“I am very sorry that I am unable to do what you wish; but I do not know you; the dispute between Monsieur Beauvisage and Cadet Finemouche doesn’t concern me. Your sister ran away, and you had better do the same. Your mother may think what she pleases, it is all one to me. It is after twelve o’clock; I have been walking about the streets long enough, and I am going home to bed.”
“What, monsieur! you refuse! you are going to leave me! Think of refusing to go a little out of your way to help a poor girl who is in trouble because of an accident that might happen to anybody. I tell you again that my mother is quite capable of not letting me in if I go home without somebody to answer for me who can swear that I am innocent.”
“And you expect me to swear to that, do you?”
“Pardine! would that skin your tongue? Besides, you’re a fine gentleman, a swell; she won’t dare to fly into a temper before you, and she’ll listen to me. But if I go home alone—what a row! Oh! mon Dieu! how unlucky I am! I didn’t want to go to the Grand Salon at all; I was afraid of something like this.”
And thereupon the tears and sobs began afresh, and she stamped with her little feet. Perhaps her mother would tear out her hair; that would be too bad, for it formed a most becoming frame for that frank, artless countenance. My heart is not made of stone; I was touched by the girl’s distress, and I said to myself: “If, instead of this jacket, she were dressed in silk or even in merino, if she wore a dainty bonnet instead of this round cap, and a pretty locket instead of a cross à la Jeannette, I would long ago have offered my services with great zeal; I would play the gallant and make myself as agreeable as possible; I would cut myself in two to obtain a hearing, and I would regard it as a favor if she would allow me to offer her my arm. And shall this modest costume make me cruel, unfeeling? Shall I refuse to do a trivial favor, which she implores with tears in her eyes? Ah! that would be bad, very bad!”—I had been following a grisette and a grande dame, who perhaps were not worth so much notice as this poor child; I had passed the evening making a fool of myself, and I could certainly devote an hour to a worthy action. I determined to escort my flower girl to her home.
You see, reader, that I sometimes have good impulses; to be sure, the girl pleased me much. “All women seem to please you,” perhaps you will say. True, reader; all the pretty ones; and I venture to say that you are like me.
I drew nearer to my pretty fugitive. She was sitting on a stone, holding a corner of her apron to her eyes, and sobbing.
“Mademoiselle.”
“Mon—monsieur.”
“What is your name?”