Chapter XXI: On the Boulevard

Since Monsieur Malberg had gone to live at Nogent-sur-Marne, Georget, having no errands to do for him, had plenty of time to see the pretty flower girl and to talk to her; when she scolded him because he did not work, the messenger would reply with a sigh:

“Bless me! mamzelle, it isn’t my fault if no work comes to me! I certainly don’t refuse any, and although I am very happy with you, I often regret that I don’t earn more money during the day--not for myself, for I always have more than I need, but for my mother, whom I would like to make more comfortable.”

Georget meant what he said, for when he saw his mother persist in sitting up late, in robbing herself of sleep in order to earn a few sous more, he thought of the happy life he might have provided for her, of that life, free from hard labor and from care, which would have been hers if he had accepted Monsieur Malberg’s offer; and that thought often clouded his brow; as he gazed at the pretty flower girl, he sometimes blamed himself for loving her, because he felt that that love had been fatal to his love for his mother.

One morning, the young fellow waited in his usual place, looking in the direction of Violette’s booth, from which she had been absent for some time. Georget was more melancholy than usual; in the first place because he could not see the object of all his thoughts, and secondly, because he had earned nothing as yet that morning, and his mother had had a very scanty supper the night before.

Soon he noticed a young man pacing back and forth in front of Violette’s booth, and recognized in him the little fellow with the squint, whom he knew to be one of the flower girl’s adorers. Monsieur Astianax was sauntering along the boulevard, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, which he was very proud to be smoking, and the smoke of which he seemed to take pleasure in blowing into the faces of the ladies who passed; a method of attracting attention which did not fail to be very agreeable.

Suddenly another young man, somewhat older, came toward little Glumeau; they met and stopped just in front of Georget, who, seated upon his stool, with his head in his hands, seemed to be asleep.

“Ah! it’s young Astianax Glumeau!”

“Good-morning, Monsieur Chambourdin; so you are not at the Palais?”

“At the Palais! Why should I be, if you please, young man?”

“Why, to plead; I thought that an advocate----”

“I am an advocate only in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_. I publish little articles there which I invent for the pleasure of the subscribers. I plead at my leisure, in my office, before my desk, and I am never called to order; that is the way I understand the advocate’s profession. But you, my beardless youth, how does it happen that you are not in the country with papa and mamma? For I presume that your dear parents are still there? In such lovely weather, it is good luck to be in the shade and fresh air!”

“Yes, my parents are down at Nogent, and that is just the reason that you find me strolling on the boulevard! Ha! ha! when the parents are in the country I am my own master here; I do just what I choose!”

“Oh! I understand you, you young rascal; we have some little intrigues on the carpet. You are right, it is never too early to begin to make one’s way in the world. If I had a son, I would say to him: ‘Sow your wild oats early; in that way, you will have less to sow later.’--What do we need in order to be virtuous? experience; and to have experience, we must have lived! How is that for logic? Doesn’t that smell of Cujas and Barthole?--And dear papa is well, I trust? The stitch in the side hasn’t come back?”

“No, but he has a constant itching on the sole of his foot just now.”

“Indeed! all he has to do is to scratch.”

“It isn’t very convenient to scratch the sole of your foot; you can’t do it while you’re walking. You know my father--it makes him anxious, he’s afraid that it’s some humor.”

“Well, that’s an idea! He has chilblains, that’s all.”

“I went to friend Fourriette, the druggist’s; he’s making something for father to put on his feet.”

“An excellent way to bring on a disease where there isn’t any.--But no matter, you gave us a delightful party! The play, although it wasn’t finished--or perhaps because it wasn’t finished--was very amusing. And the ball and the supper! _Fichtre!_ we did go it!”

“I say, what about that young lady that you perched on a branch; it seemed to me that you were very attentive to her.”

“Madame Boutillon? Oh, yes!”

“It’s a pity that you fell when you were waltzing with her.”

“I did it on purpose; it’s a stratagem I invented, to make a woman become attached to me!”

“Why? because you throw her down while waltzing?”

“To be sure; when she feels herself falling, she clutches me, she clings to me, and squeezes me as tight as she can! Do you understand, young man, what intimate relations that brings about between us?”

“To be sure, that’s true.”

“Just try it, my dear fellow; take my advice, ask a lady to waltz, then fall with her; and tell me what you think of it.”

