Come, mother, where are the flowers?
I have promised Fabien to show them to him." But his old mother could not answer.

Having no doubt bewept this sorrow too often to find fresh tears, her eyes followed her son with restless compassion.

He, beside the window, was hunting among the chairs and lounges crowded in this corner of the little sitting-room.
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.