“Don’t take the trouble to say any more, monsieur; you’ll just waste your words, and that would be a pity, as you make your business out of them, and you sell wit on paper.” Jéricourt was so vexed by the rejection of his proposition, when he expected a complete triumph, that he was tongue-tied, and could not think of a single word to answer the flower girl. At that moment he felt a hand on his arm, and someone said to him: “Good-day, Monsieur Jéricourt; I recognized you from behind by your cane; I said: ‘That’s my neighbor’s cane.’--How are you?” Jéricourt turned and found himself face to face with the little young man who squinted so horribly and whom we have already met at the Château d’Eau flower market, with his mother and sister--Monsieur Astianax Glumeau, whose room was on the floor above his parents, on the same landing as Jéricourt’s apartment. “Ah! is it you, young man?” said the author, as, with a patronizing air, he offered a finger to little Astianax, who deemed himself highly honored by that favor; because, in his eyes, a man who wrote plays which were actually performed was a demigod. “What are you here for, my little rake? to buy a bouquet for some fair one whom you are courting, I suppose?” “Oh! upon my word, Monsieur Jéricourt! I should not dare--I am too young as yet. However, it isn’t the inclination that is lacking.” “How old are you, pray?” “Nineteen.” “At that age I had already had fifty love-affairs!” “Oh! but you--an author--that’s a very different matter; you weren’t shy.” “I never was that; there is nothing more disastrous for a man. If you take my advice, you will cure yourself of that failing.” “Papa and mamma don’t say so; they want to keep me in leading strings like a poodle. Let them keep my sister so if they choose; that’s all right--she’s a girl! But me! Yes, you’re right; there’s nothing more foolish than a bashful man. But I don’t propose to be bashful any more; I feel inclined to make people talk about me.--Were you buying flowers, Monsieur Jéricourt?” “Yes--that is to say, I was looking over them; I haven’t decided yet.” Little Astianax put his mouth to his neighbor’s ear and whispered: “The flower girl’s mighty pretty!” “Do you think so? That’s a matter of taste.” “Hum! nonsense! Anybody can see that; I noticed her yesterday; I came with mamma and my sister to buy some flowers, because it was papa’s birthday. I didn’t buy any; I gave him some nougat.” “A very pretty bouquet that!” “Oh! it doesn’t make any difference, I am going to give him some flowers to-day; and I came here again, for I dreamed of the flower girl all night.” “Really!” “Yes, yes; I was a pacha and she was a slave.” “Mademoiselle,” said Jéricourt aloud, turning to Violette, “here’s a young man who dreamed about you all night, just because he saw you yesterday.” Monsieur Astianax turned scarlet; he pulled the skirt of Jéricourt’s coat and whispered: “Oh! I won’t tell you anything more! You make me blush!”