A/N -Very, very, infinitely sorry for my rants in the last chapter. I've
vented, I'm over it now, the dog's probably better off now than she would
be were she still here. Those new chaps have a little puppy to keep her
company and three acres of land with no neighbors in sight. Again, I
apologize for venting during the course of my fic; I'll try not to do it
again.
Elyse3 - Again, v. sorry about that rant. But I promise I'm done now.
La Pamplemousse - Sorry about your dog! I know the feeling, kind of. My parents bought a cat four years before I was born, and he lived until I was 11. When he died, it was really odd, because he'd always just been there. Then, a month later, I got a Burman/British Wirehair kitten. He'll never be able to replace the first cat, but it really does help the grieving process . . . wow, 'grieving process' sounds so retarded . . .
Disclaimer - I still don't own LM or BTTF. But I've found it necessary to finally admit it . . . I've become *chokes* a . . . a semi-fangirl over Michael J. Fox . . . there, I said it. And, come to think of it, John Stamos and Rider Strong. Oh my poor, poor individuality.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Cosette's head spun. Her father had rescued her instead of her mother. If Fantine were not in the mayor's care, he would never find out about Cosette. Cosette would grow up with the Thénardier family in Montfermeil . . . or perhaps when her mother died and could no longer pay, the Thénardiers would turn her out into the cold.
Cosette leapt to her feet and scrambled out the door, leaving the poor nun in a state of befuddlement.
The snow from the night before had not yet melted. Heedless of the cold, Cosette rushed into the street, not sure how to find Fantine. Crowds of pedestrians parted around Cosette, who stood unmoving in the road. To her surprise, she saw a familiar figure pushing a broken cart.
"Monsieur! Monsieur Fauchelevant!" she cried, rushing towards the crippled old man.
"Oy? Oh, s'you. Whadda you want now, ey?"
"Can you tell me where I can find Madame Fantine?"
The cripple's face instantly flushed. "I- I dunno what you're talkin' bout, mam'zelle."
"I need to see Madame Fantine as soon as possible. I wondered, monsieur, if you knew where I could find her," Cosette explained patiently, not understanding his reaction.
"Low'r yer voice, ey? Yeah," he said at almost a whisper. "I c'n give you 'er place, but y' best promise th't not a soul - nary a soul - knows where you got th'directions."
"Thank you, monsieur!" Cosette cried, still unaware of the full meaning of this discourse.
A/N - Now, I know you all want to puke really bad, but hey, that's the fun of writing a fic full of lovely ladies, right?
A few moments later, Cosette was standing at the garret door of a slummy little place in the heart of the worst section of Montreuil-sur-Mer. A very pleased Fantine answered her knock.
"Mademoiselle! My rescuer! Come in!" And when the door was fully closed: "L'inspecteur was not too awful to you, was he?"
Cosette did not answer. She was looking about the tiny garret, trying to hide her horror that such a dirty little place could be called a dwelling. Fantine sat on the only piece of furniture in the room, a bed, and motioned Cosette set next to her.
"Mademoiselle, you remind me of someone," Fantine said suddenly.
Cosette studied the face before her. She said nothing, but was sure that Cosette reminded Fantine of her former self, before . . . whatever had happened.
"Madame Fantine?" Cosette began.
"No, no, mademoiselle. Don't call me 'Madame,'" Fantine interrupted. "My child's father left me long ago. He left me before I even knew there was a child."
Cosette blinked. She had been wondering how she could find out what had happened to Fantine and how the Thénardiers had ended up with an extra child. And here Fantine had given her the perfect opportunity.
"You- you have a child?" Cosette stammered, trying to take advantage of the opening.
"Yes. She is a beautiful little girl. Her name is Cosette," Fantine sighed.
Cosette looked at the floor. "Why did her father leave you?"
Fantine, still thinking of her child, looked sharply at Cosette. "What did you say your name was, mademoiselle?"
Cosette had to consciously restrain herself from saying, 'I didn't.' She chewed her lip for a second, and then decided the truth was best.
"Euphrasie."
Fantine gave a cry of delight. "That is my little girl's name!"
"Why, then, do you call her Cosette?"
Fantine smiled. "I don't know. I like the sound of it. It suits her."
"Where is Cosette?"
An hour of so later, Cosette knew the whole story. Fantine related the story of her lover, Tholomyès, and how he had suddenly left her. She spoke of being forced to leave her beautiful little girl with the 'good Thénardiers' and finding work in the factory at Montreuil-sur-Mer. She was fired when /they/ (here Fantine's face had darkened) had found out about her child. Fantine could find no other work, and she was forced to sell her hair, her teeth, and finally herself. The story was interrupted by fits of coughing, which Fantine would always explain away as a tickle in her throat. Cosette said nothing of the bloodstained handkerchief Fantine pressed against her mouth every time she coughed. It was obvious that, without a doctor's care, Fantine would die.
But how could Fantine get to a doctor? No decent man would want to be seen entering this room. If there was somewhere Fantine could go . . . somewhere she would be taken care of . . .
