"At ease, Javert." Commissaire Caron came striding into his office, looking distracted, and frustratedly batted his hand at a fly that was buzzing about. The windows had been cast open, for it was particularly warm today. A somewhat putrid smell had filled the air inside the office, as the last three days had been almost stiflingly hot without any rain, and Paris was now doing what Paris did best - smelling of sewage. Javert was taken back, suddenly, to the night when he'd almost thrown himself from the Pont au Change, when he'd discovered Jean Valjean and a nearly-dead Marius Pontmercy, both of them utterly coated in excrement and sludge after Valjean had dragged Marius through the city's sewers to escape detection and try and get the boy to safety.
"Sit," snapped Commissaire Caron, and Javert jolted back to reality. He cleared his throat and bowed his head respectfully, sinking into the small leather chair on the opposite side of his superior's desk. He kept his back ramrod straight and tipped his chin up a little as if to show off the fact that his stitches had been removed by the police medic not fifteen minutes earlier. The medic had examined Javert's face and had signed off on a paper clearing him for regular work again. That paper now sat before Commissaire Caron, who studied it for a moment before nodding and saying tartly,
"No more getting smashed in the face with bottles, if you please; we genuinely can not spare you from the workforce any time soon, Javert. This silly rebellion cost both the police force and the Army a fair few good men."
"I understand, Commissaire," Javert nodded. He pinched his lips then, thinking of how he'd been on the verge of hurtling from a bridge to his death in the Seine over his guilt and confusion in the immediate aftermath of the uprising. That would have been one more casualty, in a way, wouldn't it? He frowned deeply and asked, "Am I back to ordinary patrols, then, Commissaire?"
Caron glanced Javert up and down and smirked. He tipped his head. "I presume you came to the station-house in full uniform on purpose, Javert, hoping you would get approved for your regular assignment today. Yes. You typically patrol the Latin Quarter… during your respite, there have been reports of particularly wretched whores on rue Saint-Jacques spreading disease. We can't have that right now; the city's already teeming with cholera and worse. Some of the girls are a breath away from dying and still taking customers. Take whichever ones you can in under a warrant of vagrancy or… you know… suspected theft, witnessed solicitation. Whatever will do to get the worst ones off the street."
He waved his hand a bit dismissively, and Javert squared his jaw, gritting his teeth. In his lap, he twined his thick hands together, and his heart picked up a bit in his chest. He shut his eyes for a moment, and suddenly he thought of that day in Montreuil, nine or so years earlier, when Fantine had been nearly stripped of her clothes, her hair jaggedly shorn, her teeth pulled out. She had been emaciated and coughing, having been taunted and worse by Bamatabois, who had then accused her of raging at him for no reason at all. Javert had been cruel and cold, he knew now. Unfeeling. He had wanted Fantine to be hauled off to jail, even as he'd listened to her plead with Monsieur Madeleine about her sick child - Cosette. Javert gulped now and asked Commissaire Caron hoarsely,
"If the whores who are worst off with disease are so terribly ill, would it not be more merciful, Commissaire, for us to see to it that they are taken to hospital than thrown into dank cells where death will only come sooner for them?"
Caron narrowed his eyes at Javert, looking mildly disgusted. "Just how hard did that bottle strike your skull, Javert?" he demanded sharply. "A Jezebel deserves no mercy, not even one withering of the clap. Criminality is to be punished; criminals are to be swept from the streets of Paris like dust from floorboards. Or have you forgotten your duty, Monsieur?"
Javert shook his head tightly and clamped his teeth together. Finally he managed to seethe, "No. No, Commissary Caron. I will never forget my duty. I shall patrol rue Saint-Jacques and do some good cleaning, as you command."
"Right." Caron looked suspicious but nodded. "Dismissed."
Rue Saint-Jacques was one of the main arteries of the Latin Quarter, but it was labyrithine and narrow, and as Javert navigated it at twilight with his truncheon clutched in his right hand, he found his head on a swivel. He was not at all eager to be the victim of another assault, and rue Saint-Jacques was a bustling hub of activity at the best of times, let alone so soon after a rebellion. During the daytime, the street bubbled with academic talk, for it was filled with students and artists, along with merchants selling their wares at various shops and bookstores. But as the sun went down, the intellectualism and bohemian atmosphere of rue Saint-Jacques gave way to something significantly more hedonistic, something more sinister.
The cramped street was illuminated as night fell by flickering gas lamps, a new invention that had been placed not long ago long the paths. As the hours went by, more and more wine was consumed, clouding heads and transforming high-brow debates into angry arguments. And then, of course… the whores came out.
Well. That wasn't true, strictly speaking. They were somewhat sneaky, the whores of this particular area, along with their pimps, but Javert knew their tricks well by now. Solicitation was not legal, and those involved on both sides of the business exchanges for prostitution were well aware of that fact. So the pimps would sometimes sit sipping coffee at a table, monitoring the situation, but by now Javert knew who every single one of them were. And the whores would hover under street lamps, where the soft light flattered their often diseased bodies a bit, or they would seek the cover of the shadowed alleyways to try to hide from policemen like Javert himself, so they could negotiate with customers without being seen. The very brave and bold ones would stand right in the entrances of doorways and call out for men, heckling them and telling them their prices.
Javert had no patience for those whores. They never lasted long.
Tonight, as he ambled down rue Saint-Jacques, the drunken students who were arguing politics and the remaining shop owners parted for him like the Red Sea, as people so often did when they saw him coming. At one point, he passed a small café that had shuttered for the night, but at one of the tables that had been left set up outside, a man in a somewhat aspirational dandy ensemble sat looking bored. He caught sight of Javert and sat up straight, letting out a low whistle. Javert tipped his head and rolled his eyes at the man, who was very obviously a pimp.
"Hmm. Scattering your ladies, eh?" Javert tutted. "Perhaps you ought to come with me for a little chat, Monsieur."
The postulant dandy shrugged, giving Javert a peevish look. "No idea what you're on about, Inspector. You're more than welcome to have a seat if you'd like to talk, though. I'm afraid I can't treat you to a coffee. Place closed an hour ago."
"Mmm." Javert pursed his lips and glanced down the path. He scowled when he saw a huddled form under one of the gas lamps; there was a young woman standing there in a vibrant purple dress, scandalously low-cut but a bit tattered. Her dishwater blonde hair was piled atop her head in a messy, failed attempt at a fashionable curly style, and there were several large gaudy feathers stuck into the curls. Even in the dim lamplight, Javert could see that she was emaciated, and she was coughing violently and frequently. She clutched at the lamp-post and hacked into a handkerchief. Javert glared at the pimp at the table, who huffed and looked irritated. Javert asked in a clip,
"Is she one of yours?"
