invaded me. She became at once Madame de Mortsauf, and withdrew her

hand; tears rolled from my eyes, she saw them and gave me a chilling
look, as she offered her hand to my lips.

"You must know," she said, "that this will cause me grief. A
friendship that asks so great a favor is dangerous."

Then I lost my self-control; I reproached her, I spoke of my
sufferings, and the slight alleviation that I asked for them. I dared

to tell her that at my age, if the senses were all soul still the soul
had a sex; that I could meet death, but not with closed lips. She

forced me to silence with her proud glance, in which I seemed to read
the cry of the Mexican: "And I, am I on a bed of roses?" Ever since

that day by the gate of Frapesle, when I attributed to her the hope
that our happiness might spring from a grave, I had turned with shame

from the thought of staining her soul with the desires of a brutal
passion. She now spoke with honeyed lip, and told me that she never

could be wholly mine, and that I ought to know it. As she said the
words I know that in obeying her I dug an abyss between us. I bowed my

head. She went on, saying she had an inward religious certainty that
she might love me as a brother without offending God or man; such love

was a living image of the divine love, 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 sensations through these daughters of the

sun, sisters to the flowers that bloom beneath the rays of love!
Before long I communed with the flora of the fields, as a man whom I

met in after days at Grandlieu communed with his bees.
Twice a week during the remainder of my stay at Frapesle I continued

the slow labor of this poeticenterprise, for the ultimate
accomplishment of which I needed all varieties of herbaceous plants;

into these I made a deep research, less as a botanist than as a poet,
studying their spirit rather than their form. To find a flower in its

native haunts I walked enormous distances, beside the brooklets,
through the valleys, to the summit of the cliffs, across the moorland,

garnering thoughts even from the heather. During these rambles I
initiated myself into pleasures unthought of by the man of science who

lives in meditation, unknown to the horticulturist busy with
specialities, to the artisan fettered to a city, to the merchant

fastened to his desk, but known to a few foresters, to a few woodsmen,
and to some dreamers. Nature can show effects the significations of

which are limitless; they rise to the grandeur of the highest moral
conceptions--be it the heather in bloom, covered with the diamonds of

the dew on which the sunlight dances; infinitude decked for the single
glance that may chance to fall upon it:--be it a corner of the forest

hemmed in with time-worn rocks crumbling to gravel and clothed with
mosses overgrown with juniper, which grasps our minds as something

savage, aggressive, terrifying as the cry of the kestrel issuing from
it:--be it a hot and barren moor without vegetation, stony, rigid, its

horizon like those of the desert, where once I gathered a sublime and
solitary flower, the anemone pulsatilla, with its violet petals

opening for the golden stamens; affecting image of my pure idol alone
in her valley:--be it great sheets of water, where nature casts those

spots of greenery, a species of transition between the plant and
animal, where life makes haste to come in flowers and insects,

floating there like worlds in ether:--be it a cottage with its garden
of cabbages, its vineyards, its hedges overhanging a bog, surrounded

by a few sparse fields of rye; true image of many humble existences:--
be it a forest path like some cathedral nave, where the trees are

columns and their branches arch the roof, at the far end of which a
light breaks through, mingled with shadows or tinted with sunset reds

athwart the leaves which gleam like the colored windows of a chancel:
--then, leaving these woods so cool and branchy, behold a chalk-land

lying fallow, where among the warm and cavernous mosses adders glide
to their lairs, or lift their proud slim heads. Cast upon all these

pictures torrents of sunlight like beneficent waters, or the shadow of
gray clouds drawn in lines like the wrinkles of an old man's brow, or

the cool tones of a sky faintly orange and streaked with lines of a
paler tint; then listen--you will hear indefinable harmonies amid a

silence which blends them all.
During the months of September and October I did not make a single

bouquet which cost me less than three hours search; so much did I
admire, with the real sympathy of a poet, these fugitive allegories of

human life, that vast theatre I was about to enter, the scenes of
which my memory must presently recall. Often do I now compare those

splendid scenes with memories of my soul thus expending itself on
nature; again I walk that valley with my sovereign, whose white robe

brushed the coppice and floated on the green sward, whose spirit rose,
like a promised fruit, from each calyx filled with amorous stamens.

No declaration of love, no vows of uncontrollable passion ever
conveyed more than these symphonies of flowers; my baffled desires

impelled me to efforts of expression through them like those of
Beethoven through his notes, to the same bitter reactions, to the same

mighty bounds towards heaven. In their presence Madame de Mortsauf was
my Henriette. She looked at them constantly; they fed her spirit, she

gathered all the thoughts I had given them, saying, as she raised her
head from the embroidery frame to receive my gift, "Ah, how

beautiful!"
Natalie, you will understand this delightfulintercourse through the

details of a bouquet, just as you would comprehend Saadi from a
fragment of his verse. Have you ever smelt in the fields in the month

of May the perfume that communicates to all created beings the
intoxicating sense of a new creation; the sense that makes you trail

your hand in the water from a boat, and loosen your hair to the breeze
while your mind revives with the springtide greenery of the trees? A

little plant, a species of vernal grass, is a powerful element in this
veiled harmony; it cannot be worn with impunity; take into your hand

its shining blade, striped green and white like a silken robe, and
mysterious emotions will stir the rosebuds your modesty keeps hidden

in the depths of your heart. Round the neck of a porcelain vase
imagine a broad margin of the gray-white tufts peculiar to the sedum

of the vineyards of Touraine, vague image of submissive forms; from
this foundation come tendrils of the bind-weed with its silver bells,

sprays of pink rest-barrow mingled with a few young shoots of oak-
leaves, lustrous and magnificently colored; these creep forth

prostrate, humble as the weeping-willow, timid and supplicating as
prayer. Above, see those delicate threads of the purple amoret, with