While Vincent ducks to kiss Fifi's extended hand, Bastien is watching him. Searching for something to dislike—a hesitation to touch her in public, a haste to be done with it. Signs in his tailoring or posture that he's gotten full of himself, maybe, now that he's somebody worth being full of. Hair out of place. Hair too in place.

But there's nothing. He's perfect.

The bastard.

"The pleasure is all mine, of course," he says, straightening up, and casts his hopeful smile at her and Bastien both. "May I join you?"

"Perhaps," Bastien says, without pause, before Fifi can make it too easy on him, "if you can make her laugh. That is the toll."

A conspiracy. He believes in nothing, right now, so much as he believes in Fifi's ability to keep a straight face if she doesn't care for the idea of more company but doesn't want to say so.

Vincent nods like this is a perfectly normal and reasonable request, and returns his focus entirely to Fifi. "Do you like jokes?"