第 三十四 章 · A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER

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

he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know

what? so that he can be heard downstairs! He earns twenty sous a day at

an attorney’s by penning quibbles. He is the son of a former precentor

of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me so,

that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to

me: _‘Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters, and I will eat them.’_

It is only artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very

nice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow.

Never mind; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him—how I lie! Hey! How I

do lie!”

Favourite paused, and then went on:—

“I am sad, you see, Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer;

the wind irritates me; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very

stingy; there are hardly any green peas in the market; one does not

know what to eat. I have the spleen, as the English say, butter is so

dear! and then you see it is horrible, here we are dining in a room

with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life.”