Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons

VIOLETTE RESISTS JÉRICOURT

Violette’s hands were active and strong; she put one of them to her persecutor’s face and dug her nails in so far that the blood flowed freely, and the pain forced the young man to relax his hold.

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XV
THE FLOWER GIRL
OF THE
CHÂTEAU D'EAU
VOL. I

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.

THE FLOWER GIRL
OF THE CHÂTEAU D’EAU

CONTENTS

[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII.]

I
PAPA’S BIRTHDAY

It was the month of May in the year 1853—you see that our subject is not lost in the night of time—it was a Monday and there was a flower market on Boulevard Saint-Martin, in front, or rather on both sides of the Château d’Eau. The booths of the dealers extended as far as Rue de Lancry, a favor which had been only recently accorded to the flower girls, but upon which the passers-by had as much reason to congratulate themselves as the dealers and the people of that portion of the quarter. Is there anything more delightful to the eye than flowers? What is there which charms the sight and pleases the sense of smell more?

Are there people who do not love flowers? If you should tell me that there were, I would not believe it.

The weather was fine, which was a rare occurrence during that spring, as you must remember as well as I. The sun had deigned to show himself, and people were very grateful to him, because the sun for the last few years had become too high and mighty a prince in France; he no longer condescended to mingle with the people, he showed himself too rarely to the inhabitants of this part of the globe. And yet, although we do not adore him on our knees, like the Incas, we take no less pleasure in seeing him, in feeling the pleasant warmth of his beams, and although we are great friends of invention and of progress, we have not yet found anything to replace the sun.

There were therefore many people on the boulevards, and particularly near the flower market; everyone was anxious to take advantage of a fine day, not being certain of another on the morrow; and everybody was sensible: fine weather, pleasure and happiness we must seize you when you come to us, and never say: “I will wait till to-morrow.”

Among all the people who were walking and sauntering and examining the flowers displayed on the asphalt or the concrete, there were, as is always the case at that market, more women than men. Do the ladies care more for flowers than we do? I might say some very pretty things on that subject, as for example: “Birds of a feather flock together,” or: “Where can one be more at home than in the bosom of his family?” or again—but no, I will not repeat what you have already seen or heard a hundred times. Moreover, I think that François I said something better than any of that.

Furthermore, if the ladies are fonder of flowers than we are, you see they have much more time to attend to them. I once knew a bachelor, a clerk in a business house, who adored flowers, and although of small means, could not resist the temptation to purchase a handsome rosebush or a wood-violet, which he instantly carried home and placed in triumph on his window-sill. But that gentleman was a heavy sleeper, and when he woke he had hardly time to dress and go to his office. He did not dine at home, and when he returned at night he was always in a hurry to go to bed. The result was that, after two or three days, when he attempted to gloat over the flower that he had purchased, he was surprised to find it dead.

“But why didn’t you water it?” someone would ask him.

“Why—why—because I have noticed that it always rains sooner or later.”

We will, with your permission, allow those of the passers-by who are indifferent to us to go their way, and will follow the steps of a family composed of a mother, her son and her daughter.

The mother’s name was Madame Glumeau; her first name was Lolotte. She was a lady who had reached the wrong side of forty; she had once been pretty, a piquant brunette, whose bright and mischievous eyes made many victims. But time had passed that way! What a deplorable passage, that of time,—a passage which should be well barricaded!

It was not that Madame Glumeau’s features had changed very much. No, her eyes were still very bright, her nose rather delicate; her hair, which was yet black, still fell in thick curls on each side of her face; but she had grown enormously stout, so that her whole figure was changed and her waist enlarged.

Even the face had undergone the influence of that exuberant health; the cheeks had become rotund, the chin had trebled, the neck had shortened, and the complexion had become purple; and there were people who were cruel enough to say to her:

“What perfect health you enjoy! No one needs to ask you how you are!”

At that compliment, Madame Glumeau would try to smile, as she replied:

“That is true, I am not often ill!”

But in the depths of her heart she bitterly lamented having become like a ball, and would willingly have submitted to a severe illness, in order to recover her figure of earlier days. However, as one is always inclined to flatter oneself a little, Madame Glumeau was very far from considering herself a tower, as her dear lady friends called her; and when she looked at herself in the mirror, she still bestowed upon herself a satisfied smile.

Let us come to the two children; we are not speaking of little brats, who have to be led along by the hand, but of a boy of nineteen and a young lady of sixteen.

The young man was very ill-favored; he had no one of his mother’s features, and squinted in too pronounced a fashion, a fact which necessarily imparted more or less vagueness to his countenance; but one might judge from the expression of his face that Monsieur Astianax—that was young Glumeau’s name—was not displeased with his little person, and still less with his wit. Unluckily, nature had not bestowed upon him a figure corresponding to the advantages with which he considered himself to be endowed; despite the high heels that he wore and the double soles that he put in his shoes, Monsieur Astianax Glumeau had been unable to make himself taller than his mother, who was four feet nine.

If young Glumeau was short, his sister, by way of compensation, at sixteen, was as tall as a bean-pole, and threatened to attain the stature of a drum-major. As thin as her mother was stout, Eolinde Glumeau had at all events a face which did her honor; although she was not so pretty as her mother had once been, she had regular features, rather large eyes, a small mouth, fine teeth, and all the freshness of a peach still on the tree. But—for there were always buts in that family—Mademoiselle Eolinde was afflicted with a very noticeable defect of speech; she stuttered in a way that was very tiresome to those who listened to her. Her parents declared that that would cure itself, and as a corrective to that infirmity they insisted that their daughter should talk as much as possible. Mademoiselle Eolinde obeyed her parents to an extent that was sometimes very terrible for her friends and acquaintances.

The Glumeau family had been on Boulevard du Château d’Eau a long while, going from one dealer to another, stopping in front of the flowers, sticking their noses into the finest ones, asking the price, hesitating, and not deciding.

At last Madame Glumeau turned about once more and halted in front of a very handsome pomegranate tree, saying:

“I think I will buy this pomegranate for your father. A pomegranate will please Honoré; he will like it very much.”

“But, mamma, what connection is there between this shrub and my father?” queried young Glumeau, looking toward Boulevard du Temple and Porte Saint-Martin at the same moment.

“What’s that! what connection? What do you mean by that, Astianax? Isn’t to-morrow your father’s fête-day, as his name is Honoré? We are going to give him flowers as usual. I select this pomegranate, which is very handsome; I don’t see what there is in that to surprise you.”

“It isn’t that, mamma; I said: ‘what connection is there between a pomegranate—grenadier—and my father, who has never been a soldier?’ Oh! if he had been a soldier, I could understand your choice of this shrub and the allusion, but——”

“But, my dear boy, you are terribly tiresome with your allusions; you want to put allusions in everything; just wait until you are a man.”

“Excuse me, dear mamma, but flowers have a language; so in your place I should have thought that a myrtle, the emblem of love——”

“My dear boy, I have been giving your father myrtles for twenty years and he must have had enough of them. Everything in life goes by, and we have used the myrtle long enough; it seems to me that I can properly vary it a little. After twenty years one is not forbidden to change bouquets. I have decided, I am going to buy this pomegranate.—Don’t you think, Eolinde, that this will please your father?”

“Oh! ye—ye—yes, it will pl—please him very mu—u—uch.”

“But what are you going to buy for him? You must make up your mind, children, for we intend to go to the play after dinner, and it is getting late.”

“B—b—bless me!” replied the tall young lady, “I would li—i—ike that fl—fl—flower—you know—you know—it’s the—I d—d—don’t see it.”

“But what flower? tell us its name.”

“I d—d—don’t reme—e—ember.”

“In that case, ask the woman if she has any,” said Monsieur Astianax, smiling maliciously, for he very often made fun of the difficulty which his sister had in speaking.

“What a stu—u—u—pid you are, Astianax!” cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders and looking down at her brother as if she were searching for a little dog. “Let me alo—o—one; it’s a flow—ower with b—b—bells.”

“Bells?”

“No, little bell-flowers—brown.”

“Oh, I know what you mean, daughter; it is a—I don’t know the name; but come, I saw some over yonder.”

And the stout lady, having paid for the pomegranate and hired a porter to carry it, led her daughter to the booth of a dealer who had a large assortment of tulips. Mademoiselle Eolinde examined them for some time, then murmured:

“This isn’t what I wanted. No matter, let me see. Oh! they don’t smell—they don’t smell of anything; I’d rather get something else.”

“Well, what? Come, choose.”

“Oh! see that fl—flower over there; a m—m—mag—no——”

“The name makes no difference, let us go and buy it.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde stopped in front of a magnificent magnolia, which had already flowered in the heat of a greenhouse; she placed her nose upon the lovely white egg-shaped blossom, which, as it opened, exhaled a delicious odor of orange and lemon; then she raised her head and said: “That smells too strong.”

“Look here, mamzelle!” cried the flower woman, irritated to see the tall girl take her mother away in another direction, “you mustn’t stick your face on our flowers like that! Did anyone ever see such a bean-pole as that creature who buries her muzzle in the blossom of my magnolia, and then walks off, as if she had been sniffing at my poodle’s tail! Go on, you long-legged cockroach! Go somewhere else and buy Indian pinks, they’ll suit you better!”

The Glumeau family did not hear, or rather pretended not to hear the somewhat forcible complaints of the woman with the magnolia; they had stopped in front of a booth where there was a large quantity of laurel. Mademoiselle Eolinde, whom the lesson which she had just received had not corrected, smelled several laurel bushes and cried:

“Ah! that sm—smells nasty!”

This time Madame Glumeau hastily dragged her daughter away, saying in her ear:

“Why, Eolinde, do you want to get into a row and have scenes with all these flower women? You shouldn’t say such things as that, my girl, especially when you don’t buy; and if you won’t decide upon what you want, we will go away and you won’t have a flower to give your father, who is so fond of them. That will be very nice on his birthday!”

“If you will take my advice, sister,” said Monsieur Astianax, “you’ll give our father a pot of immortelles, because you see the immortelle means that he will live a long time, and the allusion is easily understood.”

“A pot of immortelles!” cried the mother; “they are lovely flowers, upon my word! You are mad, Astianax! You might as well give your father a pot of sweet-basil such as the cobblers have in their stalls.—Look, Eolinde, there is a superb rosebush! come, let us buy that,—that will be your bouquet.”

“Oh! but a ro—o—osebush; I wanted s—s—something else.”

“That is to say, you don’t know what you do want; and this unfortunate messenger who is following us with that huge pomegranate in his arms, looks as if he were swimming in perspiration.”

“Why, it isn’t so ve—ve—very hot, mamma!”

Madame Glumeau, paying no heed to the lamentations of her daughter, who did not want the rosebush, but did not know what she did want, ordered her messenger to take the flower, then turned to her son and said:

“Now, Astianax, you are the only one who has not chosen a flower, but I believe you told me that you preferred to give your father a bouquet to carry in the hand.”

“Yes, dear mamma, because in a bouquet for the hand, you choose different flowers, which have even more meaning when placed side by side. The Turks call that a selam; I mean to give my father a selam.”

“But in what connection? Your father never has claimed to be a Turk, so far as I know! He won’t have any idea what your bouquet means.”

“I beg your pardon, dear mamma, I will explain the allusion to him.”

“All right, but make haste; it seems to me that you might very well have selected your oriental bouquet while we were choosing our plants!”

“I’ve been looking, but haven’t found what I want!”

“But there certainly is no lack of flower girls here. Ah! there is one who is very pretty indeed; if her bouquets resemble her, I think that you will find what you want.”

II
VIOLETTE

Madame Glumeau had said nothing beyond the truth, when she observed that the flower girl to whom she pointed was very pretty, for she was speaking of Violette.

Let us then make Violette’s acquaintance; it is always pleasant to know a pretty girl, even though she sells bouquets, but especially when she sells nothing else.

Violette was from eighteen to nineteen years of age; her figure was slender and shapely; she was tall enough but not too tall, which, in women, is rather a defect than an advantage; but there was grace in all her movements, and refinement in her simplicity.

Her face was oval; her fine brown hair left bare a forehead which was instinct with innocence and pride. Her eyes too were brown, but their expression was immeasurably sweet and they were fringed by long lashes which imparted to them an infinite charm; the eyebrows were but slightly marked. Her mouth was not very small, but it was intelligent; small mouths, which are unintelligent, of which there are so many, are not nearly so desirable. Lastly, her teeth were white and very regular. As you see, all these things must have combined to make a very pretty girl. Still there are many who possess all Violette’s advantages, but whom we pass without being charmed by them; the reason is, that it is not always sufficient to be beautiful in order to attract; a woman must also have in herself that indefinable something which fascinates, which surprises, which allures, which gives expression to the face and charm to the voice. That something is a gift of nature, which coquetry tries in vain to supply, and the flower girl had that gift. Moreover, there was in her speech and in her manners something which distinguished her from her companions. She expressed herself in better language and she was always courteous, even when one did not buy of her. So that Violette was noticed first for her beauty and then for her courtesy. Courtesy is a thing so rare among street peddlers, and even elsewhere! There are so many people who think that they acquire the air of being somebody by affecting an insolent tone and a contemptuous glance! Poor fools! If they did not arouse laughter, they would arouse compassion.

But was this flower girl, who expressed herself in better language than others of her trade, the child of rich people stricken by misfortune? Was it to support destitute and infirm parents that that pretty girl had decided to take up a business for which she was not born?

Not at all. Violette did not know her parents, she did not know whether they still lived, but what she did know perfectly was that they had abandoned her.

Put out to nurse in a small village of Picardie, near Abbeville, she evidently possessed little interest for them, for they had forgotten to pay the woman who had undertaken to replace her mother. The nurse was patient for a long while, but after three years, hearing nothing from her nursling’s parents, and being too poor to add a little stranger to her numerous family, the woman was about to leave the child at the Foundling Hospital, when an old lady who was passing through the village, touched with compassion for the deserted little one, offered the nurse to take charge of her and to take her to Paris with her.

The nurse assented, and took the lady’s address, in order that she might write to her if the child’s parents should ever claim her.

But who were her parents?

To the lady’s question the peasant woman replied:

“Faith, I hardly know, or rather I don’t know, at all. As to the mother, I am very sure I never saw her. I was at the nurses’ bureau on Rue Sainte-Apolline; a fine gentleman—I guess he was a servant—came into the place, while I was taking the air in the yard; I was the first one he saw, and he asked me if I wanted to take a brat that was born the night before. I says yes; then he says: ‘I don’t need to look any further; you’ll do as well as another; take your bundle and come.’—I went with him; there was a carriage at the door, and I got in with the swell servant. We drove to a street I don’t know the name of, he took me into a house, with a concierge, and up to the second floor, into a handsome room. I found a gentleman there, very well dressed, a pretty man with a fine figure; he had a splendid gold chain sticking out of his fob. He was a young man, about thirty-two or thirty-three, more or less. And when he saw the man come in who had brought me there, he says:

“‘Come, make haste, Comtois! I don’t know what to do with the child! It has been crying until it has burst the drum of my ear, but I can’t nurse it. Have you brought a nurse at last?’

“‘Yes, monsieur, here’s one who will take charge of the little girl.’

“‘Ah! that is very lucky!’

“And with that the gentleman, without even looking at me to see how I was built and whether I had much milk, motioned to me to go with him into another room, where I saw a little girl, just come into the world, wriggling on a sofa with cushions; they didn’t even have a cradle for her. The gentleman says to me:

“‘Take this child and carry it away at once, for it cries enough to split one’s head.’

“To that I answers:

“‘It will be twenty francs a month, without counting sugar and soap!’

“‘All right, that’s understood,’ he says; and he puts a hundred francs in my hand, saying: ‘This is for the first expenses; don’t you be afraid, I’ll send you money, you shall have plenty of it.’

“At that I makes another reverence and says:

“‘I am a Picarde, monsieur, from the village of Coulange, near Abbeville; my name is Marguerite Thomasseau; my husband raises donkeys, and we’ve had four nurslings already.’

“‘All right, take this little one and go.’

“‘But, monsieur,’ I says, ‘what about the layette; where’s the little one’s layette?’

“At that, the handsome gentleman looks at his swell servant as if he was surprised, and says:

“‘What’s this woman talking about? What’s a layette?’

“The servant who was better instructed than his master, says:

“‘Monsieur, it is the child’s trousseau, the little things that people give to dress it in.’

“‘Oh! the devil! I didn’t know that myself, and it seems she didn’t think of it either! Never mind, Comtois, give her some of my trousers and waistcoats, give her my old dressing-gown and some linen; the nurse can make them over and we’ll send her something else later. Make haste, Comtois. Here, put in this handkerchief too, which belongs to the child’s mother, and which I put in my pocket by mistake yesterday.’

“The servant made me up a bundle in a hurry; and a queer layette it was, I tell you! I don’t believe that any young one ever had one like it; it consisted of a woolen dressing-gown lined with silk, three pairs of broadcloth trousers, six cravats, two white piqué waistcoats and one black satin one, six fine shirts, a pair of suspenders, and a white handkerchief embroidered with a cipher, with a coronet on it. As for the handkerchief, I still have that, I have kept it so that the child might have something that belonged to her parents. However, all that stuff was better than nothing; I took the bundle and they were already turning me out of the room with my nursling, when I remembered that I didn’t know anybody’s name.

“‘Well, monsieur, what’s the little one’s name, and yours, and your wife’s?’

“At that the gentleman made a funny kind of face; he hesitated a long while, as if he was trying to think what answer he could make, and finally he said:

“‘The child’s name is Evelina—Evelina de Paulausky.—Now go; I will write to you.’

“At that he pushed me out with the child and the bundle. I started back the same day; and since then, and that was three years ago, not a word from the child’s parents. Evelina they called her, but we found that name too long and too hard to pronounce, and so, as the child when she was a year old, loved violets and could pick them as she rolled about on the grass, why we just called her Violette; you can call her so too, if you choose. She answers to that name better than to Evelina!”

That is what the nurse had told the good woman who took Violette to Paris. That charitable person was by no means wealthy, but she had given the child some education. Violette had learned to read, to write, and to do some kinds of sewing, but her protectress died before she was very learned. The child was only eleven when she lost her.

Being left alone and without resources, and having too much pride to beg her bread, she went from door to door, to all the people in the quarter, saying:

“Please give me something to do; I am able to work; I know how to knit and sew; I will do anything you want, but employ me, I beg you, for I would rather starve to death than beg and live on the charity of passers-by.”

These words indicated a certain pride and a lofty spirit; they indicated above all else Violette’s horror of idleness, which is the most dangerous of all faults. They were worth more than a letter of recommendation.

A dealer in fruit said to her:

“I know a lady who is looking for a young maid to take her little ones to walk. I will give you her address, you can go to see her, and perhaps she’ll hire you. But oh, dear! I am afraid that she’ll think you a little too young.—How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“You must tell her you’re fourteen.”

“Oh, no! I won’t lie, madame; my protectress always told me that that was a very wicked habit.”

“Ah! my girl, anyone can see that you are young! If you pass your life without lying, you’ll be a famous phenomenon, and they’ll exhibit you later for two sous. However, that’s your business. You can do as you choose.”

Violette went to see the lady who was looking for a young nursemaid. Her first question, as she looked at Violette, was:

“How old are you?”

And when the girl told her the truth, she dismissed her, saying:

“Why, you are much too young! You are only a child yourself; how do you expect me to give you my children to take care of?”

“Oh! I am very prudent, very sensible for my age, madame; inquire at number thirty-two; and then you can give me whatever you please, madame, I don’t care; so long as I can live without begging, that is all I ask.”

These last words caused the lady to reflect, for there are people who calculate closely on every subject, even when the welfare of their children is concerned; such people are ordinarily the ones who consider it very hard that dogs are ordered to be muzzled. She called Violette back and said:

“Come again to-morrow; I will make inquiries at the house you mention.”

The next day Violette became nursemaid, with a hundred francs a year. That sum seemed enormous to the child, who would have taken the place for nothing if it had been suggested to her. And as her mistress lived on Rue de Bondy, she took the two little girls of three or four years to walk every day on the Boulevard, near the Château d’Eau. When it was the day for the flower market, Violette never failed to take the children there, and then she was very happy, for she adored flowers, and even if she had not the means to buy any, on that day she could see them and gaze at them at her leisure.

More than three years passed thus. Violette’s mistress had never had to find fault with her little maid, for she had never left for a single instant the children whom it was her duty to take to walk. However, her wages were not increased; to be sure, Violette did not ask for an increase, and to obtain distinction in this world, it is not sufficient to behave oneself well, to have merit or talent—one must ask, ask, and then—ask. And as people who are out of the line do not understand that, they prefer to be undistinguished except by their talent.

The mother of the two little girls whom Violette had in charge left Paris and France; she took her children, but did not take the young nurse. So that Violette was left once more without a home and without occupation. While waiting until chance should throw employment in her way, the girl as a matter of habit went to the Boulevard du Château d’Eau, where she had taken the children so often; and on market days she stopped in front of the flowers and sometimes remained there all day long.

One day, one of the flower women, an honest old soul, who had often noticed the little nurse when she was taking the two children to walk, said to Violette, who seemed to be admiring her bouquets:

“Well, my girl, what have you done with the brats that you always brought here to walk? For I know you, I have looked after you very often; and bless my soul, it don’t seem to me that anyone had any reason to complain of you. You didn’t run about from one place to another. You didn’t talk with a lot of people, as most of the nurses do that have children to take care of! Mon Dieu! if nothing happens to the young ones, it isn’t the fault of those young women, who attend to everything else except the children that are in their care!”

“Alas! madame, my mistress has gone to England with her children.”

“And you didn’t want to leave your country, eh?”

“Oh! I would have been glad to go with madame, but she didn’t choose to take me!”

“And she left you like that, without getting another place for you—a girl of your age, who took such good care of her little ones? Ah! that isn’t right, that isn’t. That mistress of yours can’t be good for much!—But what are you doing now, my child?”

“I am looking for another place, madame, but I haven’t found it yet. Luckily I saved money at my mistress’s; I earned a hundred francs a year!”

“Is that all? Well, upon my word! she wasn’t very generous, that mistress of yours!”

“Oh! I had quite enough; I didn’t spend anything except to dress myself; and now I have some clothes and sixty francs of my own; I spend so little to live; I get along with five or six sous a day.”

“Poor child! In that case, you’re not much of a glutton; why, you must live on bread and water.”

“I beg pardon, I have a sou’s worth of milk every morning; bread dipped in milk is so good!”

“Bless my soul! It is good for those who like milk! But no matter, that diet will soon take away your fresh color. I say, you must be very fond of flowers to look at them so long, as if you wanted to kiss them!”

“Flowers! oh! I am mad over them, madame, I am never tired of gazing at them.”

“So, so! and how would you like to sell them, to make bouquets as I do?”

“Make bouquets! live among flowers! you ask me if I would like that? Oh, madame! that would be the happiest life for me. It seems to me that one has nothing more to wish for when one is a flower girl!”

“Well, my child, sit down here, by my side. I am alone, I have no children, and no one depending on me; I am beginning not to be so smart as I used to be; if you choose to stay with me and always be as good—as—as you were when you took the two little girls to walk, why, I will keep you, I will give you part of my profits; in fact, I will make a flower girl of you; does that suit you?”

“Does it suit me,—to be a flower girl! such a pleasant trade! Is it really true, madame? You are not making fun of me?”

“As true as my name is Mère Gazon; and yours?”

“My name is Violette.”

“Violette! You see you were destined to be a flower girl.”

So Violette took her place beside Mère Gazon; and she was so pleased with the skill and taste with which the girl made her bouquets, that she congratulated herself every day upon having taken her into her employ.

Violette reached the age of fifteen, sixteen, and became so pretty and her figure assumed such graceful proportions that people began to notice the young flower girl, and Mère Gazon’s business constantly increased. Then came the lady-killers, the oglers, the gallants, who tried to make love to Violette, but she did not listen to them, or at all events paid no heed to what they said. Moreover, Mère Gazon was there and said to those who paid her companion compliments:

“For heaven’s sake, let the child alone! You see well enough that you bother her with your fine words, without head or tail! Go and get your hair curled, that would be better.”

But one night, Mère Gazon, who had rather abused currant brandy, which she adored as a cordial, felt an oppression that compelled her to keep her bed. The next day she was worse, and she said to her young companion:

“My dear Violette, I believe I am going to pack up and not open shop any more. I leave you all I have; my stock, my flowers, my furniture, my customers. Always be honest and virtuous, don’t let anyone cajole you and I have an idea that you will prosper. If I myself had been more prudent with currant brandy, I might have kept shop much longer! but never mind! that’s a small matter! I am glad, at all events, to have you with me to close my eyes.”

That is Violette’s whole story; that is how the little girl abandoned by her parents had become a flower girl.

III
GEORGET AND CHICOTIN

“We would like a magnificent bouquet, mademoiselle,” said Madame Glumeau to Violette.

“Yes,” said Mademoiselle Eolinde, “a su—su—superb bou—bou——”

“That isn’t all,” said Monsieur Astianax, doing his utmost to look at the pretty flower girl with both eyes at once. “I wish to express a certain meaning in presenting a bouquet to my father, so that the flowers must interpret my meaning; I would like a selam, mademoiselle; give me a selam.”

Violette stared at him as she replied:

“I don’t know that flower, monsieur; does it grow in boxes or in pots?”

“A selam is not a single flower, mademoiselle; it is an arrangement of flowers, which means something particular; it’s an oriental bouquet.”

“I have no oriental flowers, monsieur.”

“But you don’t catch my meaning, I mean——”

“Upon my word, Astianax, you are insufferable; you will keep us here two hours when you know that we are in a hurry; select yourself the flowers that you want, and she will make them into a bouquet for you.”

Monsieur Astianax, confused by the flower girl’s lovely eyes, turned very red and began to rummage among the flowers on the counter, stammering:

“But I don’t see—I am looking—I don’t find—I would like—haven’t you got any?”

“Tell me what flowers you want, monsieur; that will be better than upsetting my whole stock.”

But the little fellow could not admire the pretty flower girl enough, and he had no idea what he wanted.

The porter who had in his arms the box with the pomegranate, which was very heavy, and the rosebush, which was not light, said to Madame Glumeau:

“If you’re going to be here long, lady, I am going to get a basket to put these things in.”

“Oh, no! it isn’t worth while, messenger; we are going at once.—Well, my son, have you chosen your flowers?”

“I don’t find what I am looking for.”

“Bless my soul! Eolinde, is not that Cousin Michonnard, standing over there?”

“Yes, yes, mamma, it is she.”

“Ah! if she sees us, we are lost; she will follow us wherever we go; we shall not be able to get rid of her, for she is quite capable of inviting herself to dinner. You know that your father doesn’t like her because she always says that he doesn’t look well. Let’s go along at once before she sees us.—Come, Astianax.”

“But my dear mother, I haven’t any bouquet.”

“It is your own fault, you take too long to decide. You can present your father with a Savoy cake with his monogram, that will be just as respectful. Come, come!—Follow us, messenger.”

And this time, without listening to the remonstrances of her son, who declared that a cake did not express his meaning, the stout lady took his arm and dragged him away, but not until the little fellow had darted a random glance in Violette’s direction. In a few moments the Glumeau family had disappeared.

Thereupon, a young man in a blouse, with a cap on his head, and with a shrewd, clever face and a slender figure which denoted sixteen years at most, although he was past seventeen, began to laugh as he looked at the pretty flower girl, beside whom he had stopped, and said to her:

“Well, my word! there’s customers for you! They come here and handle and move your flowers and spoil them, and then go away without buying anything.”

“Dear me, Monsieur Georget, that’s the way it is in business; one can’t always sell.”

“But the young man would have liked to stay, I fancy. What eyes he made at you, zigzag! A man shouldn’t be allowed to squint like that! I am sure it would exempt him from the conscription; for when a man looks all ways at once, he can hardly fire straight at the enemy.—But no matter, you have turned his head.”

“Mon Dieu! to hear you, Georget, one would think that everybody is in love with me!”

“Well, it seems to me that you don’t lack suitors and gallants. There are days when a fellow can’t get near your shop, there are so many people around you!”

“I have no reason to complain, that is true. I sell a great deal. My bouquets seem to please.”

“Oh! your bouquets—and yourself too. When the dealer is good-looking, that makes business good; and deuce take it! you are mighty good-looking.”

“You know very well, Georget, that nothing tires me so much as compliments!”

“Then you must get tired very often! you receive them all day!”

“I can’t prevent the gentlemen who buy flowers of me from talking nonsense to me! but it seems to me that you might get along without it.”

“So what I say to you is nonsense, is it?”

“Instead of idling away your time every market day, walking back and forth in front of my stand, wouldn’t you do better to work?”

“Do you mean that you don’t like to have me stop in front of your shop sometimes, mamzelle?”

“I don’t say that, but I ask you if you would not do better to work.”

“All right, mamzelle, that’s enough. I won’t stand near you any more, never fear! If you don’t like it, why, I——”

“Oh! how wrong-headed you are, Monsieur Georget! a body can’t give you a little advice, eh?”

But the young messenger was no longer listening to the pretty flower girl; he walked away with a very pronounced frown, and sat down upon one of the steps of the Château d’Eau. He had hardly settled down when another youngster of nineteen, tall, strong and active, with his cap cocked over one ear in true roistering fashion, came and stood in front of him, crying:

“Ah! here’s Georget! here’s my little Georget! I am glad of that; I thought he must have been swallowed by the whale on exhibition over yonder, behind us. To be sure, I know that it isn’t alive; but never mind, you might have crawled into its mouth. I say, Georget, have you seen the whale?”

“Let me alone, I don’t feel like talking!”

“Well! I paid to see the whale, because as I’d never seen the sea, I said to myself: ‘That will give me an idea of its inhabitants.’—But confound it! how I was sold! Just fancy—I went into a long, narrow place, like a corridor with boarded walls. I couldn’t see anything, no water at all. I said to myself: ‘Where in the deuce is the whale?’ but there was a fellow in a sailor’s suit, walking up and down the corridor, singing out at the top of his lungs: ‘See, ladies and gentlemen, look, examine this rare animal! It’s the first whale that’s been seen in France since the Roman conquest! It was harpooned at Havre and would have been brought to Paris alive, if there had been room enough for it in a first-class carriage!’—When I heard that, I squinted up my eyes to find the marine monster. When I first went into the corridor, I had noticed something like a pile of earth, on the floor between two boards, and I said to myself: ‘It seems that they are going to plant flowers in the place to brighten it up!’ But not at all: that black thing, between two boards, was the whale! I discovered it when I reached the end of the corridor, because then I saw a kind of head, with a beard, at one end of what I had taken for earth. I was mad, I tell you! I regretted my money, and I said to the sailor: ‘If you’d told me beforehand that I was going to see a whale in a box, and dry as a herring, I wouldn’t have come into your old barrack!’—Well, little Georget, why don’t you laugh?”

“I tell you to let me alone, I don’t feel like laughing!”

“Why, what under the sun is the matter with the little mummy! He’s got to be as melancholy as an empty stomach for some time past! Come, I propose to cheer you up; I’ll treat you to a glass at the wine merchant’s on Rue Basse.”

“Thanks, I am not thirsty.”

“And then you will come to the theatre this evening with me. I don’t mean the Délasses, or the Funambs, or the Petit-Lazare; I go to the big theatres now; I have become an habitué of the Folies-Dramatiques! Nothing less! You see, when one has seen Mamzelle Duplessis, in ‘Une Mauvaise Nuit Est Bientôt Passée,’ one doesn’t care to see anything else! It is magnificent! Mamzelle Duplessis is in a night jacket embroidered with lace, like a bride preparing to retire. Dieu! how lovely she is! I dream of her every night as I go to bed! And then, Monsieur Christian, in ‘La Perruque de Mon Oncle!’ When he says: ‘Ah! fichtre! sacrebleu! hush or I will thrash you!’ or something else in that line, I tell you it’s amusing! I laugh until I make a show of myself! And just now Monsieur Christian passed here—you didn’t see him—the real man, the one who plays at the Folies; and he bought a bunch of violets, and smiled because I said to him: ‘Monsieur Christian, do you want me to carry you?’—Ha! ha! that made him laugh!—Well, Georget, I say, Georget! you little wretch of a Georget! what in the world has somebody been doing to you, Gringalet?”

“If you call me Gringalet, I’ll punch your head, do you understand?”

“Oho! how ugly the little rascal is! What have you been treading on to-day?”

“I may be small without being a Gringalet, or a wretch. I am seventeen years, eight months and ten days.”

“You look as if you were about twelve or less!”

“The looks make no difference; I am not a child any more, and I don’t propose to be treated like an urchin.”

“Ah! you wish to be looked up to, perhaps?”

“If anyone insults me, he must fight me.”

“Tell me what you have eaten this morning? You are not so ugly as this usually!”

“But you are teasing me! saying things that make me angry!”

“Then as I am in the wrong, thrash me right away and let’s have it over with! But I don’t propose to fight with you, because I am your friend, and I like you with all your ill-humor! Come, strike me!”

As he spoke, Chicotin Patatras—for such was the name of this last individual—coolly planted himself in front of his friend, and stooped as if he were all ready to be beaten. But when he saw that, Georget rose, his anger vanished, and he offered his hand to his comrade, saying:

“Can you think of such a thing? I, strike you! that would be pretty! Come, it is all over, I am not angry any more; nor you either, are you?”

“Oh! I haven’t been at all!”

“You see, Chicotin, there are many people who say that you are a ne’er-do-well, a brawler, and a sot; they have nicknamed you Patatras, because wherever you go, you always arrive like a bomb and turn everything topsy-turvy! But I do you justice, and I have always defended you; and if you are noisy, and if you do sometimes throw a whole company into confusion, you have a good heart all the same, and when you are fond of anybody, he can always rely on you.”

“Pardi! a man is a good friend, or he isn’t. A door is open or shut, one or the other! that’s all I know!—Well, will you go to the Folies-Dramatiques with me to-night? I’ll treat you; I have some cash; I carried a bouquet to the young lady! Ah! bless my soul! that bouquet evidently gave pleasure, for she put five francs in my hand; the gentleman had given me as much! in all, two hind wheels, six times as much as the bouquet was worth! But these lovers! tell me who else is so generous, when they are satisfied, and are in funds? ‘Tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round!”

“Oh, yes! the rich lovers, they are happy enough! they can make their sweethearts handsome presents!”

“Bah! they are not the ones I envy, especially as I have noticed that the ones who are loved the best are not the ones who give the most presents! A little more pains is taken to deceive them, that’s all! I see so many things, when I am doing errands, opening carriage doors, or asking for theatre checks! But the actors! Oh, the actors! when I can be employed by one of them, then I am perfectly happy! I went on the stage once, that is to say, under the stage, at the Ambigu! It’s mighty amusing, I tell you, and you see a lot of things—that you don’t expect to see!—But you are not listening to me, Georget. Ah! I can guess what you’re thinking about, with your eyes always turned in that direction! So it is all over, is it? You’re in love for good and all!”

“Hush, Chicotin, don’t say that, I beg you!”

“I say it because I see it; I don’t need to be a sleep-walker to guess that! You’re in love with the pretty flower girl, Mamzelle Violette!”

“I never told anybody so!”

“You don’t need to tell it, it’s plain enough; that’s what upsets you so, and changes your whole disposition, and gives you a sour look, a dismal expression, like Monsieur Goujet of the Gaîté, when he plays the traitors, the abductors who carry off young girls! Ah! how magnificent he was in ‘Martin et Bamboche!’ I was a little bit of a fellow when I saw that, but I still have the piece in my head all the same, it impressed me so. He had on a white coat, rather neat, did Monsieur Goujet; he played the part of a well-dressed son, who treated his father like the deuce!—Confound it! He isn’t listening to me because I’ve stopped talking about the flower girl! Why, is this passion of yours making you an idiot? As if a man ever fell in love for good at your age! For my part, I like pretty girls too; but it doesn’t make me so stupid as it does you! it never lasts more than a week! Let your beard grow, then you’ll have the right to pose as a sentimental lover! Ah! now he turns as red as a turkey-cock! What is going on? Ah! I see; because two fine gentlemen, two swells have stopped and are looking at the flower girl’s wares. I suppose you’d like it if nobody ever bought anything of your pretty dealer? She’d do a fine business then!”

“Oh! but I know those two young men; they come very often to buy flowers of her and they always talk nonsense to her; especially the tallest one! He actually dared one time to ask her to be his mistress! Ah! if big Chopard hadn’t held me back, I’d have jumped on him; I’d have scratched him and bitten him!”

“Hoity-toity! is that the way you propose to treat Mamzelle Violette’s customers? You’ll give her shop a good reputation!”

“That’s what Chopard said, to calm me down!”

“Besides, don’t all these dandies—that is what they call these fellows—don’t all these dandies talk that way to women, especially when they are pretty? It’s their way; they must always play the lady-killer; if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be dandies! But I know one of those young men, too; the tallest one is an author,—that means a man who writes plays; his name is Jéricourt; I’ve carried letters to his room sometimes from the other one, who isn’t so tall; that one has employed me often; just now he’s very attentive to an actress at the Folies, a little blonde with black eyes, who plays such parts as Rigolette,—Mademoiselle Dutaillis. I’ll bet that she’s the one he’s going to buy a bouquet for, and then he’ll take her to dinner at Bonvalet’s; and when she’s in the cast, they keep sending me to the theatre, to the box office, to ask how far they have got. I always ask a handsome man who is sitting inside the office, and he answers with a sly look: ‘Go and tell mademoiselle that she has time enough to eat another course, provided that it isn’t carp, because the bones might make her lose her cue.’”

“Oh, yes! I know well enough that it isn’t the light-haired one who is dangerous to Violette; it’s the other one!”

“And why should the other one be dangerous, when everyone says that the little flower girl is virtuous? You yourself told me so a hundred times.”

“Certainly she is virtuous, perfectly virtuous. If she wasn’t, if she was anything else, do you suppose I’d be mad over her as I am?”

“Then what difference does it make to you whether people pay her compliments and make love to her? She won’t listen to them.”

“Who can tell? A young girl sometimes ends by allowing herself to be deceived by all these soft speeches. They offer her dresses, jewels, entertainments, love—it’s all very tempting. Look, see how that tall, scented fellow is leaning over her counter to speak to her! I don’t care; no matter what happens, I am going to tell that man to act different from that!”

“Upon my word! be good enough to stay here. You don’t like to see him talking with the flower girl; very good, let me fix him; I haven’t been nicknamed Patatras for nothing!”

IV
TWO WELL-KNOWN YOUNG MEN

Two young men had, in fact, stopped in front of the pretty flower girl’s booth; each of them was from twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age; their eccentric costumes marked them out as dandies, or at least as persons who strove to appear to be such.

Especially the shorter one, who wore plaid trousers of very bright colors, each plaid being so large that a single one extended from the thigh to the calf; his light sack coat hardly came below his waist, and when he bent forward a little, disclosed the whole seat of his trousers. He wore on his head a broad-brimmed gray hat with a long nap; and he had stuck in one eye a small bit of glass, set in tortoise shell, which, when not in use, hung down over his waistcoat of buff piqué, at the end of a black ribbon. He was, for all this dandified equipment, a very good-looking youth, with black eyes, a shapely aquiline nose, a small mouth with red lips, fine teeth, a pretty pink and white complexion, a little dimple in his chin, very light whiskers, a pointed beard, and with all that, a stupid expression which was not in the least misleading.

This young man had been a clerk in a business house with a salary of eight hundred francs, and a slight bonus at the end of the year; at that time, as may be imagined, his dress was much less elegant, and it was difficult for him to follow the fashions. But a distant relative died, and unexpectedly left him sixty thousand francs in cash. This unhoped-for fortune, which enabled him to gratify his dearest wishes, his fondest hopes, had almost turned his brain.

First of all, he began by correcting his certificates of baptism; his name was Benoît Canard, a name which struck the ear unpleasantly, and had nothing romantic or refined about it; he adopted the name of Alfred de Saint-Arthur, which was certain to attract the attention of the ladies. When a man’s name is Alfred de Saint-Arthur, he must inevitably belong to the haute, as the lorettes of the Bréda quarter say.

Next, Alfred soon resigned his place, hired a dainty apartment, purchased a cabriolet and a horse, and patronized one of the first tailors in Paris; he affected the society of actresses, choosing those who were most talked about, and who had led their lovers into the most follies; for, although Monsieur Alfred de Saint-Arthur had some inclination for that life of dissipation, of parade and extravagances which some favorites of fortune lead, and which is excusable only in those who really have the means to support it, the thing that especially delighted the young man was to show himself, to put himself in evidence with a fashionable woman, to display himself in the proscenium box of a theatre, or in a calèche in the Bois du Boulogne; to make a great noise when he entered a restaurant, to declare all the private rooms inconvenient, to shout at the waiters, to find fault with everything, always to talk very loud, so that everybody might hear him, to smoke only eight sou cigars, and to see everybody turn to look at him when he was out driving.

In a word, what Alfred desired was to create a sensation; the same pleasures, enjoyed in private, without show, without witnesses, or in curtained boxes at the theatre, would have seemed to him tasteless, insipid and of no account; but to attract attention, to cause a sensation, to be noticed on entering a theatre or a concert hall, was to him supreme happiness. He did not suspect that many people said when they saw him:

“They say that he has already run through thirty thousand francs with her!”

“I believe him to be quite enough of a fool for that! Indeed, he looks it!”

“What an utterly absurd costume!”

And it was to procure this reputation that young Alfred had run through more than thirty thousand francs in one year; that was more than half of the fortune he had inherited. If he continued to live in the same way, he had not enough for another year; but once started on the path of folly, some people keep on, not knowing how to stop. The crash which awaits them, and in which they will involve some too confiding friends, is there before them, inevitable, if they persist in following the same road; they know it, and still they go on. Are they fools or knaves? they necessarily deserve both titles.

The other individual was not so good-looking as Monsieur Alfred de Saint-Arthur, but he had not his stupid look; indeed, there was in his eyes a shrewd expression which sometimes turned to mockery. Neither his trousers nor his coat were so exaggerated as his friend’s, but all the world did not turn to look at him; he had no fashionable mistress upon whom he squandered money, but he strove to be on the best terms with the mistresses of his friends; he did not waste his fortune, because he had none, and he had not left his place, because he had never had any.

However, as one must needs try, in society, to have some talent, some profession, or some rank, in default of fortune, Jéricourt had become an author. He had not stopped to consider whether he had the necessary vocation and intellect for that; he had said to himself: “I propose to be an author;” and as one ordinarily effects his purpose by dint of perseverance and unbounded self-assurance, Jéricourt, by persistently frequenting the café where the young men who write for the stage ordinarily gather, had insinuated himself among them, playing billiards with one, dominoes with another; he had become one of their intimates, and then had begun to talk of plays, of plots, of original ideas which he claimed to have had; and when someone would say to him:

“That is old, that subject has already been treated fifty times!” he would exclaim:

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be treated fifty-one times! A thing that has succeeded so often will succeed again. It is mere folly to try to do something new; one risks failure; whereas, by following roads already marked out, one is certain to arrive without hindrance.”

Jéricourt found people of his opinion; and thus it was that he became an author by revamping what others had done before him. And he ended by believing himself to be an inventor, a man of genius, and by making idiots of the type of his friend Saint-Arthur believe it also. The number of fools is infinite!

“Well, my pretty flower girl, I must have a wonderful, a stupendous bouquet!” said Alfred, halting in front of Violette; “it’s for a lady who knows what’s what, and who has already had the most beautiful bouquets that are made in Paris,—isn’t that so, Jéricourt?—Sapristi! I haven’t a cigar; Jéricourt, my dear fellow, make me a cigarette, will you?”

“You don’t like them.”

“Ah! it is true that I have become so accustomed to panatelas—I say! look at that little woman yonder! She turned around to look at me. If I weren’t in such a hurry, I’d follow her.”

“Aha! would you be unfaithful to Zizi Dutaillis?”

“Oh! pardieu! a little amourette of a moment.—Make me a cigarette.—Well, flower girl! you don’t show me anything.”

“Why, monsieur, you see what I have; choose for yourself.”

“Choose for myself! why, all this stuff is horrible! these bouquets are good for nobody but circus riders! I don’t want any of these. I told you that I wanted something wonderful, such a bouquet as never yet was seen.”

“I will make you up one!”

“All right! but hurry. Zizi is waiting for me, and she doesn’t like to wait; her nerves are all upset when I am late.”

“Here’s your cigarette.”

“Thanks, my boy. Have you fire?”

“Always, when I am before this fascinating flower girl. Pray look at those eyes! did you ever see anything more alluring?”

“True! for a flower girl’s eyes, they are very fair.”

“And that nose, that mouth, and that cruel air, which would be so becoming to her if it were not genuine!”

“Ah! mademoiselle is cruel, is she?”

“Alas! yes, my dear Alfred.—Would you believe that for nearly a month I have been sighing at her feet, and without making any progress?”

“The deuce, my boy, you don’t know how to go about it! You tempt me to try my hand with the flower girl. If I should undertake it, I will wager that the affair would go faster,—eh, my girl?”

As he spoke, Alfred tried to take Violette’s arm; but she struck him across the fingers with a bunch of roses and lilacs that she held; and as there were some thorns in the bunch, the young dandy made a wry face as he withdrew his hand.

“Bigre! she has scratched my fingers! Is this flower girl a Lucretia?”

“I told you that she resisted me, and yet you choose to meddle!”

“She plays the prude; but if I had time! I am terribly afraid of being late. Zizi will be angry; she plays to-night, and she is much more nervous when she plays! You are coming to dine with us, Jéricourt, are you not?”

“Impossible.”

“Bah! why impossible?”

“Because I dine with this lovely girl, with the flower girl.—Isn’t it true, Violette, that you will dine with me to-day?”

“Monsieur, I thought that I answered you the other day in such a way that you would not give me any more such invitations.”

“My dear love, you are too fascinating to remain virtuous long; why shouldn’t you give me the preference? I will give you your own apartment, pretty furniture, pretty dresses; the theatre every evening; that’s the life that awaits you!”

“I prefer to sell my bouquets, monsieur.”

“That’s absurd! Unless you have some passion that closes your heart to me, you ought to yield to me.”

“No, monsieur, I feel no sort of obligation to you.”

“Ha! ha! ha! poor Jéricourt! he fails in his suit to a flower girl! That will make Zizi laugh! I’ll tell her at dinner.—I say, my pretty girl, don’t make my bouquet all white, please. The other day I offered one like that to Zizi, and she declared that it looked like a cauliflower.”

“There, monsieur, how is this? Do you like it?”

“Why, yes, it isn’t bad; it has some style! I think that it will produce an effect.—Come,—Jéricourt, as Mademoiselle Violette refuses to dine with you, it seems to me that you can accept my invitation. If I don’t bring you, Zizi will be sulky; she is much livelier when you are there; that is easily understood, for you make her laugh, you make puns, and she declares that there is no such thing as a good dinner without puns.”

“I tell you again, Alfred, that Mademoiselle Violette will not be inexorable; why, I propose to launch her in society, to make her the fashion, for I have all the small newspapers at my disposal.”

“He is telling you the truth, my girl, and the small newspapers are the only ones that are read nowadays, for they are much more amusing than the large ones. For my part, I know nothing better than the Tintamarre! Dieu! the Tintamarre; there’s a newspaper that always drives away the blues! I learn puns from it and I repeat them to Zizi; but unfortunately I don’t remember them very well, so that she doesn’t understand them.—Ah! what a beautiful bouquet!—Well, my dear fellow, will you come?”

And the pretty young man with the light whiskers, holding his enormous bouquet in one hand, tried with the other to lead away his friend, who, half leaning over the flower girl’s counter, was gazing at her with his face close to hers, although she did her utmost to move away from him.

It was at this moment that Chicotin Patatras, who had spied one of his cronies a few steps from Violette’s booth, ran to him and tripped him up,—a method of beginning a conversation decidedly fashionable among street urchins. The friend, taken by surprise, fell upon the sidewalk, and as he rose, saw Chicotin laughing and making fun of him, and apparently challenging him to retaliate. He immediately started to run after him, which was what young Patatras hoped that he would do. When he saw that his comrade was about to overtake him, he jumped back in such a way as to collide with the persons who stood in front of Violette’s booth.

Chicotin had hoped to fall on Jéricourt, but having failed to calculate the distance accurately, he collided violently with the young dandy, Alfred de Saint-Arthur. The shock was so sudden and so unexpected by Alfred, whose back was turned to the passers-by, that he fell forward with his face against the flower girl’s wares; and as the counter was not strong enough to hold the weight of his body, it collapsed under the young man.

Violette uttered a loud exclamation when she saw her flowers scattered over the concrete, and Monsieur de Saint-Arthur apparently trying to swim among them.

Jéricourt, taken by surprise by this unexpected mishap, also received a kick or two from Chicotin, for the latter, still pursued by his comrade, who finally overtook him, began with him a struggle which was all in jest, but in which, although they were merely fooling, the young men dealt each other blows so lustily applied that everybody who was near them received some.

“Will you stop, or go somewhere else and fight, you clowns?” cried Jéricourt. “Just look at what you have done! All of the girl’s flowers are on the ground!”

“Ah! it’s that good-for-nothing Patatras again!” said Violette; “he is always doing something of the kind; he must always be making trouble somewhere! It’s outrageous; I am going to complain to the inspector.”

“Oh, I beg pardon, excuse me, Mamzelle Violette,” said Chicotin, rising, “you must know that I didn’t fall against your stall on purpose. It’s Chopard’s fault; why did he chase me when I tried to get out of the way behind your customers?”

“Why did you come and trip me up when I wasn’t saying anything to you?”

“I’ll do it again when I choose, you long bobêche!”

“Oh, yes! just come and try! I’ll show you!”

“Sapristi! are you going to begin again, you scoundrels, instead of picking up these bouquets which you knocked down?”

“But your friend has fallen too, monsieur, and he doesn’t get up!—Help him! Perhaps he’s hurt himself!”

At these words from Violette, Jéricourt condescended at last to pay some attention to his companion; with the assistance of Chicotin, he succeeded, not without difficulty, in placing him on his feet; for Alfred was almost suffocated; two rosebuds had been forced into each nostril, and had entered far enough to close them hermetically; and as he had in addition a bunch of gilly-flowers over his mouth, he could not breathe at all, and was beginning to turn purple. Once upon his feet, he opened his mouth as if he proposed to swallow everything in his neighborhood, and shook his head to try to rid himself of the two rosebuds, whose thorny stems tickled the lower part of his face unpleasantly. But he could not succeed; Jéricourt had to pull one of the stems and Chicotin the other, to uncork his nose. This operation was not performed without a number of shrieks from Monsieur de Saint-Arthur, but his nose at last recovered its air current, and everybody’s mind was at ease.

When the young dandy recovered all his faculties, the thing that troubled him most was that he had broken one of his suspenders, and that his trousers on that side were not held in place.

“All sorts of misfortunes at once,” cried Alfred; “I have broken my left suspender. But who was it, then, who came down on me like a bomb and pushed me onto that counter?”

“Excuse me, master, my excellency, I did it by accident, and not on purpose, for I was fooling with Chopard.”

“What, you scoundrel, was it you?—Ah! I recognize you; I have employed you more than once.”

“Oh! I remember very well! You are one of those generous and distinguished gentlemen that a man doesn’t forget. I have often opened your carriage door, master, and you are always with such pretty ladies, ladies from the theatre, and so well dressed, that everybody looks at you. Shall I wait at Monsieur Bonvalet’s, master, to see if you want to send me to find out how far they’ve got in the play?”

“All right, all right, we’ll see. After all, as he didn’t do it on purpose—And my bouquet, what became of that in the scrimmage?”

“Here it is, monsieur,” said Violette; “luckily nothing happened to it.”

“It’s my broken suspender that worries me most; my trousers are all creased on that side! I’d give thirty francs for a pair of suspenders.”

“Would you like mine, master?”

“No, thanks! That would look nice!”

“I’ll go and buy you a pair at the druggist’s on Rue du Temple.”

“What does the idiot say?” muttered Jéricourt; “suspenders at a druggist’s! do you propose to buy them made of marshmallow paste?”

“At all events I can’t stop here any longer,” cried Alfred; “Zizi will make a horrible row; she will be in an infernal humor; and if she sees that my trousers are creased, it will be much worse! And she will see it, for she always looks at them first when I join her; she is so particular about dress; she said to me once: ‘A man who doesn’t have morocco straps to his boots shall never step foot inside my door!’—Well, Jéricourt, are you coming?”

Tall Jéricourt decided at last to go away with his friend; for the flower girl, busily engaged in picking up her flowers, did not seem disposed to laugh, and he saw that he must needs abandon the idea of being listened to for that day at least. So he walked away, arm-in-arm with Alfred de Saint-Arthur, who, as he walked, did his utmost to hold his trousers up. When he saw the two young men take their leave, Chicotin Patatras nodded his head to Georget, who was not very far away, and who answered with a smile. And Violette, as she tried to replace her flowers in order upon her counter, did not fail to notice that pantomime.

V
A CONCIERGE’S LODGE

In a house of respectable appearance on Rue d’Angoulême, about half-past eleven one evening, the street bell was pulled so violently that it caused Monsieur Baudoin, the concierge, to leap from his chair, upon which he was beginning to doze, while his wife Hildegarde took advantage of his nodding to open a small cupboard and take therefrom a bottle, the neck of which she proceeded to introduce into her mouth, and took several swallows of a fluid which she seemed to enjoy greatly.

Baudoin the concierge was a tall, thin man, with a pale face and light hair, who had passed his fiftieth year, but was still very straight, and as active as a young man. To his occupation of concierge, he added that of clerk in a stage office, which kept him only until six o’clock. He was an honest man, to whom one could fearlessly entrust his house and his treasure; he did promptly whatever he was ordered to do, unless he did not fully understand; but in that case it was not safe to reproach him, for Baudoin lost his temper very readily, having an immeasurable self-esteem and claiming that he never made a mistake. When he did lose his temper, Baudoin swore like a trooper, and turned as red as a turkey-cock.

Hildegarde, the concierge’s wife, was two or three years older than her husband; she had once been pretty and sentimental; she was not very well preserved, and her inclination to sentiment having with age become diverted to brandy, Madame Baudoin had neglected herself considerably; there was a deplorable carelessness in her dress, which resulted in nothing ever being in place. Baudoin, who was always neat and decently dressed, often reproached his wife for her heedlessness in that respect, and as he had also discovered her unlucky fondness for liquor, he sometimes added to his reproaches lessons of an impressive sort, which made Hildegarde bellow loudly, and promise never to give way again to her miserable failing; but she never failed to forget that promise, whenever she thought that her husband would know nothing about it.

Moreover, Madame Baudoin was a genuine type of concierge: talkative, inquisitive, gossiping, scandal-loving, incautious, not evil-minded at bottom, but capable of setting the whole quarter at odds with remarks made without ill-intent. Her husband often scolded her for it; but “what’s bred in the bone will come out in the flesh!”

At the jingling of the bell, and the somersault performed by her husband, Hildegarde, bewildered, and realizing that she had not time to replace the bottle of brandy in the cupboard, hastily put it on the floor between her feet, and then sat down, thus having her dear bottle in the place where the open air tradeswomen put their foot-warmers.

“Didn’t someone ring?” said Baudoin, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes, my dear, yes, someone certainly did!” replied his wife, without moving from her chair.

“Well, then, draw the cord, Hildegarde; you’re right near it.”

“You can draw it much easier yourself, my dear; you have only to put out your arm and lean forward a bit.”

“Look here, why won’t you pull the cord, when you’re right beside it? What sort of way is that to behave?”

“Why—why, you see I pulled it just now when the tenant of the first floor came in, so it’s your turn.”

“Ah! so this is a new idea you’ve got into your head! Madame is afraid that she will pull the cord oftener than I, who have just come in, all tired and out of breath after running about Paris all day! What a lazy hussy!”

“Mon Dieu! is it possible for a man to be as ugly as this to his wife! to be so unwilling to do anything for her! Ah! Monsieur Baudoin, how you have changed!”

While this little dialogue was taking place between the couple employed to take care of the house, the person who had rung remained at the door, which is rarely pleasing when one returns home at night. A second peal at the bell, much more violent than the first, announced that he was losing patience.

Baudoin decided to pull the cord, but as he did so he said to his wife:

“Ah! bigre! you shall pay for this, Hildegarde! by all that’s good! I promise you that.”

Hildegarde made no reply, but continued to sit over her bottle. Someone came in and closed the street door; and soon a man appeared at the concierge’s lodge, and said curtly:

“Give me my light.”

“Oh! yes, Monsieur Malberg; this minute, Monsieur Malberg.—Hildegarde, just take Monsieur Malberg’s candlestick from the cupboard by you, light it at our lamp, or rather light it with a match, for the chimney of our lamp is cracked and it might break in your hand.—You are just from the theatre, I suppose, Monsieur Malberg? They say that they are giving a fine play there just now; I don’t know which theatre, but no matter, it seems that it’s fine, all the same! You have been to see it, of course?”

“I have been where I chose to go, and it is none of your business,” replied the tenant, in a tone which did not invite further conversation. “Well! what about my light? Are you going to give it to me to-night? or do you intend to keep me waiting here as long as you did in the street?”

“What, Hildegarde, haven’t you lighted Monsieur Malberg’s light yet? Look here, what are you about? God forgive me, Monsieur Malberg, but I believe that my wife is getting deaf or idiotic; something’s the matter with her to-night; it isn’t possible—yes, she may have been tippling. You know her unlucky failing, which will lead her to perdition! and it isn’t for lack of my trying to correct it by every means that I can think of.”

Whereupon Hildegarde, who had her reasons for not stirring from her chair, made haste to reply:

“Oh, yes! the means you use are very nice! I advise you to boast of them; you ought to be ashamed of them! a man with an education, who has clerks under him, in an office, to raise his hand to his wife! Yes, Monsieur Malberg, I don’t blush to confess that Monsieur Baudoin has the baseness to strike me! that’s a nice thing to do, ain’t it?”

But the man to whom these questions were addressed, observing that no one thought of giving him his light, pushed open the door of the lodge, took his candlestick, lighted the candle with a piece of paper, and went upstairs without another word to the concierge and his wife, who continued their conversation.

“Well, Hildegarde, do you see what you’ve done? Here’s Monsieur Malberg had to light his candle himself! what will he think of us?”

“Oh! I don’t care what he thinks! he’s an agreeable man, that tenant! a fellow who never talks, who hardly answers when you speak to him, and always in a short, surly tone, as if he was always angry!”

“It is true that he seldom laughs; but still perhaps that’s his nature; there are people who enjoy being dismal. However, he’s a man who occupies an apartment at eleven hundred francs, and who pays on the dot, without having to be reminded that it is rent day, and who has very handsome furniture, and mirrors in every room, so that the proprietor has a very high regard for him.”

“Oh! I don’t say that he’s a vagabond! but why doesn’t he keep a maid, who’d come to our lodge in the evening and talk, as decent people always do, instead of that miserable blackamoor, that yellow negro, who doesn’t know how to do anything but wax his floor and polish his boots? as if you could call that a servant! He ought to hire me to do his housework; that’s my line!”

“You forget, Hildegarde, that the landlord doesn’t want you to do housework. Of course, if you went away while I am at my office, there wouldn’t be anybody but the cat to look after the lodge and answer questions!”

“A fine job this is, where the concierge’s wife isn’t allowed to do housework! That was my only ambition.”

“Oh, yes! the fact is that you were the cause of our being discharged from the lodge we had before this, because you did housework for the men on the fourth floor and drank all their liquor.”

“That isn’t true, it’s a slander!”

“Let’s not go back to that. I am mortified that Monsieur Malberg had to light his candle himself; it’s a stain upon our good name.”

“Well then, you ought to have lighted it for him, if you have that on your conscience!”

“Hold your tongue, Hildegarde; you’re very unreasonable to-night, you have something bad to say about everybody. You find fault because Monsieur Malberg has a yellow negro to work for him, and you don’t seem to know that that is very distinguished. Swell people always have colored servants in their employ.”

“It’s a miserable fashion. But still, if that miserable Pingo or Ponceau—I never know what his name is—was only agreeable.”

“Pongo!”

“Oh! what a dog of a name! Pongo! But he never talks, the blackamoor; or else he talks to himself, and says things that I don’t understand; I believe that he talks Morocco!”

“Come, Hildegarde, it’s almost twelve o’clock; go to bed, that’s the best thing you can do.”

“Everybody hasn’t come in.”

“Yes they have, everybody except little Georget, who lives up under the roof, with his mother.—By the way, how is the poor woman to-day?”

“Not very well; she’s had more fainting fits this afternoon, and I thought she was going to put out her gas.”

“And her son hasn’t come home, at midnight! that’s what I call a ne’er-do-well, a downright scamp! Hildegarde, heaven didn’t give us any children, and I give thanks for it in my heart; because they aren’t always honey for parents, and often absinthe rules the roost, as I see in the case of Mère Georget!”

“Absinthe—absinthe—I don’t hate that! it helps the digestion!”

“Oh! bless my soul! you don’t hate any liquid; but I know that absinthe is bad for the health; I’ve heard some of the clerks at the office talking about two talented actors who played at the theatre and who put an end to themselves with absinthe; without counting several others who are in a fair way to do the same thing!”

“Bah! that’s all nonsense!”

“Come, Hildegarde, go to bed; I will come in a little while; and if little Georget isn’t in at the quarter, I will leave him outside; I can’t waste my oil for anyone who never makes it up to me. Well, you don’t move; are you fastened to your chair to-night?”

“Go to bed first, Baudoin; I’ll sit up for the young man, and put the lodge in order.”

“You know very well that I am not in the habit of going to bed before you. I see your scheme: you will wait until I am asleep and then go to the cupboard to say a word or two to the bottle!”

“Oh! the idea of my going to the cupboard! It’s much more likely to be you, for you like brandy too.”

“I like it reasonably, like a man with some self-respect, who doesn’t choose to make a brute of himself.—Hildegarde, go to bed.”

“I don’t feel sleepy.”

“Hildegarde, we are going to have trouble! Will you go to bed at once?”

“You pester me——”

“Hildegarde, I shall be compelled to resort to severe means. Why, you certainly are glued to your chair; this isn’t natural, I suspect some trick. Ah! I see! I’ll bet that the bottle isn’t in the cupboard.”

And Baudoin rose to go to the cupboard, but as his wife was sitting in front of it and did not move, he pushed her roughly aside, whereupon she reeled, and almost instantly uttered a cry of distress so heartrending that her husband feared that he had hurt her. But it was not Hildegarde who was hurt, it was the bottle under her skirts, which she had involuntarily upset, and which had broken, overflowing the lodge with all the liquor which it contained.

“I say! what’s all this?” cried Baudoin, when he found a stream flowing between his feet; but soon the odor which spread through the room left him in no doubt as to the identity of the liquid.

“It is brandy; she had the bottle under her skirt; what a vile trick!”

“Yes, and you made me break it! that’s the worst of it, you brute! Such splendid brandy!”

“Hildegarde, you persist in your debauchery; I am going to give you a taste of the broomstick.”

“Touch me if you dare! I’ll call the watch! I’ll make a disturbance in the house!”

Meanwhile Baudoin, who was in the habit of keeping his promises, had gone to fetch the broomstick. At that moment, the bell at the street door rang, and this time the woman made haste to open, hoping that it was somebody who would protect her.

It was Georget, the young messenger of the flower market, who entered the house, and in another instant the porter’s lodge, just as Baudoin raised his broomstick over the head of his wife, who ran behind the young man, crying:

“Oh! monsieur, save an unfortunate woman, whose husband is trying to murder her!”

“Sapristi! how strong it smells of brandy here!” said Georget, sniffing; then, leaping upon the broomstick which the concierge held, he seized it with both hands. But Baudoin held on, he would not let go, and a struggle began between him and the young messenger, remarkably like the battles around the flag, which we see in the war plays at the boulevard theatres; only in this case the flag was a broomstick and the combatants were not in uniform.

The struggle continued for some time, on nearly even terms; Baudoin was stronger and little Georget more active. The concierge’s wife paid no heed to the contestants; she had taken a small sponge, and was using it to soak up the brandy from the floor; and when it was well saturated, she put it to her lips.

Suddenly the broomstick broke, each of the contestants fell backward, and the battle was at an end. Finding himself then on a level with Madame Baudoin, who was kneeling on the floor with her body bent forward, still soaking and sucking her sponge, Georget could not restrain a burst of laughter; and the concierge, who was inclined at first to belabor his wife with what remained of his broomstick, suddenly decided to lie down on the floor, and to lap up the brandy with his tongue as thirsty dogs lap up the water in the gutter.

VI
THE GENTLEMAN OF THE THIRD FLOOR

Georget left Monsieur and Madame Baudoin fighting over the remains of the brandy with sponge and tongue, and lighted one of the small, thin candles which are rolled up like small rockets and which are sold for one or two sous at the grocer’s. Then running quickly up six flights of stairs, he reached a small door in which the key had been left; poor people are not suspicious, especially as they have nothing which is worth the trouble of stealing.

The young messenger walked through a small room, which received no light except through a little round window, in which room was a cot bed supplied with a very thin mattress and with an old window curtain which served as bedclothes. This was Georget’s bedroom; but he did not stop there. Opening the door at the end of the room, and trying to make no noise, he entered another much larger one, where there was a little window. This room, although the walls sloped, was large enough to contain a bed surrounded by white curtains, an old mahogany bureau, a white wood table, a small sideboard, several chairs, and on the mantel a tiny mirror surrounded by a branch of consecrated boxwood. All this was more than modest, but it was neat and clean; it indicated not destitution, but poverty.

Georget was walking very softly, concealing his light with his right hand, when he heard a feeble voice from the bed:

“Is that you, Georget?”

“Yes, mother, it’s I. So you’re not asleep?”

“No, I haven’t been able to go to sleep, I don’t know why.”

“It must be because you are sicker; and you have not been well for several days, although you didn’t admit it to me.”

“It’s nothing, just the lumbago, it will soon be gone. If you would just give me something to drink, my dear, for I am very thirsty.”

“Yes, mother, in a minute. Wait until I light your candle and put out this tallow thing of mine which smells worse than thirty-six lamps.”

After lighting a bit of candle stuck in a bottle, Georget approached his mother’s bed.

“Come, now you must tell me where your medicine is. But gracious heaven, how red your face is, mother! and black circles round your eyes! Are you worse?”

“Why, no, it is the heat of the bed that does that.”

“Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse. Oh! how hot your hand is! You are feverish, and very feverish too, I am sure.”

“Nonsense, as if you knew anything about it.”

“Oh! yes I do; you must have pain somewhere.”

“No, I am not in pain.”

“The first thing in the morning I’ll fetch a doctor.”

“I don’t want you to; what’s the use of a doctor, just because one has a little fever; it will go away all right without him!”

“Where is your drink?”

“I thought I wouldn’t make any; I prefer water, I like it better.”

“Water, when one is feverish! Why, you didn’t do right! If I did such a thing, you’d scold me and say that I acted like a child, and you would be right. However, tell me where the sugar is; where do you keep the sugar, mother?”

“Sugar! I don’t want any; it nauseates me; I prefer clear water.”

“Water without sugar, when one is as burning hot as you are! I never heard of such a thing! You can’t mean it! Do you want to kill yourself? I am going to give you some sweetened water, but I must heat it; it’s better so.”

“Oh, no! no!”

“I say yes; I will take care of you better than you do yourself. Come, where is the sugar? where is the coal?”

And Georget ran all about the room, fumbling over all the furniture, opening all the closets, looking in every corner, but he found nothing. Thereupon a bright light broke upon his mind. He stopped in the middle of the room, threw his cap on the floor, and cried in a tone of deep distress:

“Ah! I understand everything now! You didn’t make yourself any drink, because you had no coal nor charcoal! You don’t want any sugar, because you haven’t a single particle of it here! Yes, yes, that is it! You are out of everything! You haven’t any money either, I am sure! and I, instead of trying to earn some, so that you might have what you need, why, I do nothing at all! I pass my day loafing, and at night I go to the theatre with Patatras, who absolutely insisted on treating me. I go about enjoying myself when my mother is sick, and I come home without a sou, without a single piece of money; and I haven’t anything to buy her what might cure her! Ah! I am a wicked son, a good-for-nothing! Forgive me, mother, forgive me; I won’t do so any more! I will work, I swear to you that I will work now!”

And the young fellow fell on his knees beside his mother’s bed; and the poor mother forgot her suffering, and tried only to comfort her son.

“What are you talking about, Georget? You, a good-for-nothing! Why, you don’t mean that, my boy! Have I ever complained of your conduct?”

“Oh! I know very well that you never complain; you are too good!”

“You have been amusing yourself a little to-day; well, my boy, there’s no harm in that; you must enjoy yourself while you’re young. Your friend Chicotin took you to the theatre; the theatre is a decent amusement; it is much better than going to the wine shop; you don’t make evil acquaintances there, or destroy your health with unhealthy stuff that they give you for wine. You haven’t earned anything to-day—that is too bad, but to-morrow you will work, and you will be happier!”

“To-morrow! to-morrow! but you have had nothing to drink this evening; you haven’t any sugar; and what will you take to quench your thirst to-night? cold water, I suppose?”

“I am going to try to sleep; when one is asleep, one doesn’t need to drink.”

“But when you wake in the morning, what shall I give you? for you have no money here, nothing at all; isn’t that so, mother?”

“Dear me, yes, my dear; for unfortunately I haven’t been able to work for a week; my sight has been all blurred!”

“Oh! you work too much, when you ought to rest.”

“Why so, Georget? I am not old enough yet to give up work, I am only fifty-four! If a body was good for nothing at that age, it would be a great pity!”

“I know that you’re not old, but still your health isn’t very good, and then you didn’t use to need to work for your living.”

“Oh! my dear, we must never say such things as that, and sigh over the past! If one has been happy, so much the better; if one is so no longer, so much the worse; regrets don’t help and only make our position worse!”

“All this doesn’t give you any nice, hot, sweet drink, and that is what you must have!”

“Don’t despair, we are not altogether without resources. You know that I have—your father’s watch; and if it is absolutely necessary, why——”

“What’s that you say! my father’s watch, which you think so much of! the only thing of his that you have! part with that? No, I won’t have it. Wait—suppose I should go and stand in front of some theatre?”

“What an idea! They are all over, all closed at this time of night.”

“Never mind; in front of a restaurant, I may still get something to do.”

“I don’t want you to go out; it’s too late.”

“Well then, in the house; pardi! sugar and coal—people lend each other such things as that. Don’t be impatient, mother, I will come right back.”

“No, Georget, I don’t want you to ask the neighbors; don’t, I beg you!”

But Georget was not listening to his mother; he had already relighted his tallow-dip and hurried from the room. When he reached the landing, the young man stopped, for he was uncertain to whom he should apply for the loan which he wished to obtain; but he did not hesitate long. He ran down the stairs three or four at a time, and did not stop until he reached the ground floor and knocked at the concierge’s lodge, saying to himself:

“Baudoin and his wife are not unkind; they dispute together, and fight sometimes, but they haven’t bad hearts; they won’t refuse me. Besides, it is only a loan, I will return it all.”

But Georget forgot that he had left the concierge and his wife engaged in an occupation which was likely to plunge them into a profound slumber ere long. In fact, after sucking and lapping brandy for some time, the husband and wife had felt such an intense longing to sleep, that they had hardly strength enough to reach their bed; and as the sleep caused by intoxication is never light, Monsieur and Madame Baudoin did not hear the knocking at their door; one might have fired a cannon under their noses, and they would simply have said: “God bless you!”

