It may last five minutes." The catastrophe flashed and smouldered, and Rodolphe in a magnificent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last words of the illustrious deceased.
"There is enough left for a second representation," said he, pushing the remainder of the manuscript under his bed.
At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered the ballroom; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white violets, and among them two budding roses, white also.

During the whole night men and women were complimenting the young girl on her bouquet.

Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her cousin who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant persecutions of one of the bride's relatives who had danced several times with her.

He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnificent moustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts.

The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only two white roses were left.
The young man asked Angela for them; she refused--only to forget them after the ball on a bench, whence the young fair-haired youth hastened to take them.
At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing point in Rodolphe's belvidere.