Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive) [Illustration: fontispiece _VIOLETTE RESISTS JÃRICOURT_ _Violetteâs hands were active and strong; she put one of them to her persecutorâs 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 CHÃTEAU DâEAU VOL. I PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH [Illustration: colophon] GEORGE BARRIEâS SONS THE JEFFERSON PRESS BOSTON NEW YORK _Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._ THE FLOWER GIRL OF THE CHÃTEAU DâEAU I PAPAâS 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 ChÃ¢teau dâEau. 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: âI will wait till to-morrow.â 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: âBirds of a feather flock together,â or: âWhere can one be more at home than in the bosom of his family?â or again--but no, I will not repeat what you have already seen or heard a hundred times. Moreover, I think that FranÃ§ois 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. âBut why didnât you water it?â someone would ask him. âWhy--why--because I have noticed that it always rains sooner or later.â 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 motherâs 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 Glumeauâs 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: âWhat perfect health you enjoy! No one needs to ask you how you are!â At that compliment, Madame Glumeau would try to smile, as she replied: âThat is true, I am not often ill!â 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 motherâs 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 Glumeauâs 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 ChÃ¢teau dâEau 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: âI think I will buy this pomegranate for your father. A pomegranate will please HonorÃ©; he will like it very much.â âBut, mamma, what connection is there between this shrub and my father?â queried young Glumeau, looking toward Boulevard du Temple and Porte Saint-Martin at the same moment. âWhatâs that! what connection? What do you mean by that, Astianax? Isnât to-morrow your fatherâs fÃªte-day, as his name is HonorÃ©? We are going to give him flowers as usual. I select this pomegranate, which is very handsome; I donât see what there is in that to surprise you.â âIt isnât that, mamma; I said: âwhat connection is there between a pomegranate--_grenadier_--and my father, who has never been a soldier?â Oh! if he had been a soldier, I could understand your choice of this shrub and the allusion, but----â âBut, my dear boy, you are terribly tiresome with your allusions; you want to put allusions in everything; just wait until you are a man.â âExcuse me, dear mamma, but flowers have a language; so in your place I should have thought that a myrtle, the emblem of love----â âMy 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.--Donât you think, Eolinde, that this will please your father?â âOh! ye--ye--yes, it will pl--please him very mu--u--uch.â âBut 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.â âB--b--bless me!â replied the tall young lady, âI would li--i--ike that fl--fl--flower--you know--you know--itâs the--I d--d--donât see it.â âBut what flower? tell us its name.â âI d--d--donât reme--e--ember.â âIn that case, ask the woman if she has any,â said Monsieur Astianax, smiling maliciously, for he very often made fun of the difficulty which his sister had in speaking. âWhat a stu--u--u--pid you are, Astianax!â cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders and looking down at her brother as if she were searching for a little dog. âLet me alo--o--one; itâs a flow--ower with b--b--bells.â âBells?â âNo, little bell-flowers--brown.â âOh, I know what you mean, daughter; it is a--I donât know the name; but come, I saw some over yonder.â 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: âThis isnât what I wanted. No matter, let me see. Oh! they donât smell--they donât smell of anything; Iâd rather get something else.â âWell, what? Come, choose.â âOh! see that fl--flower over there; a m--m--mag--no----â âThe name makes no difference, let us go and buy it.â 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: âThat smells too strong.â âLook here, mamzelle!â cried the flower woman, irritated to see the tall girl take her mother away in another direction, âyou mustnât 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 poodleâs tail! Go on, you long-legged cockroach! Go somewhere else and buy Indian pinks, theyâll suit you better!â 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: âAh! that sm--smells nasty!â This time Madame Glumeau hastily dragged her daughter away, saying in her ear: âWhy, Eolinde, do you want to get into a row and have scenes with all these flower women? You shouldnât say such things as that, my girl, especially when you donât buy; and if you wonât decide upon what you want, we will go away and you wonât have a flower to give your father, who is so fond of them. That will be very nice on his birthday!â âIf you will take my advice, sister,â said Monsieur Astianax, âyouâll 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.â âA pot of immortelles!â cried the mother; âthey 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.â âOh! but a ro--o--osebush; I wanted s--s--something else.â âThat is to say, you donât 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.â âWhy, it isnât so ve--ve--very hot, mamma!â 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: âNow, 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.