X: The Funeral

Pearl buttons dug into the soft flesh of her neck. The black frill of the dress's collar lightly caressed the underside of her chin and she swallowed a hard sob past an ivory broach carved to look like a cluster of roses. Black mesh covered her face in the form of a veil and Anna had traced kohl around her eyes, yet her lips were free of color. Aimée's hair was gathered in a braded bun behind her head, heavy and coiled. The wooden pew beneath her was hard an uncomfortable and her back started to ache from being held so straightly.

Her father had not looked at her yet today. He sat in front of her in the church and Anna sat next to her. The priest was old…dried and frail like an autumn leaf, but without the vivid color. His voice cracked as he read Psalms, knobby fingers tracing the outline of a cross in midair.

Aimée cast her eyes upwards, trying to keep the tears from spilling over her lids and leaving black streaks down her cheeks. The sun shone through the stained glass above them, jabbing into the church in shards of gold, crimson, and blue. Jesus watched her with painted glass eyes, his hand reaching to her as he cradled a little lamb in his lap.

I have taken them away from you, he whispered into her ear without moving his glass lips.

Aimée bit her tongue hard and whimpered quietly through the pain. Anna's hand held a handkerchief as it gently nudged her side. Aimée dabbed at her eyes and clutched the cloth close as she tried to keep her hands from shaking. Amazingly, she was thankful for the veil as it covered her face.

Beaudet sat across the aisle from her, Anton to his right. Aimée felt the soft pinprick of his gaze itch between her shoulders as she walked in after the two caskets and her father. She had expected him to be here…expected worse to come as she got dressed in black satin and pearl. As she walked in, she was strong for her mother. Strong in her own beauty and solemn grace. Aimée showed the pig that she was resilient, stronger than a sobbing girl in the streets. On this day, Aimée Lamenté showed the Beaudet's that she was no longer a girl. She was a woman grown, thrust into the cruel world without so much as a warning.

As she sat in the church, Aimée had not allowed herself to lower her head.

Someone in the back of the church stifled a cough and she blinked her shining eyes. The priest was starting to finish up his sermon and the caskets shone with an ebony gloss. Lilies were resting on the cover, the white flowers looking like piles of snow. Melanie Lamenté had always hated the snow….

Aimée's hands clasped together so tightly that her fingers ached in her black lace gloves.

"Amen," the church hummed as the sermon finally finished. The organ picked up in a requiem and the people stood.

The paid pallbearers that had stood in the corner of the chapel stepped forward and picked up the coffins, eight in all. Six for her mother and two for her brother. They wore black hats and thick black coats, the collars stiff under their chins. Some wore sideburns, others mustaches. Aimée knew that they were good friends of her father, yet she did not recognize any faces.

Once the coffins passed her pew, she smoothly stepped into the aisle and followed suite with measured steps, falling in next to her father. He reached out and placed a hand at her back, his first interaction with her in two days. Aimée bit her lip as she realized this light touch was the gentlest he'd ever touched her. Behind her, Anna walked with her head lowered, wearing black but not forced to cover her face in a veil. Silently, the whole church trickled out the wide, oak doors. Family, friends, and associates had come from as far as they could under the short, unexpected notice. Still, the whole group only filled about five or six rows of pews.

A long carriage pulled by six black horses sat in front of the church. The escort was nothing extravagant, no feathers on the horses' brows, or polished silver decor on the carriage, yet the whole thing was still nicer than Aimée's father could afford. Mayor Beaudet had donated a large sum of money for the funeral when he had heard the news.

Probably trying to pay his guilt, Aimée had thought bitterly.

Gérard Lamenté pulled himself up next to the hearse's coachman after both caskets were slid into place from the back. Aimée and Anna walked behind the hearse and got into a much smaller carriage in order to be led to the cemetery. The two women bumped along in silence until they could see the outline of stone crosses and headstones through their window. Aimée's mouth turned harshly downwards and she brought a hand to her face. She chocked back sobs as Anna's hand slid over hers and they entwined their fingers with a tight squeeze.

"I shall fear no evil…" Anna murmured as she craned her neck to look at the cemetery.

"I shall fear no evil." Aimée repeated as the carriage bumped and rolled to a stop.

The coachman hopped off his seat and quickly opened the door for the two young ladies. Behind them, other coaches were starting to empty. Aimée's eyes fell on Anton as he ducked underneath the small door of the Mayor's own private box. She looked away before his sly eyes found her.

