Hey guys, everything's moving on! Our timeline has changed, and we'll see how things go!
XVIII: Realization Upon Arrival
Nearly 8 years later…
"I said I wanted roses, roses! What are these?" The angry woman asked, her eyes angry under the strands of her graying hair.
The florist sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were long, elegant, yet pricked from handling thorny stems. Her graceful hands met with strong wrists and a sleek forearm, covered at the elbow by the sleeves of her dress.
"I'm sorry, Madame, there must've been a mistake, these are carnations." The woman took the bundle away from the angry customer's hands and tucked it behind the counter. "Excuse me a moment, I'll be right back," she said, holding up a hand to the customer.
Quickly, the shopkeeper ducked through a covered door into her back room. Bins and bins of flowers were overflowing large buckets of water. Lilies, carnations, roses, tulips, daffodils, snapdragons, lilacs, daisies…any flower under God's yellow sun sat in the back of the shop. She quickly hurried to the back corner of the storage room and gently plucked up a dozen red roses, wrapping them in brown paper and tying them with string.
"I'm so sorry about the mix-up, Madame," she apologized, handing the bouquet over to the arms of the woman. "That'll be a franc and twenty sou."
The customer tossed three coins on the counter, gathered up her flowers, and stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine. Her slim hands collected the money, tucked it in the pocket of her apron, and pulled the cloth from her shoulder. She rubbed it along the counter, removing dirt and dust, before she knelt and grabbed the discarded bundle of carnations. Snipping the ends with shears, she placed them back in the bucket of water and stepped back to behind her counter.
The woman leaned forward, propping her elbows up and letting her chin rest on her palm. Her eyes darted about the floral shop and out the window, watching people pass by carrying baskets of food and other groceries. Her fingers twirled around a blonde strand of hair that had fallen from her bun. She hummed to herself mildly, not really minding that it was a slow day.
An Irish woman passed by her window and approached the door. With a sly grin on her face, the florist quickly ducked behind her counter, sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the shelves. She heard the bell of her door chime as it opened.
"Where'd she go?" she heard the woman whisper. Her questions were answered by the clopping of little shoes. A little face peered behind the counter, white skin with the freckles and red hair of her mother.
"Auntie Aimée!" little Bellarae squealed, rushing forward and pouncing into the florist's lap.
Aimée burst out laughing and scooped up the little girl into her arms, tickling fiercely. "Auntie Aimée's been replaced by a monster!" she growled playfully, her fingers dancing around the little girl and making her giggle.
"Bellarae was so excited to see you," Anna said, holding her daughter's little doll in her hand as Aimée stood and slung the little girl over her shoulder. She squealed and kicked her legs.
"She was, was she?" Aimée asked, letting the child down and not minding as she swung on her arm, her little hands clasping at hers. "It's so nice to see you, Anna!"
The two women hugged and Aimée noticed the dusting of gray that started to peak though at Anna's roots. No doubt stress caused by the rambunctious child at her hand, pulling to have her doll back. Anna was wearing an expensive day dress and looked as radiant as any mother should.
"How long has it been?"
"Nearly a year, nearly a year."
The bell chimed again and Aimée watched as the tall Arthur Monpedite ducked underneath the threshold. "Aimée Lamenté! Such a delight to see you again!" he exclaimed in the grand way that he had, bending over and kissing both her cheeks in greeting.
"Hello, Arthur, I was just telling Anna how nice it is to see you all again. Will you be stopping by for dinner?"
"I think that was the plan, if that's not too much trouble," Anna said, pushing a strand of hair out of her face. The silver glinted at her finger happily.
"Not at all! I got your letter, the maids should be having everything prepped for tea. Are you staying in the hotel down the street?," Aimée said, quickly untying the apron. Her dress was a light yellow, not matching the duskiness of the shop at all.
Anna nodded, "Yes, right up the road, The Yellow Bird Hotel. That's a new building I see, looks quite charming."
"How is the old man, Gérard?" Monpedite asked as they stepped out of the flower shop and into the damp spring.
