Angel of Mercy
By
K-Chan
* I in no way claim to own, partially own, or hold stock in any or all of Victor Hugo's characters, though only Javert seems to be present in this . . .
"Where . . .?" he trailed off, unable to finish. His throat felt as though it were on fire. Every part of his body hurt.
"Shh, just lie still," the musical voice instructed him. He complied with no objections. The girl moved from beside him and took up a bowl of broth. She raised a spoon to Javert's lips. He sniffed it. "Come on, you've got to eat," the girl coaxed. Javert hesitantly took a bite, then another and another until the bowl was drained. He sighed, satisfied and full, then turned his head cautiously to inspect his surroundings. Even with influenza, a fever, and exhaustion, Javert was still the good inspector, alert and ready.
The room he was in was relatively plain; whitewashed walls, a hardwood floor, a simple bed upon which he was lying, a nightstand with a washbasin and towel, and a small alcove Javert assumed was for dressing. He again turned his gaze toward the girl. She had left his bedside and been joined by a rather large, stocky, but pleasant looking woman in the doorway. The two were conversing in low voices. The plump woman looked normal enough, but the young girl was outfitted rather peculiarly. She wore a frugal white shirt with no buttons and sleeves that were cut short, along with a blue pair of corduroy trousers, accented by a bright red sash tied about the waist, just above her hips. On her feet she wore a coarse pair of scuffed shoes.
The young girl exited the room with the washbasin, and the plump woman found her way to Javert's bedside. Javert could not resist his curiosity. "Madam, tell me," he queried, "why is she dressed like that? If I must say, it is quite an improper way for a young lady to dress." The jolly woman laughed.
"Try telling her that! Our Little Anne is more stubborn than a mare."
"Anne? Is that her name?"
"Annette, actually; Little Anne is an affectionate nickname. I am Madam Enjouee." The stout woman smiled broadly.
Javert pressed on. "And the reason she is clothed like a boy?"
Madam Enjouee lowered her voice. "She dresses that way to idolize her hero, Inspector Javert."
Javert jerked his head up from its restful position on his pillows, sending a surge of pain through his upper body. "Excuse me?" Madam Enjouee continued.
"I know it must sound odd, to look up to such a man, but Little Anne adores him for some unknown reason. She even talks of becoming an inspector—she wants to become the first woman to join the police force! Can you believe that? A few years back, she caught a glimpse of her idol in the Town Square—I had never seen the girl happier. She didn't get a good look at him; he passed by rather quickly in his carriage, but it certainly is strange, don't you think?"
Javert didn't answer. Instead he dropped his gaze for a moment, then looked back to Madam Enjouee. "What are your views on the inspector?"
"He's a cold, black-hearted man. I don't like him, and I don't admire him. I can't see what she likes about him or what she admires though she has attempted to explain it to me a hundred times or more. But yet, we have not become fully acquainted! What is your name?"
Javert hesitated. He was obviously not known here, but Enjouee had made it quite clear that her hospitality would come to a sharp end if she should know who he truly was. Although Javert disliked living on someone's charity, he knew he was not well, and this was the closest thing to a hospital that wouldn't know his true identity. "Étoile," he responded. "Aramis Étoile." Madam Enjouee smiled.
"Welcome to La Havre Establishment for the homeless and orphaned. We usually do not house people like you, obviously an established, well-off monsieur by the way you were dressed."
Javert suddenly realized that his soggy uniform was hanging neatly in the alcove, and he was donned in an unfamiliar nightgown, thus one of the two women, or both of them, had stripped off his clothes and redressed him. He blushed a deep scarlet at this revelation. If Enjouee noticed, she pretended she had not, and continued talking.
"But we are making an exception since our Little Anne found you half-dead in the river." Slowly, it all came back to Javert. He had fled from the barricades, overflowing with inner turmoil. The man he had hunted for almost half his life, nearly twenty years—Jean Valjean—could have killed him, but instead he had let Javert go free. Javert shuddered at the memory. His life had always been black and white up until that moment. Unable to acknowledge this selfless act, and frightened by the gray shade towards which his life had taken such a sudden turn, Javert had flung himself into the Seine. He remembered nothing from that point on, not even how the icy water had hit his body like razor blades.
