The female contingent was horrified by the conduct of the gentlemen; for no one of them had ever shown the slightest desire to gaze at one of the beauties of the establishment; to be sure, there were none, save the ugly man's wife, and she never appeared at any of the windows looking on the courtyard. Her bedroom faced the boulevard, and she would have considered that she compromised her reputation by showing herself at one of the rear windows.

By way of compensation, her husband was one of the most enterprising, one of those who tried most frequently to see Georgette, and who indulged in telegraphic signals to which the young shirtmaker paid no attention whatever. But that did not discourage Monsieur Bistelle,--that was the gentleman's name,--who continued to throw kisses to the girl, which she pretended not to see; it scandalized all the neighbors, however.

The young dressmakers amused themselves at Monsieur Bistelle's expense, and pointed him out to one another as soon as he appeared at his window.

The lady of the beauty spot, Madame Picotee, always stationed herself at her window as soon as her neighbor came to his, and burst into roars of laughter, a little forced. At every kiss that Monsieur Bistelle threw to Georgette, she cried:

"Oh! mon Dieu! what fools some men are! but I never saw one quite so bad as this fellow! And a married man, too! why, it's shocking! The Bastille ought to be rebuilt on purpose for such people."

Monsieur Bistelle heard it all; but it made no impression on him, and he often said to himself, in an undertone:

"Bah! if I had chosen to send her a kiss, she wouldn't have thought it so shocking!"

Monsieur de Mardeille was very careful not to act so foolishly as his neighbor on the second floor. He also stood at his window to look at Georgette; but, far from making signs and throwing kisses to her, he contented himself with a low bow, to which the girl never failed to respond with a pleasant smile. But as Bistelle was often looking out just as Georgette nodded and smiled, he took for himself the salutation addressed to the floor below; so that his hopes gained strength; he was enchanted; he would rub his hands in glee and sometimes go down to walk in the courtyard, where he would stop under the shirtmaker's windows, humming:

""Tis here that Rose doth dwell!'"

or:

"'When one knows how to love and please, What other blessing doth he lack?'"

And the young dressmakers never failed to clap their hands and demand an encore. One day, Madame Picotee had the bright idea of tossing him two sous, which he laughingly picked up and put in his pocket, saying: "This will buy me some rouge and rice powder."--Which remark maddened the lady of the beauty spot, who ran for her slop jar and would have emptied it on her neighbor, but for the presence of the concierge, who was sweeping the courtyard.

Meanwhile Frontin, who soon discovered that his master was enamored of the damsel of the entresol, told him all that happened in the house, and all the foolish freaks to which Monsieur Bistelle resorted in his endeavors to commend himself to Mademoiselle Georgette.

"What do you say? that ugly creature hopes to make a conquest of that pretty grisette?" cried Monsieur de Mardeille; "didn't he ever look at himself in the gla.s.s?"

"I don't know whether he knows how ugly he is," replied Frontin; "but I a.s.sure you, monsieur, that he flatters himself that he has made an impression on Mademoiselle Georgette; he declares that she smiles sweetly at him when he's at his window."

"Smiles! Why, it's at me that the girl smiles, not at him! It's impossible that it should be at him! The conceited a.s.s! the monkey! for the fellow looks very much like a monkey, doesn't he, Frontin?"

"Yes, monsieur; and he makes gestures like one, too."

"What! do you mean to say that he presumes to do what monkeys do?"

"Faith! monsieur, he goes through some very curious performances; they're very much like it! But that isn't all."

"What else is there, Frontin?"

"I know that Monsieur Bistelle sent a very fine bouquet to Mademoiselle Georgette this morning."

"A bouquet! The popinjay! He had the a.s.surance! And did the little one accept his bouquet?"

"Yes, monsieur; indeed, it's on her window sill now."

"Can it be possible? I must look."

Monsieur de Mardeille lost no time in going where he could see the shirtmaker's window; he not only saw a huge bouquet on the sill, but he saw Monsieur Bistelle walking in the courtyard and humming:

"And if I am not there, At least my flowers will be."

"Well, well! I must act, that is plain!" said the elderly dandy to himself; "I must declare myself in some other way than by standing at the window. Still, I can't make a straight dash for that grisette's rooms; that might compromise me. Ah! I have an idea! It's as simple as can be. She makes shirts. There's a pretext right at my hand.--Look you, Frontin."

"Here I am, monsieur."

"I want you to go to Mademoiselle Georgette's."

"The pretty neighbor's?"

