On a certain day I felt more content than usual with the world; I went out on horseback and rode farther than I was accustomed to do. Darkness overtook me at Vincennes; I urged my horse to a gallop, and returned to Paris in time to avoid a storm that reminded me of the evening at Montmorency.
After taking my horse to the stable, I returned home; I felt tired and needed rest. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs. I was about to open the door—but what was it that my hand touched? Could it be? I dared not believe it, and yet I held the bouquet in my hand. I put it to my nose, I inhaled its perfume with intoxicating joy. Yes, it was really a bouquet—in the same place where she used to put them. Ah! it surely was she who brought that one! who else could have made me that present? I hurried into the room; I could hardly wait to examine it. When I was inside and had struck a light, I gazed at that lovely bouquet and kissed it; it was of orange blossoms, the exact counterpart of those she used to bring me. Ah! it was she, of course, who sent it to me! But, in that case, she was in Paris! she still thought of me! she still loved me!
All these ideas chased one another through my brain; I looked to see if there was a note in the bouquet—nothing! I went to the door, I looked in the keyhole and on the floor—nothing! I had only the bouquet; but that was much! She must have been there; I flew downstairs to question Madame Dupont. I forgot my fatigue.
“Has anyone been here to see me?” I asked the concierge.
“No, monsieur.”
“What! no one has been to ask for me?—a young lady?”
“I give you my word, monsieur, that I haven’t seen anybody who asked for you, and I haven’t been away from my door.”
“Oh! you never see anything! you never used to see her before!”
“Who, monsieur?”
“Someone came, all the same, for I found this bouquet on my doorknob.”