long conversation with a man, not alone, not in the evening, and most certainly not while standing so close.
"I am Cosette Fauchelevent."
"That's a beautiful name." It was a grunt as his back straightened and he turned slightly away from her, she grew cold as he retreated and could not contain herself as she called out,
"Do you really think so?" Slightly addicted to the feeling of male attention, to knowing that his eyes had traveled more than once to glance at her parted lips, that he had taken in her nightgown with raised eyebrows, that he could have mistaken the scent of gardenias for something that belonged to her and her alone—she grinned when he stopped to turn and smile at her.
"Most certainly, as it belongs to a beautiful woman."
Woman. The word stuck with her through the next days and evenings, plaguing her with a feeling of pride that dragged her thoughts away from her surroundings and pulled her out to that place in the garden. Was she a woman or merely a girl pretending to be a lady? Either way, he thought she was a woman. Though, he did not come back that week, or the next, even as she spent each of her evenings waiting beside her gardenia bush listening for the familiar clicks of his boots. He did not come. She would drag herself back into her bedroom and seal the door and window shut before sliding the robe from her shoulders and allowing herself to sink into the goose filled comforter. Woman. What did it mean to be a woman to a person who was so clearly a man? The thought would travel through her brain again and again until she fell into a heavy sleep, dreaming of boots and carved chins, thick sideburns and the moonlight dancing in grey eyes. Yet she would awake with the same question and warmth between her young thighs that she did not understand, what would it take to be a woman for the Inspector?
Javert came on a Thursday evening; her father was up in his bedroom with a horrible migraine that had banished him to his bed for the entire day. She'd spent her time out in the garden in her cotton slip, letting the sun burn her skin and bring a rosy blush to her shoulders and cheeks. The sun had just fallen and a quiet fell over this part of the city as all of the children were pushed into cribs and mothers fell asleep on the couch as fathers did whatever it was that fathers did in the evenings, and Cosette was free to remain in her slip in her garden. The notes to the boy in the square had been forgotten the evening she met the inspector and propriety's need for a robe was forgotten when that day she had grown sunburnt in the summer heat. The clicks sent her jumping up from her place amongst the buttercups. She was torn by her want to run to greet him and the want to flee and cover herself with her robe, but she was afraid he would not wait for her presence if she left for clothing, and so instead she padded over in her bare feet to meet him at the gate.
"Inspector!" She shouted louder than she meant to and a blushed filled her cheeks as he took in her state of dress. The cotton nightgown was thin cotton that billowed in the summer breeze and pressed tightly against her skin and at times she knew it could be utterly see-through, she was not sure what made her do it, but she pressed her chest tight up against the gate and reached an arm through to offer her hand for him to shake. Forced to travel and accept her hand, he tipped his hat as he had the first night she met him, before taking her pale skin between his gloved fingers and pressing a kiss to the top of her hand.
"Mon ami, how are you?" Hungry eyes took her in and a satisfied gasp of air filled her and made her light headed even through her blush at the familiar term.
"Much better now that you are here, and you?" Eyebrows rose at her bluntness and he could not retain his snort.
"Well enough. Good evening." His retreating form caused a panic in her, she had wanted him to explain things to her, she had thought that if he came back she would finally understand all that she had been longing to know since she saw the young boy in the crowded square.
"Inspector, where are you off to?" She traveled down the gate with him, stopping when he did so they were again standing across from each other. Just not as close, now.
"To finish my duties. I will not be distracted by a child in a nightie.'' The words stung and her cheeks were painted red immediately, no trick of the blue moon could hide her embarrassment.
"A child? You called me a woman only a fortnight ago." The immaturity of her voice could not be hidden and he was now annoyed with her insistence.
"Did I? I must've been mistaken." Furious at weeks of longing going to a waste, Cosette threw herself at the gate with an agitated scream, and to her utmost horror, found herself flung out into the open, down the small medium of grass, and onto the harsh cobblestone of the street. The cobblestones tore open her knees until they were raw and trickling blood, her slip ripped up to reveal a grass-burned thigh, and her palms stung with the impact of the road. Javert let out an ungodly curse as he knelt to her assistance, taking her willowy arms between his gloved hands and lifting her to her bare feet.
"Why are you even out in this, your mother would have a fit if she knew what you were up to this evening. Can you walk?" His snapping tongue was whipped about at a hushed whisper, afraid her scream had awoken her neighbors or parents and someone would find him holding this half-naked lady in his arms. Yet she looked up and could only thank the heavens for the scrapes upon her knees, for the man was warm and collected as he held her tight to his firm body, holding her upright and stable as she shook in pleasure.
"I don't think so, monsieur. Pardon, can you help me to my room? It's just there," She pointed with a trembling hand to the open doors in the garden, "my papa is ill in bed up there," again she pointed but this time to the high, dark window on the opposing side of the house, "he can't hear a thing."
"You are sure you cannot make that short tread?"
"I am sure." She wasn't.
"Alright, arms around my neck, Cosette." He remembered. She couldn't hide her beam as she wrapped herself about his masculine figure and strong arms lifted her, bridal style, into a tight embrace, so instead she buried her face into his stiff collar and inhaled the scent of starch and peppermint that she knew she could grow to love.