"Father's been fine," Aimée said, turning behind her and locking up her shop with a little brass key. She tucked it in the pocket of her dress, walking close to Anna and her friend's little, rambunctious child. She bit her lip, "As tight with money as always…even when we don't need to be. Anna, you remember how much begging it took to persuade him to let me open up my shop?"
"I do, you started begging even before my wedding!" Anna laughed, looking for a moment like her younger self, her eyes bright and hair flaming. "When did you open?"
"Nearly four years ago last week," Aimée said proudly.
"You have your father's sense of business," Monpedite chuckled, looking around his old town with reminiscent eyes. "I trust the factory's doing well?"
"Oh yes, ever since you traded off to Monsieur Madeleine," Aimée said, referring to the business transaction a few years ago when Arthur Monpedite, then newly married, gave the rights to his factory to the up and coming mayor, a man only few knew as Madeleine. To most, the kind gentleman was called Monsieur le maire.
When the tradeoff happened, Gérard had been irate that Monpedite hadn't offered to give the factory to him, a close friend and partner. Gradually, Aimée's father came to terms with the decision, deciding that he knew finance better than management. However, the man was probably still bitter.
Anna tugged on her daughters arm, forcing her to steer clear of a particularly foul-looking mud puddle. The sun warmed the little girl's scalp and she swung her arms as she walked, muttering the lyrics of a song under her breath. Aimée smiled at the little dove.
"Father's probably at the factory still," Aimée said as she led the family though her door. "Thomas, could you fetch us some tea, please?"
An older man with hair the color of smoke nodded and disappeared to the kitchen. They all seated themselves in the library, except for little Bellarae, who quickly sprawled across the rug, standing her doll up and trying to make her balance on little black shoes. Thomas quickly provided them with a platter of tea, sugar, and cream. Aimée watched as Monpedite drowned his tea with sugar and stirred with the little silver spoon.
"Does that man ever leave the factory's office?" he asked, tapping the silver against china and took a sip of his sweet drink.
Aimée shook her head, "Rarely, I haven't seen him in a few days, actually."
"That's ridiculous," Anna said, "Leaving a girl like you to fend for yourself in this lonely house."
"I'm twenty-five now, Anna," Aimée said, sipping her tea, savoring its pureness, free of any cream or sugar. "And besides, the flower shop keeps me busy."
"I keep having to remind myself that you're no longer seventeen," Anna said, snorting into her tea, "That was so long ago!"
The two friends talked often, whether it be in person or though letters, yet they rarely acknowledged the year between Aimée's sixteenth and seventeenth birthday. Filled with so much heartbreak and dependence…better kept in the back of their minds.
"Dear, would you take Bellarae with you to the factory and see if Gérard is there? I'm sure he'd like to see you again," the red-haired woman asked her husband once the tea was finished.
Monpedite agreed, scooped up his little girl, and the two left the house and went back out into the spring day. The house was quiet around Aimée and Anna, large, lush, and quiet. Thomas shuffled out to take the tea tray, but Anna held up a hand to stop him.
"Thank you, Thomas, but Aimée and I can clean up. It won't be any trouble."
The butler, a little surprised, sidestepped and gave her a nod before he went back into the dining room to polish the silverware with a linen rag. Anna stood, gathered up the tray, and headed off to the kitchen. Aimée followed.
"I loved this kitchen so much, I almost didn't marry Arthur because I didn't want to be away from it," the older woman laughed, setting the dishes down in the washbasin. Aimée pumped out some cold water and warmed some in the kettle over the fire. When the water was heated, she added it to the cooler water and started to gently wipe the porcelain clean.
"I see you still wear that thin chain around your neck," came Anna's words behind her. Aimée looked up, a little shocked. "Is the key still there?"
The young woman's silence was answer enough for her friend. Her stormy eyes were cast downwards as she scrubbed, trying her best to hide the slight blush that crept up her neck.
