She is dead, my friend, and that ideal beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave." "Poor girl!" Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him.

He was contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed.
I divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived.
"My friend," said I, "let that be; I come to wish you many happy returns." "Many happy returns?
Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this morning; then I set to work and forgot all about it.

I am glad you came.

She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening with her.

Let us go and find her." "With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something." "What ?" "I have brought no flowers." "Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep, which you will.