II: A Shared Sky
The daffodil didn't take well to Javert's small, dusty home. Setting it on the top shelf of his wardrobe, Javert quickly forgot about it as he removed his thick wool guard uniform and put on a white cotton shirt with wool pants. The day was winding down and he had all but forgotten the little girl with dusty blonde hair and eyes the color of the ocean.
His house was empty, devoid of knick-knacks save for a few murky paintings that clung to the walls and came to light as he walked and lit lamps and candles to light the rooms. Walking to the small kitchen he ripped at a loaf of bread that he had picked up from the baker's a day or two ago and cut at a block of yellow cheese. Javert liked to eat in silence. He tasted the briny salt from the sea as he ate.
At dusk, he built a fire, such was the routine. The early summer night was mild and placid, the air clinging heavily to his breath, yet he still felt like a fire was needed. Javert would never admit that he thought the warm crackling and orange glow from the fireplace was comforting.
Patting his hands free of ash and soot once the flames grew stronger, he walked over to a wide window that sat to the right of the fireplace. Swinging it open, he gazed up at the sparkling stars and his face softened. The stars were strong on a clear night, never judging, and always quiet. Under these quiet illuminations, Javert hummed to himself, his voice matching the inky night.
Soon, he retreated back inside. The armchair that sat next to his bookshelf was beckoning for him to sit down and the bookstand was waiting next to it, the works waiting to be read. Thick volumes of law and order crowded the shelves. Stories of crime and sentences stuffed themselves together in somber tones of gray and brown, the writing on their spines bold and demanding. Picking one up that specialized in the prison systems in north eastern France, Javert read a bit before his head lolled forward and a quiet snore escaped him. And there he slept.
On the other side of town, a quiet little Aimée was readying herself for bed as well. Her room was without fireplace and, in order to make up for the lack of warm flames, she had lined her walls with drawings, dried flowers, ribbons, and anything else that had caught her eye. A nest built by a curious bird that horded undiscovered beauty and importance. Her nightgown was light cotton and her hair was tied in sections with ribbons in order for it to be curled the next day.
A soft knock at her door before it creaked open.
"Aimée, are you ready for bed yet?" a soft, melodious voice asked.
Aimée's mother was nothing like her father. Melanie Lamenté's hair was a warm honey brown and was almost irresistible to be touched. Her cheeks were rosy with a natural blush and her smile was mesmerizing as a gap peeked between her front teeth. A light smattering of freckles dusted her face and her eyes were the same oceanic blue as young Aimée's.
"I'm almost ready, Mama," Aimée said before burrowing under the covers. Her mother entered the room, one hand over her large rounded belly. She was with child.
"Have you said your prayers?" the woman asked, sitting as best she could at the end of Aimée's little straw mattress. Even though Aimée was a young woman of sixteen, her mother insisted on tucking her in every night.
Aimée nodded at her mother's question, annoyed that she was asked every day, "Yes, Mama. I've said them."
"Good, angel," Melanie hummed, bringing the covers up under her daughter's chin. She rubbed her pregnant belly as she started to sing a soft lullaby.
"When's my brother get here?" Aimée asked suddenly, interrupting the quiet song.
Her mother laughed, a warm sound that flowed like honey through the ears. "Are you certain you're having a little brother? Not a sister?"
"Father said it's going to be a boy."
Melanie sighed, "Sometimes your father pretends to know the unknown, angel."
"Well, I hope it's a boy. I would like a little brother," Aimée said, snuggling down into her pillows and scrunching her eyes shut as her mother leaned over and pressed a kiss on her forehead.
"A boy or a girl, we would be equally blessed," Melanie hummed as she smoothed her daughters dusty blonde hair away from her forehead. "Goodnight, angel, sleep tight."
"Goodnight, Mama," Aimée said before she turned over on her side and watched her pregnant mother stand with a small grunt. Melanie smiled at her daughter once more before she blew out the candle that hung on the wall next to the doorway.
Once the room was dark and Melanie's shuffling feet were quiet down the hallway, Aimée sprung out of bed and quickly padded over to the small rectangular window on the opposite side of the room. Opening the weather-worn shutters, she swung herself up onto the wide windowsill and craned her neck back, her oceanic eyes glistening as they gazed up at the clear, night sky. The deep inky blackness was studded with sparkling diamonds and the moon was a thin crescent suspended between the stars.
