Hey guys, once again, thanks for all of the reviews, i'm glad you are enjoying it! Little bit of language in this chapter, so beware!
XIX: Where the Sun Doesn't Shine
"C'mere, whore…" Gérard slurred, groping out at the wrist of the dirty prostitute three days later. The whore was tall, skinny, with scrabbly brown hair cut close to her head. She pushed him away, refusing him. Gérard grew angry.
"I paid ya, now come here!" the man turned to a bellow and the group of bar patrons behind him hooted and laughed. The early spring was dank around them and piles of slushy, muddy snow clung close to the walls of the taverns and ships. The other prostitutes watched warily, their heads sticking out from behind doors.
"Leave me alone!" the woman screamed, turning and looking at Gérard with fire in her eyes.
"You slut, how dare you talk to me that way," Aimée's father countered, bending over and scooping up two handfuls of filthy snow. He cornered the woman and shoved the coldness down the front of her dress. The prostitute gasped and pushed him away once more, raking the side of his face with her long, dirty nails.
"You little bitch!" Gérard bellowed, taking the prostitute by the arms and holding her still. His grip was harsh and unkind. He pinned her against the side of the tattered ship, transferring her wrists over to his one hand. With his other, he tried to claw at the front of the whore's dress, the cream of her breast shining in the moonlight.
"Halt, what's happening!" boomed a voice behind them. Gérard whirled around, teetering dangerously from his drink. The prostitute slipped through his grasp and tried to run down an alley, but she was blocked by two officers. Gérard peered at the man who spoke, only able to see his silhouette in the darkness. He was tall, holding a lantern in his hand, straight-backed with a wide hat resting atop his head. A beard clung to his jaw, but Gérard could not recognize him in his drunken state. He dismounted his horse and Gérard could hear the clatter of shackles.
"Inspector," he called, his voice slow and thick, "I was walking here, in the dark, with my mates, when this whore came up and attacked me." He pointed to his cheek where the prostitute had left scratches in his blushed flesh.
Javert neared the man, his eyes narrowed as he tried to recognize him. Blonde hair, messy, bloodshot eyes, dirty shadow along his face….
"What is your name, monsieur?" Javert asked, trusting his other officers to keep an eye on the scared prostitute.
"Gerard, Gerard Lamenté," the man slurred. Javert's chest tightened and for a moment, the man struggled to breathe. His eyes darted around him, searching for the girl, but then he realized how foolish that would be, searching for a young woman in the whores' corner….
In the whores' corner…Gérard Lamenté was out here with the prostitutes.
Javert's surprise quickly turned to the bile of distaste as he hefted the lantern up. Luckily, the man didn't recognize him.
Javert nodded to the prostitute, "Arrest her," he muttered, grabbing Gérard by the arm and hauling him back to Ombre.
Once the words left his mouth, the whore wailed, a screeching, terrible sound that clawed at his ears and made him turn. She was kneeling in front of him, pleading in the mucky snow and filth, her dress torn and hair no doubt crawling with lice.
"No, monsieur, no, please! I have a daughter, I need to send her caretakers money! Please, I can't go to jail, they'll send her to the street! Please, show mercy!" her begging caused Javert to step backwards with distaste. He had seen this before, desperate women to avoid prosecution.
"You are filth," he snarled down to her, nodding at the ground she begged on with a nod of his head, "You live in filth, you work in filth, you are filth. Why should I help a lying prostitute?"
She had no words, but the tears continued. "Please!" Please, I'll-"
"What's going on here?" The mayor hurried into the fray quickly, standing over the cowering prostitute and looking Javert in the eye.
"Nothing that concerns you now, Monsieur le Maire," Javert said, holding Gérard by his arm and keeping him hidden in the shadows. He hardly had to do so, the Madeleine's attention was on the cowering prostitute.
Madeleine knelt to her and spoke with hushed tones. The woman looked up and quickly spat in the mayor's face. Javert started forward, baton in hand, yet he was stopped by Madeleine's upraised palm.
"You fired me from your factory! You're the reason I'm out here!" the woman bellowed, " My name is Fantine! You do not remember?"
A look of shock plastered itself across the mayor's face. Javert watched from a distance, standing next to the swaying Gérard, who barely knew what was happening himself. Madeleine muttered hurriedly, reaching out and touching her shoulder with a gloved hand. The woman, Fantine, suddenly changed, looking at the mayor as if she had seen the face of God himself. She murmured something quietly, before she slumped forward, no doubt the cold and damp finally reaching her lungs. Javert sneered and marched forward.
"I must take her to the hospital," Madeleine insisted, scooping her up in his arms as if she were as light as a feather.
"Monsieur le Maire," Javert insisted, stepping in front of him and blocking his way. The stars watched from above, silent and waiting, "This woman is a prostitute, she must be arrested."
"Inspector, if you put her in a jail, she will die."
"If that is the price to pay for her crimes then so be-"
"I will not stand aside and watch a helpless woman parish, Inspector. I am taking her to the hospital. I am the mayor of this town, I think you should be reminded of that." Madeleine's tone was dark and possessive.
