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She walks as she did in life, with clarity and pureness of purpose among the creeks and apple trees as Fantine hides from her like a frightened deer.
She knows it is foolish, knows she needs not fear this woman or this place, and even so she is struck to tears (though there are no tears here). She is beautiful once more (she has seen her face in the water, felt her teeth and hair every hour or so with joy), and yet she knows no figure nor feature could enchant this woman, could bring Earthly shallowness to her consciousness then or now or ever.
Fantine sighs, for she is lonely sometimes. The two men have gone; it is not their world after all (they formed her but they did not make her) and she imagines theirs must call to them, the comfort and quiet of love yet new to one of the pair and still thirsted for by the other.
The woman has come closer, and Fantine turns to see again the medieval saint’s face, the long body of a martyr on a wheel.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle,” the woman says gently as the creek between them disappears, and Fantine cannot stop herself from embracing Simplice as she’d yearned to do since the woman’s rays of love had first warmed a heart shattering with only memories to keep it alive.