"Not finished yet, Javert?" murmured Inspector Antoine Leroux from his own desk in the station-house. Javert flicked his eyes up and caught Leroux's gaze. The other man, in his late forties, was tall and rail-thin with jet-black hair and wild bright blue eyes. He was earnestly devoted to his work as a Paris Police Inspector, but his hyperactivity irked Javert sometimes. Javert cleared his throat and said to Leroux,
"Just one more report to fill out and then I'm through for the night. It was busy out there, as I'm sure you noticed."
"Raucous. Properly raucous," chimed Inspector Phillippe Martin in a grumpy voice from his own desk behind Leroux's. Martin was a slightly pudgy man who had been a part of the law enforcement in Paris for nearly twenty years now, since before Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo. He'd come straight out of the Army right into police work in Paris, and he was known for his cantankerous nature toward criminals and other officers alike. Javert shrugged and agreed,
"It has been raining and chilly for several evenings and was finally pleasant again. You know how good summer weather stirs up the worst ones in the slums, Martin. Anyway. I've just one more report to finish."
Javert dipped his quill pen into some ink and began writing onto a piece of fresh, crisp official stationery, filling out the information about the last arrest he needed to document. Marguerite Lambert, aged forty-three, a seamstress, had been arrested in Place du Marché for causing a public disturbance. She had gotten into a heated argument with a vendor over the price of fabric, which the woman deemed unfair, and she had brandished her scissors and threatened the man. Javert had taken her into custody, and she was being detained pending formal charges and a trial.
"We're going to get a bit of wine when we're through," Leroux said carefully, and Javert set his quill pen back down as he stared at Leroux through the candlelight in the quiet station. He pursed his lips and nodded.
"Hmm."
Leroux tipped his head and raised his brows. "Care to join us, Javert?"
"Erm…" Javert glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was nearly eleven. He had taken a very brief and small meal here at the station once he had finished his patrol and had come back to do his paperwork. He had missed his opportunity to see Cosette for the night; she would be sleeping by now. So he shrugged and finally agreed,
"Yes, all right."
Twenty-five minutes later, the three uniformed inspectors sauntered into Le Bistro de l'Étoile, a quiet and cosy but perfectly respectable establishment not far from Javert's own home on rue de la Croix-Nivert. Unfussy but elegant fixtures suspended from the ceiling cast flickering warm, light upon the patrons who huddled around wooden tables and chairs, savouring glasses and wine and platters of cheese with buttered baguette and olives. The walls had been papered properly and hung with mirrors and paintings, and behind the polished mahogany bar stood a sharply dressed bartender in a black waistcoat and crisp white shirt. As the inspectors walked into the bistro, the violinist in the corner seemed to hesitate for just a moment, and the patrons glanced over, but Javert paid them all no mind. He was very much accustomed to garnering public awe and even fear simply by entering spaces like this in uniform, after decades of doing so.
He and Leroux and Martin took their seats and an empty table and were quickly approached by a young, eager-looking waiter. Leroux and Martin ordered white wine, sweet selections that made Javert crinkle his nose. He could not tolerate such fruity, sickly endeavours. He nodded at the young waiter and said,
"A dry Bordeaux Malbec."
Each of the men pulled out a few coins and put them on the table to pay his way through, and then Javert relaxed in his chair and glanced at each of his colleagues, shrugging.
"It seems the worst of the political nonsense has been largely silenced; the silliness from the wretched little uprising has quieted," he noted.
"Indeed; the King is beloved among the people of Paris," observed Martin in a moody sort of snap, glancing about. "They were all fools to try anything. They certainly will not try it again."
"I fear that may be taking a woefully optimistic view of the French tendency toward rebellion in general, Inspector Martin," Javert said wryly, and Leroux chuckled. Martin gave Javert a sour look, and he asked,
"You were at Austerlitz, were you not? I am made to understand you fought valiantly there, Javert."
Javert squared his jaw. "I did my duty to France."
"What an answer! Though I would expect no other answer from you, Javert," teased Inspector Leroux. Martin narrowed his eyes at Javert and said sternly,
"I think you can agree, Javert, that France needs to return to a period of long, decent stability. Enough of these… rebellions. Uprisings. Changes of leadership. It is not good for this country to be flipping upside-down and back and forth, to be -"
"Martin," Javert interrupted calmly, drumming his fingers on the wooden table and shaking his head, "I did not serve Napoleon Bonaparte when I won medals for honour at Austerlitz, nor when I braved winters in Prussia, nor during any other battle. I owed no particular loyalty to Louis XVI before his head was summarily chopped off, and I was never an ardent Jacobin. I serve France. I do not owe my loyalty to any individual leader, Martin, and neither should you. Your duty and your service is not owed to a person, but to your country… to the law. To… to justice, to order. To righteousness."
Leroux and Martin stared at him in silence for a moment then, as if neither really knew what to say. Javert just glanced around the bistro, feeling aware suddenly of how the other patrons were laughing softly and casually enjoying late-night wine and refreshments. The young waiter turned up then with a silver tray and three glasses of wine, and he set the sweeter selections before Leroux and Martin before giving Javert his drier Malbec. Once he walked away, Leroux and Martin gave one another a strange little look, and then Leroux cleared his throat and held up his wine glass, asking,
"Would it be appropriate, Inspector Javert, to toast to your engagement? Or was that just a rumour?"
Javert felt his mouth fall open in shock. He had indeed informed Commissaire Caron that he had asked Cosette to marry him, because he had notified the Commissaire of the day of his civil ceremony, and also had discussed making Cosette the beneficiary of his pension in the case of his death. Commissaire Caron had congratulated him and had also suggested that, given Javert's exemplary performance for years and his move from bachelorhood to status as a married man, it would be suitable for him to receive a slight increase in wages. That meeting had been private, of course, but… well, apparently Caron had not thought it fit to keep the fact that Javert was marrying a secret. Javert cleared his throat roughly and raised his own wine glass, steadying his stern features and nodding once.
"Thank you."
Leroux's black eyebrows flew up. "Well. Colour me utterly shocked, Javert. Goodness."
He sipped from his wine glass and set it down, and Martin did the same. Javert dragged the pad of his finger over the rim of his wine glass, realising his colleagues had only invited him out to drag gossip from him. He rolled his eyes and huffed a little.
"You will be wanting to know all about her, I suppose," he complained tersely, and Martin confessed,
"Commissaire Caron said she is very young."
"Oh, he did, did he?" Javert glared, narrowing his eyes. "It seems the Commissaire has been quite liberal with my personal matters."
"Javert." Leroux leaned forward a little. "Come now. You must admit. You would be shocked if you were us. You know yourself. This news has come out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning. You are the last person on Earth any of us would have ever expected to -"
He stopped then, and Javert knew that it was because he was fuming right at the man. Javert swigged down his entire glass of Malbec in three large gulps, and when the young waiter passed by, Javert growled roughly,
"Bring me the entire bottle of this, will you?"
