Jean Ficelle cast a bantering glance at his comrade, saying:
"He seems to be having a famous spree to-day, does the magistrate's pet!"
Again Sans-Cravate made no reply; but he clenched his fists, and it was evident that he had difficulty in restraining the feelings which agitated him.
More than an hour had passed, when Bastringuette appeared on the boulevard. She had no tray, and was dressed in her best clothes: cap with broad ribbons, merino shawl, and black silk apron. She glanced at the messengers out of the corner of her eye as she passed. Sans-Cravate quickly turned his head and walked away. But Jean Ficelle ran after the flower girl and accosted her:
"Ah! bless my soul! how natty we are! Where can we be going in such a rig? to a wedding, at the very least! it can't be less than that."
"Dame! perhaps that's what it is," retorted Bastringuette, assuming a very sportive air. "Perhaps I'm going to be married myself, nobody knows! Husbands are always on hand!"
She walked on without another word. Jean Ficelle returned to Sans-Cravate, glanced at him, and said nothing.
But Sans-Cravate could not contain himself; a moment later, he cried:
"What did she say? Where's she going? Why don't you speak?"
"She seemed to be as gay as a lark. She said that perhaps she was going to be married. You understand the riddle? She'll be married in the thirteenth arrondissement."[G]