“No; enigmas are intended to be guessed, and I beg you to forget what I have just said.”
It is uncertain what answer Fleurange was about to make Clement, who was less candid than usual, and therefore provoking, but at that instant she noticed a sprig of myrtle in the button-hole of his coat.
“What! you with myrtle?” she said. “I thought it was only worn by young maidens on such a day.”
Clement blushed, and snatched the myrtle from his coat: “It is yours, Gabrielle. Pardon me. I saw it fall from your girdle, and picked it up.”
“Mine? Indeed!”
“Yes; here, take it, unless,” said he, hesitating a little—“unless you will consent to give it back to me.”
“Very willingly, Clement; keep it as a gift from me. It is a good omen, they say, predicting a fair bride when your turn comes.”
Clement replaced the myrtle in his coat, and gravely said: “That day will never come for me; no, never!”
“Never; no, never! Oh! how strange!” cried Fleurange, in a tone that surprised Clement.
“What is it?”