The last days of August.... Autumn had already come.
The sun had set. A sudden, violent rain, without thunder and without
lightning, had just swooped down upon our broad plain.
The garden in front of the house burned and smoked, all flooded with the
heat of sunset and the deluge of rain.
She was sitting at a table in the drawing-room and staring with stubborn
thoughtfulness into the garden, through the half-open door.
I knew what was going on then in her soul. I knew that after a brief
though anguished conflict, she would that same instant yield to the
feeling which she could no longer control.
Suddenly she rose, walked out briskly into the garden and disappeared.
One hour struck ... then another; she did not return.
Then I rose, and emerging from the house, I bent my steps to the alley
down which--I had no doubt as to that--she had gone.
Everything had grown dark round about; night had already descended. But
on the damp sand of the path, gleaming scarlet amid the encircling
gloom, a rounded object was visible.
I bent down. It was a young, barely-budded rose. Two hours before I had
seen that same rose on her breast.
I carefully picked up the flower which had fallen in the mire, and
returning to the drawing-room, I laid it on the table, in front of her
arm-chair.
And now, at last, she returned, and traversing the whole length of the
room with her light footsteps, she seated herself at the table.
Her face had grown pale and animated; swiftly, with merry confusion, her
lowered eyes, which seemed to have grown smaller, darted about in all
directions.
She caught sight of the rose, seized it, glanced at its crumpled petals,
glanced at me--and her eyes, coming to a sudden halt, glittered with
tears.
"What are you weeping about?" I asked.
"Why, here, about this rose. Look what has happened to it."
At this point I took it into my head to display profundity of thought.
"Your tears will wash away the mire," I said with a significant
expression.
"Tears do not wash, tears scorch," she replied, and, turning toward the
fireplace, she tossed the flower into the expiring flame.
"The fire will scorch it still better than tears," she exclaimed, not
without audacity,--and her beautiful eyes, still sparkling with tears,
laughed boldly and happily.