"Eight years, Aimée," Anna said, taking the clean dishes and wiping them dry with a rag. "Eight years and you wear his key. When you first told me that he sent you it, I was surprised. Surprised that a man would trust you that much and then leave without word."
Aimée's heart twinged as she thought back to the night where she held herself and sobbed when she realized that Javert would never write to her again. That was the night her and Anna had become sisters, not by blood, but by mutual love. She felt her hand travel to her throat and clutch at the brass key, one side worn and tarnished from where it rested to her skin, day by day, year by year.
"I had not thought of him in some time," Aimée admitted, her fingers twining themselves in the gold chain. She closed her eyes in a long blink.
"I'm sorry, I did not mean to bring up past hurt," Anna said, placing the dry and clean dishes on the wooden counter. "Have you met a man yet?"
"No," Aimée admitted, "Every time I see a handsome one, I hide in my shop."
Anna snorted, and not very elegantly. "You? Hiding away? Why? You're young, beautiful, charming, radiant."
"Not as young as I used to be," Aimée said, smiling, "I'm older than you were when you met Arthur. Father says I should be married by now."
"Your father can kiss the backside of a horse," the Irish woman muttered.
"Anna!" Aimée smacked her friend across the stomach with the back of her hand, slightly appalled by her sister's words.
"Cautiously, little sis," Anna smiled, running her hand over her stomach. For the first time, Aimée noticed the slight swell under her bosom, the small budding of another child. She felt her mouth fall open and she couldn't help but press her hand gently to Anna's stomach.
"Another?" she asked, watching the red-hair bob as Anna nodded. Aimée smiled. "How far?"
"Only three months." Anna spoke of her pregnancy with the natural glow that followed motherhood. "A son, I hope. A little Arthur, to follow his father."
"I'm so happy for you!" Aimée exclaimed, smiling at her. "I was about to offer you wine, but now I've decided against it."
"No drink during pregnancy, I'm afraid…the nurse's say it could be harmful to the baby."
When the front door opened again, the dishes were all done and waiting for Thomas to take them back to their cupboard. Gérard stumbled in, a few days' worth of growth clinging to his chin like a grubby shadow. Bags cradled his eyes and the whites were dulled yellow. His shirt was wrinkled and stained, days from being clean, and his fingers were stained with the deep indigo ink of his quill. Arthur followed him, tall and well kept, his daughter hiding behind his legs. Aimée's father had always frightened the little Bellarae, as well he should.
"You did not tell me we were having guests," Gérard hissed, walking up to Aimée. He stank of sweat and candlewax, of agitation and annoyance.
"I sent word for you at the factory, Father," Aimée said, stepping backwards like a child. Even in her age, she was terrified of the man. Over the last eight years, he had grown distant and cold without his wife's loving touch. Business had turned him into a monster. "You secretary must not have reached you."
Gérard turned and gave a small nod to Monpedite before he took his daughter by the arm and pulled her aside into the servant's pantry.
"I never heard word. You bring visitors to my house, that backstabbing man and his whore wife and their little brat. I had no idea and you never asked permission."
"Don't you dare speak about Anna and Arthur like that," Aimée retaliated, a fire returning to her ocean. "They are good, kind people and-"
"And Monpedite hands over a company I worked hard for over to a nobody, a stranger. He did it to spite me, married my housemaid, and ran away. And now he is in my home." Gérard was hissing though his teeth, his dank eyes narrowed in anger.
Aimée was quiet in his hurt. She had planned to surprise him with guests and a nice dinner. Anger budded inside of her. Then she spoke. "You only care about money. Money and business. You don't give a damn about me, never gave a damn about Mother. I've lived in this house, seen your tirades, you're just a drunk. A money-hungry drunk." Her voice was hushed, desperate to keep their conversation away from the ears of Anna and her family, yet fire singed her words.
"Get upstairs," he growled. "I will tend to your rotten guests, but you? You are to go upstairs. Don't you dare let me see you again, otherwise that dank shop you own will be your new home."
