Disclaimer: Unfortunately I don't own Les Miserables, it belongs to Victor Hugo.
Isaiah.61
The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me;
because the LORD hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek;
he hath sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to them that are bound;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the LORD,
and the day of vengeance of our God;
to comfort all that mourn.
To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,
to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.
It was said by the people of Montreuil-sur-Mer, that the winter of 1823 was one of the harshest in remembrance. Work was scarce, and those that were unfit or unable to find employment found that they were struggling to survive.
For some, this meant dependency on the bread winner of a family for food or shelter, others were forced to beg. Far worse was the choice of a woman cast out on the streets, the combination of the cold, starvation, and the need for shelter would lead to their selling themselves for a few coins.
Fantine had been one of these, forced into this wretched existence by the indifference and cruelty of humanity. Throughout all her suffering she had clung desperately to the knowledge that all this was for her precious Cosette. It was this devotion to her child which gave her the strength to endure, to live through the endless nights of hunger, cold, and humiliation.
And it had all come to this. These last few hours of life she clung to with stubborn determination, in the hope of seeing her beloved Cosette gave her an opportunity for remembrance, and reflection.
Death was close. She could feel its relentless approach, in the weariness of her body which had suffered degradation, starvation and illness, in the exhaustion of spirit which sought to delay the end through the hope of seeing her child.
Her eyes were drawn to the simple wooden cross above her bed. The sisters had begged her to receive spiritual guidance in preparation for her approaching death, but she had turned away such offers. If there was a God, he would never accept her, a whore, and a mother who had abandoned her child.
Yet had she not just acknowledged his existence by declaring Monsieur Madeleine sent from heaven?
Could her kind friend, the mayor who she had thought the source of all her degradation, been guided by the God she had turned from in anger and despair to offer her help?
Even though she would not survive to see the morning, could her rescue from hardship, and the compassion of a stranger somehow be the work of a merciful creator?
When her daughter had been born, hadn't she thanked God for her precious Cosette?
Cosette. The name brought with it mixed emotions of joy, love and anguish. For she knew now that she would not survive to see her daughter, for whom she had sacrificed so much. And she would do it all again, if it meant that Cosette could enjoy a life of contentment.
Restlessly she turned first one way, then the other in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position to rest. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her hot forehead as she lay still, exhausted by the effort of moving.
A sad smile briefly illuminated her pale features as she thought of her hair. Once it had been a glorious tangle of gold, rich and warm, the color of wheat ready for the harvest. She had once heard it said that a woman's hair is her crowning glory. If so then she had sacrificed hers, so that her child might have warm clothes for the winter.
She had often comforted herself with that knowledge, and the whimsical thought that she had clothed her beloved Cosette in her golden tresses.
But one sacrifice had not been enough. For another letter had come from the Thinardiers, saying that Cosette was seriously ill and needed medicine.
She remembered walking the streets scarcely feeling the bitter cold, trying to think of something she could sell that would provide the money she needed.
Lost in thought, she barely registered the call of the peddler, offering to give money for good teeth. Indeed, she had been so frantic with the news just received that she began to laugh at the sheer absurdity of her, Fantine, desolate and poor being able to find 2 Napoleons.
Her eccentric behavior had attracted the attention of the peddler, and he called out.
"You have pretty teeth you, the laughing girl there. If you sell me two I'll give you a gold Napoleon for each of them."
Horror had given way to resignation, then determination as she had stepped forward. And throughout the pain that followed one thought lent her the strength to endure.
This is all for my Cosette.
The following months of winter had eventually forced her to make a hard choice; one countless other women in similar circumstances had been faced with when all other avenues were exhausted.
It was a choice between slow starvation and cold, or a few coins and food enough for a meal. The choice between giving herself to a man, or continuing to measure her existence by the shallow breaths and gnawing pangs of hunger which had become her constant companions.
So she had chosen, and in time grown used to the life of a prostitute, though a part of her soul died each time a different man came to her bed.
It had been that final one, seeking an evening's amusement which had reawakened a fire she had long thought dead. Even now the memory of his cruelty and hateful words caused fury to rise within her soul. What right had he to condemn her?
It had been this steadily growing sense of injustice, betrayal and anger which had caused her to lash out, not as all who were present thought out of madness, but a desire for vengeance against the world and it's creator for their callous indifference to her sorrow and degradation.
The events of the next few hours had passed in such rapid succession, that even now she could only recall fragments of conversations and scattered images.
Her arrest by Javert, being rescue by a man she had thought the cause of all her sufferings, and the kindness he had shown her ever since.
A movement at her bedside informed her of the presence of her friend. Turning her head feebly, she met his eyes with a look of gratitude and desperate inquiry.
Anticipating her question, he shook his head regretfully. And she knew she would not see her Cosette again.
Still her friend tried to distract her, by speaking of the things she and Cosette would enjoy once they were reunited.
She did not want to speak her thoughts aloud, but the concern and sincerity she read in the face of her benefactor prompted her to say what was torturing her battered soul.
"She can't live with me. You don't understand, I'm a whore, and Cosette has no father." Those familiar hated words, words which had relentlessly tormented her spirit with their stark truth and simplicity, spoken with a mixture of shame, frustration and bitterness.
Monsieur Madeleine's next words astonished her.
"She has the Lord, He is her father. And you're his creation. In his eyes you've never been anything but an innocent beautiful woman." She stared at him in amazement and disbelief, all pain and weakness for the moment forgotten in the wake of his declaration.
"Do you truly believe that?" The question held a note of desperate hope. Perhaps it was because she was on the threshold of death, or her words were prompted by curiosity. Whatever the case, the mother of Cosette wanted to hear her benefactor's response.
