Fingers twitching in response to the tightening grip, Mabelle breathed in slowly, no longer wishing he'd let go for the sake of getting away but her growing discomfort. "Stop touching me," she requested quietly, as politely as she could manage, not really wanting to explain why.
She couldn't quite disagree with the accusation, already suspecting such for plenty more reasons than he'd ever know, though somebody else openly recognizing it made the fact more difficult to ignore. It was an easily hidden sickness, given the political climate of crowds cheering on the constant stream of public executions. Nobody really questioned her interests, contributing her enthusiasm merely to patriotism. "Coming from you," she laughed, hinting at his hypocrisy, "doesn't mean much." Because she suspected his cruelty had very little to do with love of country either. They were both just benefiting from the convenience of the chaos.
"Yes," Mabelle hesitantly replied, not sure where Michel was going with his question, more intrigued than she'd like. She could have lied, but she had already expressed her interest while in Michel's apartment, remembering his collection of instruments.