She felt like a little girl. It was ridiculous, to allow her father to speak to her like that at her age, yet, if she was still unmarried and living in his house, Gérard could speak to her any damn well way he pleased. The sad truth annoyed her and bit at her eyes. She felt tears brim her lids, but she hid them well and lowered her head as her father pushed by her, unsettling her and causing her to stumble into the sacks of flour to her right. Aimée picked herself up, paused a moment as she listened to her father lead them back into the library for some brandy, then quickly snuck up the stairs and to her quarters. She quickly undid the laces of her dress, the tighness form the corset irritating her chest as she struggled to breathe. Leaving the yellow fabric on the floor of her room, she stood in her white chemise. The bed that had held her for eight years cradled her without question as she shed quiet, angry tears into her pillow. She felt her key press against the soft flesh of her throat and sobbed again, this time out of the fresh pain of the reopened wound on her heart. Aimée thought she had healed from her childhood heartbreak, thought she had forgotten.
The box beckoned her from above her wardrobe, still and forgotten for eight years, collecting dust and biding its time quietly until it realized that it was needed. The cedar whispered to her, whispered the written words of the man that had left her, deserted her here in this house..
Well and safe and happy, Aimée heard in her ears from the corner of her room. I hope you are well and safe and happy. After eight years, she still remembered his words, still remembered how he had ended his letters.
Aimée rubbed her eyes and sat up from her bed. For the first time in eight years, Aimée graced her lips with his name. "Javert…" security flowed through her, and for once, she felt protected.
Just a name, and your heart opens like a dam, Aimée thought, padding over to the wardrobe and standing on her tiptoes. She felt the dusty wood of the little box and struggled to grab hold of its edges. When her fingertips caught hold of the box, she pulled it down and held it close to her chest as she walked back to her bed, ignoring the dust that smudged the fabric of her chemise.
She brushed the dust off the dust from the cover of her box with one finger, drawing lines in the dusty wood and revealing the polished cedar beneath. Aimée was frightened to open the box again, open the letters and read his words. Worried about what might happen once the memories were set free. Did the hurt of desertion fade with time? Or would it feel as fresh as ever once that lid opened?
The sun was warm through her window, maybe an hour away from dusk, and it lay down across her bed and floor like a golden haze. She felt the back of her neck itch and she undid the latch. Closing her eyes as she dipped her hands inside and felt the stiff parchment of Javert's letters, she tried to remember his face, hazy now from time. The frown that graced her mouth when she couldn't really remember what he looked like tasted sour.
However...maybe that was a bitter blessing in disguise.
Yet his words…his voice…the low, strong timbre that almost seemed like a growl when it started low in the man's chest. Aimée still remember that as plain as the day outside. Her ears perked up when she heard the distant opening and closing of the front door and abandoned her box to scurry over to her window. The spring air tickled her nose when she craned her neck, trying to watch as Anna and her family left, yet she couldn't see them from this side of the building.
Disappointment filled her, making her feet feel like cement. Trudging back over to the box, she peered through the open lid. Javert's handwriting was harsh and slanted, yet handsome and pleasing to look at. She picked one up and started to read with is voice, imagining the rumble actually filling her ears and stirring her heart.
Ombre's hooves pounded in the wet sand. A horse now aged around twelve, but still strong, fast, and obedient. The man nestled in the saddle was just the same, chiseled and stern by the harshness of duty and justice. A mouth that hadn't seen a smile in many years was framed by a beard, now peppered with gray. Judgmental green eyes stared ahead intently, slightly downturned and traced with wrinkles from stress and growing age. A crease had formed between his brows from constant furrowing, and the man's back was straight as a bored, unyielding and unkind. A wide hat sat on his head and brass medals sat pinned to his coat. A man of the law, an enforcer of truth and punisher of crime. Men followed him as he rode. This was nothing new, he had been followed for years, as well as feared and hated.
