She jerked the purse, took its empty ends And crumpled them toward the centre braids. The whole collapsed to a mass of blends Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends We have always been. In the days before The Great Revolution my aunt was kind When you needed help. You need no more; 'Tis we now who must beg at your door, And will you refuse?" The little man Bustled, denied, his heart was good, But times were hard. He went to a pan And poured upon the counter a flood Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood. He took a melon with rough green rind And rubbed it well with his apron tip. Then he hunted over the shop to find Some walnuts cracking at the lip, And added to these a barberry slip Whose acrid, oval berries hung Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round Basket, with handles, from where it swung Against the wall, laid it on the ground And filled it, then he searched and found The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall. "You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?" She smiled, "The next time that I call, Monsieur. You know that very well." 'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell. Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed. She took her basket and stepped out. The sunlight was so bright it flashed Her eyes to blindness, and the rout Of the little street was all about. Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed. The heavy basket was a care. She heard a shout and almost grazed The panels of a chaise and pair. The postboy yelled, and an amazed Face from the carriage window gazed. She jumped back just in time, her heart Beating with fear. Through whirling light The chaise departed, but her smart Was keen and bitter. In the white Dust of the street she saw a bright Streak of colours, wet and gay, Red like blood. Crushed but fair, Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way. Monsieur Popain joined her there. "Tiens, Mademoiselle, c'est le General Bonaparte, partant pour la Guerre!" Malmaison I How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there, beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and windings, over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving river. A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves... Roses ... They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.