On the previous day the young author had been flatly snubbed by the flower girl, and before witnesses too, which made his discomfiture even more unpalatable. While dining at Bonvalet’s restaurant, with his friend Saint-Arthur and the piquant little actress who was his friend’s mistress, Jéricourt had had to submit to the raillery of Beau Alfred, who, to compensate himself for having been thrown down and having broken his suspenders, had not ceased to repeat: “It was Jéricourt’s fault! he was making love to the flower girl, and there seemed to be no end to it; but the pretty peddler didn’t bite at his gallantries--I fancy that our dear friend will have nothing to show for his seductive propositions. Ha! ha! ha! repulsed with heavy loss by a flower girl! It’s incredible, it’s most annoying! He doesn’t choose to admit it, but I am sure that he’s terribly annoyed.” And Mademoiselle Zizi, the young actress who was so alluring in salacious rôles, and who perhaps had her own reasons for taking the thing to heart, outdid the little man in jocose remarks, and exclaimed with a most significant glance at Jéricourt: “Ah! that was well done! it was well done! How pleased I am! I shouldn’t be any happier if I were offered an engagement at the Palais-Royal! What a nice little story to tell at the theatre! How they will laugh!--Ah! so our author friends affect flower girls, do they? that is very fine! Instead of sticking to actresses, who at least are in their line, and whom it would certainly induce to put more fire and talent into their parts--Ha! ha! to make love to a flower girl, and to have nothing to show for it! how humiliating!--Poor Jéricourt! he looks as glum as an owl.” The young author, affecting the utmost tranquillity, simply replied to these attacks: “If that young flower girl should appear on the stage, I’ll wager that she would eclipse many people who think now that they have a hold on the public!” “Is that meant for me?” cried Mademoiselle Zizi, throwing a lobster claw in Jéricourt’s face. “Why, no! of course not!” hastily interposed Saint-Arthur, as the author did not respond. “For you! upon my word! how can you imagine such a thing, when Jéricourt is wild over your talent? For he has told me so a hundred times; he says that you will replace Déjazet.--Haven’t you said that to me often, Jéricourt?” But the angry author continued to maintain an obstinate silence, which increased the irritation of the little actress. “In any event,” she cried, “no one will be able to judge of my talent in any of monsieur’s plays; for some time past he has given me nothing but unimportant parts.” “I give you more than my brother authors do, for they don’t give you any parts at all.”