"Consider yourself lucky, Monsieur Étoile, that I happened to see you fall from the bridge," Annette added, returning to the room and obviously overhearing some of the conversation between Enjouee and Javert. Javert became somewhat embarrassed, wondering if Annette knew the truth about his attempted suicide and was covering it for the sake of his pride, or if she saw from a distance and truly believed that he merely slipped. Annette set the washbasin and a rag back on the nightstand and took a seat on the hardwood stool. "Madam Enjouee, I can take it from here," she assured the old woman, and Enjouee left the two alone. Annette took up the rag, dipped it into the water, and began to bathe the sweat from Javert's forehead. The symptoms of his illness were returning, and the cool water chilled him. He studied the girl's features as she worked. Her hair was short for a female, about shoulder length, and pulled back into a ponytail. She was radiant, but so masculine in her appearance! Javert wondered if she could ever be a lady.
At the same time, Annette was inconspicuously sizing up Javert as well. His raven tresses fell about his face, which at that time looked fatigued and careworn, even though he was not that old. Annette placed him in his mid-forties to early fifties. He looked pained, deeply troubled, with an air of despondency about him. She wet the rag again and smoothed the hair from Javert's perspiring forehead. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," he whispered.
"Little Anne," she corrected him. "No one knows my real name—I came here as an orphaned infant. Madam Enjouee named me Annette after her—her full name is Annette Enjouee—because for the longest time I would follow her around, and allow only her to care for me, and she honored it by giving me her name. When I even picked up on some of her characteristics and mannerisms, she began calling me Little Anne, because I was a miniature version of her." With a slight hint of sadness, Little Anne added, "I don't even know if my mother gave me a name. You are quite welcome, Monsieur."
Javert blinked. The room seemed to dim and grow fuzzy, then sway. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. When he reopened them, everything was back to normal. Little Anne was still talking. "Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?" She looked straight into his eyes. Javert didn't answer. Staring into Little Anne's eyes had sent a whole new shock of emotions through him, as though he were staring into the past. It was as if he had caught a quick glimpse of himself in the distorted glass of a window pain. Vague were the detailed facial similarities between the two, but the broad likeness was so shockingly obvious, Javert wondered why he had not noticed it before. And yet Little Anne's face was not of his past . . . was it? She seemed to exist somewhere in a memory. Her voice brought him back to reality.
"Monsieur Étoile, are you all right?" Javert came to.
"Yes, Mademoiselle, merci," he responded quickly. "If I may ask, what is your age?"
"I am twenty-seven," she replied. So she was not as young as she looked. Javert scolded himself internally for neglecting that looks can be deceiving. This girl, this Little Anne—she was becoming more of an enigma than Javert felt he was ready for. Still, curiosity, as always, got the better of him, and he questioned her still.
"Mademoiselle-"
"Little Anne, please," she interrupted him.
"No, Mademoiselle, it would be most improper-"
"Monsieur Étoile, as a patient here, I encourage you to call me by my first name, and even more casually, a nickname. Rather you think of your stay here as a visit in my dwelling place, therefore you are my guest, and I request that you call me Little Anne, for the sake of commonplace affairs."
To Javert, this made all the sense in the world, and besides, he was too exhausted to argue. He corrected himself; "Little Anne, Madam Enjouee told me that you dress like a boy to idolize Inspector Javert. Apparently she does not understand why you venerate him. So I am asking you to enlighten me, for it seems that you have attempted to explain your views to her in the past and failed."
Little Anne entreated Javert to a dazzling smile. "You are accurate—several times Enjouee has inquired why the inspector influences me so, but she just cannot see past his exterior." Javert raised a questioning eyebrow. Little Anne continued. "The inspector puts forth a glacial belligerent front, but you must scratch the surface of that gilded prejudice that has convinced Enjouee and so many others through idle gossip. I have heard much of Inspector Javert, and though I have only seen him once, I have come to my own conclusions regarding his character. When assessing the inspector, one must look with the heart and not with the eye."
Javert proceeded tediously. "And you can do that?" Little Anne nodded, and Javert went on. "What do you see in Javert—with your heart?"
"I see a lonely, desperate man who is crying out to belong and be loved." This was certainly not what Javert was expecting, but the next blow left him completely defenseless. "I see in him much of what I see in you, Monsieur Étoile."
"She knows who I am," was Javert's first thought, then, "No, she cannot possibly. She only saw me once in the Town Square, and who knows how long ago that was? She cannot possibly know it is I. What does she mean, desperate? She sees Javert in me. She knows I am Javert. No, that is impossible." Little Anne's eyes—or maybe her heart—could see into Javert's soul, and he knew it. It unnerved him. Did she know? Did she know everything?