He reached into his pocket and tore out a few coins, shoving them over. The waiter looked surprised and said softly,
"Inspector, this bistro is a respectable -"
"I will not make a scene," Javert grumbled, and the waiter took Javert's money and hurried off. Leroux gave a very concerned look then to Martin, who shifted where he sat and admitted,
"Right. So the Commissaire ought not to have said anything."
"No, he ought not to have," Javert said through clenched teeth, and Martin continued,
"Still. We were just curious, Javert. Leroux and I are married men. I am a very unhappily married man. Do you know that my own wife is three years older than me? It's true. We married when I was twenty and she was twenty-three. Now she never wants to touch me. I have resorted, every now and then, to straying. Who would not, in my position? I would give anything to have a gorgeous little toy of my own like it seems you've got. I confess myself jealous of you, really, if at your age you have found yourself some pretty young flit of a thing willing to -"
"Cosette," Javert snarled, very aggressively. Martin startled a little. The waiter came back and gently set down the bottle of Malbec Javert had paid for, and Javert poured quite a lot of it into his glass before swigging down most of it and feeling it sear his throat, dry and a bit acidic. He set the glass down and met Leroux's and then Martin's eyes and sat up straight before he clarified, "Her name is Cosette. She is not some pretty young flit of a thing . She is not a toy. She is a respectable young woman. Yes, young, at seventeen, but she is educated and refined. And, moreover, I…"
He trailed off, finishing off his glass of wine and starting to pour himself some more. Leroux looked into his glass of wine, seeming awkward for a moment until he noted,
"I'm certain she is a very fine girl. Woman. Erm… Congratulations, Javert."
"Thank you." Javert sniffed and sipped deeply from his wine again. Why was he drinking like this? He never drank like this. Not ever. Martin and Leroux both seemed unsettled by the sight of it. Javert was hardly a teetotaler, but he did absolutely nothing in excess in his life, and his colleagues were well aware of that. But here he sat, unreservedly gulping down wine like he needed it to stay alive. He just sipped and sipped until his third glass of wine was completely gone, and the other two men worked more slowly at theirs. Javert's head started to whirl a bit where he sat, and when he poured himself a bit more Malbec, spilling some on the table, Leroux said cautiously,
"A bit of austerity whilst we are uniform, perhaps, Javert? We did not mean to ambush you and anger you. Promise."
"Hmm." Javert just brought his wine glass to his lips, almost defiantly drinking deeply from it until the dry, acerbic taste of the red wine started to make him feel a bit sick. He finally set the wine down and stared at it as Inspector Martin asked lightly,
"When is the wedding?"
"In three weeks' time," Javert answered, realising that he was beginning to slur his words already. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, regretting the way he'd reacted to Commissaire Caron's indiscretion and this trap by his colleagues by chugging as much wine as he could in a brief span of time. He blinked slowly and shrugged at Martin as he told the other man, "I will not speak ill further of my superior, but I do wish that Commissaire Caron had left… had left…"
He shut his eyes, frustrated by the blur in his voice. He'd swigged down entirely too much wine, he realised now. He gnawed hard at his lip, clenching his fist in his lap. He finally glared at both of his colleagues and finished,
"I wish that the Commissaire had left my personal business for me to discuss at my own will. Now. If you two will excuse me."
"Goodnight, Javert," Leroux said, his voice less bouncy and enthusiastic than usual. "Congratulations again."
"Yes. A hearty congratulations," Martin agreed, raising his wine glass, though he sounded more terrified of Javert than sincerely laudatory. Javert snatched his top hat from the empty chair beside him and grasped his truncheon, storming on unsteady feet out of Le Bistro de l'Étoile.
Javert struggled mightily with the key in the door at Valjean's house on rue Plumet. It was very dark, and by the time he got to the house, all of the wine he'd consumed in a rush had settled into his veins, causing his vision to muddy a bit and his hands to become clumsy. He finally got the door open and staggered inside, feeling irritated as he tried to keep his boots quiet on the stairs.
He had great respect for authority and hierarchy. He always had. He had respected his commanding officers when he had served in the Army. He had respected the chain of command when serving as a prison guard at Toulon. He had even, for several years, respected Jean Valjean masquerading as Monsieur Madeleine in Montreuil-sur-Mer. And here, in Paris, he did his duty with proper deference.
But right now, he felt profound vexation toward Commissaire Caron for breaching his privacy and spreading gossip about him through the station-house, for chattering with Javert's colleagues and who-knew-who-else about Cosette's youth and the fact that old, stalwart, querulous, bearish Inspector Javert was at long last latching himself to the bond of matrimony. Javert disliked being the butt of jokes at any time, but right now, when it was about marrying Cosette, it was particularly enraging.
At the top of the staircase, Javert turned toward the guest room where he had been staying for some time now. But in his state, having imbibed entirely too much Malbec at the bistro, he whirled on the ball of his boot too quickly and almost fell. He grappled at the newel post, seething silently through his teeth in frustration. He lurched across the corridor, starting toward his room. He stopped short before opening his door, though, hesitating and feeling a fresh swell of frustration. He glanced toward the end of the corridor, to the closed door that led to Cosette's bedchamber.
Javert stood in the dark hallway, his boots frozen. He swayed a little where he was and put his lips in a straight line. He dropped his top hat onto the carpet runner with a soft patter and adjusted his hold on his truncheon. He flicked his glance toward Toussaint's door, then to Valjean's room. He thought of the fact that his Commissaire had embarrassed him by spreading word of his engagement around at the station-house, about the fact that Javert himself had fallen for the adopted daughter of Jean Valjean, of all people. He thought of Cosette, with her soft blonde hair and the smell of roses on her… the feel of her wet folds beneath her fingers and the way she'd made him so hard it had ached. He thought of putting a sapphire ring on her finger. He thought of how, in a scant few weeks, they would be sharing a bed night after night in the house on rue de la Croix-Nivert.
And suddenly, emboldened by wine and his irritation and by desire - all of which he would have ignored in past times - Javert found his boots walking slowly but determinedly down the corridor toward Cosette's bedchamber. He reached it and realised he could not possibly knock. Valjean was abed, it seemed, and even though the engagement was official, entering Cosette's room in the middle of the night was a surefire way to put a match to Javert's old enemy's paternal fury. Javert licked his bottom lip and carefully turned the doorknob of Cosette's bedchamber, contemplating briefly that he had gone mad. He had felt insane on the parapet of the Pont au Change, when Jean Valjean had wrestled him down and saved him from suicide. And he felt mad now, too. Still, he pushed the door open and slithered inside.
He was very surprised to find that her room was not cloaked in darkness, as he might expect given the hour. Nor was she curled beneath her blankets in sleep. Instead, Cosette was perched up in bed, reading by candlelight. She turned her head as Javert shut the door behind him, and though her mouth fell open in surprise, she said nothing as he took a few unsteady steps into the room. She shut the book she was reading, and as Javert approached her, she reached up to touch at her hair, finally smirking a little and saying coyly,
"Toussaint has wrapped my hair so that it will be curled in the morning; I am embarrassed for you to see me like this, Monsieur."
