of the pit, he drew from
his bosom Mademoiselle Godeau's bouquet, and, as he breathed the perfume
in deep meditation, he began to think in a calmer spirit about his
adventure of the morning. As soon as he had pondered over it for awhile,
he saw clearly the truth; that is to say, that the young lady, in leaving
the bouquet in his hands, and in refusing to take it back, had wished to
give him a mark of interest; for otherwise this refusal and this silence
could only have been marks of contempt, and such a supposition was not
possible. Croisilles, therefore, judged that Mademoiselle Godeau's heart
was of a softer grain than her father's and he remembered distinctly that
the young lady's face, when she crossed the drawing-room, had expressed an
emotion the more true that it seemed involuntary. But was this emotion one
of love, or only of sympathy? Or was it perhaps something of still less
importance,--mere commonplace pity? Had Mademoiselle Godeau feared to see
him die--him, Croisilles--or merely to be the cause of the death of a man,
no matter what man? Although withered and almost leafless, the bouquet
still retained so exquisite an odor and so brave a look, that in breathing
it and looking at it, Croisilles could not help hoping. It was a thin
garland of roses round a bunch of violets. What mysterious depths of
sentiment an Oriental might have read in these flowers, by interpreting
their language! But after all, he need not be an Oriental in this case.
The flowers which fall from the breast of a pretty woman, in Europe, as in
the East, are never mute; were they but to tell what they have seen while
reposing in that lovely bosom, it would be enough for a lover, and this,
in fact, they do. Perfumes have more than one resemblance to love, and
there are even people who think love to be but a sort of perfume; it is
true the flowers which exhale it are the most beautiful in creation.

While Croisilles mused thus, paying very little attention to the tragedy
that was being acted at the time, Mademoiselle Godeau herself appeared in
a box opposite.

The idea did not occur to the young man that, if she should notice him,
she might think it very strange to find the would-be suicide there after
what had transpired in the morning. He, on the contrary, bent all his
efforts towards getting nearer to her; but he could not succeed. A
fifth-rate actress from Paris had come to play Merope, and the crowd was so
dense that one could not move