"What do you mean?" Javert interrogated tentatively.
"I've seen anxiety in many, Monsieur Étoile, and I see it in your eyes. I know what really transpired that night on the bridge. You are deeply distraught, to wish to take your own life."
This was the final straw that caused Javert to feel as though he was drowning all over again. This street urchin, this impoverished wench now held the upper hand against him. He was, for just the second time in his life, forced into a subservient position, a place he was unaccustomed to and uncomfortable being. "What do you want from me?" he asked her, his throat dry and hoarse.
Little Anne smoothed out Javert's hair with her slender fingers. "I want you to open your heart to me. Our lives have become intertwined, and I want to know the reason why you suffer so."
"There is . . . nothing to tell." His words were weak, then he became sharp. "See here, Mademoiselle, I find it very discourteous of you to inquire about my personal life when we hardly know each other." He turned away from the girl, feeling more feverish and uncomfortably warm than he had previously. Who was this girl, this Little Anne? Why did she strike him so deeply? Javert had worked himself into such a state that he had not realized Little Anne had left the room. He looked around. Her voice drifted in from the next room. The words were fuzzy, but Javert caught some parts of the conversation between Enjouee and Little Anne.
" . . . depressed . . . . . . . lonely . . . . . . . . . . we should . . . . . . no, I don't think . . . . . .but what about . . . . . tea . . . ." Javert strained to hear more of Little Anne's words. Finally he fell back, frustrated and exhausted. It was not worth it. He felt sick and dizzy. What if his identity was discovered? He would be turned out if Enjouee had anything to do with it. What then? Where would he go? Back to Paris? How would he explain his absence for the past . . . how many days had he been sick? Everything was just a blur in Javert's memory. Little Anne returned to his bedside and handed him a steaming cup of hot liquid.
"Drink," she commanded him. "It's a mixture of juniper berries and sallow bark to ease your influenza." Javert inhaled suspiciously. The tea had a pleasant aroma, so he sipped it gingerly. The affable taste warmed him all over, soothing his nerves. He looked gratefully at Little Anne.
"Thank you," he adulated her. She returned the praise with a warm smile.
"I added some hops and primrose to help you sleep," she continued. Javert nodded. He felt the effect of the herbs already, as he was beginning to feel drowsy. Softly, Little Anne began to sing a haunting lullaby. She had a very pretty, very sweet voice, and Javert had to admit to himself that it comforted him, as though he were a frightened child. Strange, though, Javert thought as he drifted into sleep, the aria sounded so familiar . . .
Javert had fallen in love once in his life. Yvonne Jacqueline Romanichel. God, she was beautiful! She had auburn tresses that fell to her waist and large blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires. She was never loud or obnoxious; when she spoke she was soft and melodious. And her voice! Her songs were low and seductive and stayed with him for hours to come.
He had seen her for the first time in the park. She was sitting on a bench by the lake, watching the sunset. He hadn't the nerve to speak to her then, but he returned to the square the next night, and the next. She was always there, same time, same place. He would sit and watch her yonder, the warm glow of the evening sun casting a bright aura about her. Finally, after about a month, he approached her.
"Good evening, Madam," he greeted her. She looked up at him with those enchanting eyes.
"Monsieur," she returned, moving over a few inches. Javert sat beside her. For a moment they were silent, then he leaned over and whispered, "My name is Javert."
"Mine's Yvonne," she whispered back. And thus was the start of Javert's first and only romance.
"If only I'd known," Javert mumbled in his sleep. "If only I'd known."
Little Anne sat watching him, listening to the undecipherable mutterings Javert spoke as he slept. The night was quiet; Enjouee lived in a cottage across the street from the orphanage/homeless shelter, but Little Anne usually slept in the cot where Javert was now in dream-depth slumber. She tried to make it a point not to sleep there too often; she did not want Enjouee to find her out.
Little Anne was a compulsive liar. Enjouee assumed that Little Anne had a home, and Little Anne let her believe that. She lived where she could; the hospital some nights, a garden, or even a door stoop. Once, when a family in the city was out of town, she found their door unlocked so she slept in their kitchen. But Little Anne had no real home, and no real family.
