THE MOTHER OF LOUISON Barabant, baffled and incensed at Nicole's desertion, vowed that he would be through with such a coquette. Where pride begins there is a limit to gratitude, and that limit she had overstepped. He washed his hands of her. So, having decided--irrevocably decided--that Nicole had removed herself from any interest of his, and that it was a matter of indifference to him whether or not he saw her again, he determined to bring her to reason by paying attention to Louison. Accordingly he contrived to meet her in the passageway the morning after his unceremonious desertion by Nicole. "Salutations, Citoyen Barabant," Louison cried. "No luck this morning. Nicole has already left." "Nicole is out of the question," he retorted. "What!" Louison opened her eyes in astonishment. "I say, we have nothing to do with Nicole," he replied coolly. "Where are you bound?" "To the flower-market." "I understand the route is dangerous at this time of day." "Exceedingly dangerous." "Then I had better accompany you." "I think you had." With this light introduction, they set out through the stirring city, greeted by the slamming of opening shutters, and escaping the clouds of dust that rose from the brooms of concierges. Louison was the first to speak. "Well, comrade, and how goes it with you?" Barabant affected ignorance. "What, is it not serious with you and Nicole?" "Serious is a big word," he answered, resolved not to yield an inch. "I see, a little interest, but not--not the grand passion, violent and sacred!" She added, with a false sigh, "Poor Nicole, it is serious with her." "Of course." "I know it." "You imagine it." "I know it by one sign: she is jealous. There you are!" She laughed. "She is always jealous of me when it's serious. This time, though, there is no cause. I shall not interfere." She placed a flower to her lips and shot a quick glance up at him. "Though I met you the first." "Do I count for nothing--or my preference?" "Nini!" She shook one finger slowly back and forth. "Let us talk of other things. I might unconsciously break my promise." The air grew fragrant as they entered a square blotted out with tents. Masses of red and pink, of white and yellow, met the eye through sudden lanes in the petticoat crowd. "Leave me now to my bargaining," she said. Stopping in the perfumed alley at a tent, where the swinging sign-board bore the name la Mère Boboche, she cried tartly: "Good morning, citoyenne. The flowers are very stale this morning." A thin, bent woman turned her one good eye, and recognizing a daily opponent, rose, drawing in her lips and nodding. "Eh, they are dear this morning, but you have brought your muscadin. You can pay well to-day after the way you cheated me yesterday." "He is my brother," Louison said coldly, turning over the flowers.