"Yes, I see her so--still beautiful."

"You are good at guessing, Fabien. She is dead, my friend, and that
ideal beauty is now a few white bones at the bottom of a grave."

"Poor girl!"

Sylvestre had used a sarcastic tone which was not usual with him.
He was contemplating his work with such genuine sadness that I was awed.
I divined that in his past, of which I knew but little, Lampron kept a
sorrow buried that I had all unwittingly revived.

"My friend," said I, "let that be; I come to wish you many happy
returns."

"Many happy returns? Ah, yes, my poor mother wished me that this
morning; then I set to work and forgot all about it. I am glad you came.
She would feel hurt, dear soul, if I forgot to pass a bit of this evening
with her. Let us go and find her."

"With all my heart, Sylvestre, but I, too, have forgotten something."

"What?"

"I have brought no flowers."

"Never mind, she has plenty; strong-scented flowers of the south, a whole
basketful, enough to keep a hive of bees or kill a man in his sleep,
which you will. It is a yearly attention from an unhappy creditor."