Javert moaned pathetically in his sleep. Little Anne began again to softly sing her lullaby; "Si je sais montre tu dors, mon amour, je sais te donner les rêves a étoilé. Si je sais faire un souhait pour toi, je sais souhaiter dans toutes les étoiles. Si je sais dire un prière pour toi, je sais prier dans la nuit et le jour. Si je sais garder toi en sécurité, mon amour, je sais te donner ma vie," which translates into, "If I could watch you sleep, my love, I'd give you starlit dreams. If I could make a wish for you, I'd wish on every star. If I could say a prayer for you, I'd pray both night and day. If I could keep you safe, my love, I'd give my life for you." It was the only lullaby she had ever known. It had a history, and a significant meaning, according to what Enjouee told her.
"When I found you on the door step of the establishment, I found this note pinned to your tattered blanket," Enjouee had told her. "This lullaby was written upon it, along with a letter that read 'Please take care of my dear girl, and sing her this lullaby to the tune of the notes I have written below. It is all I have to offer her.'" Enjouee knew how to play the piano quite well, and she taught Little Anne the lullaby as she carefully picked out the tune on the fusty old harpsichord in the front hall of the establishment. Little Anne loved the true story; she kept the letter from her mother in a small leather pouch about her neck at all times.
"If only I'd known," Javert spoke aloud. Little Anne looked down on him. He was so fascinating! Monsieur Étoile was an enigma, and Little Anne was determined to unlock the mystery behind the man.
* * *
When Javert awoke the next morning, a tray had been set on the nightstand beside him. He grinned, thinking immediately that Little Anne had laid out his breakfast, trying not to wake him. He sipped the steaming liquid from the mug on the tray. Enjouee entered the room.
"Good morning, Monsieur!" I trust you slept well. I see you have discovered your breakfast! I did not want to wake you, so I just left it there for you to find."
"Yes, Madam, merci," he stammered. Enjouee smiled broadly. She had quite an amusing personality, really. She was pure sunshine. "Madam, might I inquire about Mademoiselle Annette's whereabouts?"
"Little Anne works odd jobs in the early mornings. Let me see, it is . . . Tuesday, correct? Tuesdays and Thursdays she works for an elderly gentleman, Monsieur Vieillesse. Wednesdays and Fridays she works in La Havre prison, and Mondays and Saturdays she works with the soup kitchen."
Javert was intrigued. A working woman, working other than a prostitute. It was most uncommon. "What sort of work does she do for Monsieur Vieillesse?"
"Small errands and such; a run to the market or post office. Sometimes she cleans for him, since he is older and his wife is dead."
"Does Vieillesse pay her?"
"In any way he can. Mostly in francs and sous, sometimes in other things, such as bits of candy or small trinkets. She is still just a child at heart; she never got a real chance at childhood."
As they spoke, Little Anne appeared in the doorway, munching on a maple sugar candy. She held out three francs to Madam Enjouee.
"For the poor box," Little Anne explained, in reference to the francs. Javert was astonished at this charity. After some protest from Enjouee and much insistence from Little Anne, the money was graciously accepted and placed in the small wooden box in the front of the establishment.
'Those were her wages; she would not get paid again until Thursday.' Javert was astounded by this selfless act. The prostitutes, the beggars he arrested . . . yes, thieves and murderers—would they be moved to such generosity? They were all poor, and from the looks of her situation, Little Anne was, too.
Little Anne took a seat on her stool by Javert's bedside. "How are you feeling this morning, Monsieur?" she inquired. Javert smiled warmly at her.
"Much better, merci, Mademoiselle . . . I mean, Little Anne." She laughed—a beautiful, euphonic sound. It seemed to Javert that he had heard that same musical laughter before . . .
Yvonne had laughed when Javert had told her. She laughed, but not out of spite. She laughed out of fondness.
"I love you, too, Javert," she had whispered to him in response. Yvonne was destined to be the first and only woman Javert had ever fallen madly in love with. He looked into her large blue eyes. They were full of genuine passion, so he drew her in close to him, close to his face, to his lips . . .
"Monsieur?" Little Anne's voice shook Javert back into reality. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Little Anne, I am quite fine," he said unconvincingly. Enjouee left Little Anne alone with her patient, and Little Anne's next gesture surprised Javert. She toyed with his hair as she had in the past, running her fingers through it, and kissed him lightly on the forehead. It was the first display of affection showed toward him since . . .