A man of stone, Inspector Javert pounded onwards to the gate of the city, the horses behind him snorting as they kept pace. Montreuil welcomed him quietly as he pulled on Ombre's reins, slowing the horse to a trot. The air tasted salty and briny and he briefly thought of the shipyards of Toulon, but he quickly snapped back to attention as he noticed the people watching him in the streets. Grubby people, mud on their faces and sweat on their clothes. His lip curled distastefully and he thought of the baton that sat on his hip. He watched as several urchin children scampered in front of his horse and Ombre snorted, as if in anger. Right away, Javert wasn't impressed with the city. He had spotted a shipyard, so he knew that Montreuil was no doubt filled with prostitutes and shady men that followed the ancient business. He passed several shops as he made his way into the city, a butcher, a bakery, and a flower shop, all windows dark from closing time.
When he was told he would be transferred to Montreuil, Javert didn't know what to think. For some reason, the name stirred some kind of recognition deep in his gut, but it was quickly gone. He no doubt had heard about it from some merchant or prisoner as they muttered to each other between their bars.
The factory was easy enough to find. He was to meet with the mayor, a man known by the name of Monsieur Madeleine. He owned the largest factory in Montreuil and the surrounding towns, a manufacturer of rosaries. Javert swung himself off of his horse and bade his men to stay outside. The evening was pleasant and they were pleased to stretch their legs and have a moment away from Javert's scrutiny.
Inside, women were threading the beads quietly, their hands moving in perfect synchronization. Javert watched their hands, pricked from the threading needles, and their nails short and grubby. He thought of the hands of the inmates in Toulon, pulling the ships with equal harmonization, pull…pull…pull.
"Can I help you, Inspector?" asked a voice from his right. Javert turned and lifted his chin as he regarded the foreman with watchful eyes.
"I'm here to see Monsieur le Maire," Javert said, blinking and turning his attention back to the workers.
"Oh yes, I believe he said something about you arriving. I'm afraid he's away at the moment," the foreman said, crossing his arms. Javert didn't look at him as he realized the man was foul with body odor.
"Might I wait in his office?" the inspector asked, looking up the stairs and seeing a frosted glass door above.
Before the rank manager could answer, he started climbing. The office was medium sized, larger than Javert's had been back in Paris, and neat. He appreciated the order of the papers, books, and files on the desk and in the cabinets. Two chairs sat in front of Madeleine's desk and Javert sat, his back straight against the wood. His foot tapped against the floorboards from impatience. Javert did not like to wait.
He was only seated a few minutes before he heard a commotion below him. Quickly, the inspector stood and hurried over to the paned windows. Craning his neck, he watched as the women of the shop complained loudly to the foreman, pointing to a woman with long brown hair. She was clean, not a woman of the streets, yet she stood, hunched over and pleading, in front of the manager like she had committed a crime. Javert watched, interested.
After a heated argument, the door burst open. A tall man wearing a green velvet coat and tall hat strode in. Monsieur la Maire. Seeing the altercation, the man separated the two and began to lecture. As he spoke, he looked up, met Javert's eyes, and paused. Javert gave him a small nod and watched as Madeleine spoke to his foreman and quickly climbed the stairs. Removing his hat, Javert placed it under his arm and stepped away from the door. He felt comfortable in his formality as the door swung open and Madeleine stepped in.
As Javert introduced himself with a bow, he studied him. Brown hair, straight nose, light brown eyes that stared back at him with just as much intensity. This unsettled Javert. He was unused to others meeting his eyes with such ease and curiosity. Javert felt his gaze betray him and flit to the ground as a strange sense of recognition stirred inside him.
"I've arrived at your command. I understand you need a police force. I'm here to bring justice to your city," Javert found himself saying, looking back up at the mayor. He found his own eyes softened when he watched the mayor turn behind him and pick up a rosary.
Madeleine smiled at Javert, a gesture the man of law was quite unused to. He found himself feeling awkward as he stood. The mayor handed him the rosary and he took it, gladly looking down at the black onyx beads. It was a small relief to leave Madeleine's gaze.
