She stayed her steps once more; but she no longer protested as she stood there amidst the deep stillness of the Paradou.  She now believed that she understood everything.  The garden doubtless had death in store for her as a supreme culminating happiness.  It was to death that it had all along been leading her in its tender fashion.  After love, there could be nought but death.  And never had the garden loved her so much as it did now; she had shown herself ungrateful in accusing it, for all the time she had remained its best beloved child.  The motionless boughs, the paths blocked up with darkness, the lawns where the breezes fell asleep, had only become mute in order that they might lure her on to taste the joys of long silence.  They wished her to be with them in their winter rest, they dreamt of carrying her off, swathed in their dry leaves with her eyes frozen like the waters of the springs, her limbs stiffened like the bare branches, and her blood sleeping the sleep of the sap.  And, yes, she would live their life to the very end, and die their death.  Perhaps they had already willed that she should spring up next summer as a rose in the flower-garden, or a pale willow in the meadow-lands, or a tender birch in the forest.  Yes, it was the great law of life; she was about to die.

Then, for the last time, she resumed her walk through the Paradou in quest of death.  What fragrant plant might need her sweet-scented tresses to increase the perfume of its leaves?  What flower might wish the gift of her satinlike skin, the snowy whiteness of her arms, the tender pink of her bosom?  To what weakly tree should she offer her young blood?  She would have liked to be of service to the weeds vegetating beside the paths, to slay herself there so that from her flesh some huge greenery might spring, lofty and sapful, laden with birds at May-time, and passionately caressed by the sun.  But for a long while the Paradou still maintained silence as if it had not yet made up its mind to confide to her in what last kiss it would spirit away her life.  She had to wander all over it again, seeking, pilgrim-like, for her favourite spots.  Night was now more swiftly approaching, and it seemed to her as if she were being gradually sucked into the earth.  She climbed to the great rocks and questioned them, asking whether it was upon their stony beds that she must breathe her last breath.  She crossed the forest with lingering steps, hoping that some oak would topple down and bury her beneath the majesty of its fall.  She skirted the streams that flowed through the meadows, bending down at almost every step she took so as to peep into the depths and see whether a couch had not been prepared for her amongst the water lilies.  But nowhere did Death call her; nowhere did he offer her his cold hands.  Yet, she was not mistaken.  It was, indeed, the Paradou that was about to teach her to die, as, indeed, it had taught her to love.  She again began to scour the bushes, more eagerly even than on those warm mornings of the past when she had gone searching for love.  And, suddenly, just as she was reaching the parterre, she came upon death, amidst all the evening fragrance.  She ran forward, breaking out into a rapturous laugh.  She was to die amongst the flowers.