He recalled her remark in the restaurant, the night they had dined at the "Bon Bourgeois."
"He was always very kind to me..."
"Kind?"—with those eyes!—He shuddered slightly, connecting the pair in his mind.
Poor little woman ... what a life!
It sobered him, bringing the best to the surface, and he turned with a very real affection on his handsome face as she opened the door.
But here was a new irresistible Fantine. With bright eyes, she danced toward him, mischief incarnate, her pale face laughing above a peignoir, diaphanous, intimate; showing gleams of silk-shod ankles through the daring draperies.
"You see! I make myself at home ... And now for supper." She laid down a silver tray with a plate and glass and arranged his knives and forks for him.
"Monsieur est servi." She caught up a napkin and threw it gaily over her arm.
"Monsieur will not forget the poor waiter—who—how absurd!—cannot open the wine!" She held out toward him a bottle of champagne.
"Vite, mon cher!—I die of thirst."