“It was this,” said Tiretta. “The flower despised its own lowly roots, its poor relations, which connected it with the soil. ‘I would stand alone in my exclusiveness,’ it said; and it persuaded the scythe to sever it. But, lo! the flower fell and died, and the roots sent forth another blossom, fair as the first.”
The archduke patted the shoulder next him patronisingly.
“What does it mean, poet?”
“Nothing, sir, but that, stand a flower ever so high and glorious, the roots have their use. All life springs at one time from the soil.”
“What is the moral?”
“O! the moral? Only that I love flowers.”
“Well, you are a funny fellow.”
“For being a root? It is natural for you to think so. But I shall hope yet to prove my attachment.”
The prince glanced at him queerly, as if doubting his sanity; then frowned, and sat looking from the window.
The postilions had had orders to avoid both Parma and Colorno. There were private as well as state reasons for this step. The past month or so had been signalised by some cautious pourparlers in the matter of a suggested marriage between the heir to the Austrian throne and the eldest child and daughter of Don Philip, and both policy and punctilio forbade a visit which might lend itself to misconstruction. If any curiosity as to the person of his possible bride affected the sedate young gentleman, he had no difficulty in repressing it. A glimpse had perhaps acted upon him to rasher effect. For, for all his youthful philosophy, Joseph was susceptible where girlish beauty was concerned. He even fell in love, years later, with the looks of his own sister, Marie-Antoinette, at Versailles, and playfully regretted that he could not marry her. Reports, of course, of the charms of the young Infanta Marie-Isabelle, had reached him; but then he was wise enough to recognise that princesses were always beautiful. It was without emotion that he saw the roofs and towers of Colorno appear and disappear at a distance among the eastern greenery.