lowed her. She was sitting near the fire and amusing
herself by pulling out the petals of the blue and white asters which I
had gathered during a walk to the tomb of Jean Jacques Rousseau.
These flowers brought back to me a night of ecstasy, under the clear
moonlight, the only hours of happiness, perhaps, that I could mention in
all my life.

"Back already?" she said, without any change of attitude.

"Already is an unkind word," I replied. "Would you like me to retire to
my room, Edmee?"

"By no means; you are not disturbing me at all; but you would have
derived more profit from seeing _Merope_ than from listening to my
conversation this evening; for I warn you that I feel a complete idiot."

"So much the better, cousin; I shall not feel humiliated this evening,
since for the first time we shall be upon a footing of equality. But,
might I ask you why you so despise my asters? I thought that you would
probably keep them as a souvenir."

"Of Rousseau?" she asked with a malicious little smile, and without
raising her eyes to mine.

"Naturally that was my meaning," I answered.

"I am playing a most interesting game," she said; "do not interrupt me."

"I know it," I said. "All the children in Varenne play it, and there is
not a lass but believes in the decree of fate that it revels. Would
you like me to read your thoughts as you pull out these petals four by
four?"

"Come, then, O mighty magician!"

"A little, that is how some one loves you; much, that is how you love
him; passionately, that is how another loves you; not at all, thus do
you love this other."

"And might I inquire, Sir Oracle," replied Edmee, whose face became more
serious, "who some one and another may be? I suspect that you are like
the Pythonesses of old; you do not know the meaning of your auguries
yourself."

"Could you not guess mine, Edmee?"

"I will try to interpret the riddle, