ove, which her good Saint-Martin told her was the life of the world.
If I could not be to her somewhat as her old confessor was, less than a
lover yet more than a brother, I must never see her again. She could
die and take to God her sheaf of sufferings, borne not without tears and
anguish.

"I gave you," she said in conclusion, "more than I ought to have given,
so that nothing might be left to take, and I am punished."

I was forced to calm her, to promise never to cause her pain, and to
love her at twenty-one years of age as old men love their youngest
child.

The next day I went early. There were no flowers in the vases of her
gray salon. I rushed into the fields and vineyards to make her two
bouquets; but as I gathered the flowers, one by one, cutting their long
stalks and admiring their beauty, the thought occurred to me that the
colors and foliage had a poetry, a harmony, which meant something to
the understanding while they charmed the eye; just as musical melodies
awaken memories in hearts that are loving and beloved. If color is light
organized, must it not have a meaning of its own, as the combinations
of the air have theirs? I called in the assistance of Jacques and
Madeleine, and all three of us conspired to surprise our dear one. I
arranged, on the lower steps of the portico, where we established
our floral headquarters, two bouquets by which I tried to convey a
sentiment. Picture to yourself a fountain of flowers gushing from the
vases and falling back in curving waves; my message springing from its
bosom in white roses and lilies with their silver cups. All the blue
flowers, harebells, forget-me-nots, and ox-tongues, whose tines, caught
from the skies, blended so well with the whiteness of the lilies,
sparkled on this dewy texture; were they not the type of two purities,
the one that knows nothing, the other that knows all; an image of the
child, an image of the martyr? Love has its blazon, and the countess
discerned it inwardly. She gave me a poignant glance which was like
the cry of a soldier when his wound is touched; she was humbled but
enraptured too. My reward was in that glance; to refresh her heart, to
have given her comfort, what encouragement for me! Then it was that
I pressed the theories of Pere Castel into the service of love, and
recovered a science lost to Europe, where written pages have supplanted
the flowery missives of the Orient with their balmy tints. What charm in
expressing our s