â âYes, 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._â âBut in what connection? Your father never has claimed to be a Turk, so far as I know! He wonât have any idea what your bouquet means.â âI beg your pardon, dear mamma, I will explain the allusion to him.â âAll right, but make haste; it seems to me that you might very well have selected your oriental bouquet while we were choosing our plants!â âIâve been looking, but havenât found what I want!â âBut 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.â 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 Violetteâs 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 Violetteâs 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 nurslingâs 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 ladyâs address, in order that she might write to her if the childâs parents should ever claim her. But who were her parents? To the ladyâs question the peasant woman replied: âFaith, I hardly know, or rather I donât know, at all. As to the mother, I am very sure I never saw her. I was at the nursesâ 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: âI donât need to look any further; youâll do as well as another; take your bundle and come.â--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 donât 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: ââCome, make haste, Comtois! I donât know what to do with the child! It has been crying until it has burst the drum of my ear, but I canât nurse it. Have you brought a nurse at last?â ââYes, monsieur, hereâs one who will take charge of the little girl.â ââAh! that is very lucky!â âAnd 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 didnât even have a cradle for her. The gentleman says to me: ââTake this child and carry it away at once, for it cries enough to split oneâs head.â âTo that I answers: ââIt will be twenty francs a month, without counting sugar and soap!â ââAll right, thatâs understood,â he says; and he puts a hundred francs in my hand, saying: âThis is for the first expenses; donât you be afraid, Iâll send you money, you shall have plenty of it.â âAt that I makes another reverence and says: ââI am a Picarde, monsieur, from the village of Coulange, near Abbeville; my name is Marguerite Thomasseau; my husband raises donkeys, and weâve had four nurslings already.â ââAll right, take this little one and go.â ââBut, monsieur,â I says, âwhat about the _layette;_ whereâs the little oneâs _layette?_â âAt that, the handsome gentleman looks at his swell servant as if he was surprised, and says: ââWhatâs this woman talking about? Whatâs a _layette?_â âThe servant who was better instructed than his master, says: ââMonsieur, it is the childâs trousseau, the little things that people give to dress it in.â ââOh! the devil! I didnât know that myself, and it seems she didnât 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 weâll send her something else later. Make haste, Comtois. Here, put in this handkerchief too, which belongs to the childâs mother, and which I put in my pocket by mistake yesterday.â âThe servant made me up a bundle in a hurry; and a queer _layette_ it was, I tell you! I donât 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 piquÃ© 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 didnât know anybodyâs name. ââWell, monsieur, whatâs the little oneâs name, and yours, and your wifeâs?â âAt 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: ââThe childâs name is Evelina--Evelina de Paulausky.--Now go; I will write to you.â âAt 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 childâs 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!â 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: âPlease 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.â These words indicated a certain pride and a lofty spirit; they indicated above all else Violetteâs 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: âI 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 sheâll hire you. But oh, dear! I am afraid that sheâll think you a little too young.--How old are you?â âEleven.â âYou must tell her youâre fourteen.â âOh, no! I wonât lie, madame; my protectress always told me that that was a very wicked habit.â âAh! my girl, anyone can see that you are young! If you pass your life without lying, youâll be a famous phenomenon, and theyâll exhibit you later for two sous. However, thatâs your business. You can do as you choose.â Violette went to see the lady who was looking for a young nursemaid. Her first question, as she looked at Violette, was: âHow old are you?â And when the girl told her the truth, she dismissed her, saying: âWhy, 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?â âOh! 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 donât care; so long as I can live without begging, that is all I ask.â 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: âCome again to-morrow; I will make inquiries at the house you mention.â 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 ChÃ¢teau dâEau. 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. Violetteâs 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 ChÃ¢teau dâEau, 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: âWell, 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 donât seem to me that anyone had any reason to complain of you. You didnât run about from one place to another. You didnât 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 isnât the fault of those young women, who attend to everything else except the children that are in their care!â âAlas! madame, my mistress has gone to England with her children.â âAnd you didnât want to leave your country, eh?