"Yes; you will present yourself in my name, and most politely. You will say to her that, as I have heard that she is a shirtmaker and as I have some very fine shirts to be made up---- That isn't true; I don't need any, but they are always useful and I can safely order a dozen.--You will say to her then, that, as I have some work for her, I shall be much obliged if she will take the trouble to come to my rooms. You understand: in this way, I don't compromise myself, and I shall be able to talk to her much more freely than in her apartment."

"Yes, monsieur, yes; I will go and do your errand."

"Be perfectly courteous and respectful; that flatters these little girls."

"Yes, monsieur; and you don't want me to take her a bouquet too?"

"Nonsense! what good do bouquets do? There's nothing so commonplace! Do you suppose that I intend to copy Monsieur Bistelle? No, no, never a bouquet; I don't need that sort of thing to succeed. Go, Frontin; if the young shirtmaker asks you at what time I can receive her, say that she is entirely at liberty to choose the hour that is most convenient to her, and that she will always be welcome. I think that's rather pretty, eh? That's worth more than a bouquet."

Frontin departed, to perform the mission with which his master had intrusted him. But the bouquet sent to Georgette by Bistelle had been seen by the whole house. Instantly, as if he had lighted a train of powder, all the aspirants to the girl's favor had determined that they must not lag behind, and that the moment had come to try to make her acquaintance.

The young literary man who dabbled in poetry purchased a small bunch of violets for two sous--we are all gallant according to our means;--but he wrapped it in a sheet of note paper, whereon he had written this quatrain:

"Je vous ai vue, agissant a la pompe; En vous tout est charmant, tout est vrai, rien ne trompe; Vous deployez alors des mouvements si doux, Que l'on se d.a.m.nerait pour pomper avec vous!"[D]

The young poet gave his bouquet and his verses to the concierge, to be delivered, instructing him to say to the girl that she must read what was written on the paper. A little later, the poet's confrere also appeared with a modest bouquet; but his forte was vaudevilles rather than poetry, so that the offering which accompanied his flowers was a ballad, and he laid the same injunction on the concierge.

Next came the photographer, who sent a package of photographs of the most popular actors. It is well known that young working girls, as a general rule, have a p.r.o.nounced penchant for actors. Our photographer had no doubt that his gift would be most acceptable, and he told the concierge to say to Mademoiselle Georgette that he would be highly flattered if he might be permitted to photograph her.

Next came the miniature painter, who sent a dainty pasteboard box on which he had painted a swarm of little cupids in exceedingly graceful att.i.tudes. As he handed his box to the concierge, he said:

"You will not fail to a.s.sure Mademoiselle Georgette that the artist who executed all these cupids would esteem himself very fortunate if he might paint his neighbor's portrait free of charge, and in whatever costume may be most agreeable to her."

A few moments after the miniature painter, the young doctor appeared and handed the concierge a package, saying:

"Be kind enough to hand this to Mademoiselle Georgette, with my compliments; it contains mauve, linden leaves, and poppy seeds; they are all excellent to take when one has a cold, and it rarely happens that a person goes a whole year without a cold. You will say to the young lady that I solicit her permission to attend her."

Lastly, the old bachelor himself had purchased a box of candied fruit, without his maid-servant's knowledge. But he took care not to intrust his gift to the concierge, for if he did he knew that his servant would certainly be told of it. So he went out on the boulevard and found a little bootblack, to whom he handed his box and gave instructions where to deliver it; and as he did not choose to remain incognito, lest his pretty neighbor should attribute his gift to somebody else, he instructed his messenger to say to her:

"Your neighbor, Monsieur Renardin, sends you this box, with his compliments.--Above all things," he added, "don't stop at the concierge's lodge, and don't speak to him; go straight to Mademoiselle Georgette's room on the entresol. You are paid, so take nothing from her."

Affairs were in this condition when Monsieur de Mardeille sent his valet Frontin to Georgette's room. From early morning, the concierge, having received the presents one after another, had pa.s.sed all his time going back and forth from his lodge to the entresol, where the young shirtmaker accepted without hesitation everything that was sent to her, simply saying to the concierge:

"Say to monsieur that I thank him."

"Don't forget to read the verses, mademoiselle; there's verses written on the paper," said the concierge, when he delivered the bunches of violets.

"All right; I'll read everything, but I shall not answer anything."

Georgette had read the quatrain, and was humming the vaudevillist's ballad, which was written to the tune of _La Boulangere_, laughing heartily at the words: