My wife was asleep; it was only eight o’clock, and we did not breakfast until ten; I had time to go out for a moment. I proposed to visit my former lodgings; I walked in that direction, but it was also the direction in which Nicette lived. Passing through Rue Saint-Honoré, I had not the strength to resist the secret longing that impelled me toward the flower shop. I walked very fast at first, but the nearer I approached it, the more I slackened my pace. I did not intend to go in, nor did I intend to speak to her; but I felt that I would like to see her.
I saw the shrubs standing in front of the shop; I crossed the street in order not to be on the same side. If I should pass close to her, she might speak to me, and I knew that at the sound of her voice I should stop in spite of myself.
I made up my mind at last to pass, and I walked very quickly, just glancing across. But I did not see her; I saw a woman with an ordinary face—oh! not in the least like Nicette. Thereupon I crossed over and walked by the shop; she was not there. I turned, walked back, and stopped, pretending to examine the flowers. The woman came to me and asked:
“Does monsieur wish to buy something?”
“No, no!” I said, and walked away toward my messenger’s stand; I was impatient to question him. But he was not there; I waited nearly an hour, and at last he came; he recognized me at once.
“Your servant, monsieur; if I’d known you was here—— It’s a long time since I saw you, monsieur.”
“That is true; and during that time?”
“Bless me! there’s been lots of changes; the pretty flower girl ain’t there any more.”
“She isn’t?”
“No, monsieur; she sold her stock to Mère Thomas, who you see yonder in her place.”