“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.”