They all shook bands, and the Dufour family drove
off.
“Good-by, until we meet again!” the oarsmen
cried, and the answer they got was a sigh and a tear.
Two months later, as Henri was going along the Rue
des Martyrs, he saw Dufour, Ironmonger, over a door,
and so he went in, and saw the stout lady sitting
at the counter. They recognized each other immediately,
and after an interchange of polite greetings, he asked
after them all.
“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?” he
inquired specially.
“Very well, thank you; she is married.”
“Ah!” He felt a certain emotion, but said:
“Whom did she marry?”
“That young man who accompanied us, you know;
he has joined us in business.”
“I remember him perfectly.”
He was going out, feeling very unhappy, though scarcely
knowing why, when madame called him back.
“And how is your friend?” she asked rather
shyly.
“He is very well, thank you.”
“Please give him our compliments, and beg him
to come and call, when he is in the neighborhood.”
She then added: “Tell him it will give
me great pleasure.”
“I will be sure to do so. Adieu!”
“Do not say that; come again very soon.”
The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the details
of that adventure, which Henri had never forgotten,
suddenly came back to him so clearly that he returned
alone to their room in the wood, and was overwhelmed
with astonishment when he went in. She was sitting
on the grass, looking very sad, while by her side,
still in his shirt sleeves, the young man with the
yellow hair was sleeping soundly, like some animal.
She grew so pale when she saw Henri that at first
he thought she was going to faint; then, however,
they began to talk quite naturally. But when
he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and
went there frequently on Sundays to indulge in memories,
she looked into his eyes for a long time.
“I too, think of it,” she replied.
“Come, my dear,” her husband said, with
a yawn. “I think it is time for us to be
going.”
The two young women appear to be buried under a blanket
of flowers. They are alone in the immense landau,
which is filled with flowers like a giant basket.
On the front seat are two small hampers of white satin
filled with violets, and on the bearskin by which their
knees are covered there is a mass of roses, mimosas,
pinks, daisies, tuberoses and orange blossoms, interwoven
with silk ribbons; the two frail bodies seem buried
under this beautiful perfumed bed, which hides everything
but the shoulders and arms and a little of the dainty
waists.
The coachman’s whip is wound with a garland
of anemones, the horses’ traces are dotted with
carnations, the spokes of the wheels are clothed in
mignonette, and where the lanterns ought to be are
two enormous round bouquets which look as though they
were the eyes of this strange, rolling, flower-bedecked
creature.