Javert's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, yet he stood aside regardless as the mayor carried his piece of trash to the hospital. His officers watched him warily, worried of the outburst that would no doubt leave his lips.
However, Javert looked up, "Continue with your patrols. I will be bringing Monsieur Lamenté back to the police station. Go."
Quickly, the two officers scuttled away, leaving Javert alone with the father of the woman he had thought he had forgotten. He walked over to Gérard, now sitting in the muck and filth, his legs to wobbly to hold his weight. The man was filthy from head to toe, his eyes glazed and yellowed, his teeth nearly rotted.
"Stand up," Javert growled, heaving him by the arm and grabbing Ombre's reins. He would have to escort Gérard to the jail by foot.
"Where're we going?" the man slurred, trying to keep pace with Javert's quick steps as they picked their way out of the shipyard.
"You are going to file a police report," Javert answered, glancing sideways at the man. He hadn't thought about Gérard Lamenté in years. Haven't thought about his daughter in years….
Javert shook it free from his head. Now he must be stone. Now he must enforce. He would bring Gérard back to the station, question him, and then put him in a holding cell until he decided what to do.
It was hard for him not to flee. The instinct to turn around and ride out of the city back to his cold, uncaring Paris made his legs itch. Gérard had filled Javert's head with clouding memories, memories that were laced with guilt. For eight years, he had swept them to the back of his head, locked them up and ignored their cries for his attention.
The jail was large and empty. A large cell sat in the center of the main room, surrounded by a couple of desks, empty after the clerks had left for the night. Oil lamps were burning and a few candles were dripping wax down their heavy stands. Javert sorted through the ring of keys at his belt, unlocked the door to the metal cage, and thrust Gérard inside.
"Wait, what are you doing?" he retaliated, stumbling for a moment then staggering to the wall, his hands clutching at the bars. "What are you doing! You can't arrest me."
"Quiet," Javert grunted, "You are to stay in here until you sober up, then you will fill out a police report about your attack."
Gérard's eyes narrowed as he struggled with some kind of drunken recognition. "I've seen you before…."
Javert quickly ignored him and turned, stomping back to his office. The candles had smoldered out, leaving the air smelling like stale wax. Javert quickly fiddled with some matches and lit a few oil lamps on the walls. The room glowed and Javert collapsed behind his desk, propping his elbows on the wood and covering his face with his hands. He exhaled loudly. Javert knew that it was only a matter of time before he was discovered. He knew he didn't have the strength to face her eyes, to come to terms with how he had hurt her.
The stone that he had tried so hard to build and maintain started to chip around his fingers, leaving him bare and exposed in his office. The bundles of letters he had burned...so many of them. The girl had continued to write him and he read the desperate hope in his name, looped out across the white of the paper envelope. He didn't notice when the letters stopped coming, didn't bat an eye. He was too invested in the law, the force that began to rule his life.
The pounding at the door of the jail caused him to jump back to attention. Javert stood, his face darkening. When he came out, Gérard was slumped to the ground and snoring loudly, unconscious. The pounding continued.
Thomas found her in the library, reading in a plain dress before she decided to go up to bed. She was reading a book he didn't recognize, thick and old, with a brown cover. The butler cleared his throat before he shuffled forward.
"Mademoiselle Lamenté, I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news."
She looked up, "What is it?"
Thomas cleared his throat again, a quiet little grating noise. "An officer just stopped by. He said that your father was attacked. He's at the jail now filing a report."
Aimée quickly stood and placed the book on the seat, the pages still open. She pulled her shawl from the coatrack that stood next to the front door and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"He's at the jail now?" she asked Thomas, her voice resonating through the large house.
"Yes, ma'am."
Aimée nodded. "Keep the door unlocked. I don't know when I'll be back." The jail was only a few blocks down the main street, a path lit with street lamps and devoid of criminals. They preferred the shadows and crashing of the docks. Her footsteps were light and quick down the damp cobblestones. The spring night was crisp, reminding her that winter wasn't long gone. The stars twinkled overhead and whispered to each other as they watched her near the jailhouse. She passed the door of her little flower shop, bouquets of roses and tulips on display in the window. Aimée wished she was inside, sweeping or tending to the storage room.
Aimée's fist pounded on the wood when she discovered the handle was locked. "Hello?" she called. She heard the muffled sound of footsteps inside.
"The jail is closed," a gruff voice called behind the wood. "I would suggest you return tomorrow."
"Hello? Yes, I understand, but I need to see my father. I heard he was attacked? Please?"
"I cannot do that."
Anger started to bubble in her chest. "Let me in! I need to see my father! Just let me know he's alright." Aimée was still loyal to the man, overlooking his harsh words and judgmental glares.
The man behind the door paused, and for a moment she thought he had left. She stepped back from the door, craning her neck to try and find some windows along the walls of the large building. All of them were above her head, too tall for her to look through. However, the glow of lamps shone through the glass.
The tumbler of the lock thumped and clunked in front of her. The door opened and she looked into the eyes of the Inspector, his wide hat placed on his head. Aimée felt her feet freeze to the ground, her knees starting to tremble. She backed away from pale green eyes, downturned as they regarded her. His face slammed into her with crushing clarity, his high collar and fitting uniform.
