The Flower Girl of The Chateau d'Eau Volume I Part 1

The Flower Girl of The Chateau d'Eau.

VOL.1.

by Charles Paul de k.o.c.k.

I

PAPA'S BIRTHDAY

It was the month of May in the year 1853--you see that our subject is not lost in the night of time--it was a Monday and there was a flower market on Boulevard Saint-Martin, in front, or rather on both sides of the Chateau d'Eau. The booths of the dealers extended as far as Rue de Lancry, a favor which had been only recently accorded to the flower girls, but upon which the pa.s.sers-by had as much reason to congratulate themselves as the dealers and the people of that portion of the quarter.

Is there anything more delightful to the eye than flowers? What is there which charms the sight and pleases the sense of smell more?

Are there people who do not love flowers? If you should tell me that there were, I would not believe it.

The weather was fine, which was a rare occurrence during that spring, as you must remember as well as I. The sun had deigned to show himself, and people were very grateful to him, because the sun for the last few years had become too high and mighty a prince in France; he no longer condescended to mingle with the people, he showed himself too rarely to the inhabitants of this part of the globe. And yet, although we do not adore him on our knees, like the Incas, we take no less pleasure in seeing him, in feeling the pleasant warmth of his beams, and although we are great friends of invention and of progress, we have not yet found anything to replace the sun.

There were therefore many people on the boulevards, and particularly near the flower market; everyone was anxious to take advantage of a fine day, not being certain of another on the morrow; and everybody was sensible: fine weather, pleasure and happiness we must seize you when you come to us, and never say: "I will wait till to-morrow."

Among all the people who were walking and sauntering and examining the flowers displayed on the asphalt or the concrete, there were, as is always the case at that market, more women than men. Do the ladies care more for flowers than we do? I might say some very pretty things on that subject, as for example: "Birds of a feather flock together," or: "Where can one be more at home than in the bosom of his family?" or again--but no, I will not repeat what you have already seen or heard a hundred times. Moreover, I think that Francois I said something better than any of that.

Furthermore, if the ladies are fonder of flowers than we are, you see they have much more time to attend to them. I once knew a bachelor, a clerk in a business house, who adored flowers, and although of small means, could not resist the temptation to purchase a handsome rosebush or a wood-violet, which he instantly carried home and placed in triumph on his window-sill. But that gentleman was a heavy sleeper, and when he woke he had hardly time to dress and go to his office. He did not dine at home, and when he returned at night he was always in a hurry to go to bed. The result was that, after two or three days, when he attempted to gloat over the flower that he had purchased, he was surprised to find it dead.

"But why didn't you water it?" someone would ask him.

"Why--why--because I have noticed that it always rains sooner or later."

We will, with your permission, allow those of the pa.s.sers-by who are indifferent to us to go their way, and will follow the steps of a family composed of a mother, her son and her daughter.

The mother's name was Madame Glumeau; her first name was Lolotte. She was a lady who had reached the wrong side of forty; she had once been pretty, a piquant brunette, whose bright and mischievous eyes made many victims. But time had pa.s.sed that way! What a deplorable pa.s.sage, that of time,--a pa.s.sage which should be well barricaded!

It was not that Madame Glumeau's features had changed very much. No, her eyes were still very bright, her nose rather delicate; her hair, which was yet black, still fell in thick curls on each side of her face; but she had grown enormously stout, so that her whole figure was changed and her waist enlarged.

Even the face had undergone the influence of that exuberant health; the cheeks had become rotund, the chin had trebled, the neck had shortened, and the complexion had become purple; and there were people who were cruel enough to say to her:

"What perfect health you enjoy! No one needs to ask you how you are!"

At that compliment, Madame Glumeau would try to smile, as she replied:

"That is true, I am not often ill!"

But in the depths of her heart she bitterly lamented having become like a ball, and would willingly have submitted to a severe illness, in order to recover her figure of earlier days. However, as one is always inclined to flatter oneself a little, Madame Glumeau was very far from considering herself a _tower_, as her dear lady friends called her; and when she looked at herself in the mirror, she still bestowed upon herself a satisfied smile.

Let us come to the two children; we are not speaking of little brats, who have to be led along by the hand, but of a boy of nineteen and a young lady of sixteen.