She momentarily forgot how to breathe as she looked at the two trenches dug in the ground. Thick, dark soil sat in mounds next to the graves and wooden crosses sat as temporary headstones as the smith worked to carve permanent grave markers. The priest had set up next to the graves and started reading from his bible once more, shouting the words of Christ over the sea air of Toulon's graveyard. The pallbearers lowered the coffins in, mother next to child, and the priests words started to fall away as Aimée watched the lilies on the casket. Her face felt numb, as did her hands and feet. The priest and most of the crowd started to thin and Aimée was oblivious as men pitied her and women whispered sympathetic nothings in her ear as they walked by. Gérard received sad handshakes and claps on the back, but his eyes were red-rimmed and weary, his thank-yous listless and quiet. Anna lightly touched her shoulder as two young men with shovels started to fill in the graves, the soil almost hissing as it scattered across the wood of the caskets.

"Come, Master Beaudet is serving us dinner at his estate. We must say our goodbyes."

"I'm not going there," Aimée's voice held much more resentment than Anna deserved.

Anna was about to speak again when Gérard put a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Aimée wishes to stay. Leave us," he said. By the sound of his tone, he had not forgotten that Anna was a housemaid.

"You never got to say goodbye," Gérard said as he stood next to his daughter and the gravediggers continued to shower dirt over the coffins.

Aimée did not speak or nod.

Gérard's sigh was as ragged as the shredded sail of a sunken ship. "It is just us now, Aimée."

"Yes," her voice was cold.

"Would you like some time alone? I could leave a carriage," he knew not how to speak to her.

"Yes."

"Very well…have the driver take you to Beaudet's when you are ready," the way he spoke made it apparent that she was still expected to show up to the dinner that the mayor was providing for them.

Aimée gave a weak nod underneath her veil as her father turned to go. It was just her and the gravediggers, but they ignored her to the fullest extent. They were used to relatives numbed by grief. They'd even seen people stay throughout the night at the grave of some lost lover or mentor. When the two men were finished, they gave her a small nod and left, their spades over their shoulders.

For the first time in his life, Javert left his post. His heart clenched as he heard the dull pang of funeral bells echo throughout the city. Javert turned and looked through the main street and his eyes fell on the funeral procession as if twisted its way through the city, a solid black carriage followed by a few passenger cars. His stormy green eyes followed the black parade and he swore he could almost hear the snorting of the horses.

He spun on his heel and quickly descended the steps of the shipyard. A few of his fellow officers watched him leave, their eyebrows raised in confusion, but they quickly got back to work, realizing that Javert was their commander, and he could probably do as he pleased. However, the stoic Javert never left his post, which was cause for some whispers.

Javert leaned forward as he walked, nearly quickly enough to be considered a jog, through the alleyways and buildings, trying to get to the cemetery, which was a near mile outside of town. The horses from the coaches left piles of muck in the streets that he had to doge, and people were watching from their windows and stands, not knowing who Melanie Lamenté was, but assuming the family had money. Javert had no doubt that Beaudet had a hand in the proceedings.

Quickly realizing how intently he had been walking, Javert toned it down a few notches. He slowed his stride, stood back up straight, and clasped his hands behind his back. An unnoticeable officer out on patrol or dinner break. Once the last carriage had clattered down the road, the people of Toulon went back to their business, sweeping, shopping, and cooking.

Please let her be strong , he found himself thinking as he walked onwards.

Why is it so hard to be strong? Aimée asked herself as she stared at the dirt that covered her mother. She had lapsed into lonesomeness, everybody gone back to their lives as she stood, the ever faithful child, next to her mother and brother. She bent over and ran her fingers through the mounds of earth that rose gently in front of the pine crosses. The soil was cool and moist, sticking together almost like clay did. She struggled to remember her mother's last words to her.

"My beautiful family…I wish I could go with you," Melanie was sending her way to Beaudet's party, the night that started the streak of hell.

Aimée remembered her mother's tight hug and her scent of chamomile and honey, her gapped smile and dusting of freckles. A sob stung at the back of the young woman's throat and she actually held her breath to keep it inside.

"I still remember everything you've ever told me, Mama," Aimée found herself whispering. "Never go to the shipyards at night, never pay a beggar-man, never leave food on your plate when you are a guest."

