“As usual, you are sure of it, perfectly sure. Very good! This Mlle. Galard or Galet, residing at No. 25 or No. 27 Rue Mouffetard, was formerly a florist by trade, and now she has not a sou. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of her past—it is very apt to be ‘lightly come, lightly go’ with the money of these people—but certain it is that Mlle. Galard—”
“Galet,” put in Mlle. Moiseney, sharply.
“Is to-day an infirm old woman, a worthy object of the compassion of charitable people,” continued M. Moriaz, heedless of this last interruption. “Mlle. Moriaz allows her a pension, with which I find no fault; but Mlle. Galet—I mistake, Mlle. Galard—has retained from her former calling her passion for flowers, and during the winter Mlle. Moriaz sends her every week a bouquet costing from ten to twelve francs, which shows, according to my opinion, a lack of common-sense. In the month of January last, she sent for Parma violets for this protégé of hers. Now, I appeal to M. Larinski—is this reasonable, or is it absurd?”
“It is admirably absurd and foolishly admirable,” replied the count.
“The flowers I give her are never so beautiful as some that were sent me the other day,” exclaimed Mlle. Moriaz.
She went then into the next room, and returned, carrying the vase of water containing the mysterious bouquet. “What do you think of these?” she asked the count. “They are already much faded, and yet I think they are beautiful still.”
He admired the bouquet; but, although Antoinette regarded him fixedly, she detected neither blush nor confusion on his face. “It was not he,” she said to herself.
There was a piano in the room where they had dined. As Count Abel was taking leave, Mlle. Moiseney begged him to give Mlle. Moriaz proof of his talent. He slightly knit his brows at this request, and resumed that sombre, almost savage, air he had worn when he met Antoinette at the foot of the mountain. He urged in excuse the lateness of the hour, but he allowed the promise to be wrested from him that he would be more complaisant the next day.
When he was gone, accompanied by M. Moriaz, who said he would walk a little distance with him, Antoinette exclaimed: “You see, my dear—it was not he.”
“Suppose I was wrong,” replied Mlle. Moiseney, in a piqued tone—“you will at least grant that he is handsome?”