I had been behind the windows, for a long time. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. All that whiteness was attracting me . . . I saw the carriage pass by slowly in the snow. I felt that it was you, before I saw you throwing the roses. No words can ever explain to you the tenderness of my tears. I cried for you, out of love; and I cried for the roses, out of pity. Poor roses! It seemed that they must be living, and suffering and agonizing on the snow. It seemed, I don’t know, that they called me, that they were lamenting, like abandoned creatures. When your carriage drove away, I looked out of the window to see. I was on the point of going down to the street to fetch them. But someone was still outside the house; and the servant was there in the entrance hall, waiting. I thought of a thousand ways, but I couldn’t find one that was feasible. I was desperate . . . You’re smiling? Really, I don’t know what kind of madness gripped me. I stood there, keeping a watchful eye on the passersby, my eyes full of tears.
