“But I only have to deliver the bouquet,—it is paid for.”
“No matter; come in, mamzelle, she wants to speak to you; wait a minute.”
And the girl was almost pushed into a small salon the door of which was at once closed upon her.
“To be sure,” thought Violette, “that servant told me that his mistress wanted to order a bouquet for a ball to-morrow. I will wait. It isn’t very fine here; it’s pretty enough, but it’s funny that there’s no coquetry, no taste in the arrangement; I should think that I was in a gentleman’s room rather than a lady’s. And that woman who let me in—she’s neither a lady’s maid nor a cook. I believe that I am rather frightened here; I am inclined to go away.”
And Violette had already taken several steps toward the door of the salon, when it opened and Jéricourt appeared before her, in dressing-gown and slippers, like a person in his own home.
The flower girl uttered a cry; she realized that she had fallen into a trap; but in an instant she recovered her courage, and Violette had an ample store of it; in her case, fright was but temporary. She raised her head therefore and gazed steadfastly at the man before her.
Jéricourt assumed one of his most winning smiles and stepped toward the girl.
“You didn’t expect to see me, did you, bewitching damsel?”
“No, monsieur, I am waiting for a lady, Madame de Belleval; am I in her apartment?”
“Madame de Belleval is—is my aunt, dear child, and I live with her.”