He would never forget his last moment with Yvonne; the last moment he thought he loved her, the last moment when nothing and no one could have made him happier. She lay beside him on the bed, tenderly caressing his raven locks and kissing him sweetly. It was not the first time they had made love, and Yvonne was with child. "If it's a boy, let's name him after you," she whispered. Javert smiled up at her, and asked her to be his wife.
"For I love you unconditionally," he had promised her.
"That was so long ago," Javert whispered bitterly, forgetting he was not alone.
"What was, Monsieur Étoile?" He looked up at her, startled.
"Oh . . . nothing," he faltered. Her expression urged him to confess, so he took a deep breath and said, "It was so long ago, when I fell in love."
"Was she pretty?"
"Beautiful!" he declared adamantly. "She had eyes that were so blue . . ." he trailed off. 'Like yours,' he wanted to add. He coughed twice to cover for his hesitation. And auburn hair like yours, he thought suddenly, and a facial complexion like yours . . . oh, my God! Could it be? Was it possible? What were the odds?
It had killed Javert when he found out, like a knife to his heart—or his back. Yvonne was a prostitute. He had walked in her room, bearing flowers and a smile, while she was with one of her customers. They had gotten no farther than the stranger removing Yvonne's dress, but they way he caressed her caused Javert to recoil, shocked and hurt. His world shattered as Yvonne looked over and their eyes met . . . he had to look away . . .
* * *
Javert awoke the next morning, feeling quite better physically but still sick to his heart and head. Little Anne had left already. Enjouee had again set out his breakfast; he sipped at the tea. It soothed his nerves slightly, and Enjouee entered the room. History was repeating itself.
"Good morning, Monsieur Étoile!" she greeted him.
"Good morning, Madam Enjouee," he returned, kindly but not quite warmly.
"I trust you slept well?"
"Yes, merci," he muttered, bitter, wishing she would just go away and leave him alone with his thoughts. She seemed to take the hint and left as soon as she had drawn back the curtains. Yellow sunlight poured into the tiny room, making it seem bright and cheerful.
Little Anne stayed away longer than she had the previous day, and Javert missed her. When she finally returned and stepped into his room, a smile broke out over his troubled face, as though she had been gone for two years rather than two hours.
"Good day, Little Anne," he welcomed her.
"Bonjour, Monsieur," she returned with much warmth. "Forgive me, I stayed late at the prison."
"I find it quite commendable that you do such work for this poor, defiled community," he said, meaning to praise her. A peculiar look came over her face, and she crossed the room quickly and sat on the edge of his bed.
"Oh, no, Monsieur, you are quite mistaken. Our community is not defiled, and while it is poor in material possessions, we are thoroughly wealthy in spirit, love, and friendship. We are a part of the people of France, and while the king and his officers see us as nothing more than filth, we are more; we are so much more. That is why Yvonne named her daughter for the Republic."
Javert sat up quickly as Little Anne crossed back over the room and was about to leave. "Yvonne? Yvonne who?"
She paused in the doorway. "Yvonne Romanichel. She has been in prison for as long as I have worked there, and before, according to her. She tells me much of the daughter she once had. She named her Nicolette; 'the people's victory.'" With that, Little Anne left to fix Javert another cup of tea.
Javert's heart was pounding wildly, and his head was in a tailspin. Yvonne! He had not seen her since he arrested her, after she had her girl-child—his child . . .
Yvonne ran through the streets, clutching her baby girl, as the child's father pursued the both of them. Yvonne did not care what happened to her as long as little Nicolette was safe. A small building called to her from ahead; La Havre Orphanage and Homeless Establishment. Yvonne gently set Nicolette down on the stoop, then beat the door. "Please, please help us!" she cried. She could hear Javert's pounding footsteps behind her, so she ran, leaving Nicolette. Javert did not notice the child, and continued after Yvonne, and she looked back just once to see a plump but kind looking woman appear on the front step of the establishment, pick up Yvonne's baby, and carry her inside. Looking back had slowed her, and Javert caught up and arrested her. It was hard to do so; he had promised to love her unconditionally, and he was still very much in love with her, but he was the law, and he was still so very hurt . . .
Little Anne reappeared with the tea. "Would you like to take a walk today, Monsieur Étoile? You seem to be getting stronger, and a stroll outside would do you well," she offered. Javert nodded his head, and Little Anne left him alone to dress after helping him out of bed. When he came out of his room, he was dressed in his uniform, and Little Anne asked him where he would like to go. He almost didn't say it, but he had to know. After a pause, he said, "The prison."