Cosette gasped. An /idea/ had occurred to her.
"Come with me!" she cried.
Elyse3 - Again, v. sorry about that rant. But I promise I'm done now.
La Pamplemousse - Sorry about your dog! I know the feeling, kind of. My parents bought a cat four years before I was born, and he lived until I was 11. When he died, it was really odd, because he'd always just been there. Then, a month later, I got a Burman/British Wirehair kitten. He'll never be able to replace the first cat, but it really does help the grieving process . . . wow, 'grieving process' sounds so retarded . . .
Disclaimer - I still don't own LM or BTTF. But I've found it necessary to finally admit it . . . I've become *chokes* a . . . a semi-fangirl over Michael J. Fox . . . there, I said it. And, come to think of it, John Stamos and Rider Strong. Oh my poor, poor individuality.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Cosette's head spun. Her father had rescued her instead of her mother. If Fantine were not in the mayor's care, he would never find out about Cosette. Cosette would grow up with the Thénardier family in Montfermeil . . . or perhaps when her mother died and could no longer pay, the Thénardiers would turn her out into the cold.
Cosette leapt to her feet and scrambled out the door, leaving the poor nun in a state of befuddlement.
The snow from the night before had not yet melted. Heedless of the cold, Cosette rushed into the street, not sure how to find Fantine. Crowds of pedestrians parted around Cosette, who stood unmoving in the road. To her surprise, she saw a familiar figure pushing a broken cart.
"Monsieur! Monsieur Fauchelevant!" she cried, rushing towards the crippled old man.
"Oy? Oh, s'you. Whadda you want now, ey?"
"Can you tell me where I can find Madame Fantine?"
The cripple's face instantly flushed. "I- I dunno what you're talkin' bout, mam'zelle."
"I need to see Madame Fantine as soon as possible. I wondered, monsieur, if you knew where I could find her," Cosette explained patiently, not understanding his reaction.
"Low'r yer voice, ey? Yeah," he said at almost a whisper. "I c'n give you 'er place, but y' best promise th't not a soul - nary a soul - knows where you got th'directions."
"Thank you, monsieur!" Cosette cried, still unaware of the full meaning of this discourse.
A/N - Now, I know you all want to puke really bad, but hey, that's the fun of writing a fic full of lovely ladies, right?
A few moments later, Cosette was standing at the garret door of a slummy little place in the heart of the worst section of Montreuil-sur-Mer. A very pleased Fantine answered her knock.
"Mademoiselle! My rescuer! Come in!" And when the door was fully closed: "L'inspecteur was not too awful to you, was he?"
Cosette did not answer. She was looking about the tiny garret, trying to hide her horror that such a dirty little place could be called a dwelling. Fantine sat on the only piece of furniture in the room, a bed, and motioned Cosette set next to her.
"Mademoiselle, you remind me of someone," Fantine said suddenly.
Cosette studied the face before her. She said nothing, but was sure that Cosette reminded Fantine of her former self, before . . . whatever had happened.
"Madame Fantine?" Cosette began.
"No, no, mademoiselle. Don't call me 'Madame,'" Fantine interrupted. "My child's father left me long ago. He left me before I even knew there was a child."
Cosette blinked. She had been wondering how she could find out what had happened to Fantine and how the Thénardiers had ended up with an extra child. And here Fantine had given her the perfect opportunity.
"You- you have a child?" Cosette stammered, trying to take advantage of the opening.
"Yes. She is a beautiful little girl. Her name is Cosette," Fantine sighed.
Cosette looked at the floor. "Why did her father leave you?"
Fantine, still thinking of her child, looked sharply at Cosette. "What did you say your name was, mademoiselle?"
Cosette had to consciously restrain herself from saying, 'I didn't.' She chewed her lip for a second, and then decided the truth was best.
"Euphrasie."
Fantine gave a cry of delight. "That is my little girl's name!"
"Why, then, do you call her Cosette?"
Fantine smiled. "I don't know. I like the sound of it. It suits her."
"Where is Cosette?"
An hour of so later, Cosette knew the whole story. Fantine related the story of her lover, Tholomyès, and how he had suddenly left her. She spoke of being forced to leave her beautiful little girl with the 'good Thénardiers' and finding work in the factory at Montreuil-sur-Mer. She was fired when /they/ (here Fantine's face had darkened) had found out about her child. Fantine could find no other work, and she was forced to sell her hair, her teeth, and finally herself. The story was interrupted by fits of coughing, which Fantine would always explain away as a tickle in her throat. Cosette said nothing of the bloodstained handkerchief Fantine pressed against her mouth every time she coughed. It was obvious that, without a doctor's care, Fantine would die.
But how could Fantine get to a doctor? No decent man would want to be seen entering this room. If there was somewhere Fantine could go . . . somewhere she would be taken care of . . .
Cosette gasped. An /idea/ had occurred to her.
"Come with me!" she cried.