A number of workmen and work-girls stood round listening to themusic. Jean slipped into the circle, urged by the instinct thatdraws a stroller with nothing to do to the neighbourhood of lightand noise and that love of a crowd which is characteristic ofyour Parisian. More isolated in the press, more alone than ever,he stood dreaming of the splendour and passion of some nobletragedy of Euripides or Shakespeare. It was some time before henoticed something soft touching and pressing against him frombehind. He turned round and saw a work-girl in a little blackhat with blue ribbons. She was young and pretty enough, but hismind was fixed on the awe-inspiring and superhuman graces ofan Electra or a Lady Macbeth. She went on nuzzling against hisback till he looked round again.
"Monsieur," she said then; "will you just let me slip in frontof you? I am so little; I shan't stop your seeing."She had a nice voice. The poise of her head, lifted and thrownback on a plump neck, showed a pair of bright eyes and good teethbetween pouting lips. She glided, merry and alert, into the placeJean made for her without a word.
The man with the guitar sang a ballad about caged birds and blossomsin flower-pots.
"_Mine_," observed the work-girl to Jean, "are carnations, andI have birds too--canaries they are."At the moment he was thinking of some fair-faced chatelaine roamingunder the battlements of a donjon.
The work-girl went on:
"I have a pair,--you understand, to keep each other company. Twois a nice number, don't you think so?"He marched off with his visions under the old trees of the Avenue.
After a turn or two up and down, he espied the little work-girlhanging on the arm of a handsome young fellow, fashionably dressed,wearing a heavy gold watch-chain. Her admirer was catching herby the waist in the dusk of the trees, and she was laughing.
Then Jean Servien felt sorry he had scorned her advances.