This is the garden which no one visits. The sun does not enter here; the poor wild flowers upon which men wage war because they are not beautiful here await death; and the birds are silent. Here are the violet, which has lost its perfume, the trembling, shrinking buttercup and the scarlet poppy, which sheds its petals without ceasing.... Here are the scabious begging for a little water, the deadly spurge hiding its green blossoms, the blue campanula silently shaking its useless bells.... I know you all, you humble and despised flowers, so good and so ugly!... You could be beautiful; it needs scarce anything: a ray of happiness, a minute's grace, a bolder smile to attract the bee.... But no eye sees you, no hand sows you, no hand gathers you; and I have come among you to be also alone.... How gloomy everything looks!... The grass is neglected and parched, the leaves are sick, the old trees dying; and spring itself and the dew of dawn are afraid lest they should grow sorrowful in this solitude....
[Lancéor appears behind the railed gate.
Lancéor.
Joyzelle!...
Joyzelle.
Lancéor!...
Lancéor.
Joyzelle!...
Joyzelle.
Go away!... Go away!... Take care!... It is death if he sees you!...