The man shrugged. "Never seen her."
Javert sighed, irked and out of patience. "I presume that you are attempting to avoid arrest yourself, Monsieur, and also that she has probably stopped earning you a profit since she appears to be profoundly unwell. Is that so?"
The pimp at the table hesitated, then finally met Javert's eyes and shrugged. "She's very young, and very pretty," he drawled. "She was doing wonderfully until she started coughing up blood non-stop, you know? Scares the customers away. But she won't… leave . Would be convenient for me if she just hurry up and… die. "
He smirked, drumming his fingers on the table where he sat, and Javert's stomach twisted. He adjusted his grip on his truncheon. Suddenly he thought of Fantine again, thought of her pleading with Javert not to arrest her, explaining to Javert that Cosette was waiting for her and that Fantine was simply trying to save her daughter. Then Javert thought of what a beautiful and charming young woman Cosette had grown into. He thought, for some bizarre reason, of Jean Valjean panicking about leaving Cosette alone, of Valjean rescuing Marius Pontmercy and hoping Cosette would marry the boy and be cared for, only for Marius to die.
Then, suddenly, Javert's attention snapped to the right, because he heard the young woman at the lamp post call out in a very hoarse voice to a passing gentleman,
"Anything you want, M'sieur… anything at all. Six francs for full access in the alley behind me…" She devolved into coughing then, and the gentleman recoiled away from her, hurrying off down the street and looking disgusted as the young woman hacked into her handkerchief roughly.
"See?" The pimp at the table sounded resigned. "She's no good to anyone. Lost cause. And, anyway, go arrest her . You just saw her solicit a man, didn't you, Inspector? Plain as day, you did. Illegal, isn't it?"
Javert grit his teeth and stalked off toward the whore beneath the lamppost. She turned a little at the sound of his boots on the cobblestones, and she looked horrified, her pale and sunken face as white as a sheet in the lamplight. She'd put a generous amount of rouge on her cheeks and had painted her lips bright pink, but there was no hiding the fact that she was clearly very, very ill. She looked positively ghostly, Javert thought. And there was blood drizzling down her lip and over her sharp chin from her coughing fit. Javert glared at her, trying to decide what to say, but before he admonished the young woman, he sighed and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out his own clean handkerchief, for hers was ratty and filthy, and he touched the cloth to her face to daub at the blood leaking down her lip and chin. He handed her his handkerchief, and the young prostitute looked shocked.
"Thank you, Inspector," she whispered in a cracked little voice. Her large brown eyes watered a bit, rimming quite red, and she finally shrugged her bony shoulders, murmuring, "Off to jail with me, I suppose."
Javert seethed through his teeth for a long moment. He looked the young woman up and down and shook his head a little. All he could think about just now, for some reason, was Fantine. All he could hear was her sobbing voice, pleading with him about Cosette. So he straightened his back and demanded, quite sharply,
"How old are you?"
The young woman sniffled a bit, grasping at the lamp post for purchase and looking like she was going to faint. She blinked slowly. "S-Seventeen, Inspector."
She began to cough again, so hard that she seemed like she'd vomit from it. Javert waited for the fit to pass and watched more blood drizzle from her lips. She swiped at it with his handkerchief, and he considered that he was perhaps about to disobey direct orders in a way that compromised his integrity very badly. So much in his life had been turned upside-down as of late, he realised.
"How long have you been ill?" He asked, more quietly this time.
She stared at him, seeming a bit dizzy, and then whispered, "Five months or so, Inspector."
"Mmm." He nodded. He could take her to jail, he thought, as Commissaire Caron had commanded him to do. He could see to it that this young woman was locked up in a communal cell with other Parisian women accused of crimes - crimes like theft or even murder. Inside that cell, she would spread her own disease, she would not be given a bed, and she would probably be dead within a matter of days, huddled on a stone floor in a chaotic environment crying out for help that would never come.
And for some strange reason, in a way that had never happened before, thinking about the prospect of that reminded Javert very much of the way Fantine had grasped at his uniform in Montreuil and begged him, with her toothless grimace and her own pale, tear-streaked face, to let her go so she could save her daughter. Then Valjean had taken her to hospital and physically fought Javert so he could prove another man's innocence in court and then rescue Cosette.
A sudden shock ran up Javert's back, a shock of something unfamiliar and awful. Shame. He was ashamed of himself. Why? Had he not always followed orders? Had he not always hewed closely to the letter of the law, and thus administered justice properly? He blinked and saw the Seine swirling beneath him again, beckoning.
"Erm." He swallowed through the knot in his throat and looked the whore before him up and down. "What is your name?"
She seemed sceptical but admitted in a croak, "Eloise. Eloise Dupont. I have no family, Inspector. I have… no one."
"Come with me," Javert said sharply, and he grabbed, perhaps a bit too harshly, at the young woman's thin little elbow. She gasped in pain, and he released his grasp a bit. When he glared down at her, she was already alternating between coughs and sobs, and he felt compelled to inform her in a hiss, "I am taking you to the Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière, not to jail. It is much too far for you to walk in your condition; I shall get us a cab. There is a station nearby."
The young woman stared at him in complete surprise. She shook her head, seeming not to believe him at all. She coughed hard and then looked very faint. Javert grabbed her shoulder to steady her, glancing over to the table at the closed café where he'd been speaking with the stray pimp earlier but, unsurprisingly, the pimp had gone.
Javert let out a long, heavy sigh as he crossed the threshold into Valjean's house on rue Plumet in the middle of the night at the end of his shift. He had considered going back to his own house after work tonight. It felt odd to come back here. He was no longer suicidal, or so he kept trying to reassure himself. Why remain the house guest of the enemy he had hunted for decades, the man who had led him to question life so completely that he had nearly plunged into the Seine? Why stay here?
But Javert's boots had brought him back, in part because he knew full well that Cosette was sleeping in this house, and he wanted to see her in the morning. He had no work at all the next day, and he thought perhaps he might talk with her in the garden. He had not spent time alone with her since they had been entirely improper in his bed; he had only seen her in passing and at meals. But he had dreamed of her, and thought of her, and they had exchanged more than a few coy little smiles and glances, and had spoken somewhat flirtatiously and with friendly banter at the dining table. He quite enjoyed time with her, and not just when he was touching her.
That made it all the more confusing to have been so tortured by thoughts of her mother on patrol today, Javert considered… to have been tortured by thoughts of Fantine staring up at Javert with no hair and no front teeth, dying of disease, emaciated, about to be arrested, begging him to release her so she could see to Cosette's welfare. And he had been barbarous and inhumane where Valjean had been merciful and compassionate.
