The Infant in the Snow

A/N: Hello again! My first story ficlet on this fandom is about Fantine, who seems to be the most underappreciated character in fanfictions. One day, I stumbled across the meaning of the name Fantine online and was surprised to find that it was possibly derived from the French word, enfant. Look it up yourself! What's more, please give Fantine some more love and stories.

This is told from the POV of the man who gave Fantine her name.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables. I would, however, actually like to see someone try and sue me for owning it…

I stare out across the frozen city streets. In the shadow of a cathedral, an infant girl plays. Upon first glance, it is hard to tell that she is an orphan. Her soft, blond curls fall gracefully down her shivering back and her bright blue eyes give an aura of intelligence so rarely seen in one so little. However, upon closer examination, I see that she is covered in dirt and far too thin, marking her was one of them; one of the many unfortunate little creatures who wallow in desperation and live lives half-fulfilled.

I walk closer to the girl. Though it is nearly impossible to tell the ages of these street brats, I figure that this one is not far out of infancy. How she survived this long I have no clue. Nor do I know how she will live out the winter, nay, the rest of her life. For a brief moment, I consider taking her home with me. However, the thought is quickly pushed aside as foolish: if I take this hungry child home, which one of my own children will suffer for it? Will it be my little Corrine or my darling Marie who will starve if I take this girl with me?

Still, my heart hurts at the thought of abandoning this girl. Swiftly, I walk over to her and sit in the snow by her side. She, so fascinated by the nature of the cold water around her, does not even sense my presents. All of a sudden, I begin to wonder what happened to her mother. I muse that her mother must have had a reason for abandoning her daughter. Which is it this time? Perhaps a rich girl who ran off with her lover, leaving her parents and old life behind only to become pregnant and get stood up by her beau? A prostitute who knew that keeping her child would bring even more work and pain upon her? So many reasons for giving your baby to the street to raise, yet none of them are good. None of them are righteous. But, all of them happen everyday in every town all over France.

Though I know that I cannot bring the girl's mother back, I try to think of what I can do for her. I try to get her attention, but the girl is fixated on clasping snow in her small fist. Finally, I come to a conclusion: I will gift this lass with an identity, a name. Surely she has none: why would any mother who expected her baby to die give it a name? What to call her, though. The little infant…enfant…fant… Fantine… it is genius! Fantine, that is what I shall call this nameless creature! I pause for a second, pleased at my own wit, and then I turn to the child.

"Little Fantine… little infant," I coo at her softly. Her head quickly snaps in my direction and she stares up at me with her large blue eyes. "Fantine, Fantine," I say again in a singsong voice. Taking care of my own girls has made me gentler with children than most men are. The Fantine child grins, revealing unnaturally white teeth.

"Tine, tine…" She giggles, mimicking my words.

"No, Fantine," I state kindly. "You will be called Fantine."

"Fantine!" She choruses jubilantly, "Fantine, Fantine, Fantine…" she claps her hands together and her little voice grows to a shriek of joy. I know that she will not easily forget that word.

Suddenly, the church bell chimes: I must now get home to my own children and wife. I scoop Fantine up and sit the baby – who is still happily screaming "Fantine" - upon the cathedral steps. Some parish worker will find her and take care of her. Assured that I have done my duty, I walk away. It is only when I get very far down the street that I turn back, taking one last look at the infant in the snow. Where will life take her? She is one of a million abandoned, motherless, unloved babies in the world. Yet, now I have given her an identity; a tool which she must use to make a mark on this world. I have given her a name.