1. Chapter 1 (1/2)

dear reader: it has come of notice to us that we must write down and keep history of a turn of events in the past. it is our civil and familial duty to do such a thing-that is, to write down our family history. it is full of twists, turns, and, above all, an intertwined myriad of love stories and a fight for the freedom of the people.

mama and papa always told us these stories about a police inspector, a convict, and a barricade. our uncle also told us stories of les amis de l'abc, a revolutionary group. many of the stories refuse to be forgotten even after many years of being told and even after so many years after the events of which you will be told.

it is with our solemn duty that we now tell the story of a man named inspector javert, an ex-convict named jean valjean, an alcoholic cynic named grantaire, a golden-haired and passionate man named enjolras, and a dangerously intelligent woman named emmanuelle.

vive le france,

henriette grantaire-pontmercy, jean grantaire, and etienne grantaire

december 31, 1821…..paris, france

dear etienne,

it is probably a strange thing to hear from me after so many years. after all it has been about nine years since we last shared moments alone, then, you suddenly left. i've never stopped thinking of you, even when you left me. i have not made bold of myself to write to you until now, but i have realized that i must, for, mon vieil amour, i am dying.

i am ill and dying, and, since i have no living blood family and you are her father, that is why i now send her to you. by the time that you are reading this, i will be in the grave in the petit-picpus convent. emmanuelle is a well-behaved child. you should not have any trouble with her. i raised her as i thought that you would approve of, etienne. she is your daughter, after all.

look at her, for, in her young face, you will see a reflection of a feminine version of your own self. she has inherited your grey eyes and thick, long, dark lashes. she also has a round, heart-shaped face like your own. but, there very, very little of me, you will notice. she has my

own hair. that is all. oh, etienne, she is just a darling and a sweetheart.

emmanuelle loves you already. i have told her many stories of you, and she already has decided that she loves you. please, love her back and give her a home. she needs it. if she is sent to an orphanage, she could end up with somebody who will mistreat her horribly. i trust you! you are the only person, my dear etienne, that i could ever trust with her.

she also has a twin

other that was born. his name is julien, and he looks mostly like me. i was forced into a marriage after the birth, and emmanuelle was rejected by my husband. i consider her a javert, no child of my wedded husband. he is staying with my husband, but, for fear of what would happen to dear emmanuelle, i send her now to you so that she will be raised right. our son….our daughter…..

i love you and her. please, when she is old enough to understand, tell her of me.

i send thee my love,

henriette

etienne shakily let his hands drop to his side as he clenched the letter hard, crumpling the fine parchment in his leather-gloved hand. he had a daughter who looked just like him. he had a son that looked like his dear henriette. she was dead by now. it was far too much to take in in a day, let alone a few moments.

he could not forget his

ief, but passionate, love affair-or absolution, as he thought of it-with henriette du bois, as she was then known as. her curly, long,

own locks strayed down her back like a sheer curtain of fine silk. henriette's crystal-blue eyes were

ight and sharp as they were beautiful. though she possessed much facial beauty, what javert loved most was her hands. it was strange, but the way that her long fingers grabbed at his shirt when they…did that, it really fascinated him. short-lived indeed had their love been. oh, she had been the daughter of some bourgeois-two-a-penny mother and some baron for a father. he'd met her on a route in toulon one day, and had instantly fallen in love with her. they'd gotten so to the point where they were ready to get married, but, alas, high-horsed monsieur l'baron refused to allow the marriage. the cause? she had become pregnant. an arranged marriage was forced between mademoiselle henriette and some heir to a duchal fortune, and it was made to be assumed in society that the children were henriette's and the heir to a duke. nobody was to know that it had indeed been javert, a young prison guard at the toulon galleys, that had impregnated the

ight young lady who seemed miserable at the marriage. after her marriage, javert had been reassigned to the city of montreuil, all the way on the other side of france. javert had always assumed that the reassignment was because of henriette's bastard child-then, he did not know that there were twins-and had always resented the baron du bois. for eight peaceful years, he had lived in montreuil until the whole affair thing-to be honest, javert didn't want to get into it-with an ex-convict-turned-small-town-mayor named jean valjean. he had been reassigned to paris-do you notice a running theme?-and, now, he had a little girl of around eight years of age on his doorstep, looking up at him with expectant grey eyes.

"ah….who….who is your mother, child?" javert stammered, still desperately hoping that his was some sick, twisted, dream of his. a slap in the face would be all it would take to get back to reality….fortunately (or unfortunately), the cold chill of the swirling snow at his feet reaffirmed that this, indeed, was not a make-believe thing of the mind.

"i call her mama. her name is….henriette, i think. that's what papa told me," the trembling child replied. "she's dead."