The Parisian's eyes followed him, and they blazed with suppressed wrath.

Never in all his life had he exercised such self-control as he was exercising then--which was the reason why he had failed to achieve greatness--and he was exercising it for the sake of that child above-stairs, and because he kept ever-present in his mind the thought that she must come to grievous harm if ill befell himself.
But he controlled his passion at the cost of his appetite.

He could not eat, so enraged was he.

And so he pushed the platter from him, and rose.
He turned to Rabecque, and the sight of his face sent the lackey back a pace or two in very fear.

He waved his hand to the table.
"Sup, Rabecque," said he.