Dahlia, still eating, whispered to Favourite through the hubbub, “Are you really so fond of your Blacheville, then?”
“I detest him,” answered Favourite, in the same tone, lifting her fork, “He’s stingy; I’m in love with the boy across the street from me. He’s so nice; do you know him? Anybody can see he was born to be an actor! I love actors. The moment he comes in, his mother hollers, ‘Oh, dear! My peace of mind is ruined. My boy, you are such a trial!’ Just because he goes into the attic among the rats, into the dark corners, as high as he can, and sings and carries on -- How do I know? They can hear him downstairs! He gets twenty sous a day already by writing some stupidities for an attorney. He’s the son of an old choir member of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas! Oh, he’s so nice! He adores me so that one day, watching me make dough for pancake batter he said: ‘Mamselle, make your gloves into fritters and I’ll eat them.’ Nobody but artists can say things like that. I’m going crazy about this boy. No matter, I’ll tell Blacheville that I adore him. How I lie! Oh, how I lie!”
