A/N: Random plot bunny that popped into my head fiteen minutes ago. MadameVicturnien is wrought with jealously, and thus strikes out at Fantine. Bitter undertones, and sort of humorous in an odd sort of way-I don't find it terribly funny, but I have friends who would. May be not-canon because I haven't read the book in ages. This is a randomunderused charrie bit-yippee!
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Just Maybe
Many, many years ago, MadameVicturnien had copper-gold hair, eyes blue as the sky, a slim, lovely figure, and a smile as beautiful as anything on this earth.
Really.
She would glance at the tiny miniature of her as a young woman on her mantelpiece and be reminded of the young woman who worked in her factory—Fantine was her name, she remembered. Fantine was even more beautiful, but a little sad, and, though she did not know, many men who worked in the factory had their eyes on her.
Once, Madame Victurnien had had men after her, and she would've laughed and flirted and maybe even gone home with one of them.
But Fantine, perfect, virtuous Fantine, glanced down any time a man approached her, and spoke in a soft shy voice. She then got away as quickly as possible.
Madame Victurnien looked in her mirror, and observed the woman she saw. The woman's hair had been darkened and discolored in some places to a near gray, and her eyes were navy with jealousy, and slightly clouded with age. The woman smiled, bitterly, and saw a few less teeth than she had once had, and her perfect figure was no longer perfect, but plump in some places and scrawny in others. Her face held all the wrinkles that any fifty-year old woman would have, and more from her grumpy disposition.
She could not smile anymore without it being bitter. At eighteen, she had gone off with the handsomest, richest man out of her suitors, and, after marrying him, had discovered that he was a gambling drunkard.
She still wore black—because she could not see herself in anything else.
She preferred to frown—because there was so little to be happy about. Apparently, love was a lie. Life was a lie. Everything was a lie...wasn't it?
But Fantine—Fantine's dresses had been stylish in Paris a couple years back, and were still popular here. Fantine was a good worker, and interacted minimally with her coworkers, preferring to sew or work overtime or mend for money rather than speak with the other women.
She was too good, and Madame Victurnien hated her for it. She had to have a fault. She had to.
The woman smiled again, and saw a little less bitterness in it. With that—that bitch out of her factory, maybe she could be happy again. Just maybe.