The crowds that swamped the streets after evening mass were easy to blend into. Perhaps her lack of coat would separate her from them, but everyone was so busy getting home from church that Fantine couldn't say many people took much notice of her.
Lacking a place to go, Fantine walked slower than the crowd surrounding her. Every now and then somebody would knock against her or catch her foot underneath their own — the brief stumble that followed would be the only thing that caused Fantine to notice. The numbing cold of winter had successfully infiltrated her bones; she couldn't remember the last time she had been able to feel her fingers and toes. If only the cold could do the same to her thoughts.
Her eyelashes entrapped the falling snow and with every blink, her eyes stung with the unwelcome intrusion. Watering eyes were no good in this weather, the tears that slid down gaunt cheeks would only freeze to her pale skin. Not that it would matter— Fantine couldn't be feel them either.
The only thing that reminded her of whatever life she clung onto was her breath as she exhaled. She watched it intently as it curled up into the night sky and disappeared, much like she would do tonight. It amused her really; some of these men leaving with their wives and children were the same men who would crawl into her lifeless arms tonight.
Eventually she stopped and all that remained was herself and the snow as the crowd dispersed. Families were returning to their homes. Mothers held the hands of older children as fathers carried the smaller, sleepier ones against their shoulders. It wasn't intentional for her gaze to linger on those families, it just so happened whether Fantine wanted it to or not. Perhaps part of her was waiting for Cosette to appear in amongst the dying crowd and her daughter would run to her and propel herself into her arms before burying her face into the crook of her neck as Fantine had already seen multiple children do tonight with their own parents.
She tumbled back as if it were reality before feeling something briefly beneath her foot; she heard the crack of it breaking but opened her eyes to nothing. A wall encrusted with snow and ice caught her from behind—despite already being frozen, it sent a chill down Fantine's spine. The tears that fell now were not those born from irritated eyes but inconsolable grief. The grief that Fantine would drink through, which is exactly why as soon as the salt from her tears hit her tongue she was fishing down her corset for the flask she kept for moments like these.
Impatiently unscrewing the top off, she watched helplessly as it escaped her clutches and fell into already deep snow. A snort of sorts echoed down the empty alleyway before she tipped her head back and gladly accepted the bitterness of alcohol against her tongue. It was a while before she moved again, Fantine had discovered early on that it was harder to cry when her head was tipped back like this. Perhaps that's why certain clients always came back, she quite easily fooled them into thinking they were the best she had ever had. A voiceless moan meant nothing to her, but to her men? It meant the world. It did to Félix.
The sudden image of his face made her jolt back to her senses. Forgetting the lid, she unsuccessfully tried to unscrew the flask's cap before realising with delight that she needn't bother herself with such an effort. What was supposed to last her all night had disappeared in less than an hour.
Idly, she crouched down to retrieve the cap she had dropped, her balance suffering from intoxication. Before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees desperately trying to pick up the cap between fingers she couldn't feel. As frustration grew, so did angry tears and the flask now empty was thrown against the opposite wall with a cry of anguish. It wasn't until it had landed on a bed of snow that Fantine eventually grasped its lid between her right thumb and index finger. Her other hand pushed against already settled snow until it slipped, and crimson was beginning to stain the blanket of white.
The warmth of blood slipping down her palm confused her. Curious fingers curled into the gash to explore her injury, rewarding a slight hiss with its sting. There was nothing—
And then she saw it. The porcelain doll was wearing a wonderful emerald dress with dainty, matching shoes. Fantine's bloody hand reached out the retrieve her from the snow with almost instant regret. Suddenly that wonderful green was stained brown with fresh blood, although Fantine now understood how the injury occurred. The sound of what she had broken had been the doll's face although its brunette hair which fell in curls was still obvious for everyone to see.
A little girl had lost her doll.
She was unprepared for the grief that accompanied something so innocent. Part of her wasn't sure why it evoked such emotion in her until she tried to recall her own daughter's face and she suddenly understood.
Fantine couldn't remember, not really. Just as this doll was faceless, so was her daughter. In defiance she tried to recall the specifics of her child's face; her freckles; the sound of her voice, the curling of her fingers around her hand.
Nothing. Because Cosette would not be as Fantine remembered her. Cosette would be a stranger.
Interrupted by an outstretched hand, Fantine's eyes met those belonging to a man from the evacuated congregation. There was a moment of hope— perhaps, in this season of goodwill he had decided to help. The coins against her bloodied palm said otherwise and as he stepped closer to her she heard the doll shatter further. What did it matter? For a moment she could pretend this man was her husband.
Their daughter was tucked up warmly in bed with a doll of her own.