Volume 11 — III THE FLOWER GIRL

“O monsieur! save me! take me with you! protect me from that horrible Beauvisage, who swore he’d take me away from anyone. Just hear how he’s beating Cadet Finemouche, who’s a good fighter himself! My sister was no fool; she skipped as soon as the fists began to play, and left me to carry the whole thing on my back; and perhaps she’ll go and tell my mother bad stories about me! I haven’t anybody but you to help me, monsieur; if you won’t, I’m a lost girl.”

While my waylayer recited her story, pausing only to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand, I looked at my new acquaintance and tried to distinguish her features by the dim light of a street lamp.

Her language and her dress speedily informed me what manner of person I had to deal with: a loose red gown, caught in at the waist with a black velvet scarf; a round cap with a broad lace border; a colored neckerchief, tied in front, with a large cross à la Jeannette resting upon it. Mistake in this instance was impossible: it was perfectly evident that I had before me a marchande à éventaire,[A] or one of those hucksters whose booths surround the cemetery of the Innocents.

My first thought was to see if she was pretty; I found that she was very good-looking indeed. Her eyes, although filled with tears, had a sincere, innocent expression which made her interesting at first sight; her little pout, her grieved air, were softened now and then by a smile addressed to me; and that smile, which the most accomplished coquette could not have made more attractive, disclosed two rows of the whitest teeth, unspoiled by enamel, coral, and all the powders of the perfumer.

However, despite my new acquaintance’s beauty, I was very reluctant to retain her arm, which she had passed through mine. Surely, with such charming features, she could not deal in fish or meat. I was morally certain that she sold flowers; but I did not choose to take a flower girl for my mistress; at the most, I might, if a favorable opportunity offered, indulge in a whim, a fancy. But I was not in luck that evening, and I did not propose to try any more experiments. I determined to rid myself of the girl.

As gently as possible, I detached the arm that was passed through mine; then I assumed a cold expression and said:

“I am very sorry that I am unable to do what you wish; but I do not know you; the dispute between Monsieur Beauvisage and Cadet Finemouche doesn’t concern me. Your sister ran away, and you had better do the same. Your mother may think what she pleases, it is all one to me. It is after twelve o’clock; I have been walking about the streets long enough, and I am going home to bed.”

“What, monsieur! you refuse! you are going to leave me! Think of refusing to go a little out of your way to help a poor girl who is in trouble because of an accident that might happen to anybody. I tell you again that my mother is quite capable of not letting me in if I go home without somebody to answer for me who can swear that I am innocent.”

“And you expect me to swear to that, do you?”

“Pardine! would that skin your tongue? Besides, you’re a fine gentleman, a swell; she won’t dare to fly into a temper before you, and she’ll listen to me. But if I go home alone—what a row! Oh! mon Dieu! how unlucky I am! I didn’t want to go to the Grand Salon at all; I was afraid of something like this.”

And thereupon the tears and sobs began afresh, and she stamped with her little feet. Perhaps her mother would tear out her hair; that would be too bad, for it formed a most becoming frame for that frank, artless countenance. My heart is not made of stone; I was touched by the girl’s distress, and I said to myself: “If, instead of this jacket, she were dressed in silk or even in merino, if she wore a dainty bonnet instead of this round cap, and a pretty locket instead of a cross à la Jeannette, I would long ago have offered my services with great zeal; I would play the gallant and make myself as agreeable as possible; I would cut myself in two to obtain a hearing, and I would regard it as a favor if she would allow me to offer her my arm. And shall this modest costume make me cruel, unfeeling? Shall I refuse to do a trivial favor, which she implores with tears in her eyes? Ah! that would be bad, very bad!”—I had been following a grisette and a grande dame, who perhaps were not worth so much notice as this poor child; I had passed the evening making a fool of myself, and I could certainly devote an hour to a worthy action. I determined to escort my flower girl to her home.

You see, reader, that I sometimes have good impulses; to be sure, the girl pleased me much. “All women seem to please you,” perhaps you will say. True, reader; all the pretty ones; and I venture to say that you are like me.

I drew nearer to my pretty fugitive. She was sitting on a stone, holding a corner of her apron to her eyes, and sobbing.

“Mademoiselle.”

“Mon—monsieur.”

“What is your name?”

“Ni-Ni-i-cette, monsieur.”

“Well, my little Nicette, have courage; stop crying, and take my arm. I will take you home to your mother.”

“Real—Really?”

She jumped for joy; indeed, I believe that she was on the point of embracing me; but she contented herself with taking my arm, which she pressed very close in hers, saying:

“Ah! I was sure that you wouldn’t leave me in such a pickle. I’m a good girl, monsieur; the whole quarter will tell you that Nicette’s reputation’s as clear as spring water. But my mother is so ugly! and then my sister’s jealous because she says I make soft eyes at Finemouche.”

