“She will not bear my name—but yours. This very evening I have christened her Paule Berlier.”
“She is beautiful,” said Jean. But he was thinking of his fiancée. Then he added: “I thank you, Uncle, for your poetic homage.”
The old man was still on his knees. He stretched out his two hands with an expansive gesture and softly repeated, “Here are all my roses!”
“But why this massacre?” Jean asked for the second time. “I am sure you must have decapitated all your plants.”
“All, Jean, without exception.”
“Why this slaughter? Won’t you tell me?”
M. Loigny was contemplating the mass of cut flowers with the radiant smile of a Christian virgin led to martyrdom. He got up with difficulty and answered:
“Here are all my roses. They are for you.”
“For me?” asked Jean, surprised.
“For you, so that you may give them to your fiancée.”