Amédée Fleurissoire and Gaston Blafaphas both fell in love with Arnica at the same moment--it was as inevitable as fate. The admirable thing was that this budding passion, which each hastened to confess to the other, instead of dividing them, only welded them together more closely than ever. And, indeed, Arnica did not at first give either of them any great cause for jealousy. Neither the one nor the other, moreover, had declared himself; and it would never have occurred to Arnica to imagine their flame, notwithstanding their trembling voices when, at Madame Semène’s Sunday evenings, she offered them raspberry vinegar, or camomile ... or cowslip tea. And both of them, as they went home in the evening, praised her grace, and the modesty of her behaviour--grew concerned for her paleness--gathered boldness. They agreed to propose together on the same evening and then submit to her choice. Arnica, young to love, thanked Heaven in the surprise and simplicity of her heart. She begged her two admirers to give her time to reflect. Truth to tell, she was not more attracted by the one than the other, and was interested in them only because they were interested in her, at a time when she had given up all hopes of interesting anyone. During six whole weeks, growing the while more and more perplexed, Arnica relished with a mild intoxication her two suitors’ parallel wooing. And while, during their midnight walks, the Blafafoires calculated together the rate of their respective progress, describing to each other lengthily and undisguisedly every word, look and smile _she_ had bestowed on them, Arnica, in the seclusion of her bedroom, spent the time writing on bits of paper (which she afterwards carefully burnt in the flame of the candle) or else in repeating indefatigably, turn and turn about: Arnica Blafaphas?... Arnica Fleurissoire?--incapable of deciding between the equal horror of these two atrocious names. Then, suddenly, on the evening of a little dance, she had chosen Fleurissoire; had not Amédée just called her Arn_i_ca, putting the accent on the penultimate in a way that seemed to her Italian? (As a matter of fact, he had done it without reflection, carried away, no doubt, by Mademoiselle Semène’s piano, with whose rhythm the atmosphere was throbbing.) And this name of Arnica--her own name--had there and then seemed to her fraught with unexpected music--as capable as any other of expressing poetry and love.... They were alone together in a little sitting-room next-door to the drawing-room, and so close to each other that when Arnica, almost swooning with emotion and gratitude, let fall her drooping head, it touched Amédée’s shoulder; and then, very gravely, he had taken Arnica’s hand and kissed the tips of her fingers.