"I expect to see you in every state, Cosette; you are beautiful just the same." Javert heard the slur in his low voice as he loomed over her, and he huffed a breath as he admitted rather helplessly, "I am a bit drowned in wine, I'm afraid."
"Oh." Cosette nodded, though she looked almost wounded as she asked cautiously, "You were… at a tavern? After work? Or… I ought not ask. It is none of my business."
She lowered her face and looked ashamed, picking at her brocade blanket. Javert scowled.
"Of course it is your business. Some colleagues asked me to go have wine with them to interrogate me about my engagement… under the guise of granting congratulations, of course."
He quickly sank to sit on the edge of her bed, as she had so often down on his bed, and she looked up in alarm when he did. He set down his truncheon, and when Cosette curiously picked it up and turned it over in her hands, Javert could not help but choke out an amused little laugh. It was bizarre and charming, in a way, to see her studying his weapon. He sighed as Cosette dragged her small fingertips over the slightly ribbed handle of the truncheon and then down the long, smooth cylinder of polished oak. She turned her pale eyes to him with a serious expression and asked quietly,
"Do you beat many people with this?"
Javert tipped his head and answered honestly. "No. I am an inspector. I do not run around the city beating people senseless as a matter of habit. It is mostly there to…"
"Intimidate criminals so they surrender to the mighty Javert?" Cosette smiled playfully, and he quirked up a brow at her. Suddenly he felt like he'd had ten glasses of wine instead of what he'd actually consumed. He reached to curl Cosette's fingers around the handle of the truncheon until she was gripping it correctly, and he murmured,
"I think they'd be far more afraid of you. A pretty little songbird wielding an unyielding wooden club."
Cosette giggled at that. She picked up the truncheon then and gave a solid whack to the feather pillow beside her, and Javert snorted inelegantly at the sight. He shook his head and snatched his truncheon from her, tossing it aside and admonishing her,
"That is property of the Prefecture of Police of Paris, Mademoiselle."
"Oh, dear. Am I in trouble?" Cosette was still laughing, so Javert put a knuckle under her chin and tipped it up, feeling more intoxicated than ever, by her now instead of by the wine. He glared at her through narrowed eyes, studying her pretty face in the flickering candlelight, and he mumbled,
"How lucky you are… I shall forgive the transgression."
Her face went very serious then, and she nodded, her eyes almost pleading with him as she whispered, "How could I possibly thank you for your mercy, Inspector?"
Javert wrenched his eyes shut and sank his teeth into his lip. His uniform breeches felt alarmingly tight all of a sudden. He hissed at her then, "Do not tease me anymore, Cosette; I lack the self-restraint to resist any more of it just now."
"I am sorry," he heard her say softly, and he just shook his head a little, his eyes still shut. But then he felt her small hand working its way from his neck up past his jaw, along his hairline, and then she asked him in a meek voice, "Will you kiss me?"
"Every single time you ask," he nodded. He opened his eyes and bent toward her then, reaching to cradle her face in his hands. He began with gentle brushes of his lips on hers - once, twice, again and again until his mouth got hungry and she granted him admission. His tongue was clumsy from the wine, and she was still inexperienced, but soon enough they found a rhythm. He sucked in air hard when he felt her thin arms lace up around the shoulders of his uniform jacket, when her hands clasped almost possessively behind his neck. She moaned into his mouth, wantonly and in a way he'd not yet heard her do, and it made him shiver and sigh against her. He nibbled at her lip and dragged his tongue against the roof of her mouth, and when he did, she squirmed beneath him. One of his hand cupped a small breast through her thin nightgown, thumbing her peaked nipple, whilst his other hand instinctively massaged her thigh and hip. After a good long while of kissing her like that, Cosette tore her face from Javert's and arched her back a little, tossing her head away and looking pained. He worried for a moment that he had hurt her, but she made a frustrated sort of sound, and her hands flew to the front of his jacket and anxiously pawed around the silver buttons running down the front. Javert just stared at her, knowing he'd worked her up and knowing there was not very much he could do about it. Not here, not now, not before he made her his wife.
"It is cruel of me," he mused, "to enter your room like this, in the middle of the night, my mind clouded by wine, and to taunt you. I apologise."
"Javert," Cosette whispered rather desperately, shutting her eyes as she lay her head sideways against the pillow. Some distant part of Javert's mind told him she would muss her bound-up hair like this, that Toussaint would be cross with her in the morning. But he just reached to stroke as soothingly as he could at her face, trying to ignore the way his own cock was straining inside his breeches. Finally, Cosette turned her face a little and stared at him in the candlelight, her usually pale cheeks flushed deep scarlet. Her breath came in shallow, jagged pants, and her eyes welled a little.
"It hurts the first time, Toussaint says. She did say that sometimes it feels good."
Javert furrowed his brows at her and finally huffed in an irritated tone, "I am not exactly certain that Toussaint is the best tutor about all of this; I know nothing about that woman's experience, and it is none of my business what she has done in her past."
Cosette fussed with a few of Javert's buttons and worried, "I do not want our wedding night to be one of agony. I do not wish to bleed and be in pain the night that we -"
Javert rolled his eyes. "I am not going to preemptively sully your virtue so that you can get that bit out of the way, Cosette. I promise you this… I will make your wedding night very pleasant for you. You have my word. I am a man of my word."
Even Valjean had told her that was true, Javert knew. He pursed his lips and suddenly realised he had left his top hat sitting out in the corridor. He blinked a few times and admitted,
"I… I need to go to bed. I came in here on impulse. I am sorry for the intrusion."
Cosette reached up to stroke his face and shook her head. "Your presence will never be an intrusion."
Something crackled within him then, as he examined her eyes and her angelic face. She was precious to him, he realised, in a way absolutely no one had ever been. That had happened quickly, yes, but it had happened completely. He squared his jaw and brought her left hand, the one with the sapphire ring upon it, to his lips and kissed her knuckles. He took his time kissing her there, locking his gaze onto hers. He heaved himself off of her bed and reached for his truncheon, holding it up and teasing her,
"I shall be taking my weapon with me, if you don't mind."
She grinned and shrugged. "Of course."
"Right. I shall see you at breakfast, then, provided I do not have a raging headache." He smirked a bit and bowed his head at her, stumbling just a little as he headed for the door. He was about to open it when he heard her say,
"Thank you."
He turned over his shoulder. "For what?"
Cosette shrugged. "Coming to see me before you went to bed."
Javert just stared at her for a moment, nodded, and then left, telling himself that he had indeed gone completely mad. But he found now that he was rather enjoying this state of madness, and that he had reached a state of acceptance about it.
Atelier Claire Abadie was a supremely elegant dressmaker not far from rue Plumet, a place where Cosette had sourced only her most luxurious clothes in the past year or so. Today, a slight tension of excitement and anticipation buzzed through the place, for Cosette had come for the second fitting of her wedding gown. Warm, late afternoon sunlight streamed through the lace-curtained windows, illuminating the clean and sturdy polished oak floors. The walls, papered with a floral design, were hung with plates demonstrating the very latest fashions, showcasing Madame Claire's dedication to ensuring her clients were always in vogue. In the centre of the room stood a three-panelled full-length mirror framed in ornate pewter, its reflective surfaces glistening, eager to show Madame Claire's work off to those who wore it.
