"That's just as much as to say you don't care a straw about the matter; and that you are thinking of nothing but that stupid lover of yours, who is, no doubt, thousands and thousands of miles away."
Camillia sighed. Her face was averted, and she did not see the arch smile which lighted up the Frenchwoman's face. "However," continued Pauline; "I shall insist on your approving of my choice."
She unfastened the cord which was tied about the box; and, lifting the lid, took out the two wreaths.
They were both of the same pattern—coronet-shaped garlands of orange flowers and buds, purely white amidst their glistening green leaves; as true to nature as if they had been gathered from a hot-house, and breathing the delicious perfume of the flower.
They were the perfection of Parisian taste and art.
"Why, Pauline," exclaimed Camillia, "they are both bridal wreaths."
"Can you guess why it is?"
"No, indeed."
"Because there will be two brides to-morrow. I never break a promise. To-morrow, Don Juan Moraquitos will divide his fortune; one-half he will reserve for himself and his wife, the other he will give to his daughter and the husband of her choice."
"But, Pauline, how in Heaven's name will you accomplish this?"