“So! you are spunky, are you, my good friend?” rejoined the gentleman, turning his glass upon Astianax. “Indeed! so much the better! I congratulate you, for it may be a good thing for you when you grow up.” “What’s that? when I grow up? I am nineteen years old, monsieur, and at that age one isn’t afraid of anybody!” “Nonsense! nonsense! that isn’t possible! You mean nine.” This remark made little Astianax tremble with rage; he stamped the ground and seemed disposed to rush at the gentleman, who continued to stare at him and even ventured to smile as he scrutinized him. Violette, fearing that the little man would resort to violence, had risen to restrain him, and Jéricourt, whom the quarrel seemed to amuse, was wondering what would happen next, when the scene changed as suddenly as when the manager’s whistle is heard at the Opéra. On the boulevard, however, Chicotin Patatras acted once more as the scene-shifter. Georget’s friend had been sauntering about the Château d’Eau for several minutes; being desirous to spend during the morning all the money that he had left from the day before, the young rascal had breakfasted so sumptuously that his brain was a little excited, and he felt in the mood for perpetrating a practical joke. In this frame of mind, he had noticed that several gentlemen were standing in front of the flower girl’s booth, and he soon recognized Jéricourt as the man whom he had tried to throw down on the preceding day. He said to himself instantly: “Why shouldn’t I do to-day what I missed doing yesterday? My little Georget don’t like that scented dandy; he’s there again, prowling round the flower girl; if I knock him over, I shall be doing a friend a favor, and then too it’s fun for me. I must go about it playfully; Chopard ain’t here to push me--that’s a shame.--Ah! pardi! I’ll just go and grab that cabby’s glazed hat, as he stands dreaming there by his horses; of course he’ll chase me, and I’ll run between my man’s legs.” Chicotin put his plan into execution forthwith. The cabman, bereft of his hat, ran after the _gamin_, shouting at the top of his lungs; he fled in the direction of the flower girl and hurled himself suddenly against the legs of someone, whom he bowled over, while the others hastily stepped aside; but Chicotin had missed his aim again; it was not Jéricourt, but little Astianax, who was sprawling on the asphalt. “Upon my word, Mademoiselle Violette, it’s impossible to stop in front of your booth, it seems!” said Jéricourt, turning angrily away. “I congratulate you on the way you treat your customers, and especially on the champion you have chosen for that purpose. If it’s for him that you insist on remaining a flower girl, it doesn’t speak well for your taste.” “What’s that? what did the dark-haired dandy say?” cried Chicotin, rising and tossing the cabman his hat. “I didn’t understand his apology.”