"By all appearances, it's being pampered," Feuilly replies.
Bahorel looks vaguely disgusted. "On a table?"
"I'm sure these tables have seen worse," he says after a slight pause.
"That's not the point," he argues. "Animals don't belong on tables." He grew up in the country; can you tell?
"Tell them that," he says. He figures if Courfeyrac or Combeferre argues, Bahorel could always take them. "There's no animals on this table, if you'd like to sit."
This earns him a grin. "Merci," he says as he sits down.
"Of course." A small, fleeting smile in reply. "How are you?"
Bahorel is still staring at the offending kitten. "Can't complain. And you?"
"I'm well enough. Is..." He follows Bahorel's gaze. "...are you frightened of cats?"
He turns to look at Feuilly, looking half amused, half offended. "I grew up on a farm, Feuilly."
"Oh, right, of course," he says, glancing a bit embarrassedly at his hands. "Why the fascination, then?"
"Cats belong in stables, not in cafes," he shrugs.
"Maybe he plans to leave it, to catch mice," he suggests.
Bahorel snorts. "From the looks of it, he's more likely to let it sleep in his bed than leaving it here."
Feuilly raises an eyebrow. "Yes, well. Perhaps he's a rat problem at home." His tone suggests his high doubt of that.