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 down stairs! 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."

CHAPTER VII--THE WISDOM OF THOLOMYES

In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously
all at once; i