It was a while later, even after the kiss ended, that either of them spoke. Eponine sat still in the bath, her hand hovering a few centimeters from her mouth. She could not keep her eyes from Cosette, neither could she look at her. From time to time, her tongue would dart out and touch her lips curiously, as if tasting something unbelievable and strange. She was entirely in her body now, and though she wanted very much to regain the feeling of floating, she did not know how. In a sort of insane compromise with her senses, she stared at Cosette's right hand where it lay, forgotten in the girl's lap, folded across the other. She dazed, considered that this very hand had so lately been tangled in her own tangled hair, and, guiltily, tried with little success to find somewhere else to look.
Cosette, for her part, suddenly remembered several things at once, and it was taking her some time to sort through them. if she looked at Eponine or at the wall she could not later have said; her vision was all introspective. For starters, it had occurred to her-- it was this shock ended the kiss, after all-- that this, here, was the second real kiss of her life. And quite quickly, the memory of the first kiss, not three hours old, and how she had come by it returned, and she had been struck with guilt. Well, of course, this was not the first time she had kissed Eponine-- why, that was the inevitable end result of their games-- but not like this. Those were child-kisses, bereft of all but the barest counterfeits of passion, but all the more scandalous and exciting for that. Why had she now kissed Eponine-- Ponine of old, no less!-- in the manner... she blushed, and the hand that Eponine had found so fascinating fluttered to her throat and back... in the manner of a lover? Especially when she had just, that evening, kissed Marius so? Was it perhaps residual emotion from his visit; he had shown her how, and she was now eager to practice? Not at all, her body said resolutely. She thought then that had he not come, had it just been Eponine, that would have made no difference. The next thing she remembered concerned rumors-- whispers overheard in her convent days, when the mothers were not listening. Certain girls who shared secret looks and called each other 'Dearest Sister'. Tales of these things which she had not till now connected with the games she had used to play with Eponine. Who-- she became conscious of looking on the girl now; Eponine's glance darted away-- was, really, very pretty. And still naked. That bit of awareness hit Cosette at the same time as two other, equally poignant enlightenments: that she was clad in but her slip (soaked through, besides!) and that she wanted, very much, to kiss Eponine again. She was thinking of how best to accomplish this when the silence was broken by her intended target.
"Are you in love with Monsieur Marius Pontmercy?" Of all things, Cosette had not been expecting that, and guilt got her again. She found herself thinking of his kiss-- how smooth his cheek! How soft his lips and hair! But Eponine's cheek was smoother, her lips softer; her hair, though wet, as well. For it occurred to her with a start-- Marius rather resembled a girl, but Eponine was, in fact, a really truly girl. Only her voice was perhaps more mannish than Marius'. Did she love him then? She had certainly said so. The notebook he had written her lay in her dress. Ahh... she sighed, those lovely things he had said-- how he did profess to love her! What a dear, sweet boy was he! She regarded Eponine with a small blush and no small confusion.
"I..." Something else occurred to her, "Do you know Monsieur Marius?" Now it was Eponine's turn to blush.
"He lived next door to my family, where you visited that time. he was very nice to me, and I... sought him, after he left. he asked me to tell him where you lived, and so, I brought him here."
Cosette smiled at the undertone in the other girl's voice, though she wondered if that was the proper reaction, and laughed a little, prettily. Having been treated to this phenomenon more than once this evening, Eponine reflected that she rather liked the sound.
"Ah, I see how it is! You are in love with him too!" Eponine looked up at Cosette's face.
"So you are in love with him." What a melancholy tone she wore! And she had not made it a question. There were two ways Cosette's reply could have been interpreted; which was more valid was a mystery even to it's author, who smiled all the more. Some small part of her, trembling rapturously in it's corner, told her that she was going mad.
"Monsieur Marius is very dear. But am I in love with him? I really cannot say. I do not think that I have ever been in love. What is love, anyway?" She sighed arily.
"He is in love with you." Said Eponine sullenly.
"And you are in love with him?" Eponine looked at Cosette's face once more. Cosette had made it a question. That there was indeed one now was reflected in Eponine's eyes, heartbreakingly sad. She seemed as one who has been kicked many times over hand is resignedly expecting another kick. Cosette recoiled from such melancholy, and also her heart went out to it.
"You ask this...? Well, I think perhaps that I have been. But there is another question... you do not ask? I will answer it; if I might not be in love with you?"
"Oh!" Cried Cosette. This response, alone, might have caused Eponine great despair, for the answer lay in the question, and there was truly nothing further Cosette needed to ask. Fortunately the exclamation came not unaccompanied. For in Eponine's words Cosette discovered, to mutual delight, the opportunity that she had subconsciously still sought. By the time that the kissing found pause, Cosette was so sodden through that she might as well have been bare as Eponine. Apparently, this had occurred to both. their pause in kissing allowed Eponine liberty to rise (her skin had become a tad prunish from sitting in the water), and for Cosette, with some small aid, to remove her useless, soaked shift.
That was the first night Cosette had slept without a proper nightdress since she had been rescued by Jean Valjean; Eponine, on the other hand, was used to it. It had, however, been almost as long since she had lain in a proper bed-- and never before with such amiable and sweet company.