Well. He supposed having a friendly chat with Father Richards was out of the question at the moment.

The only answer Malachi gave in response to Chéri's question was a noncommittal dip of his head to the side. No, he hadn't slept well, and he wondered if they'd been able to hear it each time he'd left and returned to his room through the night -- if they were only asking in an attempt to jab at that. He assumed as much, given the peculiar tension he'd felt in the air as soon as the three of them saw him.

(Had he offended all three of them that badly? His dark gaze held steady on Francis' smiling face, but it was difficult not to take his leave.)

Chéri commented on the quality of the milk. Francis tapped a hand on the table. Malachi stared at the spot, and a few moments later, seated himself beside the beggar as requested.

"Ah," a small frown appeared on his face. Francis didn't know French, then... and Father Richards likely hadn't introduced them. Malachi adjusted his glasses and said, "no, nothing. Just that it is very good. This is Chéri."

He gestured to the youth, and then back to Francis. If the two could not speak directly, he could at least close the gap for them.

"Chéri, this is Francis Tully. He is also a guest here."