She was a flower girl; I was sure of it. The certainty restored my courage to some extent, and made the journey seem less long. I should not have been flattered to act as escort to a fishwoman; and yet, when it is a matter of rendering a service, should one be influenced by such petty considerations? But what can you do? that infernal self-esteem is forever putting itself forward. Moreover, I am no better than other men; perhaps I am not so good; you may judge for yourselves.
“Ah! you sell bouquets, do you?”
“Yes, monsieur; and when you want a nice one, come and see me; I will always have some ready for you, day or night.”
“Thanks.—But how does it happen that, living in Faubourg Saint-Germain, you go to a dance near the Montmartre barrier? I should suppose that you could find balls enough in your own neighborhood.”
“I’ll tell you how that happens. My sister Fanchon has a lover, Finemouche, a brewer, a fine-looking, dark fellow, that all the girls in the quarter are mad over. My mother says that he’s a ne’er-do-well, and don’t want Fanchon to listen to him; but Fanchon’s crazy over him, and she tries all sorts of ways to be with him, on condition that he won’t make love to her except with honest motives. This morning she agreed to come to Montmartre at dusk, sentimentally, to have a drink of milk. But she had to make up her mind to take me; mother wouldn’t have let her go alone. We said we were going to see an aunt of ours, who sells oranges on the boulevard; that was a trick of Fanchon’s. I went with her against my will, especially as Finemouche sometimes gives me a look, that I don’t pay any attention to—on the word of an honest girl!—When we got to Montmartre we found the brewer, who treated us both to a donkey ride. After riding round for two hours, I said it was time to turn our toes toward home; but Finemouche says: ‘Let’s rest a few minutes at the Grand Salon—long enough to eat a salad and have a waltz.’—I didn’t want to accept; but my sister likes waltzing and salad, and I had to let her have her way. So we went to the Grand Salon. Fanchon danced with Finemouche; so far, everything went well enough. But, as luck would have it, in comes Beauvisage, a fellow who works in a pork shop on our street. He’s another fellow who makes love to all the girls, and who’s taken it into his head to have a passion for me.”
“You don’t seem to lack adorers, Nicette.”
“I have one or two, but it ain’t my fault. God knows, I always receive ’em with my fists closed. But these men! the crueler you are, the more they hang on! I have shown Monsieur Beauvisage that I don’t like his attentions; I always throw his presents in his face; but it don’t make any difference: just as sure as I leave my stand for a minute, when I come back I find a sausage among my roses, or a pig’s foot on my footwarmer. Why, the other day, my birthday, he actually came to wish me many happy returns, with a white pudding, and truffled at that! But all that don’t touch my heart; I told him that I wouldn’t have him, before all the old gossips of the quarter; and I threw his pudding in his face. He went away in a rage, swearing that he’d kidnap me. So you can imagine that I shivered with fright when I saw him come into the Grand Salon, especially as I know what a hot-headed fellow he is.—Would you believe, monsieur, he had the cheek to ask me to dance, just as if nothing had happened! I refused him flat, because I ain’t two-faced. He tried to force me to dance; Finemouche came running up and ordered him to let me alone instantly, at which he held me all the tighter. Cadet handled him so rough that they went out to fight. My sister Fanchon blamed me, because it made her mad to have her lover fight for me. But the worst of it all is that Finemouche, who had drunk a good deal with his salad, was beaten by Beauvisage. Fanchon ran off as soon as she saw her lover on the ground; I tried to do the same, but my tormentor ran after me. At last I caught sight of you, monsieur, and that gave me courage; I was sure you’d protect me; I grabbed your arm, and that’s all.”
Nicette’s story interested me; and the thing that pleased me most was that she seemed to be virtuous and had no lover.—“What difference did that make to you?” you will say; “as you were a young man in society, of course you would not make love to a flower girl.” True; I had no such purpose; and yet, I became conscious that for some moments I had been pressing the girl’s arm more tenderly than before. But it was because I was distraught.
“Do you think my mother will beat me, monsieur?”
“I don’t see why she should be angry; you have done nothing wrong.”