Cosette, her heart fluttering so quickly just now that she feared it might fail on her, stood before the mirror, her teeth fidgeting anxiously with her lip. Her petite stature was framed rather perfectly, she had to admit, by the sumptuous lavender wedding gown that Madame Claire had created with ingenuity and care. Cosette's trembling fingers traced over the wedding dress as she studied her reflection. The gown had been produced from lavender satin, and the high neckline was adorned with intricate cream lace so finely detailed that it resembled tendrils of ivy on a trellis. The puffed gigot sleeves were a bit more dramatic in volume than Cosette usually wore in her daily wear, but the effect only served to make her corseted waist look smaller. At her wrists, more cream lace had been carefully stitched into cuffs. Cosette's nipped waist was bound with a ribbon belt and a small silver clasp in the front, and the gown flowed out into a gently flared skirt over her petticoats, a cascade of satin that moved with almost liquid grace. Upon Cosette's face-framing blonde curls had been placed a veil of cream tulle that reached her fingertips, secured with a tortoiseshell comb and decorated with small purple silk flowers.
Cosette's reflection in the mirror seemed to transcend reality; as she stared at herself, she felt like one of the characters from her silly romances brought to life. This was a dream, was it not? It had to be. Her mind flashed, suddenly and vividly, with a sharp spike of a memory, something her brain had managed to squelch for ages. She thought of a small whip cracking down upon her back as people laughed at her. She was being punished for accidentally spilling wine that she'd been pouring for an adult man. She'd been very small. She had been cold, and hungry, and tired, and frightened. Suddenly Cosette gasped, bringing her fingertips to her lips and feeling her eyes go wet and warm.
"Mademoiselle?"
Cosette watched in the mirror as Madame Claire looked up from where she had been jotting down a few notes on the table at the back of the fitting room. Madame Claire was a woman in her fifties, elegantly dressed and prim. She flashed Cosette a concerned little expression and asked her,
"You do not care for the gown, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh… no, it's not that," Cosette insisted in a rush. "I'm perfectly fine. So sorry. It's only…" She tried to think of a plausible reason for becoming so suddenly emotional, and she blurted with a little self-deprecating smile, "It is only that I am overcome with the thought of marrying."
Madame Claire approached Cosette and touched at her shoulder, smiling warmly at her in the mirror. "Do not be nervous, my dear. From what you have told me, the inspector is a regardful and honourable man. And, anyway, a good marriage is a young woman's greatest achievement in life. Believe you me, if my own first husband had not been lost at sea during the Battle of Trafalgar, we would have grown old together very contentedly. He was a wonderful man. A happy marriage is… it is quite a blessing."
She sniffed a little and nodded, turning back to her desk, and Cosette froze, unsure of what to do for a moment, until she pinched her lips and cleared her throat. Finally, she gulped and then murmured,
"I am sorry for the loss of your husband, Madame."
"No matter; it was many years ago now, and he died honourably," muttered Madame Claire. Cosette pursed her lips as she looked herself up and down in the mirror's reflection, wondering distantly whether Javert would like the pale purple shade of the dress she'd had made. There was just over a week now until the wedding, and that thought made Cosette so nervous she could scarcely think.
The night before, she had been in her room reading when she had heard Javert's boot steps climb the stairs. She had wondered if he would come into her bedchamber and kiss her again; he'd done it twice more since the night he'd been soaked through with wine. But then she'd startled, because she had heard her father's voice, still awake, quietly requesting a private conversation with Javert. Then, it had seemed, both men had gone into Cosette's father's room for a while and had spoken alone about something. Cosette had felt queasy with anxiety; what if her father was calling off his blessing for the engagement? What if something was wrong? But after some time, she'd heard Javert's footsteps crossing the corridor, had heard his own door open and shut again, and there had been quiet in the house.
Every few days since the engagement, on most days when he had not been working, Javert had gone to his house on rue de la Croix-Nivert to attend to matters there to prepare for him and Cosette moving in as a married couple. Some of Cosette's belongings had already started to be moved over there, though Javert had insisted she maintain a fully appointed room in her father's home for visiting. It would be easy enough to move her clothes and toiletries after the wedding, he'd said.
"If you will raise your arms slightly, Mademoiselle, so I can check how the cuffs move when you do so now that I've altered the length of the sleeves…"
Cosette jolted at the sound of Madame Claire's voice, and she nodded quickly. She obliged, lifting her lithe little arms just enough to allow the dressmaker access to her small wrists, around which the delicate cream lace cuffs had been carefully sewn. Madame Claire, seasoned professional that she was, scrutinised the fit of the cuffs as she turned them round with one hand and narrowed her dark brown eyes. She pulled a tiny bit at the material to see how tight it was, then used her sewing materials over the next few minutes to make handmade adjustments to the left cuff; it was still just a bit too loose. Once Madame Claire was satisfied with the cuffs, she moved on to strictly study the gown's bodice, peering at Cosette's reflection and dragging her spindly fingertips up and down the piped front to ensure everything was straight and even. She crisply nodded her approval of her own work, then looked at the buttons running down Cosette's back. She tutted a bit, sounding irritated, and murmured,
"If you will try to stand very straight, Mademoiselle… just a bit to the left… yes, just there."
She'd pushed Cosette's tulle veil aside, and Cosette kept her spine rigid as a rod and waited as Madame Claire undid a button and reattached it in a place that pleased the dressmaker. Whilst Madame Claire was sewing, she asked Cosette softly,
"Will you be living very far from your father, Mademoiselle, once you are married, if you do not mind my asking?"
"Erm… no. The inspector lives on rue de la Croix-Nivert," Cosette said, and as Madame Clair finished off the button and adjusted Cosette's veil, she nodded.
"That is good. Your father seems very fond of you. I think he would be heartbroken to lose you entirely."
"Yes." Cosette's throat felt thick then. She wondered if her father thought she was betraying him, dashing off to marry the man who had chased him for so many years. But then she remembered something her beloved Papa had said to her, not long ago at all, about Javert.
It is very important to me that you understand, Cosette, that I have long forgiven the Inspector any animosity that dwelled between the two of us for years in the past. We were neither of us perfect. I was only trying to survive, and he was only trying to do his duty. I think, perhaps, we both failed to see the honour in one another for too long as a result of our antagonism.
And her Papa had given Javert his explicit blessing to ask Cosette to marry him, and he had heartily but rather tearfully congratulated the both of them after the proposal in the garden. He had told Cosette multiple times now that the past was behind them all, that he and Inspector Javert had put their long-simmering animosity behind them. And Javert kept insisting that Cosette would be able to visit her Papa whenever she pleased, that he would be welcome at the house on rue de la Croix-Nivert. So perhaps the two men really had moved past their old antipathy for… for her? Had they put their hostility aside in part because of Cosette herself?
"All right. Well, if you are quite satisfied with how the gown looks, Mademoiselle, your father has been patiently waiting, and, since he is the one funding this endeavour, I think it only fair that we show you off to him," purred Madame Claire. Cosette smiled shyly and nodded a little. She followed Madame Claire out of the fitting room, through the sage-green curtains that led out to the parlour where her father was seated in a velvet-upholstered chair reading a newspaper. Madame Claire cleared her throat softly, and when Cosette's father looked up, folding his newspaper and setting it down beside him, his pale eyes instantly went visibly wet. Madame Claire gestured a bit grandly to Cosette and asked,
"What do you think, Monsieur Fauchelevent? Is your daughter not the most beautiful bride you could imagine?"
Cosette's father slowly rose from his chair, looking a bit like he was trying to control his emotions and struggling mightily to do so, But he finally nodded, his eyes locked on Cosette's as he said to Madame Claire,
"My darling Cosette will be the finest bride in all of France. Thank you, Madame."
"Papa," Cosette whispered, her eyes searing suddenly. She wanted to throw herself at him, rather impulsively. She wanted to toss herself into his arms and thank him, to tell him that now that she knew about her mother, about her father trying to save Marius, there could never be enough gratitude. She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and tell him that sometimes her nightmares were still haunted by flares of a tortured childhood before he had saved her, of frigid nights alone in a forest fetching heavy buckets of water and of endless chores done barefoot and terrified whilst being cruelly screamed at. She wanted to tell him that he had always made her feel safe, that he had always made her feel adored, like a princess, like she'd been as precious as a pearl to him. She wanted to kiss his cheek and frantically thank him for forgiving Inspector Javert, because she could not help but tumble over herself helplessly for the man; she wanted to thank her father for blessing their match. But all she did was take a step toward him as she watched one tear descend his wrinkled cheek, as his bottom lip shook a little, and she whispered again, "Papa."
"How fulfilled is my life," he said softly to her, reaching for her hand. "How quenched is my soul… for you are happy, Cosette, and you will continue to be happy. Your happiness is my purpose, and seeing you grown and content fills my heart with relief and joy."
By then, Cosette found herself standing with silent tears streaming down her cheeks, rather embarrassed that Madame Claire was just beside her. Madame Claire seemed just as uncomfortable, but Cosette's father quickly fixed the situation by nodding crisply and saying to Madame Claire,
"The gown is perfect, Madame. Your work is exquisite. Thank you."
The weather had been sunny in the late afternoon when Cosette and her father had been at the dressmaker's, but by the time they were eating dinner a few hours later, the situation outside had devolved badly. The black clouds that had overtaken the sunshine before the twilight had quickly descended into a nasty thunderstorm, and by dinnertime, the flashes of lightning outside the windows were frequent and vibrant, accompanied by frighteningly close and loud claps of thunder. One startled Cosette badly as she spooned stew into her mouth, sending the spoonful flying back into her bowl. Cosette tried again, savouring the simple but delicious beef, carrots, and potatoes with herbs that Toussaint had been cooking for hours along with a loaf of bread that had come from the baker's this morning. As Cosette set down her spoon and picked up her glass of red wine, her father mused,
"Javert had said he would be back by dinner… I suppose the bad weather has kept him."
Cosette nodded a bit anxiously, sipping from her glass and then setting down her wine. She fretted aloud, "I suppose, as the wife of a police officer, I must always assume that delays home are the result of things like weather and not far worse things."
Her father gave her a warm expression then and considered, "You are of a calm and proper disposition, I think, to be the spouse of a man like him."
Cosette furrowed her brow and glanced about, almost afraid the furnishings in the house would hear her as she asked,
"What was he like? When he was younger, I mean. You knew him in Toulon. You knew him in Montreuil. Was he very different there?"
Her father quirked up half his mouth and dragged a fingertip around the rim of his own wine glass, shaking his head. "Erm… no, not really. Younger, as you say. He was much younger when I knew him at Toulon. He was eager to do his job properly. I first met him when he was fresh from the wars, and he still had a soldier's spirit, then. He settled quickly. The prisoners feared him more than almost anyone, and in Montreuil, it was similar, because, he has always had… well. I do not mean to make you think ill of him."
He pinched his lips, and Cosette scowled. "What? What is it?"
Her father hesitated, and then admitted, "He was always, and I suspect still is, very frightening when on duty. He is extraordinarily effective at his work; he keeps people in line and solves cases quickly and effectively. Often, simply by entering a room or a street, I have known him to send people running in terror. That is not because he made a habit of miscarrying justice. He has spent decades doing his duty. Javert is an abjectly logical and reasonable man who follows orders well and is, I can attest, one of the hardest-working and most conscientious men I have ever met."
Cosette was silent for a moment, unsure of how to react. Outside the dining room, the sky lit up with a vibrant flash of purple-blue and an almost immediate smack of thunder. Cosette flinched and waited for the windowpane to stop trembling before she said quietly to her father,
"That is very high praise from the man who spent many years running away from Inspector Javert himself, Papa."
Her father bowed his head a little, nodding. Then he raised his eyes to Cosette and said, "I believe, Cosette, that Javert and I have finally reached a point where we are able to see past one another's former transgressions, perhaps well enough to see one another's strengths."
Cosette nodded a little, chewing her lip a little. She spooned a little more stew into her mouth, trying to focus on the rich flavour of beef and rosemary. After a few moments, during which there was another bright flash of lightning and a more distant rumble of lightning, the main exterior door to the house opened and then shut, and Cosette quickly set down her spoon, gasping a little as she turned to see Javert striding through the foyer toward the dining room. He pulled off his police-issued top hat and seemed more breathless than Cosette had ever seen him, soaked wet from rain and red-cheeked as he bowed his head respectfully once he reached the entrance of the dining room.
"Forgive my tardiness," Javert begged, still out of breath. "The weather delayed me."
"Yes, Papa worried it might," Cosette said kindly. "Please, come sit and eat. Toussaint! Stew and some hot coffee for Inspector Javert at once!"
"Thank you." Javert nodded to Toussaint, who came to take his hat and truncheon. He cleared his throat and approached the table, and he stood looking down at Cosette for a moment almost expectantly. She realised he wanted her hand, so she held it up, and he took it in his and bent down to kiss her knuckles delicately. Cosette felt a flush of warmth spread through her veins at once, and her heart accelerated behind her ribs. She heard herself laugh, and she could not be embarrassed about it. As Javert pulled out his chair and sat, keeping his back straight and placing his napkin on his lap, Cosette studied him carefully. She was a bit overcome, suddenly, by how much she wanted him, not just physically, but as a husband. To be certain, he was so very handsome, sitting at this table in his police uniform with his rain-soaked grey hair pulled back into a tight, neat queue and his stern but sculpted features. She felt desirous, even sitting here at the table with her dinner, with her father present. She ought not to feel such things right now, she knew. She would be Javert's wife soon enough. But she felt her cheeks go hot as she envisioned his hands and lips on her. He flicked his eyes to her and turned his lips up to her a little, looking a bit knowing, and he said to her quietly,
"I hope you yourself were not caught up in yet another storm, Cosette."