"You…" Aimée's voice was quiet, ragged.
Javert's heart had stopped when he flung the door open with shaking hands. The woman before him was recognizable, slender neck, strong jaw, square shoulders, a strong beauty that resonated deep within her, shining through dark blue eyes, the eyes of the ocean. Her hair shone like dusty gold, tied back in a braid and coiled around her head. Javert's eyes traveled down her arms, wrapped in a shawl, and came to rest on her slender hands, her fingernails dirty, yet beautiful.
The knot that formed in his throat nearly suffocated him.
The stinging slap of her hand against his face nearly shocked him to his knees. Javert felt his hat tumble off his head and he choked out a grunt. Aimée Lamenté glared at him as he straightened himself, ignoring the hat that sat on the floor behind him. His jaw was clenched, the stubble of his beard peppered with gray.
"You struck an officer," he found himself saying, the stone quickly rebuilding after her attack.
She spat on the floor in front of him, the white gob nearly splattering against the toe of his shiny boot. Javert looked down at it then quickly looked up. Before she could react, he grabbed a hold of her wrist and tugged her inside, shutting the door as she struggled and cursed.
"Get off of me! Let go!" Aimée wrenched free and her eyes fell on her father, crumpled in the cell. "Oh my god!" she quickly hurried to him and knelt, momentarily forgetting about Javert. Gérard was snoring gently and reeked of filth and alcohol. Aimée brought a hand to her nose and quickly stood, her worry dissipating when she realized that he was drunk. She whirled, her anger returning as she looked at the man who had left her.
"I'm taking him home," she said.
"You can't do that, he has to file a report."
"Bull shit!" she yelled. Javert blinked at her curse and Gérard snorted in his sleep, yet didn't wake. "What are you doing here?"
"I've been transferred."
Her eyes narrowed as the anger swelled so much it took her words away.
"Come into my office," Javert said stiffly, walking past her and opening the door. Aimée gave a look to her father, but then followed, her arms crossed.
When the door shut behind her she roiled again. "How dare you come here? How dare you!"
"I didn't know you would be here," Javert retaliated, standing behind his desk, thinking it would be a good thing to have a barrier between them.
She looked shocked for a moment, and her anger flashed to hurt. "You didn't know? I wrote you. Told you I would be moving to Montreuil. And yet you didn't know?"
As Javert stood and watched her, his own anger started to brood. How dare she reprimand him? A man of the law? He had cut ties in order to help others, to focus his attention to spreading justice to the city of Paris. She was being greedy, demanding his attention, taking him away from his duty. And now his face stung with the lingering pain of her slap.
"I burned your letters," Javert replied before he could stop himself. His eyes were narrowed as he was consumed by his own stubborn self-righteousness.
He watched as Aimée's face screwed up in pain. Her arms untangled themselves and her eyes began to shine with tears. Her head bowed, suddenly unable to look at him. Javert felt his throat tighten and he realized he words had stabbed her like a knife. He wished to apologize, but he realized it was too late, the damage had been done.
"You burned them…?" she murmured. Javert thought her whisper resonated inside his head like a roar. "You burned them," she said again, this time it wasn't a question.
Javert took a few cautious steps around the desk, trying to be near her. He sighed, disgusted with himself for his outburst and monetarily shaking as he inhaled the scent of vanilla and lilacs, still as vibrant as it was eight years ago. He watched as Aimée brought a hand to her throat, grabbed at the necklace chain that sat there, and yanked hard. The fine gold chain broke and she flung the necklace down to the floor. Unable to meet his eyes, Aimée turned on her heel and fled, running past the cell and throwing open the front door. Before Javert could bring himself to speak again, she was gone in the night.
He looked down at his feet. There, resting on the floor, sat a brass key. With a recognition that twisted his heart and made his eyes pound in his head, he picked it up gently in his hand. Bringing it over to the light of the wall lamp, Javert looked at his old house key. One side was worn and tarnished and he knew it was from resting against Aimée's skin. How long had she worn it? The entirety of the eight years?
"God," Javert muttered, feeling as if the brass of the key was burning his fingers. His head bowed and his temples pounded. The man's gut churned so violently he had to brace himself against the plaster of his office wall. He pressed a hand to his stomach and clenched his eyes shut. "Why have you done this?"
She hates you now. She hates you. She hates you. You deserve to be hated.
Javert stumbled to his desk, so shaken after his world turned itself into a violent mess of emotion in only a matter of minutes. He violently pushed his papers aside and threw his arms on the top of his desk, resting his forehead down on them. Fists clenched themselves and the key continued to burn.
Guilt choked him, held him tight and whispered cruel words into his ears. Its voice sounded like Aimée's quiet sob.
"You burned them?" Never had he heard such heartache. Never in his years of relaying death notifications to grieving mothers and wives, never in his years of watching children cry out in the streets.
Unable to control himself, Javert felt a ragged sob claw its way out of his mouth, followed by the pinpricks of tears.