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The wine shop air was clear with early springtime, and the evening mist had just begun to cloud the windows. The four women were undisturbed by the quiet murmurs of the other patrons. There are such times in which peace lulls friendly conversations into amicable hushes, when the word “quiet” is preferable to the word “silent”.
Zephine smiled at a man across the room; Favorite shifted in her seat as she drank; Dahlia leaned back in her chair, admiring a ribbon newly gifted to her by Listolier, and Fantine watched the passersby fade as mist creeped up the windows.
It was Dahlia who was the first to speak.
“My, would you look at this! Made with that new dying process. How vibrant the violet, like the evening sky.”
“What luck you have, Dahlia!” said Zephine, “to have a man who buys you such trinkets.”
“Yes, I adore him.”
“That is, until his purse runs dry.” quipped Favorite.
Dahlia and Zephine laughed. Fantine turned from the window to her friends, seemingly just noticing a conversation had begun.
“Yes, your man is always so cheap,” said Zephine. “When’s the last time he bought you such a ribbon?”
“Dahlia is a flower; the colors of the ribbon only accentuate her petals. But I’ll not content myself to grow in the dirt. I’d like more than a ribbon.”
“Should I grow in the dirt, at least I face the sun! You, Favorite, all too often spread your petals in the night. We all know that.”
“And why not! My dear, you know nothing of love.”
“Impart on us your philosophy, then! Teach us a lesson, old woman.”
“Listen well, then, daughters. I’ll tell you what I know of love. Fantine, sweet innocent, you’ve had no mother; I shall instruct. Be educated. Do not be flowers, girls, lest you wilt. Do not thrive in the soil, where a wayward boot may so easily crush you. Do not risk yourself every time you must be replanted elsewhere. I loved a man who gardened, once, and he left me for a fresher bud. No, daughters, be silver, be gold. A tarnished trinket may still fetch a good price. And metal needs neither water nor sun nor soil to survive! Harder to trample, as well. Endure for more than one season. And spread no seeds!”
“Too much, Favorite!” cried Zephine. “One cannot be so independent. Your gardener was the wrong one, that’s all. Look for others, try out different climates. A true gardener will nurture, care, protect, and you shall grow. Don’t be trampled, yes, but men must be more than heavy pairs of boots! Favorite, you are knowledgeable; I admire you, but you are depressing me. That you’ve had so many men, but keep the happiness they gave you for but a moment! Ah! It’s all too much.”
“In what way? Everything has its purpose to serve. Each of my men served theirs, and that was that.”
“What, then, is the purpose of men?”
“Laughter in my mouth.” said Favorite.
“A bauble on my neck.” said Dahlia.
“Love.” said Fantine. It was the first that she’d spoken for some time.
Favorite downed the rest of her wine quickly, throwing her head back as she drank, and jolting forward, face flushed, once finished.
“Love! Love! Fantine, you deserve your name. Childish. Your other names, Young, innocent little child, still blonde. I am astounded by you. You know one man intimately, but nothing of men. You gave yourself to him, you do not take! Too generous with your time, yourself, your heart. ‘A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment’ – a phrase I learned in England; there’s for you, Fantine. True for you, and other fools. Fool. Take heed. You partake in every pleasure he gives you, and are not full to sickness yet. That is good. But for whose pleasure do you do this! Love is good to taste, bad to digest. Not with your delicate constitution. Chew your food, Fantine, and spit it out when the flavor fades. See Tholomyes’ example! He smokes his pipe, enjoys the fumes, and breathes them out. He is wise to do so. Zephine! Dahlia! Silly girls too, but they’ve had the wisdom to be young while they are young. Me, I’m old. Twenty three is close to twenty five, which is halfway to fifty. But you, Fantine, little one, are already senile! A dutiful matron in the body of a nymph. Watch for that, that will fade. Suns set, you fair angel haloed by the sun. Men? You talk of men? Men will play you like a game. Play them. Love the game, not the player. It’s nothing in the end, anyway.”
Fantine stood abruptly. Over the course of this speech she had lost, moment by moment, her usual dreamy expression.
“You are wrong.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Dahlia, Zephine, and Favorite erupted into peals of laughter. Only those who knew them well might have detected a hint of uneasiness.
“Amazing, Fantine!” said Zephine, clapping.
“Fantine, you dream!” cried Dahlia.
“Yes, Fantine,” said Favorite. The laughter slowed to a stop as she took on a curious look. “Dream, and never wake.”