The young man was very ill-favored; he had no one of his mother's features, and squinted in too p.r.o.nounced a fas.h.i.+on, a fact which necessarily imparted more or less vagueness to his countenance; but one might judge from the expression of his face that Monsieur Astianax--that was young Glumeau's name--was not displeased with his little person, and still less with his wit. Unluckily, nature had not bestowed upon him a figure corresponding to the advantages with which he considered himself to be endowed; despite the high heels that he wore and the double soles that he put in his shoes, Monsieur Astianax Glumeau had been unable to make himself taller than his mother, who was four feet nine.

If young Glumeau was short, his sister, by way of compensation, at sixteen, was as tall as a bean-pole, and threatened to attain the stature of a drum-major. As thin as her mother was stout, Eolinde Glumeau had at all events a face which did her honor; although she was not so pretty as her mother had once been, she had regular features, rather large eyes, a small mouth, fine teeth, and all the freshness of a peach still on the tree. But--for there were always buts in that family--Mademoiselle Eolinde was afflicted with a very noticeable defect of speech; she stuttered in a way that was very tiresome to those who listened to her. Her parents declared that that would cure itself, and as a corrective to that infirmity they insisted that their daughter should talk as much as possible. Mademoiselle Eolinde obeyed her parents to an extent that was sometimes very terrible for her friends and acquaintances.

The Glumeau family had been on Boulevard du Chateau d'Eau a long while, going from one dealer to another, stopping in front of the flowers, sticking their noses into the finest ones, asking the price, hesitating, and not deciding.

At last Madame Glumeau turned about once more and halted in front of a very handsome pomegranate tree, saying:

"I think I will buy this pomegranate for your father. A pomegranate will please Honore; he will like it very much."

"But, mamma, what connection is there between this shrub and my father?"

queried young Glumeau, looking toward Boulevard du Temple and Porte Saint-Martin at the same moment.

"What's that! what connection? What do you mean by that, Astianax? Isn't to-morrow your father's fete-day, as his name is Honore? We are going to give him flowers as usual. I select this pomegranate, which is very handsome; I don't see what there is in that to surprise you."

"It isn't that, mamma; I said: 'what connection is there between a pomegranate--_grenadier_--and my father, who has never been a soldier?'

Oh! if he had been a soldier, I could understand your choice of this shrub and the allusion, but----"

"But, my dear boy, you are terribly tiresome with your allusions; you want to put allusions in everything; just wait until you are a man."

"Excuse me, dear mamma, but flowers have a language; so in your place I should have thought that a myrtle, the emblem of love----"

"My dear boy, I have been giving your father myrtles for twenty years and he must have had enough of them. Everything in life goes by, and we have used the myrtle long enough; it seems to me that I can properly vary it a little. After twenty years one is not forbidden to change bouquets. I have decided, I am going to buy this pomegranate.--Don't you think, Eolinde, that this will please your father?"

"Oh! ye--ye--yes, it will pl--please him very mu--u--uch."

"But what are you going to buy for him? You must make up your mind, children, for we intend to go to the play after dinner, and it is getting late."

"B--b--bless me!" replied the tall young lady, "I would li--i--ike that fl--fl--flower--you know--you know--it's the--I d--d--don't see it."

"But what flower? tell us its name."

"I d--d--don't reme--e--ember."

"In that case, ask the woman if she has any," said Monsieur Astianax, smiling maliciously, for he very often made fun of the difficulty which his sister had in speaking.

"What a stu--u--u--pid you are, Astianax!" cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders and looking down at her brother as if she were searching for a little dog. "Let me alo--o--one; it's a flow--ower with b--b--bells."

"Bells?"

"No, little bell-flowers--brown."

"Oh, I know what you mean, daughter; it is a--I don't know the name; but come, I saw some over yonder."

And the stout lady, having paid for the pomegranate and hired a porter to carry it, led her daughter to the booth of a dealer who had a large a.s.sortment of tulips. Mademoiselle Eolinde examined them for some time, then murmured:

"This isn't what I wanted. No matter, let me see. Oh! they don't smell--they don't smell of anything; I'd rather get something else."

"Well, what? Come, choose."

"Oh! see that fl--flower over there; a m--m--mag--no----"

"The name makes no difference, let us go and buy it."