"No!" she assured him, much too loudly. She caught herself, realising she had almost shouted the word, watching Javert's thick eyebrows go up in surprise. Cosette glanced across the table to see that her father appeared almost resigned where he sat. He appeared to have finished his own stew and bread and was drinking the last of his wine. Toussaint came in with Javert's bowl of stew then and poured him some wine, and as Javert started to eat, Cosette said to him, "Papa and I were at the dressmaker's earlier… finishing touches, you know. But it was sunny then, and very pleasant."
"Oh." Javert nodded, staring down into his bowl as he took a few spoonfuls of his stew. Then he raised his eyes to look across the table at Cosette's father and said in a bit of an awkward tone, "Valjean, I am more than happy to fund -"
"As you and I discussed, Javert, all costs associated with the wedding are a burden I happily bear," Cosette's father said lightly. He took the last sip of his wine then, and as he rose from his seat, he said to Javert, "Wait until you see her. Angelic. Celestial. Those are the words that popped into my head when Madame Claire brought her ought to show her off to me. She will take your breath away, I think."
"She already does," Javert nodded, and Cosette gulped. She let out a little laugh of self-consciousness and tossed her hands up.
"Stop it, the both of you!" she cried helplessly. "You shall make me die of embarrassment."
"I have finished eating, and I am tired this evening," her father said, sounding a bit distracted. "If you both will grant me the liberty, I will excuse myself and pray and read."
"Of course. Goodnight, Papa," Cosette murmured, and Javert nodded his head crisply as her father walked slowly from the dining room. Once he'd gone, another series of lightning flashes and a clamour of thunder sounded, and once they'd gone quiet, the rain picked up a bit outside. Cosette nibbled some bread as Javert ate beside her in silence for a few moments. Then she asked him carefully,
"Was it very unpleasant in the rain?"
"I am more than accustomed to it, at this point in my life," Javert smirked at her. He shrugged a bit, staring beyond her at the window and seeming to remember something. His eyes seemed distant then as he spoke in words she could barely hear. "When we fought at Jena-Auerstedt, it was terribly rainy, and so muddy we could all hardly walk. So many horses were lost to the mud. Attempting to stay in formation was nearly impossible in that weather. We were all utterly exhausted before the battle even started. The muskets were wet and so was the powder. Some soldiers were never able to fire a single shot properly. Cannons got stuck in the mud. All of our uniforms were heavy, soaked through, and we were chilled."
Cosette felt her stomach flop as she examined Javert's face and realised, not at all for the first time, that he had lived an entire life before she had even been born. She sighed and noted to him,
"But you won. The French forces won the Battle of Jena-Auerstedt."
Javert curled up his lips and nodded, meeting her eyes. "Yes. We won. And it is nothing, really, to patrol the streets of Paris in a relatively clean uniform and sturdy boots with no holes in them in a little rainstorm… knowing that there is a warm dinner and a very fine mademoiselle waiting for me at the end of the evening."
"Oh," Cosette whispered. She smiled weakly and gestured to his food. "Your stew will not be the warm dinner you wanted if I keep talking to you. I am sorry."
He laughed a little at that and then turned to eat. She left him to it until he seemed satisfied. He had been quite hungry, it seemed; he ate his entire bowl of stew and all of his bread. Cosette hadn't been very hungry at all, so she still had most of her buttered baguette left, and she found herself holding it out to Javert after he'd finished off his food. He stared at it, giving her a crooked, amused expression and teasing her,
"You will make your old husband fat if you make a habit of offering me the leftovers of your meal, I fear."
"Surely you work up a decent appetite walking as much as you do," Cosette worried, "and you are very tall and broad."
Javert sniffed and took the bread gratefully, chewing a bite and eyeing her. He took another few bites and then set the last bit down, reaching for Cosette until he could cradle her cheek in his large, calloused hand. He seemed very serious then, and he informed her in a low voice,
"A good deal of paperwork was finalised today. I was waiting on it all, but I only just heard back today. Ensuring that you are the beneficiary of my pension and of what I do own - my house and my belongings and savings - in the case of my death. I have taken care of it all now. Of course, I… I hope to spend a good many years with you, Cosette, but I want you to know that you will be well cared for and protected and…"
He trailed off then, pursing his lips and just staring at her. He seemed mildly tortured for a long moment, and suddenly Cosette worried something was horribly wrong. Her father and Javert had spoken privately during the night, and now Javert seemed troubled. She reached up to cover his hand and demanded,
"What is the matter?"
He huffed a breath and shook his head as he hissed, " Love is a frivolous and stupid thing, is it not?"
Cosette's mouth fell open in shock. She did not know what to say to that. She felt his hand quiver on her face beneath hers, and she just shrugged as she admitted,
"I, erm… No. I do not suppose it is. My Papa has always taught me that love - love of all sorts - is the most important thing in the entire world. I like my silly romance books, and perhaps that does make me just a stupid girl worth mocking. I thought I loved Marius. Perhaps I did. He was foolish, I think, to go fight in the streets when he knew he would -"
"I do not want to speak of that boy right now," growled Javert, and Cosette felt his fingers cinch on her cheek. She gasped a little, and he shut his eyes, releasing her a bit as he whispered, "I apologise. I… It is… I have never actually been in love before, and I am old enough that the sensation now confuses me more than a little."
Cosette just stared at him, her lips falling open. Had he just confessed actual love for her? Had that been what he had done? She was not deaf or idiotic, as far as she knew. She was quite certain that had been what he had done. She swallowed hard and decided not to humiliate him by asking for clarification. Instead, she decided to tell him what she had known for some time now, since not long after he had genuflected before her in the garden and slid the sapphire ring onto her finger.
"I am ferociously in love with you," she murmured, and he opened his eyes, which suddenly glittered with astonishment. Cosette nodded calmly, dragging her thumb around his knuckles on her cheek, and continued, "Sometimes it overwhelms me, thinking of the way I love you. And then I realise I shall be yours… completely and totally, and then I am undone with bliss. And I am so, so very glad that my father brought you here that night, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. I know you are not a man of God, but I believe God brought you to me. I do not think my love for you is frivolous or stupid, and frankly, I am mildly insulted by the insinuation."
She tipped her chin up a little, and then Javert blinked a few times and choked out, almost desperately, "Cosette."
"Yes?" she replied, somewhat defiantly. She was shocked then, because before she knew what was happening, Javert had flown to his feet and seized Cosette by her hand, and he was dragging her out of the dining room. She gasped at his sense of urgency, at the way he stalked with long, confident strides toward the foyer. She trotted behind him as he clutched her hand, but finally she hissed,
"I can't keep up with you!"
He whirled round at the foot of the stairs, tipping his head and giving her an almost animalistic look as he said in a quiet, calm, low voice, "Not a problem at all."