Her words sounded like mangled scrapes on slate, rough and cracking as she struggled with the onslaught of tears. "I picked out a name for my brother," she babbled, kneeling in the soft grass in front of her brother's grave, "Baby Pascal…."

The Pascal lamb who lost its life at the first Passover…a young babe like her brother.

"Mademoiselle Aimée?" a soft voice murmured once the sky began to turn the tangerine and fire of sunset. Javert stood over her, unsure of himself, but his eyes drowned beneath worry.

She looked up at him, blue eyes almost hidden by her veil and Javert took a step backwards, noticing that she looked exactly how he imagined. The air was quiet around them as they stood in the home of the dead.

"Javert..." she whispered, not knowing how else to respond. Throughout the faces of strangers and hated men, his bearded jaw and green eyes were a welcome sight and it softened her wall just a little.

When she looked at him, she started to weep. Violent, wracking sobs that shook her body and made her hide her face behind her hands. She ripped off the veil and flung it to the ground. Aimée's voice sounded like shattering glass as she wailed into her palms, her body hunched over and near shaking.

Not knowing what else to do, Javert knelt and reached for her. His hand hovered over Aimée's shoulder for a moment and he started to second guess what he was about to do. Was this right? But, as he pressed his large hand against her shoulder and gave her a gentle grip of reassurance, he knew it was right. This was what he was supposed to do.

"Aimée Lamenté," he said, his voice slow and thick with remorse and empathy for the woman, "you do not deserve any of this." The words left his mouth before he could acknowledge what they were. He sounded like a roof in a storm, a fire in a blizzard, food during a famine.

She looked at him, trying to wipe away the smeared kohl that rimmed her eyes. He handed her his handkerchief, still stained with the crème that she had left last time she used it. Black streaks met with red on the linen. Gently, he took it back from her when she was finished and tucked it back in his pocket. Then, gingerly, he took her arm in both hands, one on her elbow the other beneath her palm, and helped her up. Her gloved hand was soft in his, a baby bird in a nest of bracken bush.

Once she was up, she flung herself against him and wrapped her arms around him in pure, debilitating need. Javert's heart stopped from the surprise and he stiffened, his arms pressed against his side. She was warm, he noted, and shaking, but he kept his hands flat against his pant legs. Aimée's face was pressed against his chest and he felt awkward and useless as he stood there with her. Javert was sure that she could feel his heart thump against his ribcage in shock. He started to pray that this would end, that she would let go. Finally, after an eternity of his breath held in his lungs, Aimée released him. He relaxed a fraction, but Javert's eyes were glued to her.

Aimée felt like she needed to apologize for her actions and she felt a blush creep up her neck, hidden by the satin of her dress. She looked at her feet, the sunset glowing off her blonde hair.

"I'm sorry…" she finally murmured, "That was rude of me."

Javert shook his head. "No," his voice was quiet.

Aimée didn't meet his eyes but dared a small, relieved smile. "Anton was here today," she sniffed, fiddling with her hands in the black gloves. "Beaudet brought him."

Javert found himself stiffening again and his fists clenched. His jaw clenched and he dared a step forward, cocking his head intently as his green eyes fell on her.

She looked up and shook her head as she read Javert's mind. "No, he didn't hurt me. Didn't even speak to me. But I could feel him watching."

Javert didn't notice as his hand gently reached towards her a little. "What are you doing here alone, mademoiselle?" he asked. When he had first approached her, it pained him to see the poor woman all alone to wallow in her mourning once more. Javert felt a shot of hot anger against her father. How could Gérard leave his daughter by herself in a graveyard after her mother and brother's death? Javert felt a strange loyal duty to stand by her, to speak with her.

Aimée turned away from him and watched the mounds. "I wanted to stay. I wasn't done saying goodbye…."

Her shoulders jerked for a moment as she inhaled through a sob, but she kept herself composed. Javert shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

She looks like a ghost, Javert thought, looking at her blonde hair that paled against her black dress. His brow furrowed and he took a measured, calculated step forward so he stood next to her. Javert glanced at her before he bowed his head and noticed how terribly small the grave in front of him was.

"I wanted to name him Pascal," Aimée said, crossing her arms in front of her. It looked like she was trying to protect herself from the invisible sorrow that coursed through the air.

"Like the lamb," Javert said thickly.

