Catholics -- Fiction; Clergy -- Fiction; France -- Fiction; Sin -- Christianity -- Fiction
This time she sought the violets. She made huge bunches of them,
which she pressed one by one against her breast. Then she sought the
carnations, plucking them all, even to the buds; massing them together
in big sheaves of white blossoms that suggested bowls of milk, and big
sheaves of the red ones, that seemed like bowls of blood. Then, too,
she sought the stocks, the patches of mirabilis, the heliotropes and
the lilies. She tore the last blossoming stocks off by the handful,
pitilessly crumpling their satin ruches; she devastated the beds of
mirabilis, whose flowers were scarcely opening to the evening air; she
mowed down the field of heliotropes, piling her harvest of blooms into
a heap; and she thrust bundles of lilies under her arms like handles
of reeds. When she was again laden with as much as she could carry,
she returned to the pavilion to cast the violets, the carnations, the
lilies, the stocks, the heliotrope, and the mirabilis by the side of
the roses. And then, without stopping to draw breath, she went down yet
again.
This time she repaired to that gloomy corner which seemed like the
graveyard of the flower-garden. A warm autumn had there brought on a
second crop of spring flowers. She raided the borders of tuberoses and
hyacinths; going down upon her knees, and gathering her harvest with
all a miser’s care, lest she should miss a single blossom. The tuberoses
seemed to her to be extremely precious flowers, which would distil drops
of gold and wealth and wondrous sweetness. The hyacinths, beaded with
pearly blooms, were like necklets, whose every pearl would pour forth
joys unknown to man. And although she almost buried herself beneath the
mass of tuberoses and hyacinths which she plucked, she next stripped a
field of poppies, and even found means to crop an expanse of marigolds
farther on. All these she heaped over the tuberoses and hyacinths, and
then ran back to the room with the blue ceiling, taking the greatest
care as she went that the breeze should not rob her of a single pistil.
And once more did she come downstairs.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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