“Ni-Ni-i-cette, monsieur.”
“Well, my little Nicette, have courage; stop crying, and take my arm. I will take you home to your mother.”
“Real—Really?”
She jumped for joy; indeed, I believe that she was on the point of embracing me; but she contented herself with taking my arm, which she pressed very close in hers, saying:
“Ah! I was sure that you wouldn’t leave me in such a pickle. I’m a good girl, monsieur; the whole quarter will tell you that Nicette’s reputation’s as clear as spring water. But my mother is so ugly! and then my sister’s jealous because she says I make soft eyes at Finemouche.”
“You can tell me all about it on the way. Where are we going?”
“Oh, dear! it’s quite a little distance. I have a stand at the Croix-Rouge, and I live on Rue Sainte-Marguerite, where my mother keeps a fruit shop.”
From Faubourg Montmartre to the Croix-Rouge! that was enough to kill a man! If only I could find a fiacre! I believe that I would even have taken François’s cabriolet, at the risk of having Belotte take the bit in her teeth; but no carriage of any sort passed us. I had no choice but to make the best of it; so I took Nicette by the arm and forced her to quicken her pace.
“You are a peddler, Nicette,” I said; “what do you sell?”
“Bouquets, monsieur; and they’re always fresh, I flatter myself.”