"Don't forget to read the verses, mademoiselle; there's verses written on the paper," said the concierge, when he delivered the bunches of violets.
"All right; I'll read everything, but I shall not answer anything."
Georgette had read the quatrain, and was humming the vaudevillist's ballad, which was written to the tune of La Boulangère, laughing heartily at the words:
| "Vous avez un minois fripon, |
| Une taille tres-fine; |
| L'œil assassin, le pied mignon, |
| La tournure mutine; |
| J'admire enfin votre jupon |
| Et tout ce qu'on devine |
| De rond, |
| Et tout ce qu'on devine!"[E] |
when the concierge appeared once more, with the package of photographs of actors; and a few moments later with the box adorned with cupids.
"What! more?" said Georgette. "Why, these gentlemen seem to have passed the word around to-day to pay compliments to me!"
"Faith! yes, mademoiselle, they're standing in line at my door. But I don't complain; to tell you the truth, all these young men are well intentioned; all they want is to pay their respects to you; that's what they told me to tell you."
"I accept the little gifts, monsieur; they serve to keep up—pleasant relations; but be good enough to say to these gentlemen that I do not want their respects, and beg them not to take the trouble of coming to offer them to me."
"The devil!" muttered the concierge, as he went away; "the young shirtmaker is one of the virtuous kind, it seems; and these gentlemen won't have anything to show for their presents! But in spite of that, she accepts everything that comes!"
Georgette had just received the package of simples presented by the young doctor and had repeated her previous reply to the concierge, when Monsieur de Mardeille's valet presented himself at her door.