“No, Georget, he’s not discourteous, for he doesn’t speak; we can’t prevent his walking here; and besides, I am always tempted to laugh when I look at him, remembering that one day Chicotin knocked him down in such a way that he tore both knees of his trousers.” “Oh! how I would have liked to see that! There he goes away; he has made up his mind it’s no use, and he has done well.” “Well, Georget, if I had listened to what that young man said, do you think that I should have done right?” “Oh, no! of course not!” “So then you see that I should be no more reasonable if I should listen to you.” “Oh! what a difference, Violette! You compare my love with that of that little popinjay who hardly knows you! Whereas I have seen you and loved you for three years! So I am nothing more to you than the first comer who pays you compliments as he buys your bouquets! Ah! it isn’t right to treat me so. You wouldn’t act like this if you knew----” “What? if I knew what? Ah! you tire me, constantly beginning sentences which you don’t finish!” Georget had on the end of his lips the avowal of the sacrifice he had made to his love for Violette; for in youth, one has not become accustomed to sacrifices, and it is natural to boast of them. However, the young lover retained that secret which was on the point of escaping him; he suspected that the pretty flower girl would scold him roundly for having acted so, and that, far from approving his conduct, she would try to compel him to accept Monsieur Malberg’s offer; so he deemed it prudent to hold his peace, and he did not answer Violette’s questions. At that moment someone came up who wanted Georget to run on an errand, and he seized that opportunity to take his leave, waving his hand as an adieu to the flower girl. The pretty peddler was more moved than she had chosen to appear. Georget was such a dear fellow! It was the first time that he had told her in so many words that he loved her, and he had made that declaration in such a sweet voice, with such an affectionate expression, that it was difficult not to believe in his sincerity, and further, not to be touched by that genuine love, in which passion was so artlessly expressed. While giving her young lover sage advice, and while pretending to laugh at his suffering, Violette had nevertheless felt a very keen sensation; her heart had opened to a happiness that she had not as yet known, and she was herself amazed by the unfamiliar joy which filled her whole being. About an hour had passed since Georget had gone away, when a sort of servant approached Violette and said to her: “Mademoiselle la bouquetière, I want a fine bouquet for my mistress, Madame de Belleval; all the rarest flowers that you have; the price does not matter. I will give you a hundred sous in advance, and if that isn’t enough, she will give you the rest.” “That will be enough, monsieur; for a hundred sous I will make you a superb bouquet!”