Whatever loving audience Vincent imagines Claude has had, it has never included anyone he'd consider taking out for dinner, no. Far from it. Claude was rising in ranks, before Pavel came to Paris and he certainly did receive love letters every now and then when he'd danced particularly high-profile roles, but the senders had always gone by names such as Charlotte or Irene and thus, his attention had never extended beyond complimentary notes back. One mustn't disappoint the patrons who pay to see him and whose interest could fuel his career on the long run, but taking a young lady out for dinner would send very definite signals not only to her, but to her family. If Claude is ever to marry, he certainly won't marry a woman who holds any romantic feelings for him. It would be too cruel and he isn't a cruel man, he'd like to think.

Remaining quiet for a long time, his shoes tap across the more level, more worn pavement of the Avenue de l'Opéra. His hands sink low along his sides while he considers how to present the issue to Vincent without either offending him or scaring him away. "Usually, the people who show that level of investment in my person aren't someone I would waste that kind of attention on," he settles with. Keeps his eyes focused on the long stretch of sidewalk ahead. The women they pass fall into one of two categories, either clad in their big fur coats still or hoping for gentler weather by mere willful thinking. A delivery boy, hardly more than twelve, runs past him on his right, managing not to bump into him even as he jumps through the narrow space where Claude is passing by a young, seemingly newly-married couple.

And to be completely clear, unmistakably clear - he slowly adds, inclining head enough to cast a look at Vincent's face first, then at the ghostly facade of the window front behind him which reflects the somewhat hesitant look in Claude's eyes back at him: "So, no. I shouldn't say."