“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: