that makes no difference now. These are too fragrant. You may have this bouquet, madam; he will not care if I give it to you."
"No, my dear; it gives you pleasure to look at the flowers," said Madame de Piennes, in a gentler tone, for she had been greatly affected by the note of profound sadness in the voice of poor Arsène. "I will take the fragrant ones, you keep the camellias."
"No, I detest camellias. They remind me of the only quarrel that we ever had—when I was with him."
"Think no more of those follies, my dear child."
"One day," continued Arsène, looking steadily at Madame de Piennes, "one day I found a beautiful red camellia in a glass of water in his room. I wished to take it, he would not let me, he even forbade me to touch it. I insisted, I said very insulting things to him. He took it, locked it in a closet and put the key in his pocket. I acted like a fiend incarnate, I even smashed a porcelain vase of which he was very fond. It was of no use. I saw very well that he had received it from some woman of respectability. I have never known where that camellia came from."
As she spoke, Arsène regarded Madame de
