He brought us a box of white wood.  “See,” said he, “’tis my wedding bouquet.”

And he emptied it on the table.  Parma violets, lilacs, white camellias and moss rolled out in slightly faded bunches, spreading a sweet smell in which there breathed already a vague scent of death and corruption.  A violet fell on my knees.  I picked it up.

He looked for a moment at the heap on the table.

“I keep none,” said he:  “I have too many reminders without them.  Cursed flowers!”

With one motion of his arm he swept them all up and cast them upon the coals in the hearth.  They shrivelled, crackled, grew limp and discolored, and vanished in smoke.

“Now I am going back to my etching.  Good-by, Fabien.  Good-night, mother.”

Without turning his head, he left the room and went back to his studio.

I made a movement to follow him and bring him back.

Madame Lampron stopped me.  “I will go myself,” said she, “later—­much later.”

We sat awhile in silence.  When she saw me somewhat recovered from the shock of my feelings she went on: 

“You never have seen him like this, but I have seen it often.  It is so hard!  I knew her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he never hid anything from me.  You can judge from her portrait whether hers was not the face to attract an artist like Sylvestre.  I saw at once that it was a trial, in which I could do nothing.  They were very great people; different from us, you know.”

“They refused to let them marry?”

“Oh, no!  Sylvestre did not ask; they never had the opportunity of refusing.  No, no; it was I. I said to him:  ’Sylvestre, this can never be-never!’ He was convinced against his will.  Then she spoke to her parents on her own account.  They carried her off, and there was an end of it.”

“He never saw her again.”

“Never; he would not have wished it; and then she lived a very little time.  I went back there two years later, when they wanted to buy the picture.  We were still living in Italy.  That was one of the hardest hours of my life.  I was afraid of their reproaches, and I did not feel sure of myself.  But no, they suffered for their daughter as I for my son, and that brought us together.  Still, I did not give up the portrait; Sylvestre set too great store by it.  He insists on keeping it, feeding his eyes on it, reopening his wound day by day.  Poor child!  Forget all this, Monsieur Fabien; you can do nothing to help.  Be true to your youth, and tell us next time of Monsieur Charnot and Mademoiselle Jeanne.”

Dear Madame Lampron!  I tried to console her; but as I never knew my mother, I could find but little to say.  All the same, she thanked me and assured me I had done her good.

CHAPTER V

A FRUITLESS SEARCH

January 1, 1885.

The first of January!  When one is not yet an uncle and no longer a godson, if one is in no government employ and goes out very little, the number of one’s calls on New Year’s Day is limited.  I shall make five or six this afternoon.  It will be “Not at home” in each case; and that will be all my compliments of the season.