“Really, mademoiselle, I am terribly distressed—it was very awkward of me.”
“It is certain, monsieur, that if you had looked in front of you this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I trust that I have not hurt you?”
“Me? oh, no! But I’m afraid that my flowers are crumpled; however, I will fix them all right at home.”
“Ah!” said I to myself; “she’s a flowermaker; as a general rule, the young ladies who follow that trade are not Lucretias; let us see if I cannot scrape acquaintance with her.”
She replaced her box under her arm, and went her way. I walked by her side, saying nothing at first. I have always been rather stupid about beginning gallant interviews; luckily, when one has once made a start, the thing goes of itself. However, from time to time I ventured a word or two:
“Mademoiselle walks very fast. Won’t you take my arm? I should be delighted to escort you. May I not be permitted to see you again? Do you go to the theatre often? I could send you tickets, if you chose. Pray be careful; you will surely slip!” and other polite phrases of that sort, the conventional thing in nocturnal meetings.
To all this I obtained no reply save:
“Yes, monsieur;” “no, monsieur;” “leave me, I beg you!” “you are wasting your time;” “don’t follow me.”
Sometimes she made no reply at all, but tossed her head impatiently, and crossed to the other side of the boulevard. But I crossed in her wake; and after a few moments of silence, I risked another remark, giving to my voice the most tender and sentimental inflection conceivable.