"Yes, from the bible." The two lapsed into silence once more. A raven crowed across the headstones and Aimée inhaled deeply.

"My mother's name was Melanie," her voice was quiet and shaking. "She had brown hair, freckles, and a gap in her teeth."

Javert turned to look at the young woman as she recited her memories like a chant, an ethos of loyal remembrance. "I always thought her laugh was as sweet as honey, and I remember craving it when I was little." A sad smile shone through the gentle trail of tears. Javert lowered his head and cocked it to the side as he closed his eyes and listened to her words. "When I was seven, she tried to teach me how to bake. It was a disaster…burned the cake and dropped the sack of flour in the kitchen…powder got everywhere. I started to cry. Instead of getting mad, I remember her scooping up a handful and throwing it in my face. We both laughed until our stomachs hurt."

Her smile grew and she gave a rueful chuckle. Javert felt a tingling numbness trickle down his spine and he was relieved to hear that her voice was still strong in her laugh.

"I never baked after that."

Javert pictured a small little girl, her face white and smiling from the clinging flour.

"The first thing I ever remember was when I woke up from a nightmare…I must've only been about three or four. I got up and went into my parents' bedroom. Mother was up and reading by a candle, sitting in a rocking chair. I crawled into her lap and she braided my hair. She sand me a lullaby then, a song from her childhood. Au Claire De La Lune."

Javert knew the lullaby well. Aimée started to hum as she hugged herself tighter, her voice quiet but smooth. The sadness was still laced through her voice.

When her voice had died away, Javert lifted his head and looked out over the graveyard. "Where is your father, mademoiselle?"

"He's at Beaudet's house," Aimée answered, lifting her head to the sky and looking over the sunset, the indigo of night swirling with the reds and golds. She had lost track of time and she knew that she was expected to make an appearance at the dinner. "I'm expected to be there, sooner than later I'd expect." She waved her hand absentmindedly.

"Anton will be there," it was not a question that escaped Javert's lips.

She nodded and allowed herself to study Javert's face. He looked tired, she noted, gentle bags cradling his green eyes. His beard was closely trimmed to his jaw, and he looked neat, put together and professional. She realized that Javert could be considered handsome in a powerful, serious way. Yet, it may have just been the uniform that hugged his body so well.

"Why do you keep showing up?" she asked then, her eyebrows clenched together.

Javert blinked, "What do you mean, mademoiselle?"

She shook her head absentmindedly. "Judge me how you will for what I'm about to say next. It's almost like you're a guardian angel, Monsieur Javert. Finding me after I was attacked, finding me in the storm, and finding me now." Her voice was so quiet, Javert had to strain to hear her.

"I must make sure that the people are safe. I'm trying to start a life with the law, and I consider it a duty," he recited.

Aimée dared give him a smile that told him she didn't believe what he said. "I just wanted to sincerely thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You've helped me more than you know. You are a kind man."

Javert swallowed her gratitude and felt it blossom in his chest, spreading a warmth he had not known down to his feet.

"I know you've given me so much already…but, would you please come with me to Beaudet's? There is no one in that house that I can trust…and I don't have the strength to face that pig Anton on my own…." Her watery eyes were hopeful as they looked up at him, wide and blue as the ocean.

Javert found himself nodding and holding out his arm before he could stop himself.

"My father left a carriage there," Aimée said and pointed to the path that wound its way through the graveyard.

Managing to hide his uneasiness, Javert led her to the coach, her arm looped through his and her hand rested on his forearm lightly, as pale as porcelain under the lace gloves. The coachman didn't spare them a glance as Javert opened the door and helped Aimée get inside. The carriage was small, and he sat across from her, watching her quietly. He was amazed at how strong she was, as she looked out the window when the wheels started to roll. The sun had cast a glow over the graveyard, casting the headstones in lazy orange light and giving the graves an air of warmth, even though it was filled with the cold dead.

"Mama brought light everywhere she went," Aimée said as she looked at the graves one last time before she turned and kept her eyes in her lap.

Javert did not know what to say. His eyes turned upwards to the ceiling before he closed them in a long blink. She hummed her lullaby again as the carriage bumped along, wrapping herself in whatever comfort she could salvage. Javert listened until the wheels of slowed to a stop in front of Beaudet's now familiar estate. Across from him, he heard Aimée's voice hitch in her throat.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go home, mademoiselle?" Javert asked as the coachman clicked the door open.

