k-eyed donor,
but a few paces on I gave them away to a ragged child. Of all flowers
that bloom, they were, and still are, the most insupportable to me.
What is it the English poet Swinburne says--

"I shall never be friends again with roses!"

My wife wore them always: even on that night when I had seen her
clasped in Guido's arms, a red rose on her breast had been crushed in
that embrace--a rose whose withered leaves I still possess. In the
forest solitude where I now dwell there are no roses--and I am glad!
The trees are too high, the tangle of bramble and coarse brushwood too
dense--nothing grows here but a few herbs and field flowers--weeds
unfit for wearing by fine ladies, yet to my taste infinitely sweeter
than all the tenderly tinted cups of fragrance, whose colors and odors
are spoiled to me forever. I am unjust, say you? the roses are innocent
of evil? True enough, but their perfume awakens memory, and--I strive
always to forget!

I reached my hotel that evening to find that I was an hour late for
dinner, an unusual circumstance, which had caused Vincenzo some
disquietude, as was evident from the relieved expression of his face
when I entered. For some days the honest fellow had watched me with
anxiety; my abstracted moods, the long solitary walks I was in the
habit of taking, the evenings I passed in my room writing, with the
doors locked--all this behavior on my part exercised his patience, I
have no doubt, to the utmost limit, and I could see he had much ado to
observe his usual discretion and tact, and refrain from asking
questions. On this particular occasion I dined very hastily, for I had
promised to join my wife and two of her lady friends at the theater
that night.

When I arrived there, she was already seated in her box, looking
radiantly beautiful. She was attired in some soft, sheeny, clinging
primrose stuff, and the brigand's jewels I had given her through
Guido's hands, flashed brilliantly on her uncovered neck and arms. She
greeted me with her usual child-like enthusiasm as I entered, bearing
the customary offering--a costly bouquet, set in a holder of
mother-of-pearl studded with turquois, for her acceptance. I bowed to
her lady friends, both of whom I knew, and then stood beside her
watching the stage. The comedietta played there was the airiest
trifle--it turned on the old worn-out story--a young wife, an aged,
doting husband, and a lover whose principles were, of course, of the
"noble