Javert had taken the prostitute Eloise Dupont to the Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière tonight in direct violation of his Commissaire's orders to arrest diseased and problematic whores. Surely there would be some repercussion for such actions at some point, Javert thought, but tonight he could not bring himself to regret what he had done. The hospital to which he had taken the young woman was known and lauded in Paris for its charitable care; it very often took in impoverished patients, and for him to take the prostitute there might be even be seen as an act of tolerable leniency rather than dereliction of duty. Javert simply could not view himself as a traitor to his moral obligations anymore, having bid the prostitute adieu as she was taken away by well-intentioned Sisters of Charity who promised to make her comfortable in her last days, rather than having handed her over to cruel guards minding a crowded, damp jail cell.
Not so very long ago, Javert considered, the world seemed very simple, very straightforward. People were righteous or they were wicked. Ideas were altogether good or entirely wrong. There existed no moderation, no room for flexibility or moderation. No mistakes could be made. Moving on after Atonement was not truly possible.
Javert had not been able to reconcile that the rest of the world did not view life as he had done for over five decades, in such harsh binaries. And that was why he had stood on the parapet of the bridge, gazing down into the waiting river, about to jump, ready to give up his life because he simply could not calibrate mercy or deconstruct his moral rigidity. So, yes, he had disobeyed Commissaire Caron's orders about arresting diseased prostitutes tonight and instead and had taken one who was dying, seemingly of consumption, to hospital instead. Did that make him a fool? A traitor? Did it make him incompetent or disloyal to the police force? Javert refused to believe so. He could not believe such things these days.
Now he shut the door of Valjean's house as quietly as he could and pulled off his top hat, stalking into the dark house that was ostensibly full of sleeping people. He made his way upstairs and was about to push open to door to his own bedroom when he heard Valjean's voice behind him mutter,
"Javert. May we speak before you and I go to bed?"
He turned, eyeing Valjean curiously. He scowled when he saw that the other man was still clad in a white shirt and a dark silk waistcoat and trousers; he had not changed into nightclothes after dinner with Cosette, it seemed. Javert chewed his lip as he contemplated that Valjean had been waiting up for him to come home from work. Was he about to be confronted over what he had done with Cosette in his own bed a few days earlier? His mind flared with a bit of panic suddenly. He could tell Valjean exactly what had happened, that Cosette had been exceedingly earnest, that she had invited herself into Javert's bedchamber. He could inform Valjean - truthfully - that he had very deliberately not truly taken the girl's virtue. Instead, he just focused on the fact that he was armed with a truncheon, and he followed Valjean into his bedchamber when Valjean beckoned him in.
It was still very warm, so Javert wore no great coat over his uniform jacket, and he'd become sticky with sweat during his patrols. Valjean appeared to be using only a few candles to illuminate his bedchamber - two silver candlesticks atop his mantle, along with a smaller, less orange candelabra on the low table between two chairs. Javert slowly sat opposite Valjean and set down his top hat, gripping his truncheon in both hands a bit ominously. He eyed Valjean and shrugged. Valjean nodded.
"I am glad your face has healed well enough for you to be back to work."
Javert cocked up an eyebrow. "Do not mock me, 24601; I know perfectly well that you do not relish the thought of me wandering the streets, rounding criminals up and…"
Javert trailed off then, flicking his eyes up to the candlesticks on the mantle and just staring there for a long moment. He studied the flame atop one of the candles and finally murmured, almost as if he were in a trance,
"She… they had pulled out her teeth. She had sold her hair. And then … I think… she sold her hair and teeth before she sank into prostitution, I think, which is doing it all in the wrong order, because…"
Javert was not really certain where he was going with that line of thinking. Some corner of his mind wanted to go back in time and shake Fantine by the shoulders and tell her that if she had kept her long, pretty hair and her nice teeth, she could have earned far more money as a whore and might not have died so pitifully. But he finally gulped and shut his eyes and whispered,
"She had to die for you to rescue Cosette from those devils at the inn, I suppose. She did not even know how badly off Cosette was. Fantine was a sacrificial lamb."
There was a long silence, until finally Javert heard Valjean ask, "Did you round up anyone interesting today, Inspector Javert?"
He licked his bottom lip and shook his head. He would not give Valjean the pleasure of hearing him spill his guts right now. He would not witness a coy, knowing little smile and a slow nod from Valjean. Not right now. So he finally just murmured,
"They, erm… they are known for good care of the… particularly ill. At the Hôpital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière. They accept patients of all sorts." Javert opened his eyes and just stared at Valjean. He adjusted his hold on his truncheon and shrugged.
"What is it?" he snapped finally. "What do you want? I am tired, Valjean. I have been working for hours. I have not slept in a very long time. I would like to go to sleep. You are keeping me awake. What is it?"
Valjean tipped his head. "Right. I apologise. I, erm… I only wanted you to know that my daughter would not stop speaking about you at dinner. Perhaps it would have annoyed me, given our… background. Except, Javert, she was so very happy speaking about you. Dear Papa, did you know that Inspector Javert fought for Napoleon at the Battle of Jena-Auerstedt, and when he was in the middle of the forest there, he carefully aimed and shot a Prussian artillery officer whose cannons were killing many French soldiers? Did you know, Papa, that Inspector Javert fought so bravely for France? The way she speaks of you, Javert, you would think you were the glowing sun on a summer's day for her."
Javert scoffed quietly and shook his head. "Well. I am sorry to have deceived her with silly tales of long-forgotten wars. I am nothing but an ill-humoured, ugly old man. Never married. Alone through my entire life - which, by the way, it seems I have been living incorrectly this entire while. So. The poor girl needs to find a new Marius Pontmercy to turn her girlish attentions to, and I should go back to my own house. Is that why you wanted to talk?"
He said all of that quite quickly, in a bit of a breathless rush. He felt his cheeks go very warm. By the time he'd finished, though, he realised that he did not want Cosette to find another young boy to flirt with and kiss and marry. The idea made him queasy. Javert himself wanted to cradle Cosette in his arms and then put her on a bed and hover atop her and -
"Javert."
He snapped to attention, hardly able to breathe, and sank his teeth into his lip. Valjean gave him a bit of a knowing look and tipped his head. He licked his bottom lip and clasped his wrinkled hands together in his lap as he said softly,
"Toussaint is not very discreet. She speaks to my daughter and me both."
