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[Again, finding himself unable to quite lie, be it for the sake of preservation of feelings or his own gain or otherwise, some colour hastens onto Marius' face.]

He knows not, to be sure... he was sick with fever, at the time of its being lost.

But that he thinks so is certain.

[Still, while it was likely, her having it did not perhaps mean she'd stolen it. Especially if she might be willing enough to return it.]

I know not what to believe, only that it ought to be returned.

[He should make a habit of it himself, having the Inspector's pistols still.]

[She opens her eyes and shakes her head.]

I do not have it, Monsieur. Though what is the use in me telling you that? It is true - but he will not believe me. So it does not matter, really, what I say, does it?

[She shrugs. She can at least honestly say that the device is not in her possession. Now, anyway. But it distresses her that Marius thinks her capable of such a crime.]

monsieur? Do you... Come. Come and look. He will have to believe me then. And perhaps... Whilst you're here... We can have tea. Have you tried it? Monsieur Tarrant showed it to me - it is good. It is filling.

...If you say it is so, then it is so.

[Perhaps it is unwise, but he does trust her. And accordingly, looks crestfallen. He's failed at the one thing the man who helped to save him saw it fit he do.

He would... merely have to keep looking for it, then. He had free nights in which to search and question; he would go forth while Cosette slept.

Glancing back at Eponine, wearing every obvious mark of disappointment, he shook his head faintly, needing to force himself to focus on her words now. At least he should not owe her more favours, in this case. Although, he might own her them in the stead of her odious father, on behalf of his... and on behalf of Cosette.

Such burdens seemed insurmountable at times, but he could not abandon them.]

I will say that you have told me so, and that I trust it is so, that he might also. I will continue searching.

[As for tea...]

I've no need to search your apartment. [His brow furrows, a bit shocked by such a thing; he himself was no officer, and snooping among a woman's things was a hugely immodest prospect to him.] I have had tea before, yes.

[It seems a bizarre question to him-- but ah. Poor dove. Poverty had its way, and he felt a shock of pity at her gruesomeness. The luxury of warm water and herbs... but the world could be cruel and kind, couldn't it?]

Marius -

[She should tell him. She should confess. But - but he'd hate her. He'd hate what she had done. She couldn't tell him. She couldn't bear to have him turn his back on her.]

He won't believe it. He won't believe you. Me. He believes only that I am a thief, that I am bad. I have no grace. I am ugly and a thief and rubbish for the gutter.

[She shrugs] What is to be done - only, tell me - where is he? The inspector? Why does he send you to ask me when he has no qualms about questioning me himself? He has taken my dresses and my book once - so why does he send you now?

[She says nothing about the tea. Just another disappointment. Just another flip of her stomach as she is rejected once more.]

[He thought it was a bit forward of her to use his name only; but perhaps she had found his questions rude, and now was seeking to be rude in return.

His expression pinched slightly, but at her own questions, he grew bold. Squaring his shoulders just so, he spoke in a tone that was decisive.]

He ails still, and resides at the hospital in recovery. He thought that should you know of its whereabouts, you should like it better if I were to come and collect it from you, as we were neighbors in the past.

[Javert's actual reasoning was too absurd for him to fully comprehend. He knew, perhaps, in the haze of his memory that Eponine had chided him about love in the moments of her dying... but this all seemed so faraway, so surreal to Marius, that having her here and alive only made that tragic end seem even more a fiction, even more mysterious and best left forgotten.

Still...]

I owe the Inspector in part that I am still alive and breathing. That he should make a request of me is natural, and I must not be so ungrateful as to refuse it. If you know not of it, then very well. For having listened to my question, thank you.

[Her shoulders, in turn, sag. Her face softens.]

You are so good, Marius. Monsieur. Always so good.Of course you could not refuse him.

[She closes her eyes again, just for a second, just briefly]

I don't have it. It is not here, I can promise you. But... won't you come for tea? Won't you see my lodgings? I have a cottage - and cake and -

[And what is the point? He could have said, 'you're not rubbish, Eponine'. 'You don't belong in the gutter, Eponine.' 'You have grace, you have beauty. Do not listen to Javert.'

But he hadn't breathed a word of it. She turns her head slightly away from the camera, and swallows yet another lump in her throat.]

[He doesn't think himself overly good as a rule. But certainly not so because he was seeking to repay what surely was owed to a man who was also his senior.

That Eponine should look so melancholy took him aback again, and he could not guess the reason for it. He had been clear that he intended no slight to her, despite ample evidence that she was from a family of criminal proceedings.

For that self-same reason, and her excessive poverty at the Gorbeau House, he could not fathom taking tea and cakes from her. It seemed outlandish at very best, even if their locale and circumstance was much adjusted now. Besides which--]

It should not be very proper, no. To dine alone with a woman of acquaintance.

