"Hum!" murmured he; "What does that mean? This flower, at all events, has not fallen from the sky."
He stooped down, picked it up delicately, and examined it with care.
It was a white rose, scarcely half opened, and still fresh and damp with dew.
Emile remained an instant wrapped in thought.
"Well, that is odd," said he; "this flower has only been gathered a few minutes; is it not to me that it has been thrown? Nay," added he, looking around him, "it would be very difficult to have thrown it to another, for I am alone. This deserves reflection. I must not be carried away by vanity. I'll wait till the evening."
And he continued his walk, after having vainly explored, with an anxious look, all the windows of this solitary house.
This incident, slight as it was, was sufficient to trouble the artist during the remainder of his promenade.
He was young, he believed himself good-looking; and, moreover, he had more than a reasonable share of vanity. His imagination soon carried him away. He called to mind all the love stories he had heard related in relation to Spain; and, putting this and that together, he soon arrived at this conclusion, excessively flattering to his self-love—that a beautiful Señora, held prisoner by some jealous husband, had seen him pass under her windows, had felt herself drawn towards him by an irresistible passion, and had thrown him this flower to attract his attention.
This conclusion was absurd, it was true but it immensely pleased the painter, whose self-love, as we have said, it flattered.
During the whole day the young man was burning with anxiety; twenty times he thought of returning, but, happily, reflection came to his aid, and he came to the conclusion that too much haste would compromise the success of his adventure, and that it would be better not again to pass the house till the hour when he was in the habit of returning home.