Weary of knocking to no purpose, Georget walked away from the lodge, murmuring:

“Those concierges are regular beer kegs; I shall never succeed in waking them, and I might as well give it up. Let me see, where can I apply? on the first floor? The whole floor is occupied by a family of English people, who hardly understand what you say to them and who don’t look very pleasant; I should not be well received there, they would not be able to understand what I said. On the second floor is a very pretty, very stylish lady, who receives fine gentlemen, but who refuses to open her door when she has company; her maid told me so the other day,—those are her orders. On the third,—ah! that is the gentleman that they call the Bear in the house, because he never talks with anybody, never receives any visitors, and hardly answers when you speak to him. Much use there would be in trying to borrow sugar and charcoal of that man! and still, if I thought that his black man would open the door;—but no, Pongo sleeps so sound that he never hears his master come home. So it would be the gentleman himself who would open the door, and he would shut it in my face without answering me. I don’t even dare to try!—On the fourth, on one side is an old woman, so timid that she will never open her door after dusk; on the other, a student; but he has gone into the country. And at the top, opposite us, no one; the room is to let. Mon Dieu! whom shall I apply to then, if among all these people I can see no hope of help for my poor mother, who has a high fever and no cooling draft to lessen her suffering? Ah! Chicotin was quite right to say that I am a fool to be in love, that I am too young. Mamzelle Violette makes me forget my mother, my duty, my work. To think that I have done nothing to-day! that I came home without a sou when I knew that my mother was sick! Oh, I am a miserable, heartless villain! I shall never forgive myself!”

As he said this, Georget went slowly upstairs, stopping frequently because he was weeping; and he had stopped again, and rested his head against the wall, to sob at his ease, when a door opened within two steps of him.

He was then on the landing of the third floor, and it was Monsieur Malberg who stood before him. When he saw the young messenger, who still had the look of a mere boy, beating his head against the wall, and giving free vent to his sobs, the gentleman who was called the Bear, and who in fact had a rather stern expression and a rather rough voice, walked toward Georget and asked:

“What are you doing here?”

“Well! monsieur, you see, I am crying, I am unhappy.”

“And why are you crying?”

“Because my mother is sick, and because she has nothing that might help her; because I didn’t work to-day, and came home to the house without a sou; because I am a heartless wretch, and I deserve to be beaten!”

“Well, do you think that if you beat your head against the wall that that will help your mother?”

“Oh! no, monsieur! but when a fellow doesn’t know which way to turn! I went down and knocked at the concierge’s door; I wanted to borrow a little sugar and some charcoal of them; but they didn’t answer; I suppose they sleep too sound!”

“So you live in the house, do you?”

“Yes, monsieur, at the top, under the eaves; I live there with my mother, who is the widow of my father, Pierre Brunoy, who was a soldier, a non-commissioned officer, who left the service on account of a wound. Oh! he was a fine man, was my father! He was a draughts-man, he had lots of talent, and he used to make designs for ladies who embroider; we were happy then; but he died. My mother undertook to keep a little smallwares shop, to earn enough to educate me; but she didn’t succeed, for no one paid her. Then, as she works very well on linen, she began to work for people, and I, knowing that I ought to help mother, whose health isn’t very good, and who has weak eyes, I said to myself: ‘I will be a messenger, for I could never find a place, although I can read and write and figure; or else I should have to work without pay for a long while and I must earn money right away to help mother.’—So I started in as a messenger; for there isn’t any foolish trade, so I was told;—and—that’s all, monsieur.”

The gentleman of the third floor listened attentively to Georget, and when he had finished, said to him:

“Come with me.”

“Where, monsieur?”

“Into my room, of course.”

“What for, monsieur?”

“You will see; come.”

The youth placed his tallow-dip on the floor, and followed the gentleman; his heart was still heavy, for he didn’t understand how the person who occupied the handsome apartment on the third floor could need his services so late. Monsieur Malberg passed through a reception room very carefully polished, and into a beautiful dining-room. There he stopped, opened a large sideboard, took out a loaf of sugar, which was hardly touched, and placed it in Georget’s hand, saying:

“Take this!”

The poor boy looked at him with an almost dazed expression, and murmured:

“What is this, monsieur?”

“Don’t you see that it is sugar?”

“Sugar, oh, yes! but this great loaf,—who’s all this for?”

“For your mother, of course! Didn’t you tell me that she hadn’t any and that she was sick?”

“Oh! is it possible, monsieur, that you are so kind as—but this is too much, monsieur, too much.”

“Hush, and come with me.”

This time Monsieur Malberg went into his kitchen, where Georget followed him, holding the loaf of sugar in his arms. The gentleman pointed to a large box without a cover, which stood under the stove, saying:

“Take that box; there’s charcoal in it.”

“Oh! how kind you are, monsieur! How can I thank you for——”

“It isn’t worth while, I don’t like thanks; take this box, I say.”

“Yes, monsieur, but be sure—I will return all this; pray believe me. Oh! I will work to pay my debt.”

“Very well, very well! By the way, wait; I have some linden leaves here, and some mallow; perhaps they will be good for your mother, and you haven’t any in your room, I suppose?”

“No, I think not, monsieur.”

“Well, I’ll give you some then; come.”

Monsieur Malberg returned to his dining-room. Georget still followed him, holding under one arm the loaf of sugar, and under the other the box filled with charcoal. The gentleman opened the drawer of a small piece of furniture, took out several paper bags, looked to see what they contained, put two of them aside, and was about to give them to Georget, when he stopped as if a sudden thought had struck him, and left the dining-room, saying:

“I will return in a moment; what I want isn’t there; wait here.”

The young messenger was careful not to stir; he was so pleased that he wondered whether he was not the play-thing of a dream; but he for whom he was waiting soon returned, bringing several small packages of herbs, saying:

“Here are some things which may be good for your mother,—linden, orange leaves, mallow and violet; take them all, or rather let me put them in your pocket, for you have no hand free.”

“Oh, monsieur! excuse me for the trouble I put you to. Mon Dieu! you are too kind! I will pay you for this, monsieur; for we are not beggars, we don’t ask alms, and I should be sorry for you to have that idea of us.”

“Very good! Your mother is sick and may need you; don’t leave her alone any longer.”

“Yes, monsieur, you are right; my poor mother, she will be so happy, so—so—Thanks, monsieur, oh, thanks a thousand times! Remember that I am always here day and night, at your service.”

“I will remember; but go.”

And the gentleman pushed Georget before him, so that he soon found himself on the landing once more. The door of the apartment closed, and he reascended the staircase as quickly as he could, with his box of charcoal, his loaf of sugar, and his tallow-dip still lighted.

At last he reached his room; this time he was not afraid of making a noise when he went in; he was too happy not to wish to tell his mother about it; but she was not asleep, and she gazed in amazement at her son when he danced into the room, and placed the loaf of sugar on her bed, crying:

“There, mother; you shall not drink plain cold water any more! Here is sugar, here is charcoal, and in my pocket I have half a dozen herbs in leaves. Ah! what luck! you will be cured right away! I can nurse you nicely now.”

“What does this mean, my dear? where did you get all these things? You hadn’t a sou just now. Explain yourself, Georget, I insist.”

“Why, yes, yes, never fear, I am going to tell you the whole story; but let me light the stove first, and then, while I blow my charcoal, I will tell you how Providence came to our assistance. Where is the stove? Ah! there it is. This will light very quickly, I know, although the bellows isn’t any too good.”

“Did you get all these things in the house, my son?”

“Yes, mother; you see, first of all, I went down to borrow from the concierge, Monsieur Baudoin; but it wasn’t any use for me to knock at their door, I couldn’t wake them, they’re worse than deaf people. So then I was coming up again in very low spirits, indeed, I believe I was crying, when the door on the third landing opened, and the gentleman who lives there came out to me. Oh! this thing proves, mother, that people very often say foolish things, or that it’s very wrong to judge a person by his appearance. For that gentleman that they call the Bear, that gentleman that never speaks to anybody, and that everybody makes stupid jokes about, why, he took me into his room, and gave me all these things for you, because I told him that you were sick; and he didn’t even let me thank him!—Ah! you miserable charcoal! you’ve got to burn! Now I am going to put some water over the fire.”

“But, my dear, this is an enormous loaf of sugar, and it is almost whole; you ought not to have borrowed so much as this.”

“As if that gentleman would listen to me! He says: ‘Take this!’ and if you try to remonstrate, he shouts: ‘Hold your tongue!’ and it’s impossible to prevent him from doing what he wants to.—Ah! my fire is going at last!”

“But this Monsieur Malberg—for the gentleman of the third floor is named Malberg—I have never met him; what sort of looking man is he, Georget? You must have had a good look at him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes! mother; why, he’s a man neither young nor old. At first sight, I am sure that you would take him to be older than he really is, because when a person never laughs, that makes him look older. He may be somewhat over fifty years old; his face is not ugly, not by any means, but his features have a sort of stern expression; his eyes are always gloomy and melancholy, and there are great wrinkles on his brow; his eyebrows are heavy, and his hair must have been black, but it’s a little gray now. When he fixes his great brown eyes on you, it frightens you; and yet I got used to them, for his expression is neither unkind nor contemptuous; it’s—I don’t know just how to describe it—it’s sort of compassionate, or sorrowful; and his voice, which sounds harsh at first, is much less so when he’s talked to you for some time. You see, mother, that gentleman isn’t like most people; oh, no! he makes you respect him, and it comes natural to obey him, and you don’t dare to say anything.”

“Really, my dear, you make me long to know this gentleman; when I am able to go out, I shall go to thank him. And did you tell him——”

“Just how we are placed, what we used to be, and what father did. Yes, I told him everything. Did I do wrong?”

“No, my boy, we have done nothing which we need to be ashamed of or to conceal.”

“Ah! my water is boiling; now I am going to make you some herb tea, mother; which would you rather have?”

“Why, tell me first what you have in your pocket.”

“Wait and I’ll show you; I have a whole lot of bundles! Here, see what this is.”

“Violet.”

“And this?”

“Linden leaves.”

“And—and—well! here’s something else now!”

“What’s the matter, Georget? Have you lost something?”

“Lost! oh, no! not by any means, mother! What I have just found in my pocket certainly wasn’t there before! I am sure of that.”

“Why, what have you found in your pocket?”

“Here, look, mother!”

And the young messenger tossed upon the good woman’s bed four five-franc pieces.

“Twenty francs, Georget! twenty francs! What does this mean? where did you get all that money, my son?”

“I haven’t any idea, mother; and I am very sure that I didn’t have it when I came home. I didn’t have a sou.”

“But this money didn’t get into your pocket of itself. Answer me, Georget, and above all, don’t lie.”

“Mon Dieu! how you say that, mother! Do you suppose that I am capable of having stolen this money from someone, I should like to know?”

“No, my dear, I do not suppose that my son, that the child of my honest Brunoy, would ever do a wicked action; but I have always carefully preserved your father’s watch, and some time, without my knowledge, to help me, you might have——”

“Pawned papa’s watch! Oh! never! I’d rather pawn myself! but wait, mother; I remember now; yes, that must have been it.”

“What? tell me.”

“That gentleman on the third floor, when I had the loaf of sugar and the box of charcoal in my arms, insisted on putting all these little bundles of dried leaves in my pocket himself; and that’s the way he stuffed these five-franc pieces into my pocket! Oh! I am sure of it now! for he went into his bedroom alone, to get the money, no doubt. It was him, mother, it was him; indeed, who else could have given me all this?”

“You are right, Georget, it can’t have been anybody else; people who like to do good, think of everything, and it seems that he is very kind, this Bear!”

“Yes, indeed, he is kind, but I shall not keep his money. I will work to-morrow, and earn some; and he has put us under enough obligation by lending us sugar and charcoal. Mother, we mustn’t keep these twenty francs that he slipped into my pocket so slyly, so that I could not thank him, must we? But still, it was very nice of him, all the same; he isn’t like other people, that gentleman! I’ll bet that when he tosses a piece of money to a poor man, he doesn’t try to make it ring on the sidewalk when it falls.”

“No, my dear, we mustn’t keep the twenty francs, for it is quite a large sum, and it would be too hard to repay it.”

“I am going to take it back to the gentleman right away.”

“Oh! it must be quite late now; Monsieur Malberg has gone to bed, no doubt, and is probably asleep; if you wake him up, he won’t like it. Wait till morning, and when he’s up, you can take the money back to him, and thank him again for both of us.”

“After all, you are right, mother; it will be better for me to let the gentleman sleep, who has helped me to cure you. I will go to-morrow morning, when his negro is up.—But the water is still boiling; give me what I need for your tea.”

The invalid chose one of the herbs. Georget soon made the tea and carried his mother a cup smoking hot and well sweetened; and when she had drunk it, he filled the cup again and placed it on the table by the bed.

“If you are thirsty again in the night,” he said, “you must drink this; it will be all ready; now try to go to sleep.”

“Yes, my dear, but it seems to me that I feel better already.”

“Well! mother; it is always like that; when a person has all that he needs to get well, then the disease must go.”

“Oh! not always, my boy, for in that case rich people would never be sick; but the thing that relieves one is contentment, happiness. It requires so little to make poor people happy! and what has happened to us this evening is real good fortune.”

“Oh, yes! it is a kind of good fortune that the rich do not know, but that they can confer on others; and that must be a great pleasure too.—Good-night, mother; if you need anything, call me.”

VII
A DIFFICULT ERRAND

The next day, before six o’clock, Georget was up and dressed; he went first to inquire concerning his mother’s health; the invalid had slept, and felt better, although she was still too weak to rise. She smiled as she said:

“Up already, my dear?”

“I must earn a lot of money to-day, mother, in order to bring you all that you need.”

“But I need nothing, as I have the material for making herb tea.”

“Oh! nobody knows! if you get better, perhaps a little beef soup won’t be a bad thing for you. When a fellow is out on the boulevard early, he is more apt to find work. There are maids who have bundles to send, people who have to go into the country and are looking for a cab——”

“Poor Georget! what a miserable trade yours is! Knowing how to write and figure as you do, you ought to have found a place in some office, or a clerkship in some shop.”

“Oh, yes! and wait a year or two before earning any kind of a salary! Don’t think about that any more, mother; I am very happy as I am! A clerk! shut up all day in an office! oh! how sick I should get of that! then I should never see her!”

“Who is it that you’d never see, my child?”

Georget blushed, but made haste to reply:

“I mean that I shouldn’t see you during the day, whenever I wanted to. By the way, mother, I must go to see the gentleman on the third floor, the gentleman who is so kind, although he doesn’t show it. I am going to return his twenty francs.”

“Isn’t it a little too early? He isn’t up yet, probably.”

“Oh! I am very sure that he gets up early; he isn’t one of the kind to coddle himself. Anyway, I’ll ask his valet, that mulatto who’s such a strange creature, they say.”

“Go, my dear, and thank the gentleman from me, until I can do it myself.”

Georget cast a glance at the mirror to make sure that nothing was lacking in his costume. When a man is in love, he becomes particular about his looks, and Georget would have been very glad to please the pretty flower girl of the Château d’Eau, who seemed to look upon him as a child; that distressed the poor boy, he was sorry that he was not at least twenty years old, because he thought that then she would pay more attention to him. For we are never content with the passage of time; when we are young, we think that it doesn’t move fast enough; later, we complain because it moves too fast. And yet we know that the wisest course is to take it as it comes; probably we are not often wise, as we are always growling about it.

Georget went down to the third floor, and rang softly at Monsieur Malberg’s door; a very dark mulatto, whose hair age had not yet turned white, and who spoke French very well for a colored man, and very ill for a Parisian, opened the door and recognized the young messenger whom he had met sometimes on the stairs.

“Hullo! it’s Monsieur Georget. Morning, Monsieur Georget! What you come here for so early?”

“Monsieur Pongo, I would like to speak to your master, Monsieur Malberg.”

“Oh! master not up yet, he still sleep; I get up sooner, to tidy the room, rub floor here in the morning without waking master.”

“If he is still asleep, I will wait.”

“Yes, you sit down on a nice little chair, like this.”

“Thanks, Monsieur Pongo; I hope I am not in your way; go on with your work.”

“Yes, yes, then I go very soft and see if monsieur still sleep.”

The mulatto went into another room. Georget sat down and waited. After a few moments he heard voices in the next room and supposed that Monsieur Malberg was awake. But still he was left alone, nobody came, and Georget, beginning to be impatient, coughed, walked about the room and stole softly to the door, which was ajar. He was surprised to find that the mulatto was alone, but that as he did his work, he kept up a steady conversation with all the furniture and other objects in the study, which to him were people to whom he gave names, according to the custom of the people of his country.

“You stay there, Broubrou!” said Pongo to a tall Voltaire easy-chair. “You all right, you satisfied, all brushed, all cleaned, all ready for master to use, unless he take Babo, the little horsehair chair. Oh! Babo, you’d be mighty pleased if master took you instead of Madame Broubrou! she take up much more room.—There! now you all cleaned, well rubbed, good ‘nough to eat.—But I forget Zima; where you hide yourself, Zima? oh! no good for you to hide yourself, I know all right how to find you.”

And the mulatto looked in every corner of the room, and at last succeeded in finding a small bamboo cane with a gilt head. It was that cane to which Pongo had given the name of Zima. He took it up and shook it impatiently, muttering:

“Ah! Mamzelle Zima, you try to make fun of Pongo and keep out of sight a long time. Suppose me cross and not rub you head to make you shine, how you like that, eh, Mamzelle Zima?”

At this point, the scene between the mulatto and the cane was interrupted by shouts of laughter. They came from Georget, who, not being used to the customs of Africa, had been unable to restrain longer the desire to laugh, caused by the faithful Pongo’s monologue. He turned when he heard the laughter, and seeing the youth, began to laugh too, and, cane in hand, to take several steps of a strange dance which recalled the famous dance of the Cocos, performed in all the melodramas in which negroes are introduced.

A ring at the bell interrupted this extemporaneous ballet; Pongo dropped Mademoiselle Zima, and left the study, saying:

“That’s master, he ring for me; he awake, I go tell him that you waiting.”

A few moments later the mulatto returned, and ushered Georget into Monsieur Malberg’s bedroom; that gentleman was enveloped in an ample dressing-gown and held a newspaper, which he seemed to be reading.

He glanced at Georget, who remained bashfully in the doorway of the room, twisting his cap about in his hands.

“It’s you, is it, young man? What do you want of me so early in the morning? Is your mother sicker?”

“Oh, no! thanks to heaven and to you, monsieur! But I have come because I found this twenty francs in the pocket in which monsieur was kind enough to put some herbs for me to make my mother some tea. It was another kindness on monsieur’s part, no doubt, but he is too kind; we must not keep this money, for it would take us too long to return it; and so I have brought the twenty francs back.”

