Love talk and table talk are equally indescribable, for the first isa cloud, the second smoke. Fantine and Dahlia were humming a tune,Tholomy?s was drinking, Z?phine laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolierwas blowing a penny trumpet bought at St. Cloud, Favourite was lookingtenderly at Blachevelle and saying,--
"Blachevelle, I adore you."
This led to Blachevelle asking,--
"What would you do, Favourite, if I ceased to love you?"
"I?" Favourite exclaimed, "oh, do not say that, even in fun! If youceased to love me I would run after you, claw you, throw water overyou, and have you arrested."
Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous fatuity of a man whoseself-esteem is tickled. Dahlia, while still eating, whispered toFavourite through the noise,--
"You seem to be very fond of your Blachevelle?"
"I detest him," Favourite answered in the same key, as she seized herfork again. "He is miserly, and I prefer the little fellow who livesopposite to me. He is a very good-looking young man; do you know him?It is easy to see that he wants to be an actor, and I am fond ofactors. So soon as he comes in, his mother says,--'Oh, good heavens!my tranquillity is destroyed: he is going to begin to shout; my dearboy, you give me a headache;' because he goes about the house, into thegarrets as high as he can get, and sings and declaims, so that he canbe heard from the streets! He already earns 20 sous a day in a lawyer'soffice. He is the son of an ex-chorister at St. Jacques du Haut Pas.Ah! he adores me to such a pitch that one day when he saw me makingbatter for pancakes, he said to me, 'Mamselle, make fritters of yourgloves, and I will eat them.' Only artists are able to say things likethat. Ah! he is very good-looking, and I feel as if I am about to fallmadly in love with the little fellow. No matter, I tell Blachevellethat I adore him: what a falsehood, eh, what a falsehood!"
After a pause, Favourite continued,--
"Dahlia, look you, I am sad. It has done nothing but rain all thesummer: the wind annoys me, Blachevelle is excessively mean, there arehardly any green peas in the market, one does not know what to eat; Ihave the spleen, as the English say, for butter is so dear; and then itis horrifying that we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and thatdisgusts me with life."