"Ce sont des fleurs etranges, Et traitresses, avec leurs airs de
sceptres d'anges, De thyrses lumineux pour doigts de seraphins,
Leurs parfums sont trop forts, tout ensemble, et trop fins."
"It is strange," she thought, "that I should have corresponded so
many months with 'Gys Grandit' through my admiration for his books--
and that he should turn out to be the son of poor Abbe Vergniaud!
Cyrillon! It is a pretty name! And since we met--since that terrible
scene in the church in Paris,--since he knew who I was, he has not
written. And, and for his poor father's death . . . I suppose he
thought it was sufficient to telegraph the news of the death to my
uncle. But I am sorry he does not write to me any more!--I valued
his letters--they were such brilliant essays on all the movements
and politics of the time. It was just a little secret of mine;--it
was pleasant to think I was in correspondence with such a genius.
However, he has had so much to think of since then . . ." She set the
lilies in their vase again, inhaling their delicious odour as she
did so.
"The flowers of the saints and martyrs!" she said, "I do not wonder
that the artists chose them for that purpose; they are so white-and
pure-and passionless .
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