The gentleman in the dressing-gown resumed the perusal of his newspaper, as he answered in a crabbed tone:

“I don’t know what you mean; the money is yours, if it was in your pocket; keep it and let me alone.”

“But, monsieur, I am very sure that that twenty francs isn’t mine, as I didn’t own a sou to buy sugar, and that was why I was crying on the landing.”

“Well! what then? how does that concern me?”

“Why, monsieur, as nobody else but you put anything in my pocket, it must have been you who put these five-franc pieces there.”

“You are dreaming!”

“Oh, no!”

“It wasn’t I!”

“I am sure that it was!”

“Corbleu! you tire me! Well, suppose it was? If I chose to put those five-franc pieces in your pocket, am I not at liberty to put my money where I choose? Do you propose to prevent me from helping you, when I have too much money, and know that you haven’t enough? You are very proud, it seems, master messenger?”

“Oh! it isn’t that, monsieur; but you have already overwhelmed us with your kindness; it would be wrong to show our appreciation of it by accepting what we don’t need.”

“You lie! you do need money, for last night you were without a sou, and I don’t suppose that you have earned any during the night.”

“But, monsieur, my mother has all she needs now, and I am going to earn some money to-day.”

“Oho! you are very confident, aren’t you? How do you know that you will find work to-day, that it will be a good day for you?”

“Why! monsieur, it very seldom happens that a whole day passes without someone employing us; a man would have to be very unlucky to have that happen.”

“And you think that you are in no danger of such bad luck? Well, tell me how you expect to earn money for your mother?”

“By doing errands, monsieur, as that is my business.”

“And how much do you get for an errand usually?”

“Why, that depends, monsieur, on how far I have to go; and then some people are more generous than others.”

“But about how much?”

“Twelve sous, fifteen sous, sometimes twenty sous; but that’s not often, unless we carry bundles.”

“And you take without a murmur whatever anyone chooses to give you?”

“To be sure, monsieur, as it’s the pay for our work.”

“Well, Monsieur Georget, I take you for my messenger from to-day; and it’s my pleasure to pay you two francs for every errand that you do for me.”

“Oh! that is too much, monsieur; no one ever pays as much as that.”

“If it suits me to pay that price, do you propose to prevent me from being more generous than other people?—You understand then, the twenty francs that you have received is a payment in advance on account of the errands you may do for me.”

“Yes, monsieur; then it’s for ten errands.”

“Exactly, for ten errands.”

“But there’s the sugar too.”

“Confound it! now it’s the sugar! well, call it one errand more.”

“Monsieur is mistaken; it was at least nine pounds of sugar, and that makes—that makes—I don’t know just the price of sugar.”

“Nor I; say no more about it, and don’t bother me with all these trifles!”

“And the charcoal, monsieur?”

“This little fellow has evidently made a vow to drive me mad! Call it as many errands as you choose, and let me alone.”

“I will call it fifteen, monsieur, but I am very sorry that I have offended monsieur, who is so very kind, and I will go, monsieur, I will go!”

And Georget had already reached the door, when Monsieur Malberg called him back.

“Listen, my boy, as you seem in such a hurry to pay your debt to me, I will employ you at once.”

“Oh! so much the better, monsieur, so much the better!”

“Listen: there is somewhere or other in the world a person whom I lost sight of almost—almost nineteen years ago, and whom I am very desirous to find. At that time, the gentleman in question, for it is a gentleman that I am talking about, was some thirty-three or thirty-four years of age; he was tall, with a good figure, and was rather a handsome man. Moreover, he was a dandy, a man of fashion, and always dressed with much elegance; but as that was nineteen years ago, his appearance may have changed greatly! However, the man’s name is Monsieur de Roncherolle.”

“Very good, monsieur; and where did this handsome Monsieur de—de——”

“Roncherolle.”

“Roncherolle live? Oh! I shall not forget the name again.”

“He lived—but what good will it do you to know where he lived then, as at that time he suddenly left his lodgings in Paris, and left France, I imagine?”

“Still, he might have returned to his lodgings since.”

“Do you suppose that I haven’t been there a hundred times to inquire? No, he has never come back to the place where he used to live; but he did come back to Paris ten years ago, I am certain of that; but I was travelling then, and we never met. When I returned, he had gone away again; but, if I can believe certain reports, certain indications, he returned to Paris some time ago, and is living—in what quarter of the city? I have no idea. You see that the errand that I give you is a difficult one. For a very long time, I, myself, have been looking for that gentleman, but have failed to find him. If you succeed in discovering him, why, then I shall look upon myself as your debtor, and shall find a way to prove my gratitude to you!”

“Monsieur is jesting! he forgets that he has already paid me in advance for fifteen errands. But if only this Monsieur de Roncherolle has not changed his name—for in that case it would be very difficult to find him!”

“He will not have changed his name, for he belongs to an old family, and was very proud of it.”

“Did he do anything?”

“Nothing except use up his fortune as slowly as possible; and in all this time he must have gone to the end of it. However, he has probably retained his youthful habits: it is in the Chaussée d’Antin quarter, at the close of the Opéra, or of the Théâtre des Italiens, or in front of the best restaurants in Paris, that you are likely to find him, that chance may lead to his being called by name in your presence; for you do not know him, my poor boy, you have no description of him, and I can supply you with no other means of identifying him. So I fancy that I am giving you a commission impossible to execute!”

“Why so, monsieur? We hear so many things, we messengers! We go about in all sorts of places; we see the whole of Paris, and I will bet that I discover him, and in that case I will come instantly and report what I have learned.”

“That goes without saying.”

“But this commission will not prevent monsieur from giving me others; and if he has any letters to deliver——”

“Yes, yes; very well; now go.”

Georget left the bedroom; in the reception room he found Pongo in a serious dispute with Mademoiselle Zima, who had fallen twice to the floor and refused to rise without assistance. But Georget had no time to stop; he was in too great a hurry to tell his mother of his interview with the gentleman on the third floor. He lost no time in doing so, as soon as he was with the excellent woman; and he tossed the four five-franc pieces on the bed, exclaiming:

“They are really ours now, for that gentleman absolutely insisted on paying me in advance. So we are rich! You shall have everything you want; besides, I am going to earn money too. Good-by, mother; stay in bed, and take care of yourself.”

“Why, Georget, you go off in such a hurry; you must take one of these pieces at least; for you must live too.”

“No, mother, I don’t mean to touch that money; I mean to earn some first of all, and not eat my breakfast until I have worked.”

“Georget, that’s nonsense! Will you listen to me?”

But the young messenger was not listening; he was already at the foot of the stairs, and in front of the concierge’s lodge, where he found Madame Baudoin, alone, still gazing with an air of deep affliction at the marks of the brandy on the floor.

Georget’s first thought was to go to the Boulevard du Château d’Eau, where he was very certain to find Violette, for the flower girl was always there, even when it was not a market day. That was the advantage of her branch of business; hand bouquets are of all times, and there are some flowers in all seasons; which is very fortunate for lovers, who give them all the year around, and for the ladies, who would like to receive them all their lives.

VIII
THE BLUE PHIAL

Violette was seated behind her counter, making bouquets; she had a peculiar knack at blending colors, and giving its full effect to the simplest flower; her bouquets were tasteful, even when they were made up of modest flowers only; there was taste and charm in their arrangement; her art was apparent in every one. There are people who spoil whatever they touch, and others who can make something out of nothing.

Georget stopped a few feet away from the flower girl, and looked at her; but she was so busy over her bouquets that she did not see him, or at least did not seem to see him; so he decided to accost her.

“Good-morning, Mamzelle Violette.”

“Ah! is it you, Monsieur Georget?”

“Yes, it’s me; I have been here some time already, within a few feet of you, looking at you; but you didn’t deign to glance in my direction.”

“I didn’t deign! what does that mean? Do you think that I wouldn’t have said good-morning to you if I had seen you? Do you accuse me of being impolite now?”

“Oh, no! that isn’t what I mean, mamzelle; but sometimes, when one doesn’t care to talk with a person——”

“Are you going to begin that again, Georget? If I didn’t want to talk with you, what compels me to? I believe that I am my own mistress—alas! only too much my own mistress, as I don’t know my parents, and my last protectress, Mère Gazon, is lying yonder in the cemetery.”

“Well, now you are sad! I tell you, Mamzelle Violette, I was terribly sad last night too, for my mother was sick, and we were short of money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me so, Georget? I would have lent you money. You know very well that I have some, that I sell as much as I want to sell, and that it wouldn’t have troubled me at all.”

“Oh! upon my word! Borrow money of you, of you, mademoiselle! never!”

“What! never? what does this mean? Why not of me as well as of anybody else? Don’t you look upon me as your friend, or do you think me a hard-hearted creature, who would not take pleasure in obliging you?”

“Oh, no! no! it isn’t that! on the contrary I know very well that you are kind-hearted, that you love to do good; I have often seen you give money to unfortunate people! But it isn’t that; it is—mon Dieu! I don’t know how to express it; it is that I should be ashamed, I should blush to——”

“Well, well! you are getting all mixed up. I go straight to the point: Georget, do you want money? I have some here,—fifteen francs, twenty-five francs; it won’t embarrass me in the least.”

“Thanks, thanks, mamzelle; I am very grateful; but now it isn’t as it was last night; our position has changed, and we are in funds.”

“Is that really true? how does it happen that in so short a time—Georget, if you are deceiving me, it is very wrong; you have no money!”

To prove to the flower girl that he was not deceiving her, the messenger told her all that had happened since the evening before. Violette listened with the deepest interest, and her eyes filled with tears at the story of Monsieur Malberg’s kindness.

“Ah! that gentleman is a fine man!” cried the girl, almost leaping from her chair. “Suppose I should carry him a bouquet from you; would that please him?”

“Oh, no! On the contrary it would make him angry; he doesn’t like to be thanked; I am sure that he would be angry with me, if he knew that I had told you how kind he was.”

“That’s a pity; I would like to know him. Does he ever walk in this direction on market day?”

“No, I have never seen him here. He’s a man who doesn’t like society, nor noise; and when you don’t know him, why, he hasn’t an agreeable manner, I tell you!”

“But when one knows that he is kind and generous, then one ought not to be frightened by his manner.”

“No matter, I assure you, mamzelle, that in his presence no one dares to laugh.”

“Speaking of laughing, Monsieur Georget, I am going to scold you now.”

“Scold me?”

“Yes indeed. Oh! it’s of no use for you to assume your innocent air, I was not fooled by what happened yesterday afternoon. The idea of throwing my customers down! that’s very pretty, isn’t it? If you should do that often, I don’t think that I should sell so many bouquets.”

“But I didn’t throw anybody down!”

“No, not you, but that good-for-nothing Chicotin, who had planned the thing beforehand with you, because he knew that it would please you. Am I right? Come, Georget, answer me—didn’t you plan with Chicotin to throw that gentleman down?”

“Not that one, mamzelle, I haven’t any grudge against that one; it was the other one; Chicotin made a mistake.”

“One or the other, it was very wrong, monsieur, to run against my customers and overturn almost the whole of my shop.”

“But I tell you that Chicotin made a mistake.”

“And I tell you that if either you or he ever do that sort of thing again, that will be the end, and I will not speak to you any more.”

“Oh! never fear, mademoiselle, we shan’t do it again; not I, that is, for I can’t answer for others.”

“The others only do what you want.”

“Not speak to you any more? would that be possible? In the first place, I should keep on speaking to you!”

“But I wouldn’t answer you.”

“Then you would mean to kill me with grief?”

“Nonsense, people don’t die for that sort of thing!”

“Oh, you think so, because you don’t feel what I do, here in the bottom of my heart.”

“Georget, I thought that you intended to work hard to-day?”

“Ah! so I do, you are right.—By the way, mamzelle, you don’t happen to know a gentleman named De Roncherolle, do you?”

“No, I don’t know him.”

“True, this isn’t the quarter where I can expect to find him; I must go to Boulevard des Italiens, to the Chaussée d’Antin; that’s a pity, for it’s a long way from you.”

“Do you mean that you don’t expect to do errands except in the neighborhood of the Château d’Eau?”

“Why! of course I know that that isn’t possible; but I hate so to go away from you.”

“Really, Georget, you make me want to laugh; you are not old enough yet to be in love, it isn’t so very long since I used to see you playing marbles with urchins of your age!”

“Oh! upon my word! it’s a long, long time since I stopped playing marbles; why, that’s a game for children.”

“Oh! mon Dieu! don’t defend yourself so eagerly; there’s no harm in it. And let me tell you, Georget, you would do better to play now than to pass your time sighing and looking up at the sky, and always having a dismal expression; you are better looking when you laugh.”

“Do you think so, mamzelle? Well! it isn’t my fault, it isn’t by preference that I am dismal sometimes; but you always treat me like a child, and that annoys me. However, I am seventeen and a half, and I believe that I am almost as old as you.”

“No, I am more than eighteen; and at that age, a girl is much older than a boy and ought to have more common sense.”

“Oh! that’s all nonsense! on the contrary, there are men of seventeen who are already soldiers, and who have been in the army. Why, there’s a little drummer, who was lately stationed at the barracks in Faubourg du Temple, who was not more than eighteen years old, and he had been to Africa, where he passed three years, and was in battles with the Arabs.”

“Does that tempt you? Are you inclined to go as a drummer?”

“I don’t say that; still, if I didn’t have my mother, and if there wasn’t any hope of my being loved by the person I love, why, then——”

“Come, come! go and do your errand, Georget; you forget that that gentleman paid you in advance!”

“You are right, mamzelle; I stand here talking, and the time passes so quickly when I am talking with you! But I mean that you shall be satisfied with me; I won’t be sad any more, and I won’t loaf any more.”

“We shall see!”

“Then will you have a little affection for me?”

“Haven’t I already? do you doubt it? Yes, I have affection for you, because I know that you are not a ne’er-do-well, a good-for-nothing, like so many others of your age, and because you are so fond of your mother, whose only support you are. Ah! how lucky you are to have your mother, Georget, and to be able to work for her! If I only knew mine, I would take such pleasure in giving her the fruit of my work, in kissing her and coddling her and taking every care of her! Oh, yes! I would have loved my mother dearly! but I never had one, or rather she is dead; or else—she deserted me!”

“There, now it is you who are sad! don’t think about all that any more, mamzelle; they say that children without parents, and without a name, are the ones who always make their fortune.”

“Why! that is easily understood, because then the good Lord takes the place of their family, He never loses sight of them, and gives them good inspirations; and with a protector like Him, they can never fail to make their way.—But you must go, Georget!”

“Yes, mamzelle. Ah! I am happy this morning! my heart is full of joy; I have talked with you, and I shall have a good day.”

“Good! now you are in good spirits, and that is the way I love to see you, the way I would like you to be always, because—Well, it is changing already! your brow is clouded and you turn pale;—what is the matter, Georget? Don’t you feel well?”

The young messenger had, in fact, changed color, and his smiling face, his eyes beaming with happiness, had suddenly assumed a different expression. A single glance in the distance had sufficed to cause this revolution: Georget had caught sight of Monsieur Jéricourt, the handsome man who was in love with the flower girl, walking very slowly in front of the Château d’Eau, not like a person who was going elsewhere, but like one who had come there with a purpose.

Violette followed the direction of Georget’s eyes, and speedily discovered the cause of his change of countenance; thereupon she shrugged her shoulders impatiently and cried:

“Mon Dieu! is it going to begin again?—You are going to do your errand, I hope, Georget?”

“Yes, mamzelle, yes, I’m going, I’m going right away; for if I didn’t, I might do more foolish things. Here comes that perfumed dandy who makes love to you—here he comes again; it seems that he means to come every day now; it’s a regular thing!”

“That gentleman is perfectly free to walk on the boulevard; what makes you think it’s on my account?”

“What makes me think so? why, it’s plain enough; you know as well as I do that it’s on your account. Oh! what a pity that the boulevard’s free to everybody!—I’m going, mamzelle, I’m going!”

Georget made up his mind to go, at last; he passed Jéricourt, upon whom he bestowed a savage glance; but that gentleman did not notice him.

On the previous day the young author had been flatly snubbed by the flower girl, and before witnesses too, which made his discomfiture even more unpalatable. While dining at Bonvalet’s restaurant, with his friend Saint-Arthur and the piquant little actress who was his friend’s mistress, Jéricourt had had to submit to the raillery of Beau Alfred, who, to compensate himself for having been thrown down and having broken his suspenders, had not ceased to repeat:

“It was Jéricourt’s fault! he was making love to the flower girl, and there seemed to be no end to it; but the pretty peddler didn’t bite at his gallantries—I fancy that our dear friend will have nothing to show for his seductive propositions. Ha! ha! ha! repulsed with heavy loss by a flower girl! It’s incredible, it’s most annoying! He doesn’t choose to admit it, but I am sure that he’s terribly annoyed.”

And Mademoiselle Zizi, the young actress who was so alluring in salacious rôles, and who perhaps had her own reasons for taking the thing to heart, outdid the little man in jocose remarks, and exclaimed with a most significant glance at Jéricourt:

“Ah! that was well done! it was well done! How pleased I am! I shouldn’t be any happier if I were offered an engagement at the Palais-Royal! What a nice little story to tell at the theatre! How they will laugh!—Ah! so our author friends affect flower girls, do they? that is very fine! Instead of sticking to actresses, who at least are in their line, and whom it would certainly induce to put more fire and talent into their parts—Ha! ha! to make love to a flower girl, and to have nothing to show for it! how humiliating!—Poor Jéricourt! he looks as glum as an owl.”

The young author, affecting the utmost tranquillity, simply replied to these attacks:

“If that young flower girl should appear on the stage, I’ll wager that she would eclipse many people who think now that they have a hold on the public!”

“Is that meant for me?” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, throwing a lobster claw in Jéricourt’s face.

“Why, no! of course not!” hastily interposed Saint-Arthur, as the author did not respond. “For you! upon my word! how can you imagine such a thing, when Jéricourt is wild over your talent? For he has told me so a hundred times; he says that you will replace Déjazet.—Haven’t you said that to me often, Jéricourt?”