“Shall I fall underneath or on top?”

“Underneath is more polite; but on top is more rakish.”

“I will remember that; and at the first ball I go to, if I see a lady who takes my eye, I will ask her to waltz.”

“The rest will go all alone!”

“And that method served with Madame Boutillon?”

“Don’t I tell you that it’s infallible?”

“And you call on that lady now?”

“To be sure; I play cards with her husband; we play Pope Joan; he’s very fond of it.--And you, little Astianax--whom are you looking for on the boulevard? are you expecting to meet some one?”

“Yes, I am expecting some one, who seems in no hurry to come.”

“You have an appointment on the boulevard, at the flower market? That is very pleasant; you walk amid agreeable odors. Ladies often make their appointments at the flower market.”

“No, I have no appointment; I came here because I am in love with a little flower girl; and very pretty she is! Ah! she beats Madame Boutillon, I tell you!”

“That is very possible! I never thought that Madame Boutillon could not be beaten.--Where does your lovely flower girl stand?”

“Over yonder, opposite us--that booth where there is no one just now. She has probably gone to carry a bouquet somewhere.”

“How goes your love-affair? have you triumphed?”

“I have not triumphed yet----”

“So your flower girl is a model of virtue, an untamed beauty, is she?”

“A model of virtue! Oh! I thought so for a long while. When I found how cruel she was, I fancied that Violette--that is her name--I fancied that Violette was virtuous; but I was mistaken; I was a blockhead; the flower girl is not cruel with everybody, I have a proof of it. She does her work on the sly!”

Georget, who had not lost a word of the conversation between the two young men, sprang to his feet like a flash, and planting himself in front of Astianax, said to him, glaring at him with eyes inflamed by wrath:

“You lie! you insult Violette! just because she refuses to listen to you! But you are nothing but a slanderer, do you hear?”

Little Glumeau was thunderstruck; he rolled his eyes about in all directions, and utterly failed to understand that apostrophe which fell from the clouds upon him; but Chambourdin, who was perfectly calm, stepped between Astianax and Georget, and said to the latter:

“Why do you put your oar in, my boy? Who spoke to you? Why do you presume to interfere in our conversation? Are you a spy, that you busy yourself listening to us? The deuce! you are beginning that trade very young!”

“That’s so,” said Astianax, beginning to recover from his surprise; “what does this mean? whom is this little _voyou_, this blackguard, talking to?”

“Oh! don’t insult me, monsieur, or I’ll punch your head; I am a messenger, a respectable young man!”

“Once more,” retorted Chambourdin, “we don’t know you; why did you listen to what monsieur was saying to me?”

“Why did you stop and talk right in front of me? I should have had to stuff my ears to keep from hearing. Still, I didn’t pay much attention to your words, until monsieur began to talk about Mademoiselle Violette the flower girl; then I listened with all my ears, it is true, because it interested me, because I know Mamzelle Violette, because I know that she’s an honest girl, who doesn’t listen to what men say to her, when they try to induce her to make a fool of herself; and you said that she wasn’t cruel to everybody, that she wasn’t virtuous, that she wasn’t a model of virtue! You lied, and I couldn’t listen to that without saying something, for I should have been a coward if I had heard you insult Violette without taking up her defence.”

“It seems that this is another lover of the flower girl,” said Chambourdin, turning toward Astianax to laugh; but the latter had turned as red as a rooster, and he said to Georget:

“I might send you to the devil; but I am willing to answer you. I didn’t lie in what I said about the flower girl. No, I didn’t lie, I said nothing that I’m not sure of. No, Mademoiselle Violette isn’t virtuous; for girls who mean to remain virtuous aren’t in the habit of calling on young men who live all alone.”

“Do you mean to say that Violette has been to your house?”

“No, not to mine! but to the rooms of a young man who lives on the same landing that I do,--his door is just opposite mine.--I say, Monsieur Chambourdin, it’s Monsieur Jéricourt the author, who came to our party at Nogent with a friend of his, who was dressed so nicely----”

“That he looked like a tailor’s manikin.--Oh! I remember those two gentlemen perfectly!”

Georget, who had turned pale at the mention of Jéricourt’s name, said to Astianax:

“I too know the gentleman you speak of; I have seen him often enough come here and play the gallant with Mamzelle Violette; but she has never listened to him, and it was he who lied when he told you that she had been to his room.”

