Initially nodding earnestly in confirmation, she paused and began shaking her head instead because there was no possible way for her to explain more clearly than she already had. What was he still missing? Of all people, she thought Michel would have understood what she had done and why, and Mabelle's initial satisfaction faded into a confused disappointment when she realized how displeased he was. There was only one conclusion her mind could piece together: he didn't love her back. And that shouldn't have hurt so much as it did, because she never had reason to suspect otherwise. Suddenly she didn't know what she had been hoping to accomplish at all.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, the best idea since she didn't know how else to get across to him. Her conversation with Mobius earlier that evening had convinced her of that even if indirectly, but she knew better than to bring his uncle into this and definitely wasn't going to start throwing out excuses or blame. He wasn't the one that put the idea in her head after all, but he did give her the desperate motivation to carry through with it. And perhaps the alcohol had really prevented her from thinking the consequences all the way through.
Though not unaware of the danger of the situation she put herself in, Mabelle wasn't too frightened when he roughly pulled her to her feet, or even when his hands wrapped around her neck. And at that moment, she knew better than to mistake it as anything affectionate, though she couldn't help but lean into it. "Just the one..." she choked out once she could breathe again.
Perhaps she should have taken it as her cue to leave when he hurried away, but he hadn't told her to get out yet, though she sensed it coming. It wasn't quite guilt that she felt, nor regret because she had told him she wouldn't, but she did realize her responsibility for Michel's pain. She really didn't want for him to die from it.
Dropping the knife and the eye off on the table on her way over, Mabelle wiped her hands off on the front of her dress. "Here," she offered her own clean and neatly folded handkerchief from the same pocket she had smuggled the knife, one of the few things she had kept from her days of affluence. It was neatly embroidered with her initials and flowers, a gift from the last time she had seen her grandfather, but if it were to get ruined she supposed this was the situation that most warranted it.