“Yes, I am not ashamed to say that I am one of her admirers.”
“I was, but she has fallen infernally in my esteem, since that day—you remember the occasion, Monsieur Jéricourt?”
“Oh! very well, indeed; but after all, why should that make any difference to you? The flower girl is none the less pretty.”
“Of course not! But, you see, I thought that she was innocence personified.”
“Oh! oh!” cried the dandified Saint-Arthur, trying to stuff the head of his cane into his nose, “the idea of a flower girl being a model of virtue! That would be the eighth wonder of the world.—But where is your theatre, monsieur?”
“You will see it in a moment.—But I see my mother and sister; I will introduce you, messieurs.”
“That long bean-pole is his sister,” whispered Saint-Arthur in Jéricourt’s ear.
“Yes, my dear fellow, and I don’t advise you to give her your arm, you would look like her doll!”
“Never fear, I haven’t any desire to do it. What a pity that Zizi isn’t with us! I see that there will be plenty to laugh at here. How she would enjoy it! I fancy that we shall find their comedy decidedly ridiculous! But what are they going to do with all the chairs they are taking out of the garden? Are they moving?”
“Those are the seats being taken to the theatre,” said Madame Glumeau, graciously saluting the two gentlemen, who, although they had just arrived, were already busily engaged in making sport of whatever they saw; “seats for the spectators, I mean. It would be very kind of you, messieurs, to help a little, to take a few chairs into the wood.”