Acquaintance? But - we are friends, aren't we? Friends... no. No, you are right, Sir. It is not fitting for a gentleman like you to be friends with a woman such as I.

[She laughs, high pitched and bitter]

Just think, the Baron and the gat - yes, I know who you are, Sir. But it is proper for you dine with that girl. That Cosette - though you know her origins are as bad as mine.

[She shrugs. It's a harsh jibe, and it will hurt her for a long time because she knows it will hurt Marius too. But at the same time, it felt good to say it. Perhaps it WOULD make him look at her, consider her, when he realises that she and Cosette are the same.]

['Of acquaintance', he had thought to be a kindness. He should never pretend not to know her name or her face, and he should offer her help, where he was capable of it. But friend? Friends with a woman? Was such a thing even possible? His only attachment to the gender in general was through Cosette; the rest, he felt in a way, laughed at him and thought him very dull or stupid. He in return found them strange and dim by comparison to his Cosette. There were the women of family, who he had no opinion on, but was good to. The older ladies, who were not so much women in his mind, but matrons. The young ones, who were but girls and to whom he felt the protective fondness of an adult, perhaps. But 'women' as they were, young and unmarried and fancily-dressed... such apparitions almost frightened him, at times. He should not wish to talk to them on their own, for fear of being found wanting, or for the worse fear of wounding Cosette.

Eponine, as it were, was not so much one such woman. She looked older beyond her years and she had marks of poverty so severe that she had the full attention of Marius' pity, without awakening the sensations that speaking with her might be out of line with modesty, owing to her age and her lack of male attachment.

However, trips to her home, when she had new dresses and bonnets, for tea... these were markings of ladies, the ladies that Marius dutifully avoided. Even he knew that such a thing was impossible, even with such a girl as this. It would be improper.

...Still.

Still, her words hit him as truly and deeply as she had meant for them too, as truly and deeply as his own lack of words had unintentionally hit her. That he is wounded shows plainly. He paled mildly, eyes going a bit wider and lips parting, his brow showing a sort of confusion over so cruel a comment.

The hurt remains on his face, but not in his eyes, whose gaze slowly hardened with anger.

His voice, when he found the will to speak, carried the marks of both.]

You had made a promise to me not to bring such a matter up, against my Cosette. You had given me your word.

[He reminded, a little appalled.]

This meanness is unwarranted. I will not have another word of it, do you hear me? Not another sound of it. [Snapped, raising his voice just barely by the end, exceedingly ruffled by the jab.]

I promised I would tell nobody else.

[His tone, rather than his words hit her, and it hit hard. He was cross, furious - and he was ordering her - just as he had that time in the fields, when he had taken her shoulders and had shaken her so hard she had laughed.

She did not feel like laughing just then.

This was serious - serious enough that he had almost shouted at her.]

You're cross with me, Sir.

[Her voice, on the contrary, is soft. She attempts to make it soothing, but her guttural tones do not allow for much softness to her tone.]

Well... Sir. We are not so different... we are not so different, her and me.

Cosette-- Cosette would never say a mean word against you. You were unkind to her, and your unkindness now extends to us both.

But she should never have insulted you, it is so.

There is your difference.

[He scolded, gaze strong.

Through insulting Cosette, she insulted him too, and his every happiness. Over what? An item lost?

It was an excessive cruelty!]

Edited 2013-06-01 00:54 (UTC)

No! That's not -

[ That wasn't what she'd meant. She'd meant their origins, their backgrounds. and now he was scolding again. She takes a deep breath, trying to control herself, to prevent the tears, to stop herself from saying something else she'd regret.]

Cosette is perfect, Sir.

[Her tone dripped with bitterness, sarcasm. God, Cosette. It should be HER!]

[He stared a moment, lips pursed just lightly, before he shook his head.]

...Good day.

[And then hung up. What else ought he to do? He felt enraged on the behalf of his beloved and if Eponine would only sling arrows at them both, fiery insults, then what point was there in communication?

Thenardier or not, he would not stand for it.]

[And for a long, long time, she stares at her blank dreamberry. Her mind is a whirlwind, but the predominant anchor of it all, the knowledge in the eye of the storm - Marius hates her. Marius hates her and it is her fault.

A long, long time after he has put down the video call on her, he'll get a text through. Just one word, out of all those she wishes she could say to him.]

SORRY

[He read the message as it came, but could fathom no reply.

He would see to his duty that the girl remained well, but otherwise, a soul so uncouth who would seek to torment an angel was not a welcome phantom. His and Cosette's life would be without shadows, he was determined. All lights.

He did not return her message.]

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