“Monsieur Gerard is dead,” replied Amedee; “but the ladies are well, and I see them often.”

“Do not tell them that you met me here, will you?  It is better not.  If I had had a good ’mother, like those girls, things would have turned out differently for me.  But, you remember, papa was always interested in his politics.  When I was fifteen years old he apprenticed me to a florist.  He was a fine master, a perfect monster of a man, who ruined me!  I say, Pere Combarieu has a droll trade now; he is manager of a Republican journal—­nothing to do—­only a few months in prison now and then.  I am always working in flowers, and I have a little friend, a pupil at Val-de-Grace, but he has just left as a medical officer for Algeria.  I was lonely all by myself, and this evening big Margot, whom I got acquainted with in the shop, brought me here to amuse myself.  But you—­what are you doing?  Your friend said just now that you were a poet.  Do you write songs?  I always liked them.  Do you remember when I used to play airs with one finger upon the Gerards’ old piano?  You were such a pretty little boy then, and as gentle as a girl.  You still have your nice blue eyes, but they are a little darker.  I remember them.  No, you can not know how glad I am to see you again!”

They continued to chatter, bringing up old reminiscences, and when she spoke of the Gerard ladies she put on a respectful little air which pleased Amedee very much.  She was a poor feather-headed little thing, he did not doubt; but she had kept at least the poor man’s treasure, a simple heart.  The young man was pleased with her prattling, and as he looked at the young girl he thought of the past and felt a sort of compassion for her.  As she was silent for a moment, the poet said to her, “Do you know that you have become very pretty?  What a charming complexion you have! such a lovely pallor!”

The grisette, who had known what poverty was, gave a bitter little laugh: 

“Oh, my pallor! that is nothing!  It is not the pallor of wealth.”

Then, recovering her good-humor at once, she continued: 

“Tell me, Monsieur Amedee, does this big Margot, whom you began to pay attentions to a little while ago, please you?”

Amedee quickly denied it.  “That immense creature?  Never!  Now then, Rosine, I came here to amuse myself a little, I will admit.  That is not forbidden at my age, is it?  But this ball disgusts me.  You have no appointment here?  No?  Is it truly no?  Very well, take my arm and let us go.  Do you live far from here?”

“In the Avenue d’Orleans, near the Montrouge church.”

“Will you allow me to escort you home, then?”

She would be happy to, and they arose and left the ball.  It seemed to the young poet as if the pretty girl’s arm trembled a little in his; but once upon the boulevard, flooded by the light from the silvery moon, Rosine slackened her steps and became pensive, and her eyes were lowered when Amedee sought a glance from them in the obscurity.  How sweet was this new desire that troubled the young man’s heart!  It was mixed with a little sentiment; his heart beat with emotion, and Rosine was not less moved.  They could both find only insignificant things to say.