She copied flowers after Nature, from a bunch of hydrangeas and hollyhocks, which, having no odour, she could keep in her room.

The bouquet was in full bloom in a large vase, and often she would rest for several minutes as she looked at it with pleasure, for even the light silks were too heavy for her fingers.

In two days she had made one flower, which was fresh and bright as it shone upon the satin; but this occupation was her life, and she would use her needle until her last breath.

Softened by suffering, emaciated by the inner fever that was consuming her, she seemed now to be but a spirit, a pure and beautiful flame that would soon be extinguished.
Why was it necessary to struggle any longer if Felicien did not love her?
Now she was dying with this conviction; not only had he no love for her to-day, but perhaps he had never really cared for her.

So long as her strength lasted she had contended against her heart, her health, and her youth, all of which urged her to go and join him.