“No, they came from the garden of Paul Meurice! It is impossible that there should be another rose-bush like that in all France!”
Hugo was extremely disconcerted, the more so as his friend Meurice, who was standing by, burst into a hurricane of laughter.
“I told you she would know them! I told you!” he roared.
Hugo quickly recovered his habitual wit.
“They are, mademoiselle, the finest roses in all Europe!” he assured Sarah solemnly. “I offered to buy them, and Paul would not sell; then I tried to steal them, and he caught me. So I made him give them to me, since with these roses existing it was manifestly impossible for me to give you any others.”
Sarah accepted the gift, which was one of a series she received from the great author. Then Hugo said:
“You know, mademoiselle, if we go by the standards of your ancestors, the Dutch, we are not really friends!”
“Why not?” asked Sarah, innocently.
“Well, the Dutch have a saying that no friendship is cemented till the two friends in turn break bread together under their own roofs.”
“Then come to dinner with me to-night—and you, too, Paul?” she said, turning to Meurice.