“You can tell me all about it on the way. Where are we going?”

“Oh, dear! it’s quite a little distance. I have a stand at the Croix-Rouge, and I live on Rue Sainte-Marguerite, where my mother keeps a fruit shop.”

From Faubourg Montmartre to the Croix-Rouge! that was enough to kill a man! If only I could find a fiacre! I believe that I would even have taken François’s cabriolet, at the risk of having Belotte take the bit in her teeth; but no carriage of any sort passed us. I had no choice but to make the best of it; so I took Nicette by the arm and forced her to quicken her pace.

“You are a peddler, Nicette,” I said; “what do you sell?”

“Bouquets, monsieur; and they’re always fresh, I flatter myself.”

She was a flower girl; I was sure of it. The certainty restored my courage to some extent, and made the journey seem less long. I should not have been flattered to act as escort to a fishwoman; and yet, when it is a matter of rendering a service, should one be influenced by such petty considerations? But what can you do? that infernal self-esteem is forever putting itself forward. Moreover, I am no better than other men; perhaps I am not so good; you may judge for yourselves.

“Ah! you sell bouquets, do you?”

“Yes, monsieur; and when you want a nice one, come and see me; I will always have some ready for you, day or night.”

“Thanks.—But how does it happen that, living in Faubourg Saint-Germain, you go to a dance near the Montmartre barrier? I should suppose that you could find balls enough in your own neighborhood.”

“I’ll tell you how that happens. My sister Fanchon has a lover, Finemouche, a brewer, a fine-looking, dark fellow, that all the girls in the quarter are mad over. My mother says that he’s a ne’er-do-well, and don’t want Fanchon to listen to him; but Fanchon’s crazy over him, and she tries all sorts of ways to be with him, on condition that he won’t make love to her except with honest motives. This morning she agreed to come to Montmartre at dusk, sentimentally, to have a drink of milk. But she had to make up her mind to take me; mother wouldn’t have let her go alone. We said we were going to see an aunt of ours, who sells oranges on the boulevard; that was a trick of Fanchon’s. I went with her against my will, especially as Finemouche sometimes gives me a look, that I don’t pay any attention to—on the word of an honest girl!—When we got to Montmartre we found the brewer, who treated us both to a donkey ride. After riding round for two hours, I said it was time to turn our toes toward home; but Finemouche says: ‘Let’s rest a few minutes at the Grand Salon—long enough to eat a salad and have a waltz.’—I didn’t want to accept; but my sister likes waltzing and salad, and I had to let her have her way. So we went to the Grand Salon. Fanchon danced with Finemouche; so far, everything went well enough. But, as luck would have it, in comes Beauvisage, a fellow who works in a pork shop on our street. He’s another fellow who makes love to all the girls, and who’s taken it into his head to have a passion for me.”

“You don’t seem to lack adorers, Nicette.”

“I have one or two, but it ain’t my fault. God knows, I always receive ’em with my fists closed. But these men! the crueler you are, the more they hang on! I have shown Monsieur Beauvisage that I don’t like his attentions; I always throw his presents in his face; but it don’t make any difference: just as sure as I leave my stand for a minute, when I come back I find a sausage among my roses, or a pig’s foot on my footwarmer. Why, the other day, my birthday, he actually came to wish me many happy returns, with a white pudding, and truffled at that! But all that don’t touch my heart; I told him that I wouldn’t have him, before all the old gossips of the quarter; and I threw his pudding in his face. He went away in a rage, swearing that he’d kidnap me. So you can imagine that I shivered with fright when I saw him come into the Grand Salon, especially as I know what a hot-headed fellow he is.—Would you believe, monsieur, he had the cheek to ask me to dance, just as if nothing had happened! I refused him flat, because I ain’t two-faced. He tried to force me to dance; Finemouche came running up and ordered him to let me alone instantly, at which he held me all the tighter. Cadet handled him so rough that they went out to fight. My sister Fanchon blamed me, because it made her mad to have her lover fight for me. But the worst of it all is that Finemouche, who had drunk a good deal with his salad, was beaten by Beauvisage. Fanchon ran off as soon as she saw her lover on the ground; I tried to do the same, but my tormentor ran after me. At last I caught sight of you, monsieur, and that gave me courage; I was sure you’d protect me; I grabbed your arm, and that’s all.”

Nicette’s story interested me; and the thing that pleased me most was that she seemed to be virtuous and had no lover.—“What difference did that make to you?” you will say; “as you were a young man in society, of course you would not make love to a flower girl.” True; I had no such purpose; and yet, I became conscious that for some moments I had been pressing the girl’s arm more tenderly than before. But it was because I was distraught.

