Valjean and Fantine

 The prisoner collapsed onto the chair pointed out to him, dropping his head into his hands. He was a young man… and yet he looked old. There was something in his eyes that seemed to speak of tragedies too great for one lifetime to bear.

The miserable little group of guards and prisoner had stopped for a brief rest at a wayside country inn. Now the guards were greedily devouring their noon meal while the prisoner sat silently in the corner, too burdened with grief to notice anything around him. Every step of that agonizing journey was breaking his heart more and more.

He wasn’t a thief. He told himself that, over and over. He had been raised well, taught to fear God, and had always prided himself on good, honest work. The Lord knew he had worked his hands nearly to the bone just trying to eke out a living for what was left of his family. But these years since the revolution had ended had been harder than ever. They were boiling bones just to survive. 

He had taken on side jobs, nearly killing himself with the work. He could barely pay the rent on the little hovel they lived in. Keeping a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, coal in the fireplace, and food on their stomachs… it was next to impossible. He had reasoned with himself over this a thousand times, argued a thousand arguments in his head. There were people with so much, who barely had to lift a finger… why must they go on living so comfortably when people were dying of want right outside their doors?

It had all fallen to pieces when little Marie fell into a fever. The poor child was starving to death. Precious little girl, she was the light of his life. He would have done anything to protect her. But she was slipping through his fingers, right before his very eyes. And his poor sister, Marie’s mother, had looked to him for help. Her husband was gone, victim of a factory accident. There was no one else to whom she could turn.

He was fired from his job that same week… just another casualty of factory cutbacks. Nearly driven wild with desperation, he wandered the streets one cold, gray day, trying to beg for food. No one seemed to have anything to spare… especially for a perfectly able-bodied young man who ought to be working. God help him, he had tried! He wanted to work.

It had just been one loaf of bread. It had been sitting there on a table in a sumptuous room, fresh and fragrant… he was drawn toward it like a magnet, unable to look away, to resist. He had pressed his face against the window, staring at it with longing eyes. Marie’s face was before him, pale and wan with the flush of fever high on her cheeks and glittering in her eyes. She was like a little china doll… fragile, brittle. His decision had been made in a moment. One swing of his powerful arm and broken glass tinkled to the cobblestones below. He climbed in through the shattered window, crammed the loaf into his pocket, and took off down a back alley as if an army was on his heels.

He didn’t stop to think, didn’t even process the fact that he had broken the law. He was elated, filled with a sense of triumph. He had food for Marie! He didn’t stop running until he had barged through his own front door, stumbling to his knees by the child’s bedside.

“Marie, my precious one…” he reached out to lay gentle fingers on her forehead. Her skin felt fiery, beads of sweat on her brow. She stirred at his touch, her eyes flickering half-open, and she smiled weakly.

“Uncle Jean…” she murmured, her words almost slurred. He blinked back tears.

“Here, little one, ma cherie, see? I have bread for you. It will help you grow strong.”

“Oh, Jean…” Marie’s mother, Angelina, rushed forward with a cry of delight. “How did you get that?”

“You eat this now, every crumb of it,” he told Marie, propping the child up on her pillow and handing her a large chunk of the loaf. “And your Maman shall have some too.” 

“No, oh no,” Angelina shook her head as he offered the bread. “I… I can’t. It is all for Marie. Maman… is not hungry.” She smiled lovingly at her daughter and her brother. 

And that was the fateful moment in which they came, bursting uninvited into the squalid little room… half a dozen soldiers, as if they sought a dangerous criminal. They dragged him up from where he knelt by his dying niece’s bedside, locking chains around his wrists while Angelina fell at their feet, weeping and begging for mercy. They turned away in scorn from the sobbing woman and the frightened little girl who was too sick even to cry. 

The prisoner shuddered at the memory, tears streaming down his cheeks. He lifted his hands to wipe them away, cringing at the loud rattle of his chains. Five years to live in chains like these… and what would happen to little Marie?

“Monsieur?”

The voice startled him. He had grown used to the brusque yells of the soldiers, but this voice was young, sweet, innocent… he turned to see a little girl standing at his side. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders and her hands were filled with daisies. Wide blue eyes stared at him out of a sun-browned face.

“Are you sad, Monsieur?” She stepped nearer, lying a tiny, dimpled hand on his dirty sleeve. She couldn’t have been more than four years old. She looked a bit like Marie… if Marie had been well-fed and happy. 

“Yes, little one.” He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes and forced a half-smile. She reached up, touching the iron band on his wrist.

“Why do you cry?”

“Because…” he shook his head, helplessly. He couldn’t tell her. “Someone I love very much is sick and hungry.”

“Then,” she brightened. “I will give you some food to take to them and you will not be sad. I can give you some bread!”

“Bread…” he murmured in a daze. “Dear child. I’m afraid that won’t help me now.”

“Why?” She turned her head to one side, gazing steadily at him. Those sweet blue eyes… too much like Marie’s. 

“Because… because I am going far away…” He choked on the words. “But thank you, cherie.”

“I am sorry you have to go.” She wrapped her little arms around him, leaning her sunny head against his rough, unshaven cheek. “You seem nice. What is your name?”

“My name is Jean Valjean.”

“I like you, Monsieur Jean,” she smiled. “I am Fantine. Mummy calls me Tina.” 

The gentle touch and the kind voice… it touched something deep inside of him. He broke down and wept.

“Tina? Fantine! Ah, there you are, child… come away from there… no, don’t speak to him…” A young woman rushed forward, scooping up the little girl almost indignantly. She glanced at Valjean, shuddering as if she had seen something terrifying. It wasn’t with disdain, but with genuine fear. And then she turned her back to walk away, Fantine peeping over her shoulder with wide blue eyes.

“Maman… please…” she was pleading. “I want to give him my flowers.”

A few hushed words followed, and at last the little girl was set reluctantly on the ground. She rushed back on tiptoe, pressing her daisies into Valjean’s bound hands and, standing on tiptoe, kissed his cheek.

“Don’t cry, Monsieur Jean,” she whispered. “It’ll be alright.”