ars. Balsams of all colours,
now straw-coloured, now the hue of peach-blossom, now blush-white, now
grey like flax, filled another basin where their seed pods split with
little snaps. Then in the midst of a ruined fountain, there flourished
a colony of splendid carnations. White ones hung over the moss-covered
rims, and flaked ones thrust a bright medley of blossom between the
chinks of the marble; while from the mouth of the lion, whence formerly
the water-jets had spurted, a huge crimson clove now shot out so
vigorously that the decrepit beast seemed to be spouting blood. Near by,
the principal piece of ornamental water, a lake, on whose surface swans
had glided, had now become a thicket of lilacs, beneath whose shade
stocks and verbenas and day-lilies screened their delicate tints, and
dozed away, all redolent of perfume.

'But we haven't seen half the flowers yet,' said Albine, proudly. 'Over
yonder there are such huge ones that I can quite bury myself amongst
them like a partridge in a corn-field.'

They went thither. They tripped down some broad steps, from whose fallen
urns still flickered the violet fires of the iris. All down the steps
streamed gilliflowers, like liquid gold. The sides were flanked with
thistles, that shot up like candelabra, of green bronze, twisted and
curved into the semblance of birds' heads, with all the fantastic
elegance of Chinese incense-burners. Between the broken balustrades
drooped tresses of stonecrop, light greenish locks, spotted as with
mouldiness. Then at the foot of the steps another parterre spread out,
dotted over with box-trees that were vigorous as oaks; box-trees which
had once been carefully pruned and clipped into balls and pyramids and
octagonal columns, but which were now revelling in unrestrained freedom
of untidiness, breaking out into ragged masses of greenery, through
which blue patches of sky were visible.

And Albine led Serge straight on to a spot that seemed to be the
graveyard of the flower-garden. There the scabious mourned, and
processions of poppies stretched out in line, with deathly odour,
unfolding heavy blooms of feverish brilliance. Sad anemones clustered in
weary throngs, pallid as if infected by some epidemic. Thick-set daturas
spread out purplish horns, from which insects, weary of life, sucked
fatal poison. Marigolds buried with choking foliage their writhing
starry flowers, that already reeked of putrefaction. And there were
other melancholy f