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. tholomyes was drinking. zephine 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 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."
餐桌上的谈话和情侣们的谈话同样是不可捉摸的，情侣们的谈话是云霞，餐桌上的谈话是烟雾。
法梅依和大丽哼着歌儿，多罗米埃喝着酒，瑟芬笑着，芳汀微笑着。李士多里吹着在圣克鲁买来的木喇叭。宠儿脉脉含情地望着勃拉什维尔说道：
“勃拉什维尔。我爱你。”
这话引起了勃拉什维尔的一个问题。
“宠儿，假使我不爱你了，你将怎样呢？”
“我吗！”宠儿喊着说，“唉！不要说这种话，哪怕是开玩笑，也不要说这种话！假使你不爱我了，我就跳到你后面，抓你的皮，扯你的头发，把水淋到你的身上，叫你吃官司。”
勃拉什维尔自诩多情地微笑了一下，正如一个自尊心获得极端满足而感到舒服的人一样。宠儿又说：
“是呀！我会叫警察！哼！你以为我有什么事做不出的！
坏种！”
勃拉什维尔，受宠若惊，仰在椅上，沾沾自喜地闭上了眼睛。
大丽吃个不停，从喧杂的语声中对宠儿说：
“看来，你对你的勃拉什维尔不是很痴心吗？”
“我，我厌恶他，”宠儿用了同样的语调回答，重又拿起她的叉子。“他舍不得花钱。我爱着在我对面住的那个小伙子。那小子长得漂亮得很，你认得他吗？他很有做戏子的派头。我喜欢戏子。他一回家，他娘就说：‘呀！我的上帝！我又不得安静了。他要叫起来了。唉，我的朋友，你要叫破我的脑袋吗！’因为他一到家里，便到那些住耗子的阁楼上，那些黑洞里，越高越好，他在那里又唱又朗诵，谁知道他搞些什么！下面的人都听得见。他在一个律师家里写讼词，每天已能赚二十个苏了。他父亲是圣雅克教堂里的唱诗人。呀！他生得非常好。他已经爱我到这种地步，有一天，他看见我在调灰面做薄饼，他对我说：‘小姐，您拿您的手套做些饼，我全会吃下去。’世界上只有艺术家才会说这样的话。听！他生得非常好。我已要为那小白脸发疯了。这不打紧，我对勃拉什维尔还是说我爱他。
我多么会撒谎！你说是吗？我多么会撒谎！”
宠儿喘了口气，又继续说：
“大丽，你知道吗？我心里烦得很。落了一夏季的雨，这风真叫我受不了，风又熄不了我心头的火，勃拉什维尔是个小气鬼，菜场里又不大有豌豆卖，他只知道吃，正好象英国人说的，我害‘忧郁病’了，奶油又那么贵！并且，你瞧，真是笑话，我们竟会在有床铺的房间里吃饭，我还不如死了的好。”