“Do you think my mother will beat me, monsieur?”

“I don’t see why she should be angry; you have done nothing wrong.”

“Oh! in the first place, we shouldn’t have gone to the Grand Salon.”

“That was your sister’s fault.”

“Yes, but she’ll say it was mine. And then, I’ll tell you something. My mother’s inclined to favor Beauvisage, who shuts her eyes with galantine and never comes to the house without a chitterling eight inches long. Mother’s crazy over chitterlings, and she’d like to have me marry the pork man, so that she could always have a pig’s pudding on hand. But I have always refused to hear with that ear, and since then they all look crosswise at me at home. So they’ll lay the quarrel and the whole row on my shoulders. Oh! mon Dieu! I shall be beaten, I am sure!”

“Poor Nicette! I promise you that I will speak to your mother in your behalf.”

“Oh! I beg you to! You see, she’s quite capable of not letting me in, and making me spend the night in the street! That miserable Beauvisage! he’s the cause of it all! I’d rather jump into the river than be his wife!”

“Can you say as much about Finemouche?”

“Yes, monsieur; I want a husband to my taste, and I don’t like any of those jokers.”

“Then you have no lover?”

“No, monsieur.”

“But, at your age, one ought to love.”

“Oh! I’m in no hurry. But we’re almost there, monsieur, we’re almost there. Ah! how my heart thumps!”

I felt that she was really trembling, and, to encourage her, I took one of her hands and pressed it. She made no resistance, she was thinking of nothing but her mother.

At last we reached Rue Sainte-Marguerite; Nicette dared not go any farther.

“There’s the place, monsieur,” she said; “that house next to the porte cochère.”

“Well, let us go there.”

“Oh! wait just a minute, till I can breathe!”

“Why are you so frightened? Am I not here?”

“Pardine! perhaps mother won’t even let you in!”

“We will make her listen to reason.”

“That will be hard.”

“Your sister is more to blame than you.”

“Yes, but she’s fond of my sister, and she don’t like me.”

“Well, we haven’t come all this distance not to try our luck.”

“That is true, monsieur. Come on, let’s go to the house.”

We arrived in front of Madame Jérôme’s shop; I had learned from Nicette that that was her mother’s name. Everything was tightly closed and perfectly still; no light could be seen inside the house.

“Does your mother sleep in the shop?”

“Yes, monsieur; at the back.”

“We must knock.”

“Oh! if only my sister hasn’t got home!”

“Let’s knock, in any event.”

I knocked, for Nicette had not the requisite courage; there was no reply.

“She sleeps very soundly,” I said to the girl.

“Oh, no, monsieur! that means that she don’t intend to let me in.”

“Parbleu! she’ll have to answer.”

I knocked again; we heard a movement inside, then someone approached the door, and a hoarse voice demanded:

“Who’s that knocking at this time of night?”

“It’s me, mother.”

“Ah! it’s you, is it, you shameless hussy! and you think I’ll let you in after midnight, when you’ve been setting men to fighting and turning a whole quarter upside down! Off with you this minute, and don’t ever let me see you again!”

“Mother! please let me in; my sister has deceived you.”

“No, no; I know the whole story. You’re a cursed little pig-headed fool! Ah! you don’t choose to be a pork man’s wife, don’t you? All right! go and walk the streets; we’ll see if you have pig’s pudding to eat every day!”

Nicette wept. I thought that it was time for me to intervene in the quarrel.

“Madame,” I called through the door, in a voice which I tried to make imposing, “your daughter has done no wrong; you are scolding her most unjustly; and if you leave her in the street, you will expose her to the risk of doing what you will regret.”

I waited for a reply; none was forthcoming, but I heard someone removing the iron bars, as if to open the shop. I went up to Nicette.

“You see,” said I, “my voice and my remonstrance have produced some effect. I was certain that I could pacify your mother. Come, dry your tears; she is coming, and I promise you that I will make her listen to reason, and that she won’t leave you to sleep in the street.”

Nicette listened, but she still doubted my ability to obtain her pardon. Meanwhile, the noise continued, and the door did, in fact, open. Madame Jérôme appeared on the threshold, wearing a dressing jacket and a nightcap. I stepped forward to intercede for the girl, who dared not stir; I was about to begin a sentence which I thought well adapted to touch a mother’s heart, but Madame Jérôme did not give me time.

“So you’re the man,” she cried, “who brings this boldface home, and undertakes to preach to me and to teach me how to manage my daughters! Take that to pay you for your trouble!”

As she spoke, the fruit seller dealt me a buffet that sent me reeling toward the other side of the street; then she drew back into her shop and slammed the door in our faces.