You keep going, still in German.
“And since you seemed concerned about whether I could understand you, I thought it only courteous to reassure you. Shall I bring the bottle, or would you prefer something less expensive and more suited to men who perform wealth when they run short on character?”
Éloi actually inhales sharply.
The sound is small, but delicious.
Armand’s gaze changes. Until this moment, he had been looking at you as one might inspect cutlery, deciding whether it is decorative or useful. Now he looks at you the way men like him look at locked doors. Not with respect, but with alertness. An object has become an obstacle. An invisible girl in an apron has suddenly demonstrated the capacity to rearrange the atmosphere of his evening.
He switches back to French.
“What is your name?” he asks.
You could answer sweetly. You could soften the edges. You could pretend the exchange was amusing and try to make the room safe again. That is what many people expect from women in service: resilience translated into comfort for the person who insulted them.
Instead you answer simply.
“Maëlle Rouvière, monsieur.”
