"'Ah, non, non, monsieur—worse—Mon Dieu! quel mariage!' and she buried her face in her hands.
"What could I do, mon cher? The friend had betrayed her. They told me as much at Passy."
Again the abbé stopped.
"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom—it was from his grave—and kissed it, and then—crushed it in her hand—'Oh, God! what should I do now with flowers?' said she.
"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave—but not to pick roses.
"She is there now," said the abbé.
There was a long pause. The abbé did not want to speak—nor did I.
At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy.
"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbé. "Ah, mon ami, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles; but there is a time coming—it is coming, mon cher, when he will go away—where God judgeth, and not man."
Our dinner was ended. The abbé and myself took a voiture to go to Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side—one was older than the other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply—"Marie, 1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted about the smaller grave—but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the old man. I have it now.