"What are you doing?" I asked.
She trembled and stood up.
"It is nothing but a child's plaything," she said; "it is a rose wreath that has faded here in the oratory; I have come here to change my flowers, as I have not attended to them for some time."
Her voice trembled, and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled that name of Brigitte la Rose that I had heard given her. I asked her whether it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus.
"No," she replied, turning pale.
"Yes," I cried, "yes, on my life! Give me the pieces."
I gathered them up and placed them on the altar, then I was silent, my eyes fixed on the offering.
"Was I not right," she asked, "if it was my crown, to take it from the wall where it has hung so long?
"Of what use are these remains? Brigitte la Rose is no more, nor the flowers that baptized her." She went out. I heard her sobs, and the door closed on me; I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned to her room, I found her waiting for me; dinner was ready. I took my place in silence, and not a word was said of what was in our hearts.