Fantine walked home as if in a trance. Her wide eyes, still features, stiff movements, and gold hair made her the perfect living doll. She had been played with, adored, and made much of. Now, it seemed, it was time for Felix to grow up. So she was thrown away and forgotten.
As she stepped across the cracked cobblestones of the street she grew up on, she reflected on her life. Her life before Felix seemed so foggy now, but she pushed through. Her earliest memory was of a handful of strangers, tossing her bread, and cooing over her as though she were a duckling in a pond. The strangers called her "little thing" and she adopted it for her name. She sucked in her stomach, remembering all too well what it was like to be hungry, truly hungry, hungry enough to thank heaven for garbage. She wished she could warn her poor stomach of the pains that would soon be returning.
Without permission, her mind showed her first memory of Felix. "Well, hello, your highness!" He had bowed, sweeping his top hat in grand fashion. There was no sarcasm in his bright black eyes, no punchline following his flattery. Fantine had blushed madly. She felt herself blushing now, at the mere memory of him and his fine words. She slapped her own warm cheek.
Felix took her far from the town that had raised her. He changed her tattered chemise for beautiful silks, brocades, velvets. He took her to cafes, parks, hotels: all smashingly fashionable. He called her my love, my princess, my goddess. Fantine, who had never known love, had thought she had finally felt it. None but him had ever given her more than a pitying glance. So she gave him everything she had.
It wasn't enough. He had left her. He had left their daughter: their little angel he'd so often tossed in the air, so often tickled, beaming with a father's pride. He was gone. But the doll could not cry. Not yet.
Fantine paused on the front step she had shared with Felix. Her fingers fiddled with the delicate wisteria on the lattice. Another memory began to play in her mind, but she shook her head. She did not want to look at him, with his charming smile and dapper watch chain, and eyes that used to drink her down like expensive wine. She took a deep breath and marched through the door.
"Mama!" The golden little girl glowed as though with a halo, and for a moment, Fantine forgot Felix. She scooped up her warm little toddling bundle and held her tight, breathing the milky, powdery smell that all babies have. She squeezed the thick thighs and kissed the pink, pillowy cheeks.
"My darling Cosette! Oh, how I love you." She closed her eyes as Cosette wrapped her arms around her neck.
The nursery maid cleared her throat, and Fantine started. "Oh, Nanette," Fantine floundered, "I have . . . um . . ." she fiddled with a string hanging from Cosette's dress. "Let me find some payment for you."
She set her daughter down, wincing at the small question: "Papa?" and rushed upstairs. Their bedroom was filled with so many scents, so many tiny images, that she wanted to close its door and never return. Instead, she began to rifle through the drawers. She found her jewelry box empty, their secret coin box licked clean. How would Nanette be paid? How would she and Cosette live? In the closet was left one solitary dress. It was a white floral frock with false pearls dotting the neckline, an anniversary gift from Felix.
"Here, Nanette," she said, thrusting the shining thing into the baffled maid's arms. "Will you accept this?"
Nanette tactfully agreed, and quickly scurried out of the home she could feel toppling already.
"Papa?" asked Cosette again, and Fantine's doll face crumpled.