“Go pluck me that namesake of yours over yonder—the big white Marguerite on the edge of the grass plat. Thanks, petite. Now I'll be sworn you guess what I am going to do with it! No? Well, I am going to question these little sibylline leaves, and make the Marguerite tell me whether I am destined to a prison all the days of my life. What! you never heard of the old flower sortilége? Why, Gretchen, I thought every little German maiden learned it in the cradle with her mother tongue!”
“But how can the Marguerite answer you, Monsieur Maurice?” I exclaimed.
“You shall see—but I must tell you first that the flower is not used to pronounce upon such serious matters. She is the oracle of village lads and lasses—not of grave prisoners like myself.”
And with this, half sadly, half playfully, he began stripping the leaves off one by one, and repeating over and over again:—
“Tell me, sweet Marguerite, shall I be free? Soon—in time—perhaps—never! Soon—in time—perhaps—never! Soon—in time—perhaps—”
It was the last leaf.
“Pshaw!” he said, tossing away the stalk with an impatient laugh. “You could have given me as good an answer as that, little Gretchen. Let us go in.”