Little Astianax walked for some distance among the booths and shrubs, for it was flower market day on Boulevard Saint-Martin; then he approached Violette with an indifferent air and began to look at her flowers. The girl, recognizing the little man with the squint, acted as if she did not see him and kept on making a bouquet.
“All these flowers are lovely! they are all as fresh as you are!” said Astianax at last, vexed because the flower girl paid no attention to him.
“Does monsieur want another bouquet that speaks?” said Violette with a mischievous expression.
“No, mademoiselle; you see, I have found out that there is no need of that to make myself understood; it is much better to say myself what—what I have already said to you several times: that you are maddeningly beautiful, and that I adore you!”
“Dear me! I assure you, monsieur, that it tires me to hear the same thing over and over again.”
“Ah! it tires you, does it?” retorted the little man, assuming an impertinent tone. “Indeed! that’s a great pity! But still I am not inclined to stop. Why should I lose courage? You are not so unkind as you choose to appear; as you have been sensible to the attentions of others, why should you not become so to me?”
“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur, but once more I beg you not to talk this way to me.”
“Ah! don’t pretend to be angry like this, my lovely flower girl; it won’t go down with me again. Have you forgotten that I saw you coming out of Monsieur Jéricourt, my neighbor’s? I live on his landing. Oh! you were tremendously agitated, and well rumpled when you left his room.”
“Monsieur! what you say is outrageous!”
“Outrageous! Do you mean to say that I lie? Will you dare to say that it isn’t so?”