“Whichever you like; but make up your mind soon; Flamaran is waiting.” A moment more, and the elective affinities carried the day. “This bunch of mignonette,” she said. I would have wagered on it. She was sure to choose the mignonette--a fair, well-bred, graceful plant like herself. Others choose their camellias and their hyacinths; Jeanne must have something more refined. She put down her money, caught up the bunch, looked at it for a moment, and held it close to her breast as a mother might hold her child, while all its golden locks drooped over her arm. Then off she ran after her father, who had only changed one carnation for another. They went on toward St. Sulpice--M. Flamaran on the right, M. Charnot in the middle, Jeanne on the left. She brushed past without seeing me. I followed them at a distance. All three were laughing. At what? I can guess; she because she was eighteen, they for joy to be with her. At the end of the marketplace they turned to the left, followed the railings of the church, and bent their steps toward the Rue St. Sulpice, doubtless to take home M. Flamaran, whose cineraria blazed amid the crowd. I was about to turn in the same direction when an omnibus of the Batignolles-Clichy line stopped my way. In an instant I was overwhelmed by the flood of passengers which it poured on the pavements. “Hallo, you here! How goes it? What are you staring at? My stovepipe? Observe it well, my dear fellow--the latest invention of Leon; the patent ventilating, anti-sudorific, and evaporating hat!” It was Larive who had just climbed down from the knifeboard. Every one knows Larive, head clerk in Machin’s office. He is to be seen everywhere--a tall, fair man, with little closetrimmed beard, and moustache carefully twisted. He is always perfectly dressed, always in a tall hat and new gloves, full of all the new stories, which he tells as his own. If you believe him, he is at home in all the ministries, whatever party is in power; he has cards for every ball, and tickets for every first night. With all that he never misses a funeral, is a good lawyer, and as solemn when in court as a dozen old mandarins. “Come, Fabien, will you answer? What are you staring at?” He turned his head. “Oh, I see--pretty Mademoiselle Charnot.” “You know her?” “Of course I do, and her father, too. A pretty little thing!” I blushed with pleasure. “Yes, a very pretty little thing; but wants style--dances poorly.” “An admirable defect.” “A little big, too, for her eyes.” “What do you mean by that?” “Her eyes are a little too small, you understand me?” “What matters that if they are bright and loving?” “No matter at all to me; but it seems to have some effect on you. Might you be related?” “No.” “Or connected by marriage?” “No.” “So much the better--eh, my boy? And how’s uncle? Still going strong?” “Yes; and longing to snatch me from this Babylon.” “You mean to succeed him?” “As long hence as possible.”