Chat at table, the chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce one as the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table is smoke. Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyès was drinking.
Zéphine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud. Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said:— 'Blachevelle, I adore you. ' This called forth a question from Blachevelle:— 'What would you do, Favourite, if I were to cease to love you? ' 'I!
' cried Favourite. 'Ah! Do not say that even in jest! If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I would throw you into the water, I would have you arrested.
' Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed:— 'Yes, I would scream to the police! Ah! I should not restrain myself, not at all! Rabble!
' Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly. Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:— 'So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours? ' 'I?
I detest him,' replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again. 'He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, that young man; do you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors.
As soon as he comes in, his mother says to him: ‘Ah! mon Dieu! my peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my head! ’ So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as