Never Go Back to Before
Written for Ellen.
Dahlia had named herself Dahlia for Listolier, and now that he was gone, she let everyone know that they were to call her Armelle. It had been hard to choose between that, Ninon and Callia, but, after all, one made important decisions all the time, and she picked it before the week was out.
She was living alone in a little apartment in Paris, though she had every intention of finding a man to be mistress to as soon as possible, and at times it was draughty. This was a great inconvenience. Men disliked making sweet, dallying, romantic rendezvous in cold rooms. Still, she hung some nice curtains by the windows, and put cheap paintings over the worst spots, and that did something about it.
It was several months later that she met Fantine. A pretty girl, Fantine, with golden hair and earnest, innocent eyes. She seemed somewhat familiar, but Dahlia didn't bother thinking of it too much. One shouldn't, really. Thinking made nasty wrinkles in the forehead, and most men didn't find them attractive. But Fantine was familiar, and pleasantly so, as though the last time Dahlia had seen her had been a good time, and therefore, when she found that Fantine was desperately seeking a place to live, she welcomed her in.
It was evident that Fantine was with child. Dahlia clicked her tongue and expressed her pity, though she was not very good at feeling pitying. Of course, Fantine was also one of those silly, fragile girls who were still in shock that their children had no fathers, and the drafts made her shiver uncontrollably. Dahlia saw this. For no reason at all, it made her move the two of them to a rather better apartment that didn't get so cold.
Fantine smiled, grateful and tearful. Dahlia smiled back.
One evening, as she was sitting before her little mirror and putting perfume under her wrists in preparation for her supper out in a few hours, she noticed Fantine sitting on the bed forlornly.
"Are you all right?" she asked, and Fantine nodded, but looked ill. "You don't look all right."
Fantine began twitching her foot slightly; just a slight, rapid movement over and over again. "I'm all right. The smell--" she gestured at Dahlia's bottle of perfume.
"Oh, this! Does it make you ill? Well, I'll be out of this place in a moment. I'm sorry, my dear." But when Dahlia returned from her supper, she threw out the perfume.
Then she sat down to think. This was getting absurd. She was taking an awful lot of care for someone whose most endearing quality was a bit of nice memory that hung about her like an old smell. It wasn't quite right.
That night, she lay in bed and played with Fantine's hair. Such nice hair it was, soft and fine and that lovely gold colour. It felt good between her fingers, and after a little while, she leaned forward and kissed it. Fantine moved a bit in her sleep and made a soft, muffled noise that sounded halfway to happy. Dahlia involuntarily smiled.
"Shh. Just go on sleeping, my dear. I should think you need it."
"What?"
"Nothing, Fantine," Dahlia told her, stroking her hair gently.
Several days later, Dahlia realised that she would rather stay at the apartment with Fantine that go out in the cold to meet some idiot for a dinner that never came to anything. She had been trying all the wrong men. Either they had a mistress already, or they didn't want one at all. Dahlia was sick of it at present. The air tasted of snow and darkness when she breathed in.
"Fantine, my dear," she announced, "to-night we shall sit at home and do nothing. How long has it been since you had pastry? I'll send a boy for some. You can find that old book of comedies I'm supposed to read my old fellow."
"But I ought to finish this sewing--" Fantine looked up from where she was sitting on the bed, sewing shirts in the lamplight. Her hands were rough now from her working, and she had no thimble to save her fingers from being stabbed by the needle.
Dahlia glanced down at her own hands and nails, which were still as pretty and pink as they'd been when she was Listolier's mistress. "That can wait, just for to-night. Please?" She said it coyly and sweetly, as she'd say it to a lover; an enticing, inviting 'please'. Fantine's expression of worry shook for a moment, and at last she smiled unsurely.
"All right."
"Splendid! Now, you look! I'll go send the boy!"
It turned out that Fantine was a good reader. She was better, at any rate, than Dahlia, who hadn't realised any of the comedies turned out that way. As she read one of the lines, and burst into her rare, pretty laugh, with her little mouth smiling, Dahlia kissed her. It was done without thinking, but Fantine did laugh so rarely, and had such a nice smile, that Dahlia couldn't help herself.
Fantine kissed back shyly, putting her arms tentatively about Dahlia. The light, sweet taste of pastry was still on her lips.
After that night, they never kissed again. Dahlia knew it wouldn't be wonderful. She understood this perfectly. It couldn't be, as they'd had the beautiful moment too quickly, too early. It couldn't keep. She and Fantine never spoke of that night, but they remembered it.
Things were still perfectly all right, however. It was later the real trouble came, because of course Fantine was with child.
The baby was born in the dark with the help of a nervous young doctor and Dahlia's curt instructions, though she'd no idea what to do at all. Fantine wept and held it close while Dahlia cleaned up the blood and ignored her apologies.
But now the baby was born, they both knew Fantine would have to leave. For a little while, because of That Night, they tried to make things all right, but people knew why Fantine had stopped working the last few months, and that there was now a child in the apartment; and Dahlia couldn't stay in a such a small place with the little girl crying at all hours of the night. It kept her up and made her irritable and tired.
So, Fantine left. Dahlia helped her get her things together, and gave her as much money as she could spare, and embraced her tightly before the door closed. She knew she would have to change her name again.
She had just one comfort. As she watched Fantine getting into the fiacre that was to take her out of town (the farewell gift), Dahlia could still hear her soft voice.
"What will I name her, Armelle?"
It was a more important decision than choosing her own name. She could be Ninon or Dahlia or Armelle, but Fantine's baby must have a perfect name. "Well... I saw a play with Denis last week. It was an English play, all in English, too, so that I didn't follow, but the main girl was called Euphrasie. Denis told me she was supposed to be sweet and good and innocent and all those things that they say young women should be. Why not Euphrasie? It's a lucky name."
"Euphrasie..."
"And you could call her Cosette, for short, because that's my middle name," added Dahlia, laughing playfully.
"I think that's a wonderful idea," said Fantine quietly. "Euphrasie, but Cosette for short."
So Fantine's child was named for her.
As for changing her name-- "Cosette," she told the next young man she was having dinner with. "My name's Cosette, love. What's yours?"
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