“What a stu—u—u—pid you are, Astianax!” cried the girl, shrugging her shoulders and looking down at her brother as if she were searching for a little dog. “Let me alo—o—one; it’s a flow—ower with b—b—bells.”
“Bells?”
“No, little bell-flowers—brown.”
“Oh, I know what you mean, daughter; it is a—I don’t know the name; but come, I saw some over yonder.”
And the stout lady, having paid for the pomegranate and hired a porter to carry it, led her daughter to the booth of a dealer who had a large assortment of tulips. Mademoiselle Eolinde examined them for some time, then murmured:
“This isn’t what I wanted. No matter, let me see. Oh! they don’t smell—they don’t smell of anything; I’d rather get something else.”
“Well, what? Come, choose.”
“Oh! see that fl—flower over there; a m—m—mag—no——”
“The name makes no difference, let us go and buy it.”
Mademoiselle Eolinde stopped in front of a magnificent magnolia, which had already flowered in the heat of a greenhouse; she placed her nose upon the lovely white egg-shaped blossom, which, as it opened, exhaled a delicious odor of orange and lemon; then she raised her head and said: “That smells too strong.”