"Mon Dieu! It is Monsieur Marot!"
"Hello! Madeleine,—you, Fouchette?"
"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter gayly. "And you,—is it a day to dream of casting one's self into the Seine?"
Meanwhile, the object of this raillery was busily extracting bits of colored paper from his eyebrows and neck,—a wholly useless proceeding, for both girls immediately deluged him with a fresh avalanche.
Madeleine was in her costume à la bicyclette, her sailor hat tipped forward to such a degree that it was necessary for her to elevate her stout chin in order to see anything on a level. Mlle. Fouchette affected the clinging, fluffy style of costume best suited to her figure, while her rare blonde hair à la Merode was her distinguishing feature. She dominated the older and stouter girl as if the latter were an irresponsible junior.
Jean Marot knew very well the type of grisette indigenous to the Quartier Latin.
The day justified all sorts of familiarity, and his black velvet béret and flowing black scarf were an invitation to fraternity, good fellowship, and confidence.
Both young women were in high spirits and carried in bags of fancy netting with tricolor draw-strings their surplus stock of confetti, and an enormous quantity of the surplus stock of other manifestants in their hair and clothing. As fast as Jean picked out the confetti from his neck Mlle. Madeleine playfully squandered other handfuls on him, winding up by covering the young man with the entire contents of her bag at a single coup.
"Ah! Madeleine!"
"Monsieur will buy us some more," replied that young woman.