“He didn’t need to tell me anything, because I saw,--do you hear?--because I saw the pretty flower girl come out of his room.”

“No, no! you made a mistake; it wasn’t her, it couldn’t have been!”

“I couldn’t have made a mistake, for I know her perfectly well, and she passed close to me.”

“It wasn’t her, I say.”

“Ah! this is too much! What if I should tell her so when she returns, in your presence--then would you believe me, young messenger?”

“You would dare to tell her that--her?”

“Why should I hesitate, as it’s the truth?”

Georget seemed completely upset, he was pale and agitated, and did not know what to think.

“Come, come, my poor boy,” said Chambourdin, “I see that you too are daft over this flower girl, who is very fascinating, it seems; but after all, perhaps it’s a great service that my young friend does you, by opening your eyes with respect to this girl. You credit her with all the virtues, because you are in love with her; that is easily understood, you are so young! but that is a common thing; oh! these women! they are very fragile! When five years more have passed over your head, I should like to hear what you say about them.”

Georget said nothing more, but Astianax exclaimed:

“The flower girl has returned to her place, and I am going to talk with her. Monsieur Chambourdin, come in that direction, as if by accident, and bring this fellow who doesn’t choose to believe me; in a moment you will know if I have said anything other than the truth.”

“I have no objection,” said Chambourdin; “indeed I ask nothing better than to approach the flower girl; she is enchanting, and I believe that I am falling in love with her too!”

Little Astianax walked for some distance among the booths and shrubs, for it was flower market day on Boulevard Saint-Martin; then he approached Violette with an indifferent air and began to look at her flowers. The girl, recognizing the little man with the squint, acted as if she did not see him and kept on making a bouquet.

“All these flowers are lovely! they are all as fresh as you are!” said Astianax at last, vexed because the flower girl paid no attention to him.

“Does monsieur want another bouquet that speaks?” said Violette with a mischievous expression.

“No, mademoiselle; you see, I have found out that there is no need of that to make myself understood; it is much better to say myself what--what I have already said to you several times: that you are maddeningly beautiful, and that I adore you!”

“Dear me! I assure you, monsieur, that it tires me to hear the same thing over and over again.”

“Ah! it tires you, does it?” retorted the little man, assuming an impertinent tone. “Indeed! that’s a great pity! But still I am not inclined to stop. Why should I lose courage? You are not so unkind as you choose to appear; as you have been sensible to the attentions of others, why should you not become so to me?”

“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur, but once more I beg you not to talk this way to me.”

“Ah! don’t pretend to be angry like this, my lovely flower girl; it won’t go down with me again. Have you forgotten that I saw you coming out of Monsieur Jéricourt, my neighbor’s? I live on his landing. Oh! you were tremendously agitated, and well rumpled when you left his room.”

“Monsieur! what you say is outrageous!”

“Outrageous! Do you mean to say that I lie? Will you dare to say that it isn’t so?”

Chambourdin and Georget, who were only a few steps away, had overheard everything. The young messenger could no longer contain himself; he ran forward and stood in front of Violette, pale and trembling, with blazing eyes, and said to her in a broken voice:

“So it is true! so it is true, as you don’t deny it!”

The flower girl, greatly surprised at Georget’s sudden appearance in front of her, was embarrassed for a moment, and stammered at last:

“Well! if it was so, is that any reason for speaking to me like this?”

“The question is decided!” muttered Chambourdin, addressing Georget; “you see, my little innocent, that my friend did not lie!”

“Oh! it is frightful! I would never have believed it! And my mother, my poor mother, whom I sacrificed for her! The good Lord is punishing me for it.--Adieu, Mademoiselle Violette! I will never speak to you again!”

Having said this, Georget ran off like a mad man, and speedily disappeared.

Violette looked after him, and tears gathered in her eyes; she turned to young Astianax, and said to him simply:

“Are you quite satisfied with what you have done, monsieur?”

Astianax lowered one eye and raised the other, then took Chambourdin’s arm, saying:

“Let us go.”

Chambourdin glanced once more at the girl, who tried to conceal her tears with her flowers, and he said to his companion:

“She isn’t of the same style of beauty at all as Madame Boutillon, but she pleases me greatly, none the less.”