“Why?”
“Busy.”
“How?”
“Botanizing. But if you don’t send me immediately that little bit of all that belongs to me, I’ll knock off work to find out the reason why.”
The money arrived just as his credit in short-credit Paris was everywhere close to the breaking-point, and just as he gave up hope of ever finding what he wanted at the great library, where he had driven every sub and deputy librarian to the brink of insanity. Money, however, brings resourcefulness: Cartaret then remembered the Jardin des Plantes, where he had once been with Vitoria.
No official knew anything about the Azure Rose, but an old gardener (Cartaret was trying them all) gave him hope. He was a little Gascon, that gardener, with white hair and blue eyes, and his long labor had bent him forward, as if the earth in which he worked had one day laid hold of his shoulders and never since let go.
“I had a brother once who was a fainéant and so a great traveler. He spoke of such a rose,” the Gascon nodded; “but I cannot remember what it was that he told me.”
“Here are five francs to help you remember,” said Cartaret.
The old man took the money and thanked him.