"Here are some more crumbs for you, Madame Robin. Take them to your children, and tell Monsieur Robin that he is a very bad husband, to let his wife earn the family's bread. That is his duty, and he should do it himself."

The robin chirped, picked up a big fragment with a currant in it, and flew off. Cosette Pontmercy closed the window, smiling. She had been so sad when the last robin had been eaten by a cat; it was good to have another little red-breasted tenant.

Turning away from the window, Cosette clasped her hands and unclasped them. She realized that she for once had nothing to do. Marius was out visiting the graveyard where his friends from the barricade were buried. Cosette had gone once; it seemed dark and gloomy, and she had vowed never to go there again. There was nothing in graveyards except the past, anyway. Cosette had no use for the past; it was sad, it was dark; only the future held promise.

Humming softly to herself, Cosette wandered out of the room. She supposed she could work on some of her embroidery; but really, she did not feel like it right now. A novel lay carelessly on the seat of a chair, and her hand caressed its cover, but she did not stop; it wasn't what she wanted either.

Her restless footsteps took her across another room, through a hallway, up the stairs, and to the doorway Marius's study.

And there--lying on the desk--was a plain book bound in green leather. Cosette trailed her fingers along its spine, then picked it up and opened it. Flipping through a few pages, she saw that it was Marius's diary, but she didn't put it down. It had never occurred to her that Marius might have any secrets from her.

She realized that she was looking at the latest entry--yesterday's. Curious, bored, she began to read.

June 5, 1833

Tomorrow will be the anniversary of the fall of the barricades. I'll go to the graveyard, and visit their graves, honor them as best I can.... And try to explain why they died but I lived.

Why indeed? It still makes me feel guilty, sometimes, to have outlived my friends. I went there only because I thought I'd lost Cosette and wanted to die; but somehow, during the dreadful night, I came to believe in their battle. Maybe it was just seeing so many die for their cause. Or perhaps it was seeing Enjolras fighting on the barricade, his hair whipped by the wind, his face shining not with bloodlust but an austere joy.

What would they say now, if they could see me? Coufeyrac... he, I think, would approve. He would laugh, pat me on the back, tell me that it would be a crime to make a girl as pretty as Cosette don mourning. Combeferre? He would nod and say he understood. But I don't know if he really would. And Enjolras... he, I know, would not forgive me. He, whose only mistress was Patria. He would demand to know why I had lived, when all the others died.

And Eponine.

Cosette started. Eponine. The name stirred a faint memory in the back of her mind, a nightmare that had lain buried for years. For a moment she thought she remembered--then it was gone. Frowning, she almost put the book down, but changed her mind and continued reading.

I can't forgive myself for Eponine. She died for me. If she hadn't done what she did, it would be my blood spattered against the cobblestones, not hers.

Again and again I've told myself that, after all, she wanted me to die. That was why she drew me to the barricades, and she only took that bullet so that she could die first.

But she loved me--

Cosette sat down on the chair with a thump. I don't want to read this, I hate it, no, I won't go on, she thought. But the book wouldn't leave her alone. She couldn't stop.

--loved me. Never had she had anyone to love in all her life; how can I blame her for trying to take love when she found it?

And it was she who brought me to Cosette; without her, I might never have found my angel. She wasn't grasping then; it was only at the end, that she couldn't stop herself from trying to take a little of that love for herself.

Cosette slammed the book shut. Her mind was whirling. Eponine. Why had Marius never told her? Did you love her, Marius? Is that why? No, you called me your angel. You love me. I know that. But why?

Suddenly the image of a thin, dark-haired with dark circles round her eyes flashed into Cosette's mind. She had seen her through the grating a day before Marius first came to her... seen her several times afterwards. Was that Eponine?

The girl's hair had been thin and lusterless, her clothes dirty and ragged. Cosette wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to live like that, cold and forever hungry. What it would be like to love someone you couldn't have. Love him so much you wouldn't try to win him for yourself but would help him find someone else instead.

Would I have done the same in her place?

The thought startled Cosette; she brushed it away quickly. Of course I would. I would do anything for Marius.... would I?

And suddenly Cosette realized that she did not know. She loved Marius and would never do anything to harm him... but it was easy for her. She had never had to sacrifice anything for him.

Would she have done what Eponine did?

Or would she try to keep him for herself?

Just how much did she love Marius? How willing was she to sacrifice for him?

Was there any way to tell?

Cosette set the book on the table and stepped away, trying to banish the troubling thoughts from her mind. But they would not go.

She had always thought her love for Marius was the purest and most intense love any woman had ever felt. But was it? She hadn't died for him. She hadn't given up anything at all for him. Eponine had.

Did you love him more, Eponine? No. No, you didn't. You tried to keep him for yourself.

But I did that too.

Are we any different?

Slowly, she turned back to the table and re-opened Marius's diary.

And I never knew she loved me until she died. If only I had noticed earlier! Then I might have done something. I could never give her my love, not the way she wanted; but I could have helped her, could have gotten her off the streets, could have maybe kept her from dying on a June night when she should have been laughing and dancing.

But there's nothing I can do now, except honor her grave and pray she is with God.

And perhaps, when we meet again, I can ask her to forgive me. Ask them all.

The entry ended there. Cosette let the cover drop shut. She felt... heavy. Older. As if she had peered into a dark corner, and a little bit of the darkness had come away with her.

Never before had she thought of what might have been. But now she did. Now she wondered what might have happened if she had been poor and alone, in love with a man she could not have. If she would have done even as much as Eponine had.

How do I know if I truly love him? How?

The little diary held no answer.

Slowly and agonizingly, she looked back over her heart. For the first time in her life, she tried to analyze her motives.

She was not sure she liked what she saw.

For the more she thought of it, the less sure she was that she could have done any better than Eponine. That she really was any better. Hadn't she tried to keep him for herself as well? And though Marius had wanted her... did she ever stop to consider that? If he hadn't, would she have let him go?

Was it only chance, then? she wondered. Only luck that I am happy and beloved and she is not? That I am the virtuous one?

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed the passing of an hour. Cosette felt as if it were tolling the passing of her life.

For she realized, however dimly, that a part of her life was over.

I've been so... young, Cosette thought. Innocent. Suddenly the word was full of a hopeless luster it had never had before. Never once did I really think about something. I always accepted that things were the way they were with no explanation.

Her eyes stung as she remembered Papa, spending his last months alone in that little room. And she had never thought to question his odd behavior, never considered asking why his trip took so long. If I had questioned things more, would you be alive now, Papa?

She would never know.

I wish I had not read that book, I wish I had never come in, there is no good in the past, I always knew it... No. I'm trying to fool myself again.

Cosette stood up and put the diary back on the table. Slowly, she walked over to the window and looked out.

Maybe there is more value to the past than I thought. At least I've learned something. But what good does it do me now? Papa is dead. I'm like Marius with Eponine, I found out too late.

Looking out the window, she saw the Pontmercy carriage drive up to the door below and stop. Marius got out and knocked on the door.

Marius isn't dead. It's not too late. Maybe I can do better for him.

Because she had learned something.

"Thank you, Eponine," Cosette mumbled, and went down to greet her husband.

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