"Yes," The word was spoken with absolute conviction and a sincerity which left her momentarily speechless.
He had left moments later, and Fantine considered his words as she stubbornly continued to cling to life.
Could it all be that simple?
He had made it sound so easy, spoken the words with absolute sincerity.
Three words in particular kept running through her mind.
In his eyes.
Could that be the answer, that somehow it was all a matter of perception.
Could the one who created her, somehow look beyond all that she had become, se her heart, the love for her Cosette which drove her to sacrifice everything for her sake?
Something she had thought never to feel again filled her spirit as she considered her friend's words. Hope. She could only cast herself on the mercy of her creator.
Yet still she hesitated. At the sisters insistence she had finally spoken the ritual words, yet they had held no meaning or comfort for her. She did not want to pray to this God they believed in, one who demanded strange words which meant nothing to her, a girl born to poor parents who had never entered a church.
She wanted to ask in the knowledge that she was not forsaken, know in the depths of her soul that a God did hear her awkward but sincere cry for forgiveness and acceptance.
A memory from her childhood came back to her with astonishing clarity. The words of an old priest, heard while she was hurrying home from the market with her mother, a basket with their meager purchases on her arm.
"There will be more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner, than over the robes of one hundred just men."
She had never forgotten that remark, because it sounded so unlike the little she knew of the church and its teachings. She had always thought that God looked with favor on the good, or the rich, those who tried to follow all of the laws set down in the sacred Bible.
But what this priest said seemed to imply that what God wanted was a sincere seeker, one who obeyed out of love instead of a crushing sense of duty.
Then did she, Fantine, mother, whore, abandoned lover, dare to take that step?
The sound of hurried footsteps in the hall interrupted her train of thought. Immediately she was alert. Could Cosette be here?
Her friend entered, offering her a quick reassuring smile, and the promise that she would soon see her child.
But her joy was short-lived. For behind the mayor came Javert, cold, confident and triumphant.
Fear rendered her immobile as she struggled to make sense of the heated exchange between the two men.
Javert had then turned on her, threatening to imprison her for good, saying she would never see her child, and that the mayor had no power to help.
In that moment, Fantine knew death had come. And in that final instant before it claimed her, she cried out from the depths of her soul.
"Oh Lord, forgive and receive me."
He had watched her from the moment of her birth, known her name before He had laid the foundations of the earth, waited for the time to come when she would turn to Him for comfort and restoration.
Sorrow filled Him when she had been cast aside by her lover,
Her pain had become his own, each fresh humiliation he had watched and shared. He had heard and felt her anguish, wept as she had wept, and held each tear precious, for she was yet one of his creation.
Where others saw a fallen woman, undeserving of pity or compassion, He saw a broken daughter who had sacrificed all for the sake of her child. Like all inhabitants of the earth, she was His creation, and even in these final days of her mortal life, the love she bore her Cosette burned steady within her soul. Yet few could see her beauty, would not allow themselves to look past her outward appearance of poverty and disgrace.
He alone could truly comprehend the depth of her sacrifice, knew the sufferings His daughter had endured.
For had He not also sacrificed all for the sake of humanity? Given His own son up to agony and death for the sake of His precious creation?
He could only await her decision, for as He had ordained from the dawn of time, the choice of accepting His aid and forgiveness must be borne of a desire to surrender a life into His keeping.
Someone was calling her name, but in a way she had never heard before. Not with anger, condemnation, impatience, or mockery, but with joy, triumph and a tenderness which left her speechless.
She wanted to open her eyes, to look at this speaker who said her name as if he had always known her, as if she was his friend.
Cautiously she raised her head, and met the gaze of her creator, a look full of measureless compassion, understanding and sorrow for the trials she had endured. Yet there was also the weight of absolute authority, justice and power, tempered with endless mercy. In His eyes she saw forgiveness, acceptance, and joy, that she had placed her faith in the king of kings.
He spoke to her then, of how He had known her name before forming the world, of how He had always been with her, though she had not acknowledged His presence.
She learned of His sorrow when she had been left desolate, of how He had rejoiced with her at the birth of Cosette.
Of how He more than any other, had understood the depth and sincerity of each sacrifice, made out of a mother's love for her child.
Of how He shared in her pain, anger, and humiliation, had endured far worse so that when she questioned His existence, demanded an explanation for her suffering, He could speak of how He had walked a darker path of torment for her sake.
And how in her darkest moment He had sought one who could help His broken daughter, offer her the friendship and affection she so desperately craved.
And though the world had called her wretched, fallen, and unworthy, her devotion, anguish, and sacrifices had not been forgotten by her creator.
He lifted her up, until she stood tall and proud before all assembled.
And upon her head was placed a crown of exquisite beauty, a symbol of honor and an acknowledgement of her devotion, sacrifices, and the torments she had endured for her beloved Cosette.
For now she was at last able to accept an eternal truth, one which remained true for all of creation in spite of circumstances, deeds, or the claims of humanity.
She had always been and would forever be Amadeus, beloved of God.
Note from the authoress: This story is the beginning of a series I want to write, detailing the final moments of fictional and historical people. Each will follow a pattern similar to this tale.
So far I've stories in mind for the following.
Erik the Phantom of The Opera, The Romanovs, and Joan of Arc.
If anyone has suggestions for other stories in this series, a particular character or historical figure you'd like me to include let me know.
The verses at the beginning of this story struck me as appropriate, for everything Fantine endured, especially the last couple of lines.
Some of the quotes are taken from Victor Hugo's novel, others from the 1998 movie. Jean valjean's quote is what started me thinking about this idea in the first place.
I hope you enjoyed this first tale, it took me a few months to write, and the idea for this series I thought of a few years ago.
Feedback is welcome.
Thanks for reading