It was a warm, delightful evening. The sun had scarcely set, and the birds were twittering their good-night in the trees beyond the Temple. Up from the street came the calls of vendors, the shouts of drivers, and occasionally the gay laugh of some child at play. The little prince listened to it all and his eyes filled with tears of joy to think that at last he was permitted to breathe again the free air of heaven and see the blessed light, even though it hurt his eyes a great deal, used as they had been only to semi-darkness. Releasing Laurent's hand, he wandered around by himself for a few moments. Suddenly he bent down with a low cry of pleasure. "See! See!" he cried, pointing, and Laurent looked down noticing only a few poor half-withered common little yellow flowers growing in the cracks of the stone walk. But the boy was on his hands and knees, gathering them eagerly.
The short time of outing over, Laurent led him down, still clasping carefully the meagre little bouquet. At the door of the room on the third floor the boy stopped, pulling back at his keeper's hand with all his strength. Laurent understood! The boy wished to go in and see his mother whom he thought was still there. Poor child! He little knew that only his sister was shut up in that room. It pained Laurent to refuse him, but to grant the wish was not in his power.
"You are mistaking the door, Monsieur Charles!" he said gently.
"No, I am not mistaking it!" answered the boy, terribly disappointed, and he walked down languidly. At his own door Laurent noticed that the child no longer carried his cherished flowers. He was about to ask what had become of them when an instinct warned him to refrain. Louis Charles had dropped them, a withered but tender offering of love, at the door of his mother's room!