Fanchette remembered very distinctly.
“I think then, with your Highness’s permission, it is well placed where it is,” she said.
Isabella, her colour a little heightened, found a difficulty in asking why.
“O, I have a sentiment about these things,” said Fanchette. “Warm thoughts will make the flowers in one’s bosom open prematurely—I have noticed that.”
“Are you proposing to me,” said Isabella, “to wear this entire bush as a posy?”
“Well, warm dreams, then,” said the maid. “They will make a very forcing-house of one’s bedroom—mademoiselle will see, if she has any love for this plant. It will come to blossom while she slumbers. Or perhaps she would rather I removed it. It is not good, say some people, to breathe in sleep the same air with flowers. They are like sweet-tongued suitors, best shut the other side of the door.”
“That will do, Fanchette. You are allowing your tongue too much freedom.”
“O, I did not mean to imply anything,” quoth injured innocence. “Your Highness, if you please, is so ready to think the worst of Fanchette. Only what I will venture to say is that, if you are not on the side of M. Tiretta in this business, it will be sensible of you to let me put the basil-pot elsewhere.”
“I am not, however, the least troubled with these scruples,” said Isabella courageously. “As you have put it there, it may remain, since its leaves at least smell sweet. And if I find I suffer from its neighbourhood, it will be simple to remove it.”
“O, if you ask me, I do not think you will suffer from it!” said the maid, airily pert.