"They required, my little Geneviève, some water, that was all; besides, my absence should have left you plenty of time."
"Ah!" said Geneviève, "if flowers were watered with tears, the poor carnations, as you call them, would not have died."
Maurice threw his arms round Geneviève, and drawing her to him, before she had time to prevent him, pressed his lips upon the half-smiling, half-languishing eye, now fixed upon the drooping, dying flowers.
Geneviève felt so much self-reproach it made her lenient to others.
Dixmer returned home late, and on his return found Morand, Maurice, and Geneviève talking botany in the garden.
THE FLOWER-GIRL.
At length the anticipated Thursday, the day of Maurice's guard, arrived. It was now the month of June. The sky was of a deep and cloudless blue, and against this sheet of blue rose the heavy white mass of new houses. The coming of the dreadful dog-star was already foreseen,—that dog represented by the ancients as thirsting with an unquenchable thirst, and which, to borrow the phraseology of the plebeian Parisians, licked the pavement very dry. Paris was clean as a carpet, and perfumes filled the air, mounting from the trees, emanating from the flowers, circulating and intoxicating with joy, as if to render the inhabitants of the capital forgetful for a few moments of that vapor of blood which rose without intermission from the pavement of their streets.