Then he swept one arm beneath her, catching her full skirts beneath her knees and grabbing hold of her with his other arm around her shoulders. Cosette almost cried out as he scooped her up, as he cradled her, but she managed to keep silent, staring up at him in awe and throwing her hands up to lace her fingers behind his neck. He stared straight ahead as he determinedly climbed the stairs, and as he did, Cosette gazed up at him and whispered,
"Are you going to… erm… what are you going to do me?"
"You'll see," Javert mumbled cryptically, but his chest was rising and falling so erratically that Cosette feared she'd awakened some sort of feral creature within him. He smirked down at her as they reached the landing and whispered, "I promise you will not mind it."
Cosette's entire body flushed hot at that, and she gulped as she wondered whether it had been a mistake to pour out her feelings about her love for him like she'd done. Did men always respond to women's affections with such lustful enthusiasm? Cosette did not exactly mind, not just now. She tried to stay quiet, tried to stay still in Javert's arms as he reached beneath her and turned the doorknob of the room where he'd been staying ever since the night of the rebellion's end, and after they walked inside and he used his foot to shut the door, Cosette felt herself being lowered onto Javert's blue toile bed. She was surprised at that, and as a purple-hued lightning bolt outside was followed by clap of thunder so loud that the whole room shook, Cosette watched Javert heave himself up onto the bed and arrange himself onto his knees. She felt panic roil through her, replacing some of her own excitement and eager want, and suddenly she found herself whispering in a desperate rush,
"Javert. I ought not to have suggested that you… that you enter me before we wed, and I… I am frightened; I -"
"I am not doing anything of the sort," Javert assured her, in a steady and single-minded tone that left no room for discussion. Cosette did not know what he did intend on doing, since he was kneeling betwixt her legs and nudging her green and white floral skirts up around her knees. If Javert did not intend on putting his manhood inside of Cosette, then why was he -
She gasped and cried out suddenly, entirely unable to help herself, when she saw Javert descend from where he knelt. His head vanished, plunging down beneath her legs, under her skirts, and Cosette found herself throwing herself up onto her elbows and exclaiming rather desperately,
"Wh-what are you doing?"
But he did not answer her. The only reply she received was the sensation of her pantalettes being untied and dragged down, of slow, gentle kisses being planted up the inside of her thigh, and thenCosette grappled with Javert's blue toile blankets as she yelped in shock. She felt his face lean against the inside of her leg, and then his low voice shushed her and growled,
"Your father is awake, and he will murder me if he discovers I am doing this."
"Sorry." Cosette pushed her lips into a line and attempted to silence herself as more kisses ascended up her thigh. She tossed her head back and tried to breathe, her corset feeling extraordinarily constricting just now. Her eyes fluttered shut as she felt a sudden rush of damp heat between her legs in response of what Javert was doing. Throbbing, she felt - insistent throbbing, and a heaviness that moved from her lower abdomen and settled at the sensitive button where he'd used his fingers before. Insistent need. She squirmed where she lay with her knees bent and seethed through her teeth, her fingernails dragging along the blankets.
But then her situation got even more desperate and dire, because the gentle kisses along the inside of her thigh were replaced by the feel of long, slow drags along her entrance, her womanhood. His tongue was moving there, steadily and a bit insistently, and each time he reached the top, he suckled carefully on the most sensitive bit that made her absolutely prickle with arousal. Cosette could hardly breathe or think, but she did have the presence of mind to yank her skirts higher. She needed to watch what he was doing, she thought frantically. She was oddly curious. When she did, propping herself against his pillows, she very impulsively yanked at the black velvet tie binding his queue, freeing his carefully combed grey hair, She started to drag her fingers through the silky length of it, caressing his scalp, and when she did, Javert moaned softly against her.
Somehow, with his hair in her fingers and his tongue licking in long, even strokes that ended with just the right amount of pressure and suction, it did not take long at all for Cosette to utterly lose control of herself. Soon enough she had tumbled headlong over a phantom edge for only the second time in her life, her back arching as she gripped Javert's hair so tightly that she feared she might hurt him. She knew her womanhood was clamping around his mouth, that she was flooding his lips with fluids. She hoped he did not mind that. Her ears rang and her veins went hot as a massive rush of satisfied pleasure took her over and coursed through her for a solid half minute. She wasn't entirely certain how well she managed to stay quiet. She did her best, but it was so good that she was not certain how effective she was.
Once Cosette had come down from her high at last, Javert's mouth stopped moving, and he let out a low noise, apparently just a little overcome. He tipped his face against her inner thigh and let it rest there. Cosette toyed with his hair for a moment, almost devastated by how worked up and sated he'd made her feel, and she felt his warm breath coming in quick, shallow pants on her skin.
"Cosette," she heard him murmur, and one of his hands stroked at her other hip.
"Hmm?" she could not bring herself to say much else. He raised his face up and stared up at her, and she shivered at the savage glint in his eyes that matched the lightning flashes from outside as he confessed, "I am… erm… just a bit…"
Cosette dragged her fingers though his hair. "What's the matter?"
"Erm." Javert wrenched his eyes shut and seemed pained. "If I… erm, this uniform gets cleaned at the station-house, you see, and, erm… that sort of stain would be a bit obvious, so…"
Cosette scowled. She kept toying with his hair, until finally he reached up and pulled her fingers away with a little hiss and whispered, "That is not helping."
"How is that stain different from any other stain?"
Javert choked out a sound, seeming halfway between amused and frustrated, and burrowed his face into Cosette's thigh in a way that made her shiver. He kissed her skin again, and she groaned at the feel as she whispered,
"Stop; you shall make me want it all over again!"
He snarled an irritated sound at that, raising his eyes to her as his hand tightened on her hip. He finally explained in a quiet, quick voice,
"Men's seed is very distinctive. Anyone who has seen it before would instantly recognise it on clothing where it has been spilt. It is… creamy. Sticky."
Cosette crinkled her nose at the unpleasant description of the stuff. Javert tipped his head a little, moving his hand from her hip to drag his fingertips a bit playfully around her thigh. Cosette shivered at his touch, gasping and squirming and watching the way he sank his teeth into his bottom lip before informing her sternly,
"If I do not attend to myself outside the confines of these uniform breeches - quickly - then I shall be forced to turn them in at the station-house for official cleaning with a very embarrassing and obvious stain upon them."
Cosette giggled a little, finally understanding. She nodded her permission at once, and Javert rushed to get off the bed as quickly and elegantly as his large, aging body would allow. Cosette eyed him as he stepped away from her, and as she yanked up her pantalettes and fixed her skirts, she noticed he had started to walk over toward his wash table with his back to her, as though he were concealing himself from her. Cosette scowled as she sat up and protested a bit indignantly,
"Well, that's hardly fair."
Javert glared at her over his shoulder, his cheeks visibly red in the dim light of the single candle that had been burning when they'd come in. He waited for the roll of thunder outside to die down before he hissed at her,
"I am not going to do this whilst you watch, Cosette. It is not fit for you to -"
"Why not?" Cosette tipped her chin up. "You just saw - tasted - my most intimate parts. Not that I minded, of course. Very much the opposite, in fact. Still. We are to be husband and wife. Am I not to become very familiar with your body?"