Javert shrugged, but his face felt like it was on fire. He said nothing at all, but he found himself gripping his truncheon so tightly that his knuckles hurt. Valjean let out a long, low breath and said carefully,
"I know she has been alone with you in your bedchamber. She has also insisted to Toussaint that you are… in Cosette's own words, apparently… protective and gentle . I must admit, I was as surprised as Toussaint to hear such words used about you, Javert. I have known you for a very long time, and, well."
Valjean let out a caustic little laugh and tossed up his hands a bit. Javert pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. He huffed a breath and finally admitted,
"I, em… would never do anything to, erm… besmirch her. Besides my general unwillingness to do such a thing to a proper young lady, I find that she is… I find her especially deserving of protection , as she put it. I am not exactly certain why. It is not just guilt over her mother, or the decades of enmity you and I shared, Valjean. It is her . I certainly was not expecting her when you wrestled me off the Pont au Change. I certainly do apologise if I have been untoward. I am more than happy to leave; I have my own house."
He sounded quite grumpy at the end of all of that, and part of the reason, he knew, was that he was not actually altogether happy to leave this house with Cosette in it. He frowned deeply and stared at his own knee. He sighed deeply, picking at a stray thread on his breeches and listening as Valjean inquired curiously,
"Why have you never married, Javert? You were not locked up like I was."
"Now that you and I are not engaged in a chase, you will poke and pry, is that it?" Javert grumbled, but he flicked his eyes up and shrugged. "I have been working. I have been busy. And, anyway, no one ever caught my fancy."
"Not in fifty-odd years?" smirked Valjean, drumming his own fingers and seeming a bit teasing. Javert scowled, furrowing his thick brows.
"Not in fifty-four years, no. I have been married to the law, it seems."
"Mmm. That seems like a healthy marriage." Valjean's crooked smile grew, and Javert started to push himself from his armchair.
"I will not sit here and be mocked."
Valjean rose with him and gestured for them both to sit back down, shaking his head and saying in a soft, conciliatory tone, "I am sorry. That was unnecessary. Please."
Javert slowly sank back down into the armchair and then found his gaze drawn back to the flickering flame in one of the silver candlesticks above the small fireplace. He just watched the flame dance for a quiet moment, until finally a crazed sort of thought rushed through his mind. Cosette had been speaking highly of him to her father. Javert liked the girl - quite a lot. She was very pretty, and she made his body come alive when he touched her or kissed her or took things further. Valjean was terrified of leaving her alone. He was at least twelve or thirteen years older than Javert, and had endured all sorts of hardship Javert had not. Javert had witnessed the broken limbs, parasites, wretched disease, starvation, and worse the inmates at Toulon had lived with, and Valjean had been there for nineteen years. And now the man was in his mid-sixties. Surely he felt the cloak of death heavily settling around his shoulders. Javert did not. He was still robust. Fit. Able. He was in his fifties, yes, but he had good teeth and was rarely ill. He could live for many years yet, so long as he did not send himself tumbling off bridges.
He had never married. Women were pressured to marry young because their wombs expired; if women did not produce children quickly enough, women were viewed by society writ large as somewhat useless as brides. But a man, no matter his age, could make a very suitable bridegroom so long as he had a career. And Cosette was very young. Even if Javert widowed her ten or fifteen years from now, she would still be young enough to marry again. But right now, he could keep her safe. He could… protect her. That was the word she'd used, wasn't it? To Toussaint? She had called him protective. His eyes watered a little, knowing she had thought of him that way. He shut his eyes and grit his teeth a little, and finally, he turned his face and stared determinedly at Jean Valjean, at the man he had spent decades chasing and loathing. He studied Valjean's face and decided that, just this moment, he needed to set all of that aside.
"Valjean," He said, keeping his voice low and steady, and the other man's face twitched a bit oddly as if he could already tell what was coming. Valjean's eyes rimmed red, and he shrugged a little, nodding. Javert said simply, "We are neither of us the men we once were."
Valjean nodded again. "That is true."
Javert gnawed his lip hard. "She is… astonishing. And I would indeed protect her, and care for her, and see to it that she had every need met. My home is no palace; it is a place on rue de la Croix-Nivert. She could finish it to her liking. She would be comfortable. I am healthy and strong, but there would be plenty for her in the case of my death. I have savings; I have been frugal and I have a pension. It would be the cruellest of ironies, I know, but I… I am asking… your… permission, Valjean, to…"
He trailed off then, feeling foolish and just a little desperate, seething through his teeth as he studied Valjean's face. Valjean heaved himself slowly from his chair, and Javert quickly stood with him, moving his truncheon into his left hand and extending his right one to shake Valjean's hand when it was extended. He was in shock for a moment; he had not expected, not in almost twenty years of sheer antagonism between the two of them, to be standing here shaking this man's hand and agreeing to marry his daughter. His heart thunked in his chest and his breath trembled, and when he lowered his hand and reached for his hat, Valjean said in a slightly cracking voice,
"You have my blessing, Javert, but… my word on this is hardly final. The real proposition, of course, must be made to Cosette. With, I should hope, a ring of some sort."
"Oh. Erm. Yes, of course. I do not have work in the morning. I shall, erm… I shall go to a jeweller's and…" Javert felt a bit dizzy. He frowned and realised aloud, "I do not know what size her finger is."
Valjean gave Javert a warm little smile. "I shall have Toussaint bring you one of her rings when you wake. For reference. You can take it to the jeweller with you."
Javert nodded numbly. Valjean hesitated for a moment and then murmured,
"Are you certain?"
Javert shut his eyes and thought of Fantine, her teeth and hair gone, dying of disease, pleading for mercy so she could save her daughter. Then he thought of Valjean rescuing Javert from certain death at the barricade, of Gavroche's bullet-riddled corpse, of Jean Valjean hauling Marius Pontmercy through the sewers. He thought of nearly jumping into the Seine because of his confusion. He thought of Cosette's golden blonde hair and the smell of roses on her. He thought of her peaceful smile, of her warm breath on his lips, of her fingers tucking his hair behind his ears. He thought of scooping her out of his bed and smirking down at her in his arms as she giggled up at him. And then he opened his eyes and nodded at Jean Valjean, and he said quite firmly,
"Yes. I am certain."
He watched then as Valjean's eyes boiled up a bit in a way Javert had not been expecting. Valjean gave a curt nod and managed to whisper,
"Right. Well. Do get some rest, then, Inspector. You've had a long day, and… I'm sure tomorrow will be…"
"Busy," Javert nodded. Valjean just walked him over to the bedchamber door to let him out, nodding wordlessly again there. Before Javert left, he hesitated for a moment and finally assured Valjean,
"I genuinely do and will care for her."
