A/N: DISCLAIMER: I do not own Les Misérables, no matter how much I wish I did. Only Victor Hugo can rightfully claim that brilliant book. I wrote this because, as many have said, there aren't enough Thénardier fics out there. Review, please. Constructive criticism welcomed. This story will not be continued.

He was in no rush to get home. By the way he walked along the road slowly, if not hesitantly, no one might have guessed that his wife was about to have a child. He passed an acquaintance along the way, nodded at him, and quickened his pace somewhat. The acquaintance leaned against the door of his house and called after him, "Where you going, Thénardier?"

The skinny yellow man whose name was Thénardier looked back and said bluntly, "Does it matter where I've been or where I'm going? All I care about is where I am." He continued his walk, drawing his black coat closer around him as a fierce gale of wind blew in the air.

It was a chilly winter that year, and layers of fresh snow covered the earth. The snow crunched beneath Thénardier's boots. He stopped in front of a signpost, peering in the two directions that the arrows pointed. There were two separate paths, and he had to make his decision. The leftmost path twisted and curved deep into the woods, narrow and rough and perhaps unsafe. Yet, it was the road that would lead him home. There, he could watch the midwife deliver his wife's first child.

A few months earlier, both Thénardier and his wife were excited at the idea of a baby in the house. Naturally, Thénardier wanted a strong, healthy boy to carry on the family "legacy" as he put it, but his wife wanted a petite and pretty little girl. As month after month dragged on and Thénardier mulled over the idea of a child, he began to hate it. It was a gradual loathing, so subtle that his wife didn't notice it. Until that day two months previously.

Mme. Thénardier had said, "One day, our daughter will be a lovely young lady—"

He interrupted, "Boy. It's going to be a boy."

She paid him no heed. "—And she will marry a Comte." She patted her large stomach softly.

Thénardier laughed, which he did not do often. Madame shuddered and a chill ran up her spine. Though she adored her husband dearly and was fiercely jealous of anyone else who looked at him, he frightened her. As the dowry was being paid, Mme. Thénardier's father said, "Be careful around him." But one cannot stop a fool in love.

Thénardier lit his pipe and paced about the room as he said, "A Comte, indeed! If she married such a man, how would we pay for the dowry? Are we made of money? It would be impossible to—" He checked himself and grinned, tapping his chin as if he had the greatest idea. "But then again, the money one gets from a Comte is promising. If the boy truly loved the girl, wouldn't he want to be sure that her family does well also? A Comte for a son-in-law... I could live with that!"

Madame frowned. "Always you and your money issue, isn't it? Can't you just give a damn about your family for once? What about our baby girl?" She cradled the unborn baby in her stomach.

"And what of the baby?" Thénardier snapped, spinning around, the glow of a hot furnace visible in his eyes. "It's just another mouth to feed. And then more will come. The devil! You'll ruin us all because of these stupid romance ideas in your head! That's what you get for having the trash of Ducray Duminil swimming around in that pea-sized brain of yours! You thrive on it, don't you? Don't you? And see what happens! Land us with a goddamned howling brat! This is your baby, not mine! Your idea! That means you are responsible for the creature!"

Thénardier smirked at the memory before examining the signpost again. The rightmost path was paved and well-worn due to many travelers going by in fiacres and on foot. It led, Thénardier knew, to one of those many wayside inns perched along the roads to nowhere, where drinks came in rounds, guests were noisy and rowdy, rates were cheap, and where he could go to smoke his pipe, relax, and share his "war stories," being four or five months out of Waterloo.

Of the two roads, which one did he choose? Where did he go? Another snowstorm picked up. He made up his mind and trudged onward.

The glowing lanterns of the wayside inn were a welcoming sign.