Every night, no matter what the weather, Aimée would look up to the heavens before she could go to sleep. Even in the rain and sleet, she would peer upwards and scan for the twinkling light of stars. She liked the consistency of them compared to the hustling chaos of French streets.
As she looked out across the night sky, she wondered if the guard she had met that day had liked her flower. He seemed like a cross fellow, his eyes the hard color of jade, yet he seemed kind enough when he stood between her hand her father and let her hide behind his thick wool coat. The guard tolerated her messy dress and grubby face…her pestering flower and her nervousness concerning her father.
Aimée shrugged to nobody in particular as she left her window and crawled back into bed.
The next day was glorious. Javert donned his guard's uniform, even though he was not scheduled to work until that evening, and headed out of his meager home. His lip curled for a moment when he realized that good weather brought floods of people. A market had miraculously set up during the early morning light. Men and woman alike, fishmongers to silk tradesmen, everything under the sun was set out in the late morning air. The flies were already starting to congregate around the fish stands and butchers.
Adjusting his collar against his neck, Javert set out. The shops were nearly chaos, gruff voices shouting and a cloud of profanity and prices floated over the street and scratched at Javert's ears. He sighed and clasped his hands behind his back, glancing at shops and watching the people. He found his gaze lingering on the woman he recognized from the day before, the rug beater. She was purchasing bread from the baker's table, the same slender hands that had forcefully beaten dirt from fabric was now gingerly cradling a golden loaf of bread, still warm from the look of it.
Javert quickly found something else to look at as he continued walking.
"Hello again, monsieur," a little, but strong voice said from behind his shoulder. The flower girl, Aimée, had found him, this time clothed in a pale green dress and her blonde hair tamed back into a braided bun. The fabric made her eyes shimmer blue-gray in the daylight.
She looks like a proper lady once she's clean, Javert found himself thinking as he stonily regarded her.
"Are you working today, monsieur?" Aimée asked, looking over his blue uniform.
"Not until tonight," he replied, turning and continuing walking. He was neither annoyed nor pleased when she followed him. Merely indifferent.
"So why are you in uniform?" her hands were clasped in front of her and her head slightly bowed as she walked, proving that she had had at least some kind of etiquette training.
He glanced down at her, wondering what made her think it was appropriate to be initiating small talk with him
. "Keeps trouble away from me," he finally said, sidestepping a puddle of filth.
She giggled, thinking he was joking with her, but quickly stopped when his stoic expression never changed. She regarded him, looked at the stubble that clung to his chin and his straight-backed stride.
"Sorry," Aimée said, a little bit of color rising to her cheeks, "I thought that was a joke."
Something about her embarrassment unnerved Javert. The man feared awkwardness, so he said, "I almost didn't recognize you without mud all over your clothes." He said it with a tone he wasn't used to, a tone that warranted another soft chuckle from the girl.
"Father was furious…" she said, looking around, "So furious he told me he'd send me to an orphanage if I didn't start acting my age."
"Your father's a harsh man?" Javert asked before he could stop himself.
She shook her head, "Not exactly, he just doesn't like it when his rules are broken"
Javert gave a little grunt, not knowing how else to continue a conversation with the girl.
Aimée, surprisingly wise beyond her sixteen years, noticed that the guard was somewhat uncomfortable. Thinking that she was starting to annoy him, she started to retreat.
"My mother if probably looking for me," she said, "I hope you have a good day, monsieur." She gave a small curtsy and caught his stormy eyes.
Javert gave her a curt nod, "You too, mademoiselle,"
He watched Aimée turn to leave. He kept an eye on her until she was safe next to a very pregnant woman, whom he assumed as her mother. Javert felt a small pinprick of relief once the girl found her way to someone she knew. He was well aware of the scum that lurked in these markets, waiting for young girls to walk past their traps. Men that waited to snatch up women and drag them back into dirty alleyways and houses, or even bring them to the docks.
Javert's brow furrowed as he wondered why he worried about this little girl. I am a man of the law…I'm supposed to look out for the safety of others, he thought to himself, moving his neck from side to side against the scratchy collar of his uniform.
Regardless of the reason, he was secretly content. It was the first time another soul had held a conversation with him, even if it was only for a few minutes and in the company of a young girl. Every human needed a little interaction every now and then, even curious teenagers and stern guards.