"I know." Valjean dragged a thumb under his eye. He choked out a little laugh and shrugged. "That makes two of us, I suppose, Javert, who wound up very pleasantly surprised in all of this. Goodnight."
"Night." Javert hurried out of the room then, crossing the corridor and going into his own guest chamber.
"I feel a bit overdressed, Toussaint," Cosette complained, sitting at her boudoir. "Papa and I had no plans to go anywhere today, I do not think."
Toussaint flashed Cosette a strange sort of look, her wrinkled old eyes welling just a little in a way that sent a wave of confusion through Cosette. Toussaint shook her head and insisted, "It never hurts to look our best, does it, Mademoiselle?"
"No, I suppose not." Cosette studied her reflection in her mirror. Toussaint had dressed her in a beautiful day dress of deep blue silk, its bodice fitted but not too tight, with a rounded neckline accented with lovely cream lace. The puffed gigot sleeves tapered to fit at the wrists, with more cream lace trim. The full silk skirts, covering several petticoats, laid just so around Cosette where she sat. She'd slid on low black velvet shoes over her white silk stockings. Around her neck, she wore a black velvet ribbon as a choker, and in her ears she had simple pearl earrings. Toussaint had parted her clean blonde hair down the middle, gathered it into a high and loose chignon, and put face-framing curls down around her cheekbones. Cosette had dabbed some rosy perfume on her wrists. She was not overdone, she thought, and by now she'd stopped wearing black for Marius. But she had rather dressed up - or Toussaint had dressed her up - and not for any particular reason, it seemed, for she only meant to lounge about the garden today.
"There," purred Toussaint, almost maternally, and she pat Cosette between her shoulder blades with some affection as she encouraged her, "Come, Mademoiselle. Some tea and a light breakfast, hm?"
Cosette frowned. Something was off about Toussaint this morning, though Cosette could not quite put her finger upon what it was. She went out to the dining room and sat down alone, confused about the absence of both her father and Inspector Javert. Toussaint quickly brought her some sliced cheese, almonds, buttered bread, and some grapes, along with a cup of tea. Cosette picked at the food as she gazed out the open window beyond the garden, toward the street beyond. The weather had cooled considerably, she noticed. It had been uncomfortably warm recently, but this morning was very pleasant. It would be a wonderful day to sit outside, she thought; it was shaping up to be overcast and mild.
"My dearest Cosette."
She turned her face as she nibbled some cheese to see her father walking into the dining room, and she furrowed her brows when she saw that he was clad in much finer clothes than he would normally wear for a day at home. He'd come to breakfast in a clean dark jacket, perfectly tailored, worn over a crisp white shirt and a grey brocade waistcoat with a relatively new pocket-watch. His trousers were black wool, and his shoes were shined just so. His nearly-white hair seemed to have been combed with care, and Cosette could have sworn he'd trimmed his beard. She set down her cheese and cleared her throat as he took his place at the table opposite her.
"Do you and Toussaint know something I do not? Why are we dressed as though we are attending a party? Are we hosting a party? Will someone explain this seemingly random formality to me, Papa?"
He raised his eyebrows at her as Toussaint brought him his plate of food and his tea. He nodded with gratitude at her, and as he popped a grape into his mouth and chewed, he shrugged nonchalantly.
"It has been intolerably hot and sticky," her father said. "I suppose, awakening this morning and finding the weather far more favourable, I wanted to finally wear decent clothing and not sweat through it all. I have, admittedly, been thinking of much harsher times in my past as of late, and… well. I find myself grateful for our present circumstances. You look lovely, my dear."
She pouted just a little and nibbled some more cheese. She and her father finished their breakfasts in quiet peace, until at last their plates were mostly empty and finally Toussaint came to clear the food and tea away. Then Cosette rose and announced,
"I think I shall go read for a bit in the garden. The weather is, as you noted, much better today than it's been. It has been entirely too warm and foul-smelling to sit among the flowers these last days."
Her father curled his lips up, but his eyes seemed a little sad for some odd reason. He sighed heavily and nodded as he asked in a soft voice,
"What are you reading?"
Cosette shrugged. "Paul et Virginie. It is a sentimental love story, a silly thing. It is set on the tropical island of Mauritius. They were childhood sweethearts, Paul and Virginie. It is a sweet story, but I fear it ends tragically."
Her father tipped his head. "Many love stories end with heartbreak, but that does not mean the beauty and richness of the tale between is not worth reading or living, eh?"
"Indeed." Cosette shifted where she stood and reached up to adjust one of her blonde curls. Then she took a step closer to the dining room table and asked her father carefully, "Papa, you know that I love and adore you as my father, don't you? But do you know who my… who the man that my mother…"
She trailed off, and her father's expression shifted as he shook his head a little. "Your real father is not known to me, I am afraid. Not exactly. He was… some wealthy man who abandoned you and your mother. And… perhaps you ought to know, for I discovered this information in letters among your mother's belongings immediately after she died, that your given name at birth was not Cosette. That was what your mother always called you, and what I have always called you, but your proper name was Euphrasie."
"Oh." Cosette nodded a little, her eyes searing a bit. She tossed her hands up and said dismissively, "Well. No matter about that awful man who discarded my poor mother like she was nothing. He was no father of mine to do such a thing. You are the only father I have ever known, Papa. The only father who has ever cared for me."
"Hmm." He just nodded then and stared at the tablecloth, seeming thoughtful. Cosette contemplated going to fetch her book, but before she did, she asked,
"Where is Inspector Javert? He did not have work today. Why has he not come down to breakfast?"
"Perhaps he is still sleeping," her father mused softly. "I believe he was working until very late into the night."
"Of course," Cosette murmured quietly. "Well, I shall try not to bother him while I go get my book."
"Enjoy the garden, my dear," said her father, and Cosette turned to go.
They were silent; their eyes met, their souls mingled; an ineffable transport seized them; their hands pressed convulsively to their hearts, and they embraced each other without knowing what they did. The sun had already sunk beneath the sea; the horizon was all purple; and a soft twilight, which succeeds the day in this climate, shed over the earth a dying splendour. They withdrew slowly from each other, and, sighing with inexpressible tenderness, they gazed alternately at the heavens and at each other.
Cosette eagerly turned the page and felt emotion swell through her as her heart thrummed inside her chest. She reached up and carefully adjusted her wide-brimmed straw bonnet, which was shielding her face. The sky was cloudy out in the garden today, but even so, she was glad for the bit of shelter to keep her from squinting whilst she read. She had lost track of how long she'd been out here now, engrossed in the story of Paul and Virginie. Soon enough, she knew, she would need to go inside for lunch. The garden's little fountain bubbled before her and the air, just the right temperature, was heady with the smell of roses, Madonna lilies, and lavender. Cosette simply could not find the willpower to put her book down.
