He looked for a moment at the heap on the table.

"I keep none," said he: "I have too many reminders without them. Cursed
flowers!"

With one motion of his arm he swept them all up and cast them upon the
coals in the hearth. They shrivelled, crackled, grew limp and
discolored, and vanished in smoke.

"Now I am going back to my etching. Good-by, Fabien. Good-night,
mother."

Without turning his head, he left the room and went back to his studio.

I made a movement to follow him and bring him back.

Madame Lampron stopped me. "I will go myself," said she, "later--much
later."

We sat awhile in silence. When she saw me somewhat recovered from the
shock of my feelings she went on:

"You never have seen him like this, but I have seen it often. It is so
hard! I knew her whom he loved almost as soon as he, for he never hid
anything from me. You can judge from her portrait whether hers was not
the face to attract an artist like Sylvestre. I saw at once that it was
a trial, in which I could do nothing. They were very great people;
different from us, you know."