â âOh! I would have been glad to go with madame, but she didnât choose to take me!â âAnd 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 isnât right, that isnât. That mistress of yours canât be good for much!--But what are you doing now, my child?â âI am looking for another place, madame, but I havenât found it yet. Luckily I saved money at my mistressâs; I earned a hundred francs a year!â âIs that all? Well, upon my word! she wasnât very generous, that mistress of yours!â âOh! I had quite enough; I didnât 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.â âPoor child! In that case, youâre not much of a glutton; why, you must live on bread and water.â âI beg pardon, I have a souâs worth of milk every morning; bread dipped in milk is so good!â âBless 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!â âFlowers! oh! I am mad over them, madame, I am never tired of gazing at them.â âSo, so! and how would you like to sell them, to make bouquets as I do?â âMake 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!â âWell, 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?â âDoes it suit me,--to be a flower girl! such a pleasant trade! Is it really true, madame? You are not making fun of me?â âAs true as my name is MÃ¨re Gazon; and yours?â âMy name is Violette.â âViolette! You see you were destined to be a flower girl.â So Violette took her place beside MÃ¨re 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 MÃ¨re Gazonâs 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, MÃ¨re Gazon was there and said to those who paid her companion compliments: âFor heavenâs 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.â But one night, MÃ¨re 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: âMy 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, donât 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! thatâs a small matter! I am glad, at all events, to have you with me to close my eyes.â That is Violetteâs whole story; that is how the little girl abandoned by her parents had become a flower girl. III GEORGET AND CHICOTIN âWe would like a magnificent bouquet, mademoiselle,â said Madame Glumeau to Violette. âYes,â said Mademoiselle Eolinde, âa su--su--superb bou--bou----â âThat isnât all,â said Monsieur Astianax, doing his utmost to look at the pretty flower girl with both eyes at once. âI 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_.â Violette stared at him as she replied: âI donât know that flower, monsieur; does it grow in boxes or in pots?â âA _selam_ is not a single flower, mademoiselle; it is an arrangement of flowers, which means something particular; itâs an oriental bouquet.â âI have no oriental flowers, monsieur.â âBut you donât catch my meaning, I mean----â âUpon 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.â Monsieur Astianax, confused by the flower girlâs lovely eyes, turned very red and began to rummage among the flowers on the counter, stammering: âBut I donât see--I am looking--I donât find--I would like--havenât you got any?â âTell me what flowers you want, monsieur; that will be better than upsetting my whole stock.â 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: âIf youâre going to be here long, lady, I am going to get a basket to put these things in.â âOh, no! it isnât worth while, messenger; we are going at once.--Well, my son, have you chosen your flowers?â âI donât find what I am looking for.â âBless my soul! Eolinde, is not that Cousin Michonnard, standing over there?â âYes, yes, mamma, it is she.â âAh! 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 doesnât like her because she always says that he doesnât look well. Letâs go along at once before she sees us.--Come, Astianax.â âBut my dear mother, I havenât any bouquet.â âIt 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.â 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 Violetteâs 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: âWell, my word! thereâs customers for you! They come here and handle and move your flowers and spoil them, and then go away without buying anything.â âDear me, Monsieur Georget, thatâs the way it is in business; one canât always sell.â âBut the young man would have liked to stay, I fancy. What eyes he made at you, zigzag! A man shouldnât 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.â âMon Dieu! to hear you, Georget, one would think that everybody is in love with me!â âWell, it seems to me that you donât lack suitors and gallants. There are days when a fellow canât get near your shop, there are so many people around you!â âI have no reason to complain, that is true. I sell a great deal. My bouquets seem to please.â âOh! your bouquets--and yourself too. When the dealer is good-looking, that makes business good; and deuce take it! you are mighty good-looking.â âYou know very well, Georget, that nothing tires me so much as compliments!â âThen you must get tired very often! you receive them all day!â âI canât 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.â âSo what I say to you is nonsense, is it?â âInstead of idling away your time every market day, walking back and forth in front of my stand, wouldnât you do better to work?â âDo you mean that you donât like to have me stop in front of your shop sometimes, mamzelle?â âI donât say that, but I ask you if you would not do better to work.â âAll right, mamzelle, thatâs enough. I wonât stand near you any more, never fear! If you donât like it, why, I----â âOh! how wrong-headed you are, Monsieur Georget! a body canât give you a little advice, eh?