“Please do, Monsieur,” acquiesced Madame Guibert, courteously. She was afraid she had been mistaken and was trembling for her hopes.
“A thousand thanks, Madame. I must fly to see about it before it fades.”
On the threshold the old man stopped and in a mysterious voice, which made the poor lady start, said:
“I have a secret to tell you. I have managed to grow a new rose by skilful grafting. You shall see it. It has no name yet. I am going to give it your daughter’s. My nephew will be delighted. It shall be called Madame Paule Berlier!”
And without having revealed his errand, otherwise than in this odd way, he vanished, still holding the flower in his hands and gazing at it.
Madame Guibert as she watched him disappear in the distance could not repress a smile.
“The poor man! He has forgotten all for his rose.”
Jean on his way to meet M. Loigny had arrived at the oakwood which lines the road to Vimines hill. He heard the noise of grinding wheels held back by the brake and soon he saw the carriage through the branches. Impatiently he hurried on in spite of the hill.
“Well, Uncle?” he cried.
M. Loigny lifted his flower in the air with a triumphant gesture which reassured the young man.