"I'm glad you're here," the mayor said, "we've grown so much it's about time we get some decent police officers."
Javert looked up, read his face once more, and couldn't stop himself from blurting, "It seems as if we've met, Monsieur le Maire."
Madeleine paused, and Javert suddenly worried that he'd upset the man. He clutched the rosary tighter between his fingers, but Madeleine just shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we have, Inspector."
Javert sniffed and looked down again, awkward from the his outburst and Madeleine's answer. He mentally chided himself for not being able to control his tongue.
"Can you start right away?" Madeleine asked, going behind his desk and shuffling at a few papers.
Javert gave a nod, " Yes, monsieur, tonight if it pleases you."
"Excellent."
There was a crashing below them and a frantic voice screamed up the stairs, well heard even through a closed door.
"Monsieur le Maire! Monsieur le Maire, help!"
Madeleine sprung up from his desk faster than any man Javert had ever seen. He flung open the door and bolted down the stairs, Javert following quickly behind him as he put his hat back on his head, but a little slower, as not to slip and fall. Outside, the alley way was mud, wet and sloppy from the spring dampness. A wagon had fallen off its axel and trapped a man beneath, an old, frail thing that groaned from the weight of the wood. Javert stood behind and watch the people struggle with the teetering wagon, his eyes darting from person to person.
Monsieur Madeleine didn't waste any time. He hurried over to the wagon, his shoes slipping in the mud and gunk of the street. Ordering a bystander to balance the barrels and buckets that sat atop the wagon, Madeleine crouched by the thick wooden plank that jutted out from the base of the carriage. Managing to get it over his shoulder, the mayor let out an animalistic grunt and strained against the wood, the veins in his neck bulging and his eyes screwed shut in concentration. Amazingly, Javert watched as the heavy wagon creaked and groaned upwards. With a yell that shook the surrounding houses, Madeleine heaved the wheels up far enough for someone to pull the old man to safety, covered in mud and shaking from fear, but otherwise unhurt.
Mud clung to the mayors pants and boots as he let the wood plank drop with a harsh thud. Javert's green eyes zeroed in on his face, watching the man as he looked around and hurried to see to the old man. Those brown eyes…
With a realization that almost took the ground from beneath him, Javert knew. He pictured Madeleine with a beard, a scraggly beard and his face covered in scum, and much thinner.
Valjean…the convict! He's here! There's no mistake…that was the same strength as when he lifted that mast. Javert's breath quickened with recognition and his fist clenched, tempted to take out the polished wooden baton that sat on his hip. The iron shackles that he carried were hidden beneath his jacket, pressed close to his side.
No, not here. Not with all these people, a riot was not what he wanted. Javert needed to be patient, one step ahead of the convict. He needed the paperwork, paperwork was the iron vise that would clasp itself around Valjean's throat, the chains that would imprison him and hold him in custody.
Meeting Madeleine's eyes, Javert gave him a bow before he slipped away back through the factory, now empty after the women left for the day. He swung himself onto his saddle, his men doing the same, and they rode off to begin a patrol. They split up, yet Javert was always flanked by at least two other officers awaiting orders. He was quiet as they roamed the streets, his mind churning and images of the mayor and Valjean flashing quickly behind his eyes. Soon, the similarities between the two were impossible to deny.
After eight years, Javert had finally found Jean Valjean.
That night, after his first patrol Javert returned back to the inn in which he was staying. Once in his room, Javert quickly set out writing a letter to the Parisian courts informing them of his discovery and suspicions. He wrote quickly and his handwriting left his pen in a barely legible scrawl, angry and restless. As he pressed his ring into the warm sealing wax, Javert stood and placed the letter at his bedside table. He would send it tomorrow, and it should reach Paris well before the end of the week.
But, until then, he had to wait. Had to wait and watch, like a how a wolf waits to find the injured sheep to stray from its flock. Once he knew for sure of Madeleine's secret, Javert would have no mercy when the irons shackled themselves around Valjean's wrists and he was back hauling ships where he belonged.