her heart, she continued smiling, while she listened
to the whispers of the perfumes in her buzzing head. They were singing
to her a soft strange melody of fragrance, which slowly and very gently
lulled her to sleep.

At first there was a prelude, bright and childlike; her hands, that had
just now twisted and twined the aromatic greenery, exhaled the pungency
of crushed herbage, and recalled her old girlish ramblings through the
wildness of the Paradou. Then there came a flutelike song, a song of
short musky notes, rising from the violets that lay upon the table near
the head of the bed; and this flutelike strain, trilling melodiously to
the soft accompaniment of the lilies on the other table, sang to her of
the first joys of love, its first confession, and first kiss beneath the
trees of the forest. But she began to stifle as passion drew nigh with
the clove-like breath of the carnations, which burst upon her in brazen
notes that seemed to drown all others. She thought that death was nigh
when the poppies and the marigolds broke into a wailing strain, which
recalled the torment of desire. But suddenly all grew quieter; she felt
that she could breathe more freely; she glided into greater serenity,
lulled by a descending scale that came from the throats of the stocks,
and died away amidst a delightful hymn from the heliotropes, which, with
their vanilla-like breath, proclaimed the approach of nuptial bliss.
Here and there the mirabilis gently trilled. Then came a hush. And
afterwards the roses languidly made their entry. Their voices streamed
from the ceiling, like the strains of a distant choir. It was a chorus
of great breadth, to which she at first listened with a slight quiver.
Then the volume of the strain increased, and soon her whole frame
vibrated with the mighty sounds that burst in waves around her. The
nuptials were at hand, the trumpet blasts of the roses announced
them. She pressed her hands more closely to her heart as she lay there
panting, gasping, dying. When she opened her lips for the kiss which was
to stifle her, the hyacinths and tuberoses shot out their perfume and
enveloped her with so deep, so great a sigh that the chorus of the roses
could be heard no more.

And then, amidst the final gasp of the flowers, Albine died.

XV

About three o'clock the next afternoon, La Teuse and Brother Archangias,
who were chatting on the parsonage-steps, saw Doctor Pascal's gig
come at full gallop throug