"No, father wants me here."

Javert nodded and got out of the cab, holding up his hand to help her down the steps. Aimée grabbed his hand as she struggled to walk in the uncomfortable mourning dress. She momentarily thought of his hands, how she had imagined them to be rough and strong. However, she could not tell because her own hands were covered in black gloves, yet his fingers felt solid as they cradled her gently.

Giving her his arm once more as the carriage rolled away, Javert slowly led her up the steps. The house twinkled in the dusk light, candles and lamps lighting chandeliers and keeping the halls warm with yellow light. It seemed like the people inside were trying their best to pretend that the funeral had not happened.

With the creak of the large wooden doors, Beaudet met them. His usual rosy face was sallow as he looked at Aimée Lamenté, ignoring her stone-faced escort. Javert felt her hand tighten on his forearm though the wool of his coat. The mayor approached her and held his hands on her shoulders.

"Mademoiselle Lamenté," Beaudet said, his voice quiet as he noticed how much her tired eyes darkened when they fell on him. He was not a naive man.

"Monsieur."

Javert bowed his head to the mayor and stood back a few steps. "Excuse me, Monsieur

Beaudet," he said "I was just escorting the lady to your dinner, I'll take my leave."

At his words, Beaudet looked at Javert, seeming to notice him for the first time. Quickly, he held a hand out to him before he could retreat backwards too far. "No, I would be honored if you stayed, as my guest, Javert. You've helped Mademoiselle Lamenté over these past few days. Let me show you my gratitude with a hot meal and cool wine." Beaudet looked as if he desperately wanted Javert to stay. As he spoke to the commander of the shipyard, Beaudet glanced at Aimée, hoping that what he was saying would reflect positively in her eyes.

"Javert, please, go inside, my servants will lead you to the dining room. But, would you permit me a moment alone with the mademoiselle?"

Green eyes met stormy blue as he looked to her. Aimée gave him a small nod and he turned his gaze back to the mayor as he gave him a curt nod. "I will be waiting inside."

The crickets started to wake as Javert's footsteps tapped against the marble steps. Soon, he was inside and he closed the door behind him, thrusting the girl and the mayor in private dusk. Beaudet watched until the door shut until he turned to Aimée, his eyes shining in the fading light and his round face frowning. He was wearing a satin black coat and trousers, his white stockings coming down and meeting shined black shoes.

Aimée was silent as she watched him, and angry heat starting to rise in her throat like bile behind the pearl buttons of her dress. The air started to moisten with the traces of dew and her patience and composure was wearing thin from the exhausting day. Aimée felt her throat parch and bones start to ache as she watched the fat mayor in silence.

"Aimée, I am so…so sorry," he finally said, his eyes sincere.

Her own narrowed. She shook her head and pushed past him, trying to climb the stairs as quickly as her dress would allow.

"I told your father not to betroth you," he called up to her. Aimée paused on the stairs and turned, watching him climb towards her. "You've been in enough pain as it is. I was being a coward before, no better than my ass of a nephew," Beaudet continued, looking at her almost sheepishly as he admitted his wrongs. "I didn't tell them the truth…I couldn't do that to my family, but I told Gérard that it would be a mistake for a marriage. I gave him charge of my accounts so he had no reason to marry you off."

The evening swirled around them and faint chirps came from the hidden crickets.

"I'm sorry…I know this is only a small consolation…but I thought it might help," he looked at her, his once cheerful face now a clean slate of guilt.

Aimée, however, wanted to faint from relief. "What did my father say?"

Beaudet did not ignore the tone of hopefulness in her voice. "He agreed that he would not pursue Anton as a suitor for you. You will not be forced to marry him. He agreed to take my business, you do not have to do anything for him, my dear. I cannot stress again how sorry I am for what has befallen you, for what you have gone through. At least let me try and fix what my family had done."

The heart that beat in her chest was kind and forgiving. She looked at Beaudet, looking like a sad bulldog in the receding light, and did something that surprised her. She leaned over and gave him a chaste peck on his cheek. Color started to rise to his face and Beaudet exhaled a long sigh, knowing that he was forgiven without her words.

He dared smile at the daughter of his dear friend and gave her his arm. "Come, let's get you something to eat."

"Thank you," she said, meaning it in more ways than one.