“Look here, mamzelle!” cried the flower woman, irritated to see the tall girl take her mother away in another direction, “you mustn’t stick your face on our flowers like that! Did anyone ever see such a bean-pole as that creature who buries her muzzle in the blossom of my magnolia, and then walks off, as if she had been sniffing at my poodle’s tail! Go on, you long-legged cockroach! Go somewhere else and buy Indian pinks, they’ll suit you better!” The Glumeau family did not hear, or rather pretended not to hear the somewhat forcible complaints of the woman with the magnolia; they had stopped in front of a booth where there was a large quantity of laurel. Mademoiselle Eolinde, whom the lesson which she had just received had not corrected, smelled several laurel bushes and cried: “Ah! that sm--smells nasty!” This time Madame Glumeau hastily dragged her daughter away, saying in her ear: “Why, Eolinde, do you want to get into a row and have scenes with all these flower women? You shouldn’t say such things as that, my girl, especially when you don’t buy; and if you won’t decide upon what you want, we will go away and you won’t have a flower to give your father, who is so fond of them. That will be very nice on his birthday!” “If you will take my advice, sister,” said Monsieur Astianax, “you’ll give our father a pot of immortelles, because you see the immortelle means that he will live a long time, and the allusion is easily understood.” “A pot of immortelles!” cried the mother; “they are lovely flowers, upon my word! You are mad, Astianax! You might as well give your father a pot of sweet-basil such as the cobblers have in their stalls.--Look, Eolinde, there is a superb rosebush! come, let us buy that,--that will be your bouquet.” “Oh! but a ro--o--osebush; I wanted s--s--something else.” “That is to say, you don’t know what you do want; and this unfortunate messenger who is following us with that huge pomegranate in his arms, looks as if he were swimming in perspiration.” “Why, it isn’t so ve--ve--very hot, mamma!” Madame Glumeau, paying no heed to the lamentations of her daughter, who did not want the rosebush, but did not know what she did want, ordered her messenger to take the flower, then turned to her son and said: “Now, Astianax, you are the only one who has not chosen a flower, but I believe you told me that you preferred to give your father a bouquet to carry in the hand.” “Yes, dear mamma, because in a bouquet for the hand, you choose different flowers, which have even more meaning when placed side by side. The Turks call that a _selam;_ I mean to give my father a _selam._” “But in what connection? Your father never has claimed to be a Turk, so far as I know! He won’t have any idea what your bouquet means.” “I beg your pardon, dear mamma, I will explain the allusion to him.” “All right, but make haste; it seems to me that you might very well have selected your oriental bouquet while we were choosing our plants!”