“They teach music to young girls, so that they may bore their fathers to death, and later their husbands, with sonatas. But they neglect to teach them botany. And in botany, Madame, should be recognised the crown of the earth, the grace of the home, the peace of the human spirit! I find a happy philosophy in it. To repair this gap in instruction I am making a catalogue of all the names of roses. We must know where to stop. Nature is too vast for us. But these names are, for the most part, deplorably vulgar!” “Really, Monsieur,” said the poor lady at random, thinking of something else and yet humoring his fancy. “Deplorable, I repeat. The prettiest are women’s names. They do not remind us of the complicated and delightful art of the garden, nor of the diversity of the vegetable kingdom with its thousand forms and colors, nor of our various shades of feeling--though to these it would have been in good taste to have made suitable allusion. They are inanimate names, like those of geography or chemistry.” “I don’t understand anything about it,” admitted Madame Guibert, “but I love flowers.” But the old enthusiast would not stop. “We have not the inventive mind, Madame. And we have forgotten how to be astonished, how to be moved before the never-ending miracles of nature. We have settled down in the universe as though it were a dining-room. Familiarity and practical considerations have blunted our feelings. Yet the universe is really delicate, ever-changing, and delightful. Ah, Madame, believe me, we are far from equalling the Chinese gardeners.” “The Chinese gardeners?” she repeated. “Yes, the Chinese gardeners. Do you know what names they give their flowers.” “How should I know, Monsieur?” “Names which sum up the manifold beauty of the earth. Here are some of them:--‘Water sleeping in the moonlight.’ ‘The sun in the forest.’ ‘The maiden’s first desire,’ and this, which I trust you will appreciate, ‘The young girl showing her bosom.’” Indulgent, but astonished, Madame Guibert smiled at this harmless folly and tried to check its outpourings. “Won’t you give me some news of Jean? We have not seen him for several days. He is deserting us.” She foresaw the object of this unexpected visit. M. Loigny, disdaining all society, lived in his garden, which he cultivated exclusively himself, liking the world of plants better than that of men. Only a very important event could make him go out of his way, and this could only be an offer of marriage. And she thought of the absent Paule with emotion. She would find happiness awaiting her when she got back. But this strange rose-lover was in no hurry to do this errand. He had at last succeeded in pulling the rose that had captivated him from its vase. “Jean is quite well, Madame,” he replied carelessly, and then went on: “Yes, this kind is, so to speak, unknown in France. I will put it in my catalogue. Will you allow me, Madame, to carry away this specimen?”