"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."
"Oh! see that fl--flower over there; a m--m--mag--no----"
"The name makes no difference, let us go and buy it."
Mademoiselle Eolinde stopped in front of a magnificent magnolia, which had already flowered in the heat of a greenhouse; she placed her nose upon the lovely white egg-shaped blossom, which, as it opened, exhaled a delicious odor of orange and lemon; then she raised her head and said: "That smells too strong."
"Look here, mamzelle!" cried the flower woman, irritated to see the tall girl take her mother away in another direction, "you mustn't stick your face on our flowers like that! Did anyone ever see such a bean-pole as that creature who buries her muzzle in the blossom of my magnolia, and then walks off, as if she had been sniffing at my poodle's tail! Go on, you long-legged cockroach! Go somewhere else and buy Indian pinks, they'll suit you better!"
The Glumeau family did not hear, or rather pretended not to hear the somewhat forcible complaints of the woman with the magnolia; they had stopped in front of a booth where there was a large quantity of laurel. Mademoiselle Eolinde, whom the lesson which she had just received had not corrected, smelled several laurel bushes and cried:
This time Madame Glumeau hastily dragged her daughter away, saying in her ear:
"Why, Eolinde, do you want to get into a row and have scenes with all these flower women? You shouldn't say such things as that, my girl, especially when you don't buy; and if you won't decide upon what you want, we will go away and you won't have a flower to give your father, who is so fond of them. That will be very nice on his birthday!"
"If you will take my advice, sister," said Monsieur Astianax, "you'll give our father a pot of immortelles, because you see the immortelle means that he will live a long time, and the allusion is easily understood."
"A pot of immortelles!" cried the mother; "they are lovely flowers, upon my word! You are mad, Astianax! You might as well give your father a pot of sweet-basil such as the cobblers have in their stalls.--Look, Eolinde, there is a superb rosebush! come, let us buy that,--that will be your bouquet."