"I suppose I ought not be surprised one bit to find you out here on a day such as this, Mademoiselle. A songbird among the flowers."
Cosette found herself smirking down at the pages of her book at the sound of Inspector Javert's voice. Somehow, hearing his low, sultry baritone was enough to tear her attention from the story she had been reading, and she shut her novel and set it on the bench beside her. She gazed up as he came round, approaching her. Her mouth fell open then, in a bit of shock, because he was so handsome that she found herself a bit bereft of breath. She gulped as she shamelessly stared him up and down, studying him.
He had come out into the garden in the best clothes she had yet seen him wear. More formality of which Cosette had not been informed, apparently. Where had he gotten such clothes, she wondered? Had he had them here all this time, or had he gone home to fetch them? His grey hair was combed back perfectly and smoothed with a bit of oil so that not a single hair was out of place. He wore a perfectly tailored frock coat in deepest blue wool over a burgundy silk waistcoat and a clean white shirt with a black silk cravat. His black woolen trousers were tailored in a way that made Cosette's stomach flop, for some reason. He had more formal boots on right now than she'd seen him wear; they had a very low heel and laced up the front. They weren't his police work boots. She raised her eyes to him and frowned just a little, asking carefully,
"So I suppose you have received the silent memo in the household that today is a day to wear finery for no reason, Inspector?"
He gave her a crooked little smile and gestured at the wooden garden bench where she sat. "May I?"
"Of course." Cosette slid over a little to make room for him, and Javert sank down beside her. His fingers twined together in his lap then, and she watched as his teeth gnashed and his jaw tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, and she reached out to touch at his shoulder as she asked him,
"Are you quite all right?"
"Mmm. You are wearing blue," Javert noted cryptically. He picked up her book at sniffed a bit as he studied the cover. " Paul et Virginie. I do not know this one."
Cosette snatched the book back from him and muttered, feeling embarrassed, "I do not suppose it would appeal to you. It is just a silly little romance."
Javert stared at her for just a moment and then shrugged. "I am, confessedly and hopelessly, not a romantic man, Cosette."
She was not certain what to say in response to that. She just choked out a little laugh and, entirely on instinct, reached up to touch at his strong jaw as she assured him in a quiet voice only he could hear, "I think you do not give yourself enough credit, Monsieur. I am young and foolish, and I have not known you for very long, but you have shown me great consideration and you have ignited me like a flame."
She heard his breath hitch a little, and he reached up to cover her small hand with his much larger, rougher one. Cosette felt her skin prickle a little, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to touch his hair and to taste him, to have his hands all over her. She heard herself whisper then,
"You were missed at breakfast."
"I had an errand to run," he replied simply, and Cosette just nodded her understanding. Javert dragged his thumb over her hand, and he blinked a few times as he informed her, "I wanted to die the night of the rebellion. I was a half second away from leaping into the river when, of all people, Jean Valjean wrestled me down and insisted I come here. I absolutely was not expecting to find his daughter so enchanting, so beautiful and charming and captivating. I was not expecting, after fifty-four years of being entirely alone, to want companionship. I was not expecting to want to care for someone else, to ensure her security and happiness and to know that she would also make me happy."
Cosette was frozen, shocked, where she sat with his hand still on his jaw. Where was he going with this? Was he beginning to suggest what she thought he was suggesting? There was no possible way, was there? No. Certainly not. He could not possibly be…
But then he descended off the wooden garden bench and sank onto the pavers before it, genuflecting before Cosette neatly. She was so small, and he was so large, that with him on one knee and her seated on the bench, they were essentially eye-to-eye. Cosette felt tears welling up heavily, and she rushed to swipe at them with her knuckle as she sniffled a little. She shook her head, feeling almost panicked, and she whispered frantically,
"Javert…"
He just cleared his throat, his hardy and solemn face flushing quite red. She watched as he reached into the pocket of his black wool trousers, and she was surprised to see how badly he was visibly trembling. He pulled something small out and mumbled, sounding almost distracted,
"Your… your father had the idea of… Toussaint gave me one of your rings for reference, so I do hope it fits, but if it doesn't, naturally, I would -"
"You've already spoken to my father?" Cosette blurted, and she felt her nose begin to run a little. Suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks, entirely unbidden, and she rushed to try and clear them from her skin. But Javert met her gaze, and his lips parted in alarm. He reached quickly into his breat pocket with his left hand and pulled out a clean handkerchief, passing it over at once and murmuring,
"I seem to be in the habit of giving out handkerchiefs as of late."
"I beg your pardon?" Cosette gratefully took the silk handkerchief and wiped away her tears, dabbing at her nose, as he shook his head dismissively and confirmed to her,
"Yes. I have spoken with your father. And, erm… he is in favour of all of this, believe it or not. But, of course, Cosette, I am not asking his permission. Not really. I am asking… I am asking you. I am…" He shut his eyes for a moment and then held up the ring in his hand. Cosette gasped softly when she saw the design. It was not gaudy or ostentatious. It had not cost a fortune; she could tell that much, and it did not matter. It was very, very pretty. It was perfect. It was a yellow gold ring with a delicate band, and the main design was comprised of a sort of "flower" of small but lovely sapphires surrounded by tiny diamonds all round the outside. In the centre of the ring was a champagne pearl. Javert glanced at the ring and then up at Cosette to gauge her reaction. She nodded vehemently and, for some bizarre reason, fretted like a mother hen,
"Please come up onto the bench, Inspector Javert; your knee must be aching terribly by now."
He licked his bottom lip and whispered, "I can't get up until you have answered me, Cosette."
She smiled a little at him and shrugged. "You still haven't really asked."
"Oh." He looked mildly embarrassed and gulped. He stared at her for a moment and then finally asked, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver, "Mademoiselle Cosette. In all my long life, I have never wanted for a wife. Not until now. Abruptly, I do. Rather ferociously. And I promise to provide and care for you, to cherish you, properly, to the best of my ability. You, Cosette, shall be my most important duty. Please, will grant me the honour of marrying me?"
He looked a bit like he would be sick then, like it had taken absolutely every ounce of humility and courage that he had possessed to muster up those words and say them. Cosette just seized his face in both of her hands, leaned forward, and pressed her lips to his, rather shamelessly kissing him square on the mouth in the garden, knowing Toussaint or her father could look out a window and see. She tipped her face a little and kissed and kissed again until she felt Javert's hands on hers, until she felt cool metal on the fourth finger of her left hand. He was pushing her ring onto her finger, she realised, and she pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips,
"Yes. A hundred thousand times, yes. Please, Inspector -"
His laugh at her calling him by his professional title, even right now with him down on his knee before her, rolled onto her lips, and he kissed her swiftly before declaring in a growl, "You are right; I must get off of this ground or I shall never stand again."
She giggled a bit at that, using his handkerchief to daub away the fresh tears of happiness and disbelief that were cascading from her eyes as he heaved himself off the pavers and up onto the wooden bench beside her. He brushed the dust and dirt from his knee and studied her face carefully from where he sat, and Cosette eyed the pretty sapphire and pearl ring he'd put on her left hand. She turned it a little to examine it. Even in the cloudy garden, it sparkled and shone a bit, and she noted in an awed voice,
"It is so lovely. And it does fit."
"Oh. Good. I gave Toussaint your other ring back. Erm… you and I would… we shall move into my house on rue de la Croix-Nivert, then, yes? After the wedding?"
Javert sounded tentative and unsure, but when Cosette raised her eyes to him, she felt her face break into a very broad grin. She nodded and said,
"I can visit my Papa all the time, can't I? And he can visit me?"
Javert seemed a bit rattled, and Cosette knew why. It was not so very long ago at all that Javert and her father had despised one another. But his features shifted and he nodded and said warmly,
"Yes, Cosette. Of course… whenever you like. And I am not a wealthy man, but I likewise hardly live in any state of poverty. You will be free to outfit my… our home to your tastes, and you will have decent clothing and such, and… well, you'll be perfectly comfortable, I assure you. And you ought to know that your father has been hiding for many years, and that is mostly my fault. But there is precisely no reason why you and I could not do such things as attending the theatre or the opera, if you wanted, or -"
"Really?" breathed Cosette, and Javert smirked at her just a little. He reached for her left hand and dragged his thumb over her knuckles as he confessed quietly,
"I am not very musical, but I do enjoy sitting there and watching the spectacle."
Cosette felt her entire countenance light up. Her back went straight, and she leaned toward Javert as she whispered in a hush,
"You would take me to the opera? As your wife?"
He looked almost surprised at her eagerness, and she watched his throat bob as he mumbled, "Yes. I would. Happily, I think."
She found herself laughing a little then, hurrying to demurely cover her mouth with her fingers. She nibbled at her lip for a moment and sighed, and then something compelled her to reach out and brush her knuckles over the grey hair he had combed and styled so very perfectly today. He let out a low little noise when she did that, shifting where she sat. Cosette felt her lips part a little, and she blinked a few times before asking in a confused voice,
"And I shall bear you many children, I suppose? Straight away? That is the way of things in marriage, I am made to understand."
Javert looked very surprised. He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly and reached up to cradle Cosette's cheek in his hand. He shook his head and studied her, and when he did, Cosette suddenly felt… safe. She would not have been able to explain exactly why sitting here with him, with this police officer who had chased her father for decades and had so recently entered her life, who was so much older than her and who had seemed so harsh and stern when first she'd met him, now felt like a warm comfort. But it did. She leaned against his palm as he told her in a quiet tone,
"There are ways, Cosette, for a husband to delay putting a child on his wife for as long as both parties will it. Withdrawal… careful scheduling as regards your bleeding. None of it is foolproof, of course; accidents happen, but… I do promise you that you are not meant to become a broodmare. That is not at all why I have asked you to marry me. I am not looking for a swarm of children from you."
"Oh," Cosette nodded, feeling suddenly very reassured. She touched at Javert's chest, somewhat on instinct. She often touched him there, she knew. He did not seem to mind. She tipped her head and whispered, humiliated, "It is only that I have very recently just turned seventeen, and I wish for a little time to -"
"Cosette," Javert interrupted, calmly but firmly, stroking at her cheek, and she went quiet. He flashed her a knowing little look and reminded her, "You know I am not exactly a man of God."
Cosette huffed a hard breath and nodded. She tried to think of what Sister Simplice would say if she knew that Cosette was contemplating a non-religious wedding ceremony - and to the policeman who had been chasing her father, no less! But Cosette pulled Javert's hand from her face and kissed his rough knuckles, and she nodded.
"A simple civil ceremony will do fine. I think my dear Papa would prefer the privacy of that, anyway."
"Quite so." Javert glanced over his shoulder toward the house and then shifted a little as he considered aloud, "I suppose now I am meant to take you back inside and inform Jean Valjean that I am to take his daughter away from him, to do some thieving of my own."
Cosette could not help but laugh a little at that. Javert was not prone to joking, and this was quite dark humour. Still, she found herself rolling her eyes a little as she suggested,
"Perhaps at very long last, the two of you will be able to call things even."
"Perhaps." Javert pulled himself off the bench to stand, extending his hand as he gazed down at Cosette and said to her, "Mademoiselle. Shall we?"
She snatched her copy of Paul et Virginie off the bench and took hold of his hand, and she grinned at him as she nodded with glee. "We shall."
Cosette's father had not been surprised at all to hear that Javert had proposed marriage in the garden. She'd been right that there had been treachery afoot about everyone in the house dressing up. Her father had known about Javert's plot; that had been why he had come to breakfast clad in semi-formal attire. Even Toussaint had known most of what had been planned, which was why she had dressed Cosette up like a little doll for the day.
The fact that he had known what to expect had not stopped Cosette's father from experiencing what seemed like a groundswell of emotion when Javert took Cosette inside, carefully holding her hand and leading her into the sitting room where her father was waiting.
"Valjean," Javert had acknowledged, and then Cosette had excitedly blurted that Javert had asked her to marry him, and she had shown her father her pretty sapphire ring (of which he had most heartily approved, making Javert puff up his chest a bit). Cosette had been bouncing on the balls of her feet a bit as she'd blathered on and on to her father about Javert's house in rue de la Croix-Nivert, about going to the opera with her war hero husband, about how she was more than all right with a quiet and simple civil ceremony. Her father had just glanced between Javert and Cosette and had nodded with red-rimmed eyes and a bit of a trembling lip and had congratulated the two of them. He had assured Cosette that even if the wedding happened in a month's time or so, she would have no problem getting a fine new dress made for the occasion. And then he had taken Javert's hand and had shaken it firmly, instructing the Inspector to care for Cosette as he himself had done for years. Javert had replied in a firm voice that he had every intention of seeing to it that Cosette would want for absolutely nothing as his wife, and Cosette's father had given Javert a crisp nod in response.
Before she had gone to bed for the night after dinner, Cosette had bid both her father and Javert goodnight, but as she'd left them in the dining room, she had felt like was tearing open a wound. She did not want to leave him, she thought. Not tonight. Not after he'd descended to a knee in the garden and put a ring on her finger and asked her to marry him.
Now she rolled onto her side in her bedchamber and stared at the clock on her mantle, angrily puffing out a breath when she realised it was a quarter after one in the morning. She'd been keeping herself awake, perseverating over thoughts of him. His hair, the heady masculine smell of him, his height and his broad shoulders. His stories of war, his stern demeanour that yielded just for her , it seemed. His hands on her. Oh , his hands on her. His low, rumbling voice and his warm breath against her lips.
Suddenly, Cosette could take it no longer. She simply could not stand it. She flung herself from her bed, not caring about things like dressing-gowns or slippers or even a candle to light her way. She opened her door quietly, though frankly right now she did not really care who she woke. She made her way down the corridor, knowing that if she dared knock, she would cause all sorts of trouble. She reached Javert's door and twisted the doorknob, pushing his door open and slipping inside. She shut the door and turned around, but she could hardly see anything at all. He'd extinguished his candle upon going to bed, it seemed. His room had been plunged into darkness.
"Is someone there?"
His voice was groggy, disoriented. He had keen hearing and had started to stir. Cosette ought not be surprised; he'd been born in a prison, he'd said, and then he had served in Napoleon's Army and had gone back to work as a prison guard and police officer for decades. His career - his life - had demanded sharp senses of him. She sighed and whispered to him,
"It's only me. It's Cosette."
She squinted a bit and could make out his form in the darkness as he pushed himself up onto one elbow and tutted, scolding her hoarsely,
"Impish and contrarian girl… always breaking the rules, sneaking into my bedchamber."
Cosette stalked toward his blue toile bed and teased him a bit. "Soon enough, I will not have to sneak into your bed."
"Mmm." He did not sound distressed at the sound of that. Something flared within Cosette suddenly, and she heard herself continue,
"Soon enough… when you work later shifts, and you come home in the middle of the night after a long and tiring patrol, your bed will be warm with a young and eager wife waiting for you."
"Ohh." Javert groaned a little then, and Cosette smirked to herself, knowing she was making him want her. Her cheeks went hot where she stood as she came up alongside the bed, reaching for his hair and pulling the tie loose. She dragged her fingers through the silky smooth grey length of his hair and mumbled to him,
"Soon enough, Javert, I will be your wife, and you will properly teach me what goes on between men and women."
He snarled then, as if with serious frustration, and he pushed himself up further and snatched almost roughly at Cosette's wrists. She laughed a little as he dragged her toward him, onto his bed, and she willingly climbed onto the mattress and beneath his blankets. She curled up alongside him, gasping when she felt him tangle their legs together. Then she was completely bereft of breath, because he'd dug his face into the crook of her neck and was kissing her fervently beneath her ear as one of his hand slid up her thigh and grasped at her backside as the other hand toyed with the back of her neck. Cosette cried out, much too loudly, and he shushed her against the skin of her neck, his breath hot there. She choked out a crackling, desperate noise and clutched at his hair, taking fistfuls of it and grinding herself against the thick, muscular thigh he'd put between her legs.
"Help, help, help," she heard herself whispering, for she'd become very dizzy, very quickly. But Javert did not help her. Instead she found herself being rolled until she was on her back, and before she knew what was happening, Javert was hovering over her, perched on his huge, broad arms and staring down at her almost menacingly. His grey hair hung loose around his face, and though it was dark, Cosette could make out that his face was painted with an expression of feral hunger and that he was seething though clenched teeth. Suddenly she was terrified; she'd utterly lost control of the situation. She reached up and grasped at Javert's forearms for purchase, as though she could ever possibly fight him off, and she whispered helplessly,
"Are you… are you going to enter me now?"
"What? No." He shook his head from above her, but then he let out an irritated sort of noise that emanated from somewhere deep in his chest. He was looking her up and down in the darkness, she could tell, and he was like a starving man eyeing good meat. But he finally collapsed off of her onto his side on the bed and tipped his head back against his pillow, screwing his eyes shut and huffing a troubled breath. He reached toward Cosette and pulled her toward him, encouraging her to sidle up against him. She was surprised when he pulled her thin thigh over his lap; she was aware of the bulge beneath her leg. That was where his manly arousal was, she knew now. But he was paying it no heed just now. He reached for her arm and cast it over his chest, and he finally mumbled,
"You can't stay until morning. We can't fall asleep. You can only stay for a little while."
"All right," Cosette agreed softly.
"But just stay like this," Javert commanded her, and Cosette smiled to herself where she lay on his chest.
"All right."
They were quiet for a while, until at last she was afraid he'd drifted off. Finally, she realised she'd been stroking at him, near the neckline of his nightshirt, toying with the bit of chest hair there, for some time, and she finally murmured,
"My ring is very pretty indeed. I do hope you did not spend too much money on it."
"I was not irresponsible," he responded. "You deserve pretty things, I think."
She turned her face a little until she could look up at him, and she promised, "I shall try to be a good wife to you. To make you happy."
Javert hesitated, but he finally gulped and then told her, "I have no doubt whatsoever, Cosette, that you will be a very fine wife and that you will make me very happy. I will protect you. I will see to it that you are cared for and comfortable. And I have some very good years in me yet, I think."
"Many good years, by my estimation," Cosette said cheerfully, reaching up to touch at his jaw. "You are very strong and vigorous. You will be with me for a very long time, I believe."
"Mmm." Javert brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "I am very tired, and I fear I shall fall asleep with you rather scandalously in bed with me before our marriage. You should probably go back to your bedchamber. Little imp."
She laughed a bit then and sighed. "Very well. On one condition."
Javert seemed to scowl. "What condition is that?"
Cosette pushed herself up and put the back of her hand to her forehead. "Oh!" she moaned melodramatically. "I am a damsel in distress! Help! Who will aid me in my time of need? Who will carry me back to my -"
"I am not going to cradle you in my arms and carry you down the corridor in your nightgown, you silly girl," Javert chuckled, and Cosette pouted. Javert reached up to stroke at her long, thick braid.
"What would Toussaint think, if she popped her head out of her own room for some reason?"
Cosette tipped her head and considered, "She would think you were taking me to my own room for something very improper before our wedding, probably."
"Hmm. Yes." Javert twined her hair around his fingertips. "I shall carry you all over our house after the wedding. I shall make up excuses."
"Do you promise?" Cosette teased him, and Javert reached to drag a fingertip around her jaw as he affirmed seriously,
"Yes. I promise."
Cosette smiled. "Well. All right, then. Goodnight, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. I bid thee farewell."
"Goodnight, Mademoiselle," he said from where he lay.