"Over the way?" said I.
"Yes, my dear girl; alas! for the mutability of human things—Maria Walker is now Mrs. Radstock."
I could not help it; I laughed heartily. I was very glad. I had been interested in the young man, and the dénoûement was delightful.
The firm of Walker and Radstock prospered remarkably without rivalry, despite a great increase in the neighborhood; but the experience of the old man, and the perseverance of the young, frightened away all opposition. They proved satisfactorily that union is indeed strength. Young Radstock was a very good husband. He told me privately that he had fallen in love with Maria the very first day he saw her; and every time I hear from them I am told of a fresh accession to the number of faces that stare across for grandpapa, who generally, when about to pay them a visit, shows himself first at the Bow-window.
THE FRENCH FLOWER GIRL.
I was lingering listlessly over a cup of coffee on the Boulevard des Italiens, in June. At that moment I had neither profound nor useful resources of thought. I sate simply conscious of the cool air, the blue sky, the white houses, the lights, and the lions, which combine to render that universally pleasant period known as "after dinner," so peculiarly agreeable in Paris.
In this mood my eyes fell upon a pair of orbs fixed intently upon me. Whether the process was effected by the eyes, or by some pretty little fingers, simply, I can not say; but, at the same moment, a rose was insinuated into my button-hole, a gentle voice addressed me, and I beheld, in connection with the eyes, the fingers, and the voice, a girl. She carried on her arm a basket of flowers, and was, literally, nothing more nor less than one of the Bouquetières who fly along the Boulevards like butterflies, with the difference that they turn their favorite flowers to a more practical account.
Following the example of some other distracted décorés, who I found were sharing my honors, I placed a piece of money—I believe, in my case, it was silver—in the hand of the girl; and, receiving about five hundred times its value, in the shape of a smile and a "Merci bien, monsieur!" was again left alone—("desolate," a Frenchman would have said)—in the crowded and carousing Boulevard.
To meet a perambulating and persuasive Bouquetière, who places a flower in your coat and waits for a pecuniary acknowledgment, is scarcely a rare adventure in Paris; but I was interested—unaccountably so—in this young girl: her whole manner and bearing was so different and distinct from all others of her calling. Without any of that appearance which, in England, we are accustomed to call "theatrical," she was such a being as we can scarcely believe in out of a ballet. Not, however, that her attire departed—except, perhaps, in a certain coquetish simplicity—from the conventional mode: its only decorations seemed to be ribbons, which also gave a character to the little cap that perched itself with such apparent insecurity upon her head. Living a life that seemed one long summer's day—one floral fête—with a means of existence that seemed so frail and immaterial—she conveyed an impression of unreality. She might be likened to a Nymph, or a Naiad, but for the certain something that brought you back to the theatre, intoxicating the senses, at once, with the strange, indescribable fascinations of hot chandeliers—close and perfumed air—foot-lights, and fiddlers.