Georget stopped a few feet away from the flower girl, and looked at her; but she was so busy over her bouquets that she did not see him, or at least did not seem to see him; so he decided to accost her.
“Good-morning, Mamzelle Violette.”
“Ah! is it you, Monsieur Georget?”
“Yes, it’s me; I have been here some time already, within a few feet of you, looking at you; but you didn’t deign to glance in my direction.”
“I didn’t deign! what does that mean? Do you think that I wouldn’t have said good-morning to you if I had seen you? Do you accuse me of being impolite now?”
“Oh, no! that isn’t what I mean, mamzelle; but sometimes, when one doesn’t care to talk with a person——”
“Are you going to begin that again, Georget? If I didn’t want to talk with you, what compels me to? I believe that I am my own mistress—alas! only too much my own mistress, as I don’t know my parents, and my last protectress, Mère Gazon, is lying yonder in the cemetery.”
“Well, now you are sad! I tell you, Mamzelle Violette, I was terribly sad last night too, for my mother was sick, and we were short of money.”
“Why didn’t you tell me so, Georget? I would have lent you money. You know very well that I have some, that I sell as much as I want to sell, and that it wouldn’t have troubled me at all.”
“Oh! upon my word! Borrow money of you, of you, mademoiselle! never!”