“I have forgotten,” said Fifine, “whose bones they were.”
“Why whose, but the three Marys’—Magdalene, Bethany, and St. James his mother. But go on; what does it matter?”
“I like to be accurate,” said Fifine: “and every detail in these stories has its point.”
“I don’t see one here—unless it is the Magdalene. But never mind that.”
“Well, after entering and praying, Briande was leaving the church, when at the very door she met him face to face.”
“Bérard?”
“Yes. He was dressed like a priest. Banished by his love, in misery and penitence he had fled thither and, adjuring the world for ever, had given his life to God.”
“And is that the end?”
“No; the prettiest bit is to come. They met thus again; but only to know the tragedy of their love and part. Like soiled armour which, being cleaned, looks richer than when new, so, under the rubs of Fate, was Bérard’s soul to reveal its intrinsic worth. And Briande took a little house next to the Presbytery, between whose garden and hers was a wall both high and frail, and yet to them a barrier of rock which no speciousness might scale or passion overthrow. And there, on either side, they grew their flowers; and that was the sole bond between them. And, like him, she gave her virgin life to God until she died. Very young she died, Felix, and on the same day died Bérard. And because their end had been saintly and their story was known, amongst their flowers by the wall they buried them, he on his side and she on hers. And, when the spring came, from each grave had shot a rose-tree, from hers a white and from his a red, that climbed the wall with eager fingers until the two met above, and there they mingled; and the flowers when they blossomed were not some white, some red; but each was red and white at once—the Provençal love rose. There!”
She ended, breathless, and I applauded with enthusiasm, making cymbals of my thumbnails.