“Upon my word, Mademoiselle Violette, it’s impossible to stop in front of your booth, it seems!” said Jéricourt, turning angrily away. “I congratulate you on the way you treat your customers, and especially on the champion you have chosen for that purpose. If it’s for him that you insist on remaining a flower girl, it doesn’t speak well for your taste.”
“What’s that? what did the dark-haired dandy say?” cried Chicotin, rising and tossing the cabman his hat. “I didn’t understand his apology.”
“I don’t know what the gentleman said,” exclaimed Violette, “but I do know this, Monsieur Chicotin, that you have played the same trick two days in succession on people who were standing in front of my shop; and I propose that it shall stop; if not, I know to whom to complain.”
During this exchange of words, young Astianax had risen, with a lump on his forehead, and both knees of his trousers torn; because he wore straps under his feet, which inevitably caused the cloth to tear at the slightest strain.
The rents that he saw in his trousers seemed to distress young Astianax; he heaved a deep sigh and muttered:
“Sapristi! and it’s only the second time I have worn them!”
Thereupon, giving no further thought to the bouquet or to his quarrel, the little fellow walked rapidly away, trying to hold his hands over the holes in his garments, which his short coat did not cover.
Meanwhile the elderly gentleman had held the bouquet in his hand, still leaning rather heavily on his cane.
“Nobody will dispute possession of these flowers with me any more,” he said at last. “My two rivals have abandoned the ground; it’s a dangerous place, it seems, if I am to believe what that gentleman said.—Ha! ha! you rascal! is it true that you amuse yourself throwing down mademoiselle’s customers?”
“Oh, no! it’s only a joke, monsieur!” Chicotin replied slyly; “but I have bad luck, I never hit the ones I aim at.”