"She is a flower girl, monsieur. Now I think of it, you know her; she is the one you bought a bouquet of the first time I had the honor of meeting you,—when you told me to come with you."
"The deuce! is it possible that it is that pretty, attractive girl? for she is remarkably lovely, this friend of yours."
"Yes, monsieur, yes; she's the one; Violette, they call her."
"But wait a moment—if it's she, why the young dandy who claims to be her lover must be a certain Monsieur Jéricourt."
"Just so, master; Jéricourt's his name—a man who writes plays; do you know him?"
"I dined with him a short time ago."
"Do you know him well?"
"No, thank God! Why do you ask me that?"
"Oh! not for any reason; that is to say, I was thinking that if he was a friend of yours, he might not lie so much to you, that's all."
"No, he isn't a friend of mine by any means.—By the way, you say that this girl is sick; has she enough money to be well taken care of?"