Jéricourt turned and found himself face to face with the little young man who squinted so horribly and whom we have already met at the Château d’Eau flower market, with his mother and sister—Monsieur Astianax Glumeau, whose room was on the floor above his parents, on the same landing as Jéricourt’s apartment.
“Ah! is it you, young man?” said the author, as, with a patronizing air, he offered a finger to little Astianax, who deemed himself highly honored by that favor; because, in his eyes, a man who wrote plays which were actually performed was a demigod. “What are you here for, my little rake? to buy a bouquet for some fair one whom you are courting, I suppose?”
“Oh! upon my word, Monsieur Jéricourt! I should not dare—I am too young as yet. However, it isn’t the inclination that is lacking.”
“How old are you, pray?”
“Nineteen.”
“At that age I had already had fifty love-affairs!”
“Oh! but you—an author—that’s a very different matter; you weren’t shy.”
“I never was that; there is nothing more disastrous for a man. If you take my advice, you will cure yourself of that failing.”
“Papa and mamma don’t say so; they want to keep me in leading strings like a poodle. Let them keep my sister so if they choose; that’s all right—she’s a girl! But me! Yes, you’re right; there’s nothing more foolish than a bashful man. But I don’t propose to be bashful any more; I feel inclined to make people talk about me.—Were you buying flowers, Monsieur Jéricourt?”
“Yes—that is to say, I was looking over them; I haven’t decided yet.”