Claude stops when they reach the front door of his building. Someone has forgotten to shut it again, the staircase visible only as a deeper darkness through the slight crack they've left behind. If he knows the other residents, it's probably the landlord's youngest. She is a very popular acquaintance among the men around these streets. He's seen her crawl out windows as well, hasn't he? Turning to face Vincent, he frees his bouquet (his gift) from underneath his right arm and weighs it in the grip of one hand. It weighs nothing, comparatively to what he usually carries around, but despite the Parisian ballerinas' combined rosewaters, he thinks he prefers this. This. He is nowhere within either distance or familiarity of Vincent to know his scent, but men are distinctive. No whiffs of artificial flowers can water down their physical markers.

"I can get you tickets for the end of the run; I'll be unrivalled by then." Good-humoured confidence, of course. Said with a smile, because he knows his strengths and his weaknesses equally and a handsome face bringing him flowers seems to rank as high in one category as it does in the other. Such is the world they live in these days - complex, too complex sometimes. Claude has found that he takes a certain pleasure in rebelling against it, every so often. Thus, he doesn't hold on to the invitation for too long. He lets it slip almost as if it were innocent. For the most part, it is. "Come with me up. I would like to offer you a glass of cognac."