Laertes is just coming back from his own most recent baking adventure--he's made conchas as part of his effort to develop a satisfactory brioche recipe for Grantaire, and he's just set down a tray of them in the café. The sugar topping looks wrong (the cracks aren't nearly so well-defined as they are in the picture in the book), but they taste good enough, so he's considering them a tentative success. He's munching on a final concha when the glow of firelight catches his eye, and then its sheen on familiar curling hair. "Lucien," says Laertes with delight, coming over to drop a kiss on his brow. "Thou art the picture of warmth and cheer. How dost thou?"