The vision was one of a dream for her; the maiden clad in flowing white being carried to bed by a man in uniform who first brought her through an overgrown garden that was everything she aspired to be in life. Acting the role perfectly, he placed her atop the comforter then sat upon the bed, removing his gloves to reveal long, clean fingers that reached for her cool limbs. Blushing fiercely she was thankful he had closed her bedroom door behind her to give them the privacy she ached for, this was much more intimate than she had estimated it being and all he was doing was inspecting her palms for glass. Ginger hands moved to her feet then, petite between his fingers, before he moved onto her scraped knees. Pink raspberries accented with droplets of blood were blown on by thin lips, sending goose-bumps across her entire body. He moved then to the side of her flushed thigh, where he pulled a piece of grass away from the skin, before resetting her nightgown. Wide eyes met his and the wolf smile was back, she was sure her heart was thudding so loud he would surely hear the cacophony, but he said nothing as his fingers slid up and stroked at the space where all of her heat was pooling.
A gasp shot from her body with a shudder and he was moving forward in a haze, fire catching between them as his lips stole her first kiss. It was harsh and the little bit of stubble upon his face scratched her pinked face, and he chuckled at her timidity. Everything was magnified then, when he stroked the spot between her legs that made her call out in pleasure before his finger entered her fully. A hand shot up to capture his cheek and drag him down into a kiss, she was not the shy girl in the convent then. Woman? She was not sure if she could take that name yet, her heart was thudding too loudly in her own ears for her to contemplate exactly what this meant, but she flushed harder when she realized he was grinning as he watched her writhe under his touch. He was enjoying what she did, and she smiled back, wanting to ask him how she could return the favor when his fingers twitched in such a way that she believed she saw heaven itself. It had happened so fast that she couldn't believe it was over, her body covered in a sheen of sweat as he moved his hand to her breast.
"Did you know this would happen?" His grey eyes were full of laughter as she moved to her burning knees and struggled to find a way to remove his coat.
"No, monsieur, I did not." Javert shook his head negative, and reached out to take her shift in his hands and tighten it against her chest, her little nipples hard and dark against the thin material. To his amusement she attempted to squirm away from his touch but he had come so far and there was no stepping backwards from this bed without it catching up with him in the end, so he would have what he deserved.
"Do you want me?" Her lips were at his ear and she was upon his lap when she asked and he was confused by her question when it was so obvious she could feel his arousal digging into her.
"Oui." The slip was off and on the floor and she backed herself against the pillows and waited, it was all she knew to do and it was good enough for him. Javert had no interest in teaching this girl what it was he wanted from her, she would learn from experience he supposed, so he undressed quickly with heat upon his neck as he watched her eyes travel down to the forbidden place she knew not of.
He entered her with a hand clasping her mouth shut, the scream muffled and tears springing to her wide eyes momentarily. His apologies were lost in her thick hair, her little breasts rubbing against his chest as her body was racked with sobs. If she had known of this pain would she have continued? The feeling of being stretched and filled blocked out common sense and rather than pushing the source of pain away she clung to the strong man atop her, unsure what was making her commit this sin but knowing she needed to push forward. They sat still for what felt like hours before his thumb dropped to her small nub and she was mewling beneath him again. She consumed him, drugging him with the smell of wild flowers and soap, she was drug that he hadn't been able to forget for weeks.
Her wide eyes reminded him of a woman of the streets long ago that he had watched Valjean care for as she died, the name irrelevant compared to the sight of Valjean's hands upon her cheeks. Unexplainable jealousy filled him and he thrust faster within the small girl beneath him, who cried out with a wide smile as he flung her towards the edge of passion. Wide green eyes were glazed over with pleasure; brown curls mussed about her as she brought blood to her bottom lip, containing her scream of pleasure. He finished with a grunt and allowed himself to crush her petite form into the soft bed. Tears formed again and poured over, guilt to God and a drained exhaustion came over her all at once as she watched the inspector dress quickly. His presence was bigger than anyone she had known before, and she wished she could capture a piece of that presence to keep for herself.
"Monsieur? May I keep your gloves? You may have a flower of your choice if I may keep your gloves." It was a weak call from her spot on the bed as he fixed his hat as he glared into the mirror of her armoire.
"Whatever would you do with my gloves, girl?" Girl. More tears formed and she shook her head, wildly flinging her tussled curls about her frail shoulders. She was a pathetic sight with her pale sheets clutched up to cover bare skin, cheeks wet and eyes watery as she looked hopefully up at the man who had stolen any gifts she could have offered to a man of value to her. Javert grunted at the thought, at least she would enjoy her wedding night, if that ever came. And if not, then at least she would not die a virgin. It was a gift, she should take it as so.
"Fine, here." He tossed them at the bed, an undeniable guilt filling him so that he could not meet her eyes. She was still beautiful, he could not regret what he had done when he so badly wanted to do it again.
"Will you take a flower, Javert? To remember me by?" He scoffed before stomping out into the garden. Her tears could not be tamed, as she did not see him pick a gardenia flower and thrust it into his pants pocket before hurrying off and away from the house on the corner with the overflowing garden.
Cosette did not come from bed the next day, hoarsely telling her father she must have caught his cold. She did not venture out into the garden for a long while, until nearly the end of the summer, when she met the boy—Marius Pontmercy, he told her—and could not help but feel a little disappointed that he was not the owner of the gloves that sat in the box with her love letters. But she said nothing of this, never, and one day when his death was posted about in the papers more than Marius' friends, she said nothing. Marius had tossed the paper down and knocked over his own coffee with a curse at the mention of the Inspector, but not his dear friends, and Cosette felt tears upon her cheeks as she remembered kind hands cupping her cheeks as she became a woman for the first time. His body was at the bottom of the ocean and she was dressed in a nightgown and robe, having coffee with her husband, her father dead and gone, and she nothing but a sad woman who kept a pair of leather gloves hidden in a hatbox.