â 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 ChÃ¢teau dâEau. 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: âAh! hereâs Georget! hereâs 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 isnât alive; but never mind, you might have crawled into its mouth. I say, Georget, have you seen the whale?â âLet me alone, I donât feel like talking!â âWell! I paid to see the whale, because as Iâd never seen the sea, I said to myself: âThat will give me an idea of its inhabitants.â--But confound it! how I was sold! Just fancy--I went into a long, narrow place, like a corridor with boarded walls. I couldnât see anything, no water at all. I said to myself: âWhere in the deuce is the whale?â but there was a fellow in a sailorâs suit, walking up and down the corridor, singing out at the top of his lungs: âSee, ladies and gentlemen, look, examine this rare animal! Itâs the first whale thatâs 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!â--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: âIt seems that they are going to plant flowers in the place to brighten it up!â 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: âIf youâd told me beforehand that I was going to see a whale in a box, and dry as a herring, I wouldnât have come into your old barrack!â--Well, little Georget, why donât you laugh?â âI tell you to let me alone, I donât feel like laughing!â âWhy, what under the sun is the matter with the little mummy! Heâs got to be as melancholy as an empty stomach for some time past! Come, I propose to cheer you up; Iâll treat you to a glass at the wine merchantâs on Rue Basse.â âThanks, I am not thirsty.â âAnd then you will come to the theatre this evening with me. I donât mean the DÃ©lasses, or the Funambs, or the Petit-Lazare; I go to the big theatres now; I have become an habituÃ© of the Folies-Dramatiques! Nothing less! You see, when one has seen Mamzelle Duplessis, in _âUne Mauvaise Nuit Est BientÃ´t PassÃ©e,â_ one doesnât 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 _âLa Perruque de Mon Oncle!â_ When he says: âAh! fichtre! sacrebleu! hush or I will thrash you!â or something else in that line, I tell you itâs amusing! I laugh until I make a show of myself! And just now Monsieur Christian passed here--you didnât 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: âMonsieur Christian, do you want me to carry you?â--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?â âIf you call me Gringalet, Iâll punch your head, do you understand?â âOho! how ugly the little rascal is! What have you been treading on to-day?â âI may be small without being a Gringalet, or a wretch. I am seventeen years, eight months and ten days.â âYou look as if you were about twelve or less!â âThe looks make no difference; I am not a child any more, and I donât propose to be treated like an urchin.â âAh! you wish to be looked up to, perhaps?â âIf anyone insults me, he must fight me.â âTell me what you have eaten this morning? You are not so ugly as this usually!â âBut you are teasing me! saying things that make me angry!â âThen as I am in the wrong, thrash me right away and letâs have it over with! But I donât propose to fight with you, because I am your friend, and I like you with all your ill-humor! Come, strike me!â 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: âCan 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?â âOh! I havenât been at all!â âYou see, Chicotin, there are many people who say that you are a neâer-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.â âPardi! a man is a good friend, or he isnât. A door is open or shut, one or the other! thatâs all I know!--Well, will you go to the Folies-Dramatiques with me to-night? Iâll 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? âTis love, love, love, that makes the world go round!â âOh, yes! the rich lovers, they are happy enough! they can make their sweethearts handsome presents!â âBah! 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, thatâs 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! Itâs mighty amusing, I tell you, and you see a lot of things--that you donât expect to see!--But you are not listening to me, Georget. Ah! I can guess what youâre thinking about, with your eyes always turned in that direction! So it is all over, is it? Youâre in love for good and all!â âHush, Chicotin, donât say that, I beg you!â âI say it because I see it; I donât need to be a sleep-walker to guess that! Youâre in love with the pretty flower girl, Mamzelle Violette!â âI never told anybody so!â âYou donât need to tell it, itâs plain enough; thatâs what upsets you so, and changes your whole disposition, and gives you a sour look, a dismal expression, like Monsieur Goujet of the GaÃ®tÃ©, when he plays the traitors, the abductors who carry off young girls! Ah! how magnificent he was in _âMartin et Bamboche!â_ 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 isnât listening to me because Iâve 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 doesnât make me so stupid as it does you! it never lasts more than a week! Let your beard grow, then youâll 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 girlâs wares. I suppose youâd like it if nobody ever bought anything of your pretty dealer? Sheâd do a fine business then!â âOh! 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 hadnât held me back, Iâd have jumped on him; Iâd have scratched him and bitten him!â âHoity-toity! is that the way you propose
{'title': "The Flower Girl of The Château d'Eau, v.1 (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XV)", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}