"You will," Javert assured her, quite impatiently, and he turned away again, appearing to work at unbuttoning his uniform breeches. He seemed desperate now, his hands visibly shaking and his eyes wrenching shut.
"Can I help you?" Cosette asked softly, but Javert shook his head as he insisted,
"It'll be over in a moment."
"But I don't even know what one looks like," Cosette whined, and then she realised she sounded very petulant. Still, Javert obliged her, huffing a breath before quickly waving her over with a gesture of his hand. Cosette rushed off of his blue toile bed, rolling a little and plopping down since she was corseted and short, and dashed across the room until she was beside him. She was still breathless from what he had done to her, but she froze when she found herself beside him.
There it was - his manhood. Toussaint had said that men's parts were on the outside, that they grew long and thick when they wanted a woman. But Cosette had never imagined anything like this . Javert stood before his washstand, having opened his breeches and pulled down his undergarments a bit, and he'd reached for a washrag off the stand, which he was carefully holding in front of the manhood in his grip. The member itself was indeed long and thick, like Toussaint had said. The whole thing was visibly pulsing; the tip was slightly round with a slit, and the shaft had a vein going down it. It was an organ it seemed, dynamic and eager, with a thatch of hair and twin orbs where it all met Javert's body. Cosette just stared, ogling, curious. Rude, she thought frantically. She was being rude. She raised her eyes up to meet Javert's, and he glanced up and down as if gauging her reaction. He seemed affected, somehow, to realise for certain that she had never, ever seen a man's body like this before, and she watched him square his jaw as he assured her,
"I will not hurt you with it; I will bring you pleasure with it."
"Oh." Cosette flushed warm as he said that, her gaze going down again. She felt dizzy as she reached out tentatively and whispered, hearing the crack in her own voice, "May I please touch it?"
"Yes." Javert just nodded, and Cosette hesitated, shaking her head.
"I do not want to hurt you."
"You won't." Javert shook his head, but just the same he reached out and took hold of her right hand. He brought it to his manhood and wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and Cosette sucked in air when she felt the sensation of velvet on stone beneath her touch. She met his eyes and watched his lips fall open, watched his eyes go half-lidded. He grunted a bit as he moved her hand in slow, long strokes, up around the tip and back down again. When he repeated the motion with her hand, she felt that his tip had started to leak fluid, and she worried when his knees seemed to buckle a little and he reached out to grip the edge of the washstand with his free hand. He bucked his hips into her hand slowly, like he was thrusting, and then his breath went rickety and unstable.
"Cosette," he whispered, sounding more unhinged than she'd ever heard him. She realised, suddenly, that he'd lost hold of the cloth he'd had before, that it had fallen to the ground. She bent down to grab it, and just in time, because when she rose and held it out at the end of his member, Javert reached to take hold of the washstand with both hands, his knuckles going white. His face collapsed forward, his loose grey hair falling all around his features as he panted through clenched teeth. Cosette was not entirely certain of what to do, but some instinct told her to hold the shaft of him with one hand and the cloth with the other, and when she did that, she was amazed to see six or seven energetic jets of creamy fluid emerge from his manhood and burst onto the cloth she was holding. At once, she could see why he'd been concerned. Seed like this, if he'd accidentally spilt it inside his uniform breeches, would have been of obvious, humiliating origin.
She waited for him to seethe and groan his way through his completion, and when he had, she set the sullied cloth on the washstand in a little ball. Javert was silent then as he tucked himself away, drawing up his undergarments and buttoning up his uniform until he was to rights. He cleared his throat and met Cosette's eyes for a long moment, but then he surprised her by reaching to drag a knuckle along her jaw and saying in a firm, almost stern voice,
"I love you."
Cosette had no words then. She'd said them all downstairs. She just nodded, reaching for his hand and bringing it to her lips so she could kiss his fingers.
"I think… I should try to evade the wrath of my father or of Toussaint and go to my own room. We are not wed. These things are still most improper."
"I no longer care." Javert shrugged. He let out a very long sigh and pursed his lips. The storm outside seemed to be abating now. He noticed that, too, and glanced toward the window as he commended Cosette in a gentle tone, "Tell me all about your wedding dress."
She giggled quietly and shook her head. "No. I will not. You must be surprised, even for a simple civil ceremony with no guests."
Javert rolled his eyes at her. "Will you at least tell me the colour?"
But Cosette gave him a coy look, bouncing on the balls of her feet and shaking her head defiantly. "No. You must be patient and wait to see your bride until your wedding day, Monsieur l'Inspecteur."
He straightened his spine and put his hands behind his back, and suddenly Cosette shrank away a little. She could see, all of a sudden, what her father had meant earlier when he'd said that Javert terrified people when he was on duty. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, at the way he'd adopted such an authoritarian stance. He raised his eyebrows at her and teased,
"I could interrogate you and compel the information of you, Mademoiselle. I am a very skilled inspector. Very well respected among the Paris Police."
"Mmm. Yes. I know you are." Cosette nodded. "Still. I will tell you nothing."
He feigned profound irritation, and Cosette shivered a little. Javert grabbed her elbow, and Cosette gasped, her mouth falling open in shock. He had not hurt her, just surprised her. Then he astonished her further when he pushed her by her shoulders until she was backed up against the wall next to the window, and he loomed over her almost menacingly. Cosette pressed her palms against the wallpaper and shook her head, whispering up at him,
"I promise you'll like the gown. You should wait to see it."
He tipped his head. "Very well. I will be patient and wait. But only because I happen to know, Mademoiselle, that you could show up to the mairie wearing a patched and stained old dress of unadorned cotton and the finest bride in all of Paris."
Cosette's eyes watered at that. She moved her hands from the wall to the buttons of Javer's uniform jacket, and she felt her breath quicken in her nostrils as she gazed up at him. He put a hand on either side of her on the wall, still looming over her, and he said again to her in a whisper,
"I love you."
This time, when Cosette nodded back up at him, she murmured rather desperately, "It hurts. I didn't… I did not realise it would cause physical pain like this. Being so in love. When you are at work… it is not fear of your life being at risk, or childish separation anxiety; it is… it is that I have realised that I so desperately long for more of you. I want afternoons in the gardens, breakfasts. Nights… I want nights. I just, I want more of you, and I -"
"Cosette." He nodded then, interrupting her only because her words had run away from her a bit and she had gone a bit dizzy and was swaying on her feet. She wanted a kiss, badly, but he'd used his mouth on her and she did not particularly want to taste herself on his mouth. And then there was the matter of their severe height difference, which made kissing a bit difficult when he was looming over her standing like this. She settled for leaning forward and kissing his sternum, and for feeling his kisses on the top of her head, and she glanced up and nodded as she said to him,
"Goodnight then, Monsieur."
He nodded and pulled himself from the wall to let her go, and Cosette's heart hammered and her eyes watered as she forced herself to tear herself from him and to leave his bedchamber.