part V: A rose in ecstacy, a rose in bloom.
In the course of the afternoon, Cosette and Eponine behaved as any other girl-comrades would. They experimented with hair and clothes, talked of a million insignificances and a modicum of profundities, and read, (Eponine being at least somewhat literate, and Cosette being a patient and encouraging tutor) to each other from books of poetry. When Toussaint was not too near, they would speak of things past and of more import-- Montfermeil, the Thénardier's ruin and move to Paris, of Eponine's demi-relationship with Monteparnasse, ("you're not a virgin!?" Exclaimed Cosette, for which she got a blink and a blush), How Azelma's hand had come to be cut when Cosette and her father had come, ("How dreadful!" She cried, and kissed Eponine's hand), about Eponine's real brothers and, at length, of Monsieur Marius Pontmercy.
"Oh dear," Cosette bit a finger in consternation, "He will come again tonight, I am sure of it."
"What will you do?" Eponine was uneasy.
"See him, I suppose." Cosette, too, was rather nervous. She had shown Eponine the letter he had written her; the girl had sighed after, and said nothing. Although they had lauded together the young man's virtues, seemingly unaware that he had any faults, their hearts were restless. Of the two, Eponine was the better off.
He will never love me, she thought to herself, And I cannot stay here forever. That there was anything odd or untoward in her feelings for Cosette did not occur to her. Marriage was a word she dared not think for herself; as far away as castles and princes. Miseré est mon trousseau, after all, and stranger things have happened. So she was resigned to a passing brief happiness, and with this, was tolerably satisfied.
Cosette, on the other hand, had stumbled into a quandary. It must be understood that while Eponine, not being a maid herself, did not question the morality of their actions together, for Cosette, her virtue and so, her very future rested on it. Her knowledge of life and anatomy far from complete (Cosette's dreams were more fancy than university), She was dimly aware that the ardor of the night had, more than likely, taken with it her virginity. To her knowledge, the making of love meant the surrender of that modest token, and she felt that the term applied. She could certainly not claim sisterly affection for Eponine-- as Venus bore Eros no-- and herein lay the difficulty. She felt for Eponine as if the other girl were a man-- as if she were Marius the night before, to tell the truth. That said, she certainly had lain with Eponine, in a manner that meant, she believed, wedlock.
But how can I have lain with her? Thought Cosette helplessly, We are not married!. The thought that intruded next-- that being out of wedlock, what she had done to Eponine was rape-- she dismissed that thought with a curse she hadn't known she knew. Rape was a crime, and crime was not a word she would permit to be thought for this, this... whatever it was.
But somewhere in her mind, Cosette equated virginity with being unmarried, and, as she was yet unmarried-- as far as she could fathom, and as far as the public was concerned-- reassured herself on that point. Which left two questions, at least:
Just what had she done with Eponine?
And what About Marius?
Once again the silence was broken by Eponine, who had thought of a question.
She asked, "Cosette... do you love me?"
Ah! That word. If Cosette had thought it possible for Marius, she knew it for Eponine. The question shocked her some, and she answered in a voice like a startled bird." "Yes... yes, I most certainly do!!" Eponine did not reply in words, but rather with a hasty look to see in Toussaint was coming, and then with a soft kiss upon Cosette's little mouth.
No, never a sister, thought Cosette, grasping somehow that whatever this was, it was much more and more serious than the games between girls in the back room of an inn, playing at romance, or two comrades squirming together late at night in a convent. Something had settled like a seed at the bottom of her heart, and begun to grow. It had budded with Marius' letter, and Eponine had made it bloom. In barely a night, Jean Valjean's gentle rose had grown scarlet, and the first thorns were beginning to show.