It felt good to get back out into the sunshine, though Javert hardly felt it as the two made their way to La Havre prison. What would he say? How would she react?
"Here we are, Monsieur Étoile," Little Anne announced to Javert. A cold, musty draft met them as she pushed open the heavy oak doors. The pair stepped into the dank lightlessness.
Javert's eyes adjusted to the shadowy dark of the prison, and he looked around. "I would like to see Yvonne," he said softly. Little Anne took him by the hand and led him to the very last cell. A thin, frail figure sat huddled in a corner, humming a soft tune. To Javert, it was one of the most familiar sounds in the world.
"Hello, Yvonne," he spoke quietly. The woman looked up. There was a long pause that seemed to last through eternity as a million emotions crossed Yvonne's face. Curiosity, confusion, shock, horror, and joy were just a few.
"Javert?" she whispered. Javert nodded and responded, "Yes. It's me."
It was Little Anne's turn to stare. "Are you saying that you are Inspector Javert? And you know each other?" There was another awkward pause.
"He is your father," Yvonne confessed, then proceeded cautiously. "And I am your mother."
Little Anne backed away, looking from Yvonne to Javert and back again. "You knew? You both knew the entire time? And you didn't tell me?" Yvonne looked embarrassed and let Javert regale the story of how they fell in love long ago, and how Yvonne gave birth to her, and how and why Javert had been the cause of Yvonne's arrest. "And then, after twenty or so long years, I saw how ill-spent my life had been. I lived in relentless pursuit of destroying all evil, when the only good that had ever been in me came from your mother." He smiled upon Yvonne. "I promised to love you unconditionally, and I broke that promise because I was hurt and confused. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"
"Oh, Javert," she sighed, "I forgave you long ago. I, too, betrayed my unconditional love for you. I only did it because . . . because I wanted to give the best to my girl and to you. I thought if I could just do it a few times and get some money, you would never have to know. It was the first time, that once, and when I saw the expression on your face, I knew I would never be able to do something so horrible to you again. I pushed him away and turned him out after you left, then I wept because I was sure you would never be able to love me again after what I was going to do. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"
Javert sighed with relief and a sudden inner peace. "I forgave you long ago. Another misapprehension cleared," he rejoiced, then turned back to Little Anne and continued, "When I found myself in your establishment after my attempted suicide, Madam Enjouee told me how she despises Inspector Javert, only she knew not who I truly was, so I gave her a pseudonym, Aramis Étoile. I did not know who you were, but I had my suspicions, and I finally believed you were truly my daughter when I looked into your eyes and saw not only your mother, but a little bit of myself. The song," he added, "the song should have been the dead giveaway."
Yvonne swallowed and began to sing the lullaby, the only keepsake she had left to her daughter. Little Anne smiled as her eyes welled up with tears, then finished the last two stanzas of the song along with her mother. They sounded beautiful in unison. "Oh, mother," Little Anne breathed when the last note had faded away to silence. Carefully, she removed the faded yellow paper from the pouch about her neck. "I kept it, all these years. I held onto it, afraid that if I did not, we would lose each other forever. Oh, mother, why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"We would never lose each other!" Yvonne said fiercely. "I knew you were my daughter when you began your work here. Enjouee used to run the prison as well, and every day she would speak of the dear little girl she had discovered on her doorstep. I knew very well who that girl was; it was you, my daughter. So I was overjoyed when you began to work here after Enjouee quit. It was the only way I could see you, my baby girl. I did not tell you, for fear you would be ashamed of me."
Little Anne and Yvonne were both crying quite heavily now, and even Javert's eyes were misty. On Javert's pardon, Yvonne's cell was opened and she was let free. The divided family reunited in a great embrace. Suddenly, as if just remembering something, Yvonne stepped back and looked into Little Anne's eyes.
"There was one other thing I forgot to leave. I forgot to tell the world your name; Nicolette Genevieve Romanichel."
Little Anne smiled upon her parents. "Nicolette," she whispered affirmatively. "The people's victory."
Yvonne beamed and repeated, "The people's victory." The females then looked to Javert. Javert returned the gaze and smiles, thinking of how much he loved these two women and how much they meant to him and how much they had changed his life. He had never felt so content and fortunate as he affirmed:
"The people's victory; my Nicolette."