But the angry author continued to maintain an obstinate silence, which increased the irritation of the little actress.

“In any event,” she cried, “no one will be able to judge of my talent in any of monsieur’s plays; for some time past he has given me nothing but unimportant parts.”

“I give you more than my brother authors do, for they don’t give you any parts at all.”

“What does that prove? That all authors belong to a coterie; that they allow themselves to be inveigled by the prayers of this one and the enticements of that one, or by the advice of the manager, who has his reasons for looking after still another one. O the stage! O you authors! it’s shocking, the injustice we have to put up with; and then they throw a flower girl in our faces! and tell us that she has only to appear to leave us behind! In that case, we’re only stop-gaps, eh?—Oh! it’s an outrage! it’s abominable! O God! my nerves! I am suffocating! I am dying!”

And Mademoiselle Zizi threw herself back on the divan, stretching out her legs and arms, gnashing her teeth, and wriggling like one possessed; whereupon Beau Saint-Arthur quickly seized a carafe, exclaiming in a tone of deep distress:

“The deuce! now she’s going to have a nervous attack; that’s very pleasant. The devil take you, Jéricourt, you’re the cause of it all; you spoke so roughly to her! Look, see how rigid she is!”

“That will pass away!” replied Jéricourt very calmly, helping himself to some truffled calves’ brains.

“Canaille!” muttered Mademoiselle Zizi, still rigid.

And Alfred, as he approached his charmer with a glass of cold water, was repulsed by her so sharply that a part of the contents of the glass splashed in his face, while the young woman muttered, taking pains to grind her teeth together:

“I want my blue phial with the opal stopper; I must have it.”

“Where is it, dear love? Shall I feel in your pocket?”

“Don’t come near me. My phial is at my rooms, on my dressing table in the boudoir.”

“Very good—I’ll send a waiter.”

“No, monsieur, I insist on your going yourself; the waiter would make some mistake.”

“But you haven’t two blue phials, and——”

“I insist on your going yourself, or else I won’t try to live.”

These last words were accompanied by such violent gnashing of the teeth, that the affectionate Alfred, fearing that his mistress would dislocate her jaw, hastened to take his hat, saying to Jéricourt:

“I must humor her; you see what a paroxysm she is having, and her blue phial contains some salt, I don’t know what—some mixture that brings her round at once. So that she often sends me to get it, for she never remembers to take it with her. I will run to her house; luckily it isn’t far—Rue Basse. But for all that it isn’t amusing.—Don’t leave her, Jéricourt, above all things; do what you can for her.”

“Never fear.”

The dandified Saint-Arthur, leaving Bonvalet’s, almost ran to Rue Basse-du-Temple, and on reaching his mistress’s abode, was received by her maid, who also was dining, and who had hurriedly locked the dining-room door, taking the precaution to remove the key; she ushered the young lion into the salon, saying:

“Come in here, monsieur, and wait; I’ll go and fetch madame’s phial.”

“I could have waited in the reception room just as well; I’m in a hurry.”

“No, indeed, monsieur, I should think not! I know too well what I owe you; stay here, I won’t be long.”

“Don’t bring the wrong phial!”

“Oh! there’s no danger of that—madame sends for it often enough. I know what she uses it for.”

Left alone in the salon, Alfred lost patience; he returned to the reception room, where he was nearer madame’s boudoir; thereupon he heard quite distinctly the rattle of knives and forks and glasses, and the popping of corks, which sounds proceeded from the dining-room.

He even heard a sneeze, so loud that the doors shook. But the maid returned with the blue phial with the opal stopper and handed it to the young man, saying:

“Why didn’t monsieur stay in the salon? Perhaps monsieur heard noises in the dining-room? Madame’s two cats are dining with me; they amuse me and are good company for me.”

“My dear girl, one of them has a cold in the head; he sneezes pretty loud for a cat—loud enough to break the windows.”

“Oh! monsieur is mistaken, the sneezing was in the yard. The concierge does nothing else; it’s downright disgusting!”

Paying no further heed to what the maid said, our young elegant, armed with the precious phial, ran back to the restaurant, and going at once to the door of his private room, tried to open it; but to no purpose did he turn the knob, the door was bolted inside.

Saint-Arthur began to knock and call.

“What does this mean? It’s I, Zizi!—Jéricourt! Why do you lock yourselves in? What’s the meaning of this jest?”

“Have you brought the phial?” murmured the young actress in an altered voice.

“Yes, of course I’ve brought it.”

“Is it my blue phial?”

“To be sure; I know it well enough.”

“With the opal stopper?”

“The stopper is in it! It’s perfectly tight.”

“Well! take it back, that isn’t the one I want; I want the yellow one with an agate stopper.”

“Oh! this is too much! Zizi, you abuse my good nature.—Open the door, Jéricourt.”

“I should be delighted to, but madame says no. She has taken a knife and threatens to bury it in her breast if I take a step toward the door.”

“Oh! in that case, don’t budge, my friend! do me the favor not to budge, stay where you are! I know the mad creature; she would do some insane thing or other. I will run and fetch the yellow phial!”

And the simple-minded fellow started off again to get the yellow phial.

To those who say that this is an improbable incident, we reply that we have seen such ladies make the man whose fortune they were squandering do much more improbable things; and, in truth, they are quite right to do it, when they find blockheads ready to gratify all their whims.

On returning with the yellow phial, Alfred opened the door without difficulty. He found Jéricourt still at the table, attacking the dishes with more ardor than ever; and Mademoiselle Zizi, with cheeks as red as cherries, flew into his arms, crying:

“I wanted to put your love and trust to the proof, dear love, and you have come out triumphant from the trial; you are worthy of my affection; I give it to you once more, and more entirely; let me kiss you on the left eye.”

Alfred submitted to the caress, smiling at Jéricourt with an expression that seemed to say: “You see how she loves me!”—And the dinner came to an end most amiably; everybody was satisfied.

IX
THREE FOR A BOUQUET

But the result of that dinner was that Jéricourt’s thoughts recurred to Violette, and he said to himself:

“They made fun of me to-day on the subject of the flower girl; if I don’t succeed with her, they will do it again. That will injure my reputation; I shall seem as big a donkey as Saint-Arthur. I have gone too far to stop. Besides, the girl is so pretty! I am inclined to think that I love her; I am not quite sure of it, but it may be so. I did not lie when I said that she would outshine Mademoiselle Zizi; she’s worth ten, yes, a hundred Zizis!—I have an idea: suppose I should advise her to go on the stage? she would be a charming actress, and I can find managers enough who will be delighted to bring her out. I will give her lessons and advice.—By Jove! that’s an excellent idea of mine. One of these days I will work it into a vaudeville.—Violette will not hold out against that proposition. The stage! the hope of making a sensation on the boards, the pleasure of appearing in a lot of unusual costumes—those things always fascinate a girl. This one must be as much of a coquette as the others, or she wouldn’t be a woman! She will give way, and I shall triumph. A flower girl turned into an actress—what would there be so surprising in that? We have seen great talents start from much lower down in the scale. And then, when a woman is pretty, it takes so many difficulties out of the way. The thing will go all alone.—I really must make a play out of this idea.”

With such thoughts in his mind, Jéricourt came to the Château d’Eau the next day, and he lost no time in accosting the flower girl, who was still looking after the young man who had found it so hard to leave her.

“Good-morning, my lovely flower girl.”

“Good-morning, monsieur.”

“Oh! what a curt tone! I see that you are still angry with me.”

“I, monsieur? Why so?”

“Why, on account of what I said yesterday.”

“Oh! I forgot that long ago! Such things go in at one ear and out at the other; they never stay in my head.”

“If they stayed in your heart, that would be better.”

“Thank heaven, my heart doesn’t waste any time on such nonsense!”

“Mademoiselle Violette, you will not always talk like this, unless nature has given you a heart protected by a triple steel cuirass.”

“Oh! I don’t wear a cuirass, monsieur; a corset’s quite enough!—Do you want to buy a bouquet, monsieur?”

“In a moment. I have many things to say to you, and I would like to talk with you first.”

“If it’s to repeat what you said yesterday, I assure you it isn’t worth while to begin the conversation.”

“Are you afraid that I am going to talk of love?—You have a way of saying things that is far from encouraging!”

“Mon Dieu! I don’t choose my words; I say just what I think.”

“A woman who says what she thinks! do you know that they are very rare?”

“I say, do you know that you ain’t very complimentary to women? Have they caught you very often?”

“That isn’t what I meant. Look you, Violette, I admit that I did wrong yesterday; I spoke to you as if I were certain that you loved me, and you hadn’t given me any right to do it.”

“Just as soon as you admit that you did wrong, that’s the end of it, it’s all forgotten. Let’s talk about something else.”

“It isn’t that my feeling for you has changed; on the contrary, I adore you more than ever!”

“I say—it seems to me you’re beginning yesterday’s song again!”

“No; yesterday I made certain propositions that displeased you.”

“Pardi! they were very pretty, your propositions! to dine with monsieur at a restaurant! to offer to furnish lodgings for me! Why on earth don’t you marry me and be done with it?”

“That might have come in time!”

“Yes, in the thirteenth arrondissement! But I prefer the other twelve. As for furniture, I have some, monsieur, and it’s my very own; Mère Gazon left it to me; it ain’t violet wood, to be sure, but it’s good enough for me; and besides, I think a great deal of it, in memory of the one who gave it to me.”

“All that is very praiseworthy, no doubt; but I don’t think that there’s anything wrong in trying to improve one’s position, to make a fortune; that’s the object of all who haven’t money, and no one has ever blamed them.”

“Make a fortune! To be sure, that ain’t unpleasant, that is, if you do it by honest means! If not, one had better stay in one’s little corner.”

“Oh! bless my soul! who said anything about ceasing to be honest? What extraordinary creatures these girls are—always thinking that somebody means to lead them astray!”

“That’s because we know you, my fine gentlemen; and, if I remember right, you didn’t propose to me yesterday that I should become a rosière.”[A]

[A] The maiden who wins the rose offered as a prize for virtue in certain villages.

“Listen, Violette; I will come straight to the point.”

“Well! let us hear what your point is.”

“You have been to the play sometimes, of course?”

“Why, yes, several times.”

“And you like it?”

“I should say that I do like it! I think it’s beautiful, and if I was rich, I’d go often.”

“And what do you think of the actresses? Don’t you think it must be delightful to appear in public, to be applauded, to wear hundreds of different costumes, and to be stared at and admired by a whole theatre full of people?”

“Oh! how fast you go! That must be fine when one has talent. I have seen some women who acted so well that you couldn’t get tired listening to them; but I’ve seen others who acted so poorly that everybody grumbled, and laughed when they were trying to make you cry. I have seen some pretty ones; but there are some terribly ugly ones; and it’s no use for them to wear handsome costumes and a lot of paint on their faces; it don’t make them any better-looking.—But what makes you say all this to me?”

“Because, Violette, if you choose to go on the stage, it rests with you to do it; a glorious career is open to you, and I am sure that you will succeed, that you will obtain glory and wealth at once!”

“I an actress!—Are you making fun of me again, monsieur?”

“No, indeed, I am speaking in all seriousness. Listen to me: I am a dramatic author, so that the stage is my livelihood, or rather my constant study; therefore you must admit that I ought to know something about it. You have all that is needed for success on the stage: your figure is well set up, you are tall but not too tall; your face is lovely.—Oh! I am not paying compliments; indeed, you must know that you are pretty, you have been told so often enough! Your voice is clear and well modulated; with all these advantages and the lessons I will give you in declamation and in carrying yourself on the stage, it is impossible that you should not make a grand success. As for your getting a chance to make your début, that is my concern; I will undertake that and I shall have no difficulty. Better still, I will give you a part, a splendid part, in my next play; and as a reward of my zeal, of my lessons, of all that I will do for you, I will not ask you for anything,—except a little gratitude when you are a popular actress.—Well! what do you say? isn’t that better than being a flower girl?”

“Is that all you’re buying this morning, monsieur?”

“But you don’t answer my proposition, Violette. Don’t you understand that I am offering you a brilliant future—all the enjoyments, all the pleasures of life? And that won’t interfere with your remaining virtuous.”

“It’s too risky in that business! No, thank you, monsieur, all this don’t tempt me; it amuses me to see other people act, but it don’t make me want to act myself. Everyone to his taste, and I prefer my flowers to your stage.”

“Nonsense! it isn’t possible that you refuse, when I undertake to remove all obstacles.”

“Buy this bouquet;—just see what a pretty one it is, and what a sweet smell! I’ll bet that it don’t smell so good in your wings.”

“Surely, this isn’t your last word, Violette? You will think it over, and you will accept.”

“Oh! my reflecting’s all done, monsieur; it don’t take long with me; I know right off what suits me. I don’t feel any calling for the stage.”

“But I tell you——”

“Don’t take the trouble to say any more, monsieur; you’ll just waste your words, and that would be a pity, as you make your business out of them, and you sell wit on paper.”

Jéricourt was so vexed by the rejection of his proposition, when he expected a complete triumph, that he was tongue-tied, and could not think of a single word to answer the flower girl.

At that moment he felt a hand on his arm, and someone said to him:

“Good-day, Monsieur Jéricourt; I recognized you from behind by your cane; I said: ‘That’s my neighbor’s cane.’—How are you?”

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.”

Little Astianax put his mouth to his neighbor’s ear and whispered:

“The flower girl’s mighty pretty!”

“Do you think so? That’s a matter of taste.”

“Hum! nonsense! Anybody can see that; I noticed her yesterday; I came with mamma and my sister to buy some flowers, because it was papa’s birthday. I didn’t buy any; I gave him some nougat.”

“A very pretty bouquet that!”

“Oh! it doesn’t make any difference, I am going to give him some flowers to-day; and I came here again, for I dreamed of the flower girl all night.”

“Really!”

“Yes, yes; I was a pacha and she was a slave.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Jéricourt aloud, turning to Violette, “here’s a young man who dreamed about you all night, just because he saw you yesterday.”

Monsieur Astianax turned scarlet; he pulled the skirt of Jéricourt’s coat and whispered: “Oh! I won’t tell you anything more! You make me blush!”

“Don’t be alarmed; on the contrary, I am acting in your interest; you are in love with mademoiselle—very good, I tell her so for you. Who knows? perhaps you will be more fortunate than the rest of us, especially as you have all that a man requires to succeed.”

Jéricourt uttered the last words in such an ironical tone that any other than little Astianax would have taken them in very bad part; but he, on the contrary, accepted them as the truth; he smiled and twisted his mouth into the shape of an ace of spades, while his eyes shot flames to right and left.

Violette restrained the intense desire to laugh caused by young Astianax’s contortions of feature; she said as she arranged her flowers:

“Come, monsieur, choose. Do you want a bouquet? Here’s a very pretty one,—as monsieur doesn’t take it.”

“Yes—that is to say, you must make me one; but I’ll explain what you must put in it: I want some heliotrope—that’s the flower of witty people; then some myrtle—that means interest, affection; and a tulip in the centre—that means an honest heart, decent behavior.”

“What, my dear Astianax, does the tulip mean all that?” said Jéricourt, laughingly; “I should never have suspected it. The devil! you are very learned about flowers. Go on—what else do you want?”

“A few red carnations—they mean that one would fight at need for the object of one’s love; I put them in for myself, you understand; then a poppy and some immortelles—they promise strength and health, and they will please my father, for he is always thinking that he’s sick; he took a bottle of lemonade only this morning—you know, the kind of lemonade that purges.—Surround the whole with pansies, and I shall have a bouquet full of meaning—a genuine selam.”

“Bravo, young man, bravo! With such bouquets you will make your way very rapidly with the ladies!”

“This one is for papa; but later, I hope——”

“I am very sorry, monsieur,” said Violette, “but I can’t make such a bouquet as you want; I have no red carnations; you will hardly find any at this season, and I haven’t any myrtle, or any poppies.”

“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?”

“Three francs, monsieur.”

“Three francs! Pardieu! that’s nothing at all; bouquets seem to be cheap in this quarter. I’ll take it. Here, my pretty flower girl, pay yourself.”

And he handed Violette a five-franc piece; whereupon little Astianax stood on tiptoe and cried:

“But I bargained for that bouquet before you did, monsieur, and I am going to buy it. You can’t purchase it, not you.”

The gentleman contented himself with a disdainful glance at the young man as he repeated:

“Here, my girl, pay yourself.”

At this point Jéricourt thought fit to take part in the discussion. He stepped between Astianax and the stranger, and, assuming a self-sufficient tone, remarked to the latter:

“I was the first one who negotiated for that bouquet; so the flower girl has no right to sell it to anybody else, as I am ready to pay the price she asked. Be kind enough to give it to me, monsieur;—do you understand?”

The elderly gentleman simply turned his eyeglass on Jéricourt, and holding his head a little sidewise, said with an ironical smile:

“When I was your age, monsieur, I never allowed anything that I had in hand to be taken from me, and I have clung to that habit as I grew older;—do you understand?”

The gentleman’s self-assured manner and the tone of persiflage in which he made this retort surprised our man of letters, who did not know just what to do; but it was not so with little Astianax, who was furious because the stranger seemed to pay no heed to him, to treat him like a child. He stepped up to him, looked him in the face as well as he could, and shouted, in a voice which anger made exceedingly shrill:

“I don’t know why monsieur didn’t answer me! You see, I don’t allow myself to be insulted! I don’t propose to be treated like a child, I don’t! I have plenty of spunk, I have!”

“So! you are spunky, are you, my good friend?” rejoined the gentleman, turning his glass upon Astianax. “Indeed! so much the better! I congratulate you, for it may be a good thing for you when you grow up.”

“What’s that? when I grow up? I am nineteen years old, monsieur, and at that age one isn’t afraid of anybody!”

“Nonsense! nonsense! that isn’t possible! You mean nine.”

This remark made little Astianax tremble with rage; he stamped the ground and seemed disposed to rush at the gentleman, who continued to stare at him and even ventured to smile as he scrutinized him. Violette, fearing that the little man would resort to violence, had risen to restrain him, and Jéricourt, whom the quarrel seemed to amuse, was wondering what would happen next, when the scene changed as suddenly as when the manager’s whistle is heard at the Opéra.

On the boulevard, however, Chicotin Patatras acted once more as the scene-shifter.

Georget’s friend had been sauntering about the Château d’Eau for several minutes; being desirous to spend during the morning all the money that he had left from the day before, the young rascal had breakfasted so sumptuously that his brain was a little excited, and he felt in the mood for perpetrating a practical joke. In this frame of mind, he had noticed that several gentlemen were standing in front of the flower girl’s booth, and he soon recognized Jéricourt as the man whom he had tried to throw down on the preceding day. He said to himself instantly:

“Why shouldn’t I do to-day what I missed doing yesterday? My little Georget don’t like that scented dandy; he’s there again, prowling round the flower girl; if I knock him over, I shall be doing a friend a favor, and then too it’s fun for me. I must go about it playfully; Chopard ain’t here to push me—that’s a shame.—Ah! pardi! I’ll just go and grab that cabby’s glazed hat, as he stands dreaming there by his horses; of course he’ll chase me, and I’ll run between my man’s legs.”

Chicotin put his plan into execution forthwith. The cabman, bereft of his hat, ran after the gamin, shouting at the top of his lungs; he fled in the direction of the flower girl and hurled himself suddenly against the legs of someone, whom he bowled over, while the others hastily stepped aside; but Chicotin had missed his aim again; it was not Jéricourt, but little Astianax, who was sprawling on the asphalt.

“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.”

“Were you aiming at me, pray?”

“No, indeed, monsieur; of course not!”

“Because, you see, I have the gout, and if you had knocked me down, it might have been a more serious matter for me than for that little man, who ought not to have lost the habit of tumbling yet.”

“Oh! monsieur, if I had had that misfortune, I should never have forgiven myself; but I’d have picked you up.”

“That would have been most generous on your part; but I prefer that you shouldn’t have any occasion to pick me up. You look to me like a genuine ne’er-do-well; but I don’t dislike knaves of your sort.”

“Monsieur’s a good judge.”

“Would you like to come with me? I’ll give you an errand to do.”

“Yes, monsieur, why not? And you won’t be sorry that you chose me; I do errands in first-class shape!”

“Very good! if I am satisfied with you, I will give you my work. What’s your name?”

“Chicotin—nicknamed Patatras because——”

“Parbleu! I have a shrewd suspicion why you had that name given you, if you always make your entrée as you did just now, by throwing people down.—But this pretty flower girl doesn’t like the way you treat her customers, and she is right.”

“Bless me! monsieur,” said Violette, “it’s the second time in two days that he has run into my counter like that.”

“It’s the last time, Mamzelle Violette; I promise you I won’t do it again; I’m done.”

“This girl is really lovely!” muttered the gentleman, as he paid for his bouquet. “Whom in the devil does she look like? Faith! I’ve known so many!—Follow me,” he said, turning to Chicotin.

He walked away, leaning on his cane and putting his left foot to the ground with great precaution, which necessarily kept him from walking fast.

And Monsieur Chicotin followed him, taking several steps very rapidly, then falling back to cut a caper or some monkey trick.

“If we keep on at this pace,” he said, “we shan’t beat the railway train.”

X
A DOMESTIC INTERIOR

In a very handsome salon of an apartment on Boulevard Beaumarchais, in one of those fine houses recently built, which make that quarter one of the most attractive in Paris, three persons were assembled: Monsieur Glumeau, his wife and his daughter.

We know the ladies. Monsieur Glumeau, formerly a commission merchant, was a man of fifty years, of medium height, who had never been handsome, but who might have possessed some attractions when he was young, thanks to his light hair, his china-blue eyes—there are people who like china-blue eyes—and above all, to his slender figure, his shapely leg and his small and well-arched foot. As he grew older, Monsieur Glumeau had not taken on flesh like his excellent wife, but had retained a youthful appearance, especially when seen from behind; as to his face, that had become considerably wrinkled, but his eyes were still china-blue, and although he no longer possessed his fair hair, he had replaced it by a wig of the same color.

It is probable that Monsieur Glumeau’s features would not have undergone so sudden a revolution, except for the mania that he had contracted of drugging himself, of putting himself on strict diet for the slightest indisposition. The dread of being ill constantly tormented the ex-commission merchant, and by dint of taking care of his health, he had succeeded in ruining it. His ordinary reading was the fourth page of the large newspapers; he took note of all the infallible remedies announced and extolled by their inventors; he often bought them although he had not the disease which they were supposed to cure; but he would take them all as a matter of precaution, saying to himself: “If I should have this disease, I shall have the remedy at hand.”

To this weakness of mind, far from agreeable in a family, Monsieur Glumeau added the pretension of shining in conversation. He constantly sought to make sharp or clever remarks; but as he was never able to think of any, he often halted on the way, which fact imparted much incoherency to his speech. Lastly, having formerly been what is called a fine dancer, he had retained much liking for that exercise, wherein he could at his pleasure exhibit his foot, of which he was very proud, and upon which he kept his eyes fixed as he danced.

After retiring from business with a very considerable fortune, which had recently been added to by an inheritance, Monsieur Glumeau had purchased a country house at Nogent-sur-Marne; there he had had built in his garden a small theatre, where in the summer his family and friends indulged in the pleasure of theatrical performances, being actors and spectators in turn. Monsieur Glumeau liked to receive company; the presence of guests made him forget his imaginary diseases; as his wife and his children were also fond of pleasure, the ex-commission merchant’s house was one of those where one was always certain to pass one’s time agreeably; ceremony and etiquette were banished from it, and everyone was at liberty to do what he pleased; the company was sometimes a little mixed but it made up in quantity what it lacked in quality.

At the moment of which we write, the head of the family was in the act of drinking a cup of tea into which he had squeezed the juice of a lemon, because when he woke that morning he had a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I think that this will do me good,” said Monsieur Glumeau, as he drank his tea in little sips; “lemon juice in tea clears up the bile.”

“But why will you have it that you’re bilious, my dear? Your complexion is very clear, you are not yellow.”

“You say I am not yellow, my dear love; that’s a question! I am a little yellow—on one side of my nose; and I don’t propose to wait until I am as yellow as a pumpkin before I take a purgative.”

“Do you mean to say that you propose to purge yourself again? That would be the last straw. You took Sedlitz water a fortnight ago.”

“What does that prove, if I need it again?”

Madame Glumeau shrugged her shoulders, exclaiming:

“You make yourself sick by dosing yourself, Edouard!”

“Why no, my dear love, one doesn’t make oneself sick by taking care of oneself; on the contrary, it prevents one from being sick.”

“You know that we have company to dinner to-day. I trust that you don’t propose to select this moment to take medicine.”

“I am not talking about medicine to-day; but listen: just now I was reading in my paper the announcement of a most valuable discovery.”

“Something to prevent potatoes from being sick?”

“Oh! I am not talking about potatoes!”

“But, my dear, they are so useful, so nourishing, so valuable, so——”

“Let me alone with your potatoes; I don’t like them. What I am talking about is an infallible remedy for the gravel.”

“But you haven’t that, monsieur!”

“No, but I might have it!”

“What a misfortune it is to be afraid of all diseases!”

“I am not afraid of them, madame, but I simply am on my guard against them; it isn’t from fear, it’s from prudence, from common sense.”

“Bless my soul! if all men resembled you, it would be amusing.”

“What do you mean by that, Lolotte?”

“I mean that by dint of thinking about diseases, you think that you have them all, and it doesn’t tend to make you a lively companion in society.”

“Madame, si vis pacem, para bellum.”

“What does that mean, monsieur?”

“If you wish for peace, prepare for war.”

“What connection has that with your lemon juice in tea?”

“It also means: If you want to be well, look after yourself as if you were ill.”

“Oh! as to that, I don’t believe a word of it; do I dose myself, monsieur? and you see how well I am!”

“It is a fact that you are getting too stout, my dear love; but if you would have consented to take a little white mustard seed, you would have lost flesh.”

“No, thanks, monsieur; I should probably have become like a lath, and I prefer to remain as I am. To hear you talk, one would say that I was enormous.”

“Not exactly, but you haven’t any waist.”

“I haven’t any waist! I haven’t any waist! Upon my word, I guess that it’s your eyes that are diseased; you see crooked.”

“What! why do you say that my eyes are diseased? Is it because they are red? Don’t joke, Lolotte, are my eyes swollen?”

“Ah! so I haven’t any waist! All men don’t think as you do, monsieur, and in spite of my stoutness, if I chose to listen to all the pleasant things that are said to me——”

“Madame! you forget that your daughter is here.—Eolinde, come and look at my eyes; it seems to me that they sting.”

Mademoiselle Eolinde was looking over a volume of plays; instead of answering her father, she cried:

“We must play La Forêt Périlleuse, papa, and I will be the fair Ca—Ca—Camille!”

“Yes, my child, yes, we have already decided to give that play,” said Madame Glumeau; “and we are going to have here to-day all the people who are to take part in the first piece to be given at our country house, in order to distribute the rôles. But the other piece is what hasn’t yet been chosen. We must have a very lively vaudeville.”

“Oh, mamma! let’s give Estelle, ou Le Père et La Fille!”

“I should like to know if you call that a lively vaudeville! My dear girl, when we have theatricals in our house, for our amusement, we mustn’t undertake to make people weep, for the only result is to make them laugh. As a general rule, you are all very bad, but that is what is wanted; the worse actors you are, the more laughter you cause; if you acted well, it would be very dull, I fancy.”

“Oh, mamma! how you ta—ta—talk, just because you—you—do—do—don’t act yourself!”

“If I did, I should try to be funny, that’s all; but I should know my lines, I tell you that; and you never know yours.”

During this conversation between the mother and the daughter, Monsieur Glumeau had risen, had stationed himself in front of a mirror, and was looking at his eyes with a persistent scrutiny which finally ended in making his sight blurred; whereupon he paced the salon, muttering:

“I must get some eye salve; I ought to have a recipe somewhere.”

“But there’s nothing the matter with your eyes, monsieur!” cried Madame Glumeau impatiently; “you apparently propose to make yourself blind now! Why don’t you take the elixir of long life, and have done with it?”

“That wouldn’t be such a bad idea, madame!”

“Oh, yes! do as your friend Boutelet did. Do you remember what happened to him, because he drank heaven knows how many bottles of the elixir of long life in six months? He died of it!”

“Perhaps he would have died six months earlier if he hadn’t drunk it!”

“After three o’clock and Astianax has not come home,” said tall Eolinde; “it isn’t very kind of my brother, for he was to bring us a collection of plays to choose from!”

“Wasn’t it his neighbor, Monsieur Jéricourt, that young author who lives on the fourth floor, who was to lend your brother the plays?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“He has a very attractive look, has that young man, we must invite him to come to our play in the country; eh, Edouard?”

“I have no objection; isn’t he a newspaper man too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry for that; we must try to have a few newspaper men; they go everywhere in society, they write articles about everything they see, and perhaps they would speak of me in the paper, and I should see myself in print; that would be very nice!—Whom have we to dinner to-day?”

“Why, you must know as well as I do, my dear.”

“Ah! bigre! I really believe that I have a pain in my stomach.”

“Oh dear! that would be the last straw.”

“No, it’s nothing, it’s going away; I was in a constrained position.”

“We expect to dinner Monsieur and Madame Dufournelle; Madame Dufournelle wants to act; she will be terribly awkward on the stage, I fancy, but that’s her business!”

“She is graceful and pretty, and I believe that she will make a success of it.”

“Oh! that’s just like a man! to call that woman pretty, just because she is always laughing, and because she is a great flirt; indeed she carries it so far sometimes as to be almost indecent in her behavior with men!”

“Upon my word, Lolotte! where did you see that?”

“I have seen it more than once; and in our own house, in the country, with you, when she asked you to run after her and defied you to catch her! Monsieur ran like a deer, and then you both disappeared behind a hedge.—You had no pain in your stomach that day!”

“Madame! really, you should not say such things; your daughter can hear you.”

“My daughter will be married some day, monsieur, and there’s no harm in her being warned beforehand of the perfidy of the male sex. Besides, Madame Dufournelle’s coquetry is evident to everybody. Her husband sees nothing in all that! Poor fellow! so long as he has somebody to play billiards with him, he doesn’t care about anything else.”

“He isn’t jealous, madame, and he is very wise; that proves that he has some intelligence.”

“Ah! you think that, do you? I have known husbands of much intelligence who were as jealous as tigers! Say rather that that fat Dufournelle is not in love with his wife. Indeed, he’s too fat to be amorous.”

“Mon Dieu! what spiteful creatures women are! If a man is not jealous, it’s because he doesn’t love them.—I suppose you’d like me to be jealous, madame?”

“You, Edouard! Merciful heaven! that’s all you need,—to have that disease, with all those which you think you have! that would be the climax!”

“Say! suppose we play Les B—b—bains à Do—do—domicile?” cried Eolinde, who was still looking over the plays. “I would be Ninie.”

“My dear girl, do you intend to take all the parts in the plays we give?” said Monsieur Glumeau, admiring his feet. “It seems to me that if you take one part, that will be quite enough; with your defective speech, you know very well that you make plays last an hour longer than they should, and you have a perfect mania for choosing long parts! The last time we gave Andromache everybody thought that your scene with Orestes would never end!”

“Because it was in ve—verse, papa, which is harder for me to pro—pronounce. But when it is p—p—prose, it goes all by itself.”

“So I see! But why in the deuce did you insist on giving a tragedy, then?”

“Oh! my dear, they were quite right!” said Madame Glumeau; “for I assure you that they were enough to make you die of laughter, and you yourself in Pylades,—bless my soul! how fine you were!”

“Madame, you always take everything wrong. I played Pylades very nicely, and if it hadn’t been for my helmet, that kept falling down over my eyes and prevented me from seeing the audience, I should have made a very good impression.”

“Why, you did make a splendid impression, my friend! you looked like a blind man, and that was much more amusing!”

“You are very satirical, my dear love; it is very easy to see that you don’t act!”

“If I acted in private theatricals, I should never lose my temper if people laughed at me.”

“What will you do with Monsieur Dufournelle?”

“He will prompt, that’s his forte! he puffs[B] all the time like an ox!—We also expect little Kingerie; he’s a very good fellow; he does whatever anyone wants him to; he takes whatever parts you give him.”

[B] The same word—souffler—means to prompt, and to blow or puff.

“Mamma, have you noticed that Monsieur Kingerie has an entirely different voice when he sings, from the one he has when he talks?”

“That’s true, but it’s very lucky for him; when he talks, he always sounds as if he were hoarse; whereas, when he sings, he has a little clear, flutelike voice, so shrill that it is hard to believe that it is he who is singing.—Then we shall have Monsieur Camuzard and his daughter, Mademoiselle Polymnie, who also wants to act.”

“You must give her a part; she’s a very handsome woman, tall and well-built and stylish!”

“She did her little s—s—soubrette part very badly the l—l—last time, although she had only a few words to say: ‘M—m—madame, the company is below in the salon’; and she said: ‘Madame, the s—s—salon is below in the c—c—company!’”

“That was because her tongue slipped! But it doesn’t make it any the less true that Mademoiselle Polymnie looks very well on the stage.”

“Her nose is too big!”

“Big noses do very well on the stage. Besides, I tell you again, daughter, that I desire to be polite to Monsieur Camuzard, and I know that it gives him great pleasure when his daughter acts.” And Monsieur Glumeau added, with a glance at his wife: “We must try to make Astianax act a lover’s part, and let Mademoiselle Polymnie be the sweetheart. You understand my ideas and my plans, don’t you, Lolotte?”

“Yes, monsieur, they are not hard to understand. Mademoiselle Camuzard would be an excellent match, I know; but Astianax is still so young!”

“I married very young myself, madame, and I have never repented it.”

“Ah! that’s the nicest thing you have said to-day!”

“It seems to me that I say nice things very often; but you don’t notice them because you are used to them.—This tea has done me good; I feel as light as a bird; I would like to dance a mazurka.—Speaking of dancing, Eolinde, have you practised on your piano the new quadrilles that I brought you?”

“Oh! they are too hard.”

“No, mademoiselle, it’s because you don’t choose to take the pains to study; and you are all the more wrong in that, because everybody plays the piano now; young men and young girls, everybody knows how to play for dancing; the young woman who did not know how to play a quadrille in company would be looked upon as a savage, as a Hottentot!”

“I know very well that everybody pl—plays the piano now. The c—c—concierge’s daughter plays it; and the other day the l—l—locksmith who c—c—came to fix a lock which wouldn’t l—l—lock, said when he heard me pl—playing: ‘I play the piano myself Sundays, when I have time.’—Isn’t that so, mamma?”

“It’s the truth; indeed I was tempted to say to the locksmith that he ought to put over his shop door: ‘Bells hung with piano accompaniment!’”

“In fact, papa, the p—p—piano has become such a common inst—st—strument, that I would rather play something else.”

“What, I should like to know?”

“Why, the little flute, for example.”

“You are mad, Eolinde; it would be very pretty to see a young lady playing on the flute! Wind instruments are exclusively for men.”

“Why is that, papa?”

“Why, because, as Apollo played the flute when he kept flocks, and as that god was the god of melody, the pipes and the flute—By the way, Lolotte, I hope you told Chambourdin to come; he’s a very pleasant fellow, a leader in all sorts of fun, always merry and a true sport. He will act, and I’ll wager that he’ll be most amusing!”

“Don’t you know, monsieur, that we can’t rely on your Chambourdin? You know very well that he never keeps his word; when he promises to come, that’s the end of it. If we relied on him to take a part, he would spoil the whole performance. But we shall have Monsieur Mangeot and his sister; they are obliging and agreeable. Monsieur Mangeot takes the part of clowns and mimics very well; he plays carefully and always knows his part, and so does his sister.”

“True, but as his sister is extremely hard of hearing, she always has to stand within two steps of the prompter, which is a great nuisance for the action of the play; and sometimes too she talks at the same time that her opposite is talking.—Bigre! here comes that pain in the stomach again. What can it be? Did we have mushrooms yesterday, Lolotte?”

“Mushrooms? there were some in the vol-au-vent we had; but everybody ate some of it, and it didn’t make anybody sick.”

“That doesn’t prove anything; sometimes it doesn’t show itself until late; Eolinde, you haven’t a pain in your stomach, have you?”