Cold Angels, Chapter 3
It was nearly nightfall when he returned, heavy coat sweeping after him. He brought with him the smell of gunpowder, and the faint metallic tinge of blood.
Cosette sat in the parlor, trying to forget her situation by pouring over one of the novels that had been brought with her clothes. She looked up from it when he entered the room.
“I see you have found ways of amusing yourself,” he cast his eyes over her quickly.
“I have. I am nearly finished with my book.”
“What are you reading?” he asked as he picked up the novel by the spine. He rolled his eyes, “Ah, of course. A pretty little romance.” He snapped it shut and tossed it into the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, standing.
Wordlessly he crossed to the bookshelf, and pulled out a somewhat worn volume. “Read this. It will expand your mind, rather than choking it with weeds.” He flung it at her, and she caught it.
Her fingertips ran over the title softly. “I’ve already read this, in school.”
“Read it again. Your appreciation of fine literature has obviously slipped through the sieve that is your mind.”
“I beg your pardon,” she began, but was interrupted by Mme. Jules.
“Dinner,” the older woman said.
They sat in silence, Cosette picking distastefully at the broth-soaked and cheese-coated bread offered as a main course.
“It is Friday,” he reminded her.
“Have you no fish?”
“Fish?” he swallowed the bit of bread in his mouth, “At these prices the only the most putrid of the river-dwelling bottom-feeders is to be afforded.”
“I see.”
“Unlike your guardian, Cosette, I haven’t the luxury of being able to steal my fortune,” he took a drink of his wine, “If you would prefer to go out dig in the waste pits for your fish, you are most welcome to do so.”
“Forgive me,” she muttered, taking a bite. It wasn’t half bad: Mme. Jules was a fair cook.
“I have made arrangements for you today.”
“Arrangements?”
“You are to be married next week,” he scraped the remains of his meal off of his plate with his fork and ate them, “I’ve found a man who will take you, even if you are spoiled goods.”
“I am not!” she slammed her knife down.
“Do not argue,” he hissed, “Your entire neighborhood saw you sneak about with that boy, you’re lucky I can even find one decent man to take you.”
It was a long moment before she spoke again. “What is he like?” she asked at last.
“Certainly not the hero of one of your novels,” he scoffed, “But he is a good man. Honest, hardworking. You need fear no mistreatment from him, and you will be well provided for.”
“What is his occupation?”
“He is Deputy Prefect of Police,” he said with some note of pride, “Recently promoted.”
She could only pray he was nothing like the Inspector.
Once again, Mme. Jules returned to take their plates. “Congratulations, Monsieur Javert,” she said was a curtsy as she stacked his on top of Cosette’s.
“Thank you, Mme. Jules,” he said with a warmthless smile, “We’ll take our coffee in the parlor.”
Sitting uneasily on the settee, Cosette took her cup and dripped a trickle of milk into it, swirling the two liquids together. When she looked around for the sugar, she met confusion.
“I never take sugar,” he said, taking a drink of his undiluted coffee, “A waste of money, in my opinion.”
“Do you never eat dessert?”
“You’re a spoiled thing, aren’t you?” he took another drink, “If one has a proper dinner, topping it off with a meaningless sweetmeat is an unnecessary ritual.”
“I see.”
Another long period of uncomfortable silence passed between them, until she broke it with, “Why was Mme. Jules congratulating you?”
“Several reasons,” he smiled his cold and distant smile again, “The first, of course, being the arrest of Jean Valjean. The second, which is directly related to the first, being my promotion to Deputy Prefect.”
Her eyes widened.
“And the third,” he finished, setting down his cup, “My forthcoming marriage.”
Cosette swooned, catching herself against the back of the settee.
“I must say,” he continued, his air of self-satisfaction unbearable, “The situation bodes nothing but well for the both of us.”
“You have to be joking! Please, Inspector, say you are joking,” she took a long gulp of coffee.
“I am not,” he said, and the smile faded, though the air did not, “Do you have any idea how lucky you are? You are the bastard child of a prostitute and the ward of a convict, who has entangled her name with a revolutionary. You’ll not marry into the money you have grown accustomed to. You’ll not marry at all, should I choose with withdrawal my proposal.”
“Proposal!” she turned away and closed her eyes, trying not to cry, “You haven’t even asked me.”
“Oh, yes, I see,” he nodded, “You would prefer something from one of your pretty novels, would you not?”
He came on one knee before her, taking her hands and turning them over and again in his, “Dearest Cosette,” he began mockingly, “Shining Goddess of the Morn, will you deign to bring happiness to the dismal life of this mere mortal?”
“Stop,” she choked, eyes still tightly shut.
“Does it not please you?” he pressed, “Those were the words we found in the letter in the boy’s pocket. If you want composed language, I can give it to you as well as any man.” He stood and crossed back to his chair, sitting again, “Perhaps, however, you would prefer my honesty. I feel it is my duty, Cosette, to marry you. I am responsible for the death of your lover and the arrest of your guardian; therefore I must see you are provided for. As it will be impossible to find you another husband of any worth, I have no choice but to offer to take you as my own wife.”
The sobs began now, pitiful, frantic things rising in her chest and sounding in the roof of her mouth.
“Very well,” Javert said coldly, standing and looking down at her. Once again, he felt a mile tall, looking at the trembling creature before him, “You will consider my offer overnight, knowing full well that if you refuse, my hospitality will have outrun its duration.”
She tried to be elegant as she stood and hurried from the room, crying into her hand as she dashed up the stairs and closed her door heavily behind her. She sunk down into the chair beside the door, tears falling into her open hands as everything, every insult and injury she perceived had been brought upon her by this monster of a man, swamped back into her mind.
She was frozen as she heard his footsteps in the hallway stop before her door. Once more, the key slid in, and he locked her in her room for another night.