Candles (Fantine, 1823)
She paces up and down her patch, clutching her raggedy shawl close to her shoulders. Not many are out tonight, but she hopes that someone interested in paying for her services will wander this way, perhaps drunk on goodwill and good wine and disposed to be generous. Candles flicker in a window across the way, orange-yellow-gold, and for a moment, Fantine is mesmerised, the rest of the world fading out until there's nothing but one flame, the others surrounding it in a bright halo of colour against the dank darkness. It's hopeful, she decides. Light beating back the night.
Then a hand falls on her shoulder, and she's met with a smile unsteady with absinthe, eyes roving across her body. Even with her pitifully boy-short hair and two missing teeth, Fantine is still striking. She knows it as she turns, cocking one hip in a practised gesture.
"How much?" the man asks.
"Five francs." She's pushing it, she knows. But with a few other customers, she should be able to send enough money out to Montfermeil for Christmas for her daughter. Maybe a little extra, for presents. At least one of them will be in comfort this winter.
He's too far past drunk to care. "Done."
So she takes his hand, and lets him lead her to a deserted corner, an alleyway inhabited by no-one but the rats. And when he's finally done, dropping the money into her hand and weaving away without a glance back, she adjusts her shawl and turns back to pacing. The candle dances away, and Fantine curses it for being so cheerful.
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