“The devil! that’s annoying; but I should be sorry to apply to another flower girl; on the contrary, I mean to give you my custom.”
“I am quite sure, monsieur, that no other flower girl will have what you want—not in this quarter, at all events. Take my advice, monsieur, and buy this bouquet that I was offering to monsieur—just roses and violets; it’s very pretty, and it’s the last one; I haven’t got anything left to make one like it.”
“I don’t say that it isn’t very nice, but it doesn’t express my meaning—and it isn’t a selam, either.”
“But just see the pretty roses, the lovely buds! Anybody would say it was a lovely bouquet.”
“And I agree with anybody; the bouquet is as pretty as the seller; and faith! that’s saying a great deal!”
These last words were uttered by a gentleman of mature years, dressed with some elegance, whose bearing, whose manners, and whose smile even, instantly pointed him out as one who frequented the best society. His features were regular, refined and distinguished; but they also indicated that their owner had taken a great deal out of life; his face was worn, the flesh beneath his eyes was puffed out, his forehead and cheeks were furrowed with wrinkles. In a word, he was naught but a remnant of a very good-looking man, but he still had the comme il faut manner, the intelligent eye, and the slightly impertinent and satirical tone.
This individual was leaning on a very handsome cane, holding in his right hand an eyeglass through which he was examining Violette; he had paused in front of her booth and listened to her last words; and with his eyes fixed upon her lovely face, he muttered between his teeth:
“It’s strange! there is a resemblance—to whom I can’t say; but I know a face like that.”
Jéricourt and little Astianax were greatly surprised when they saw the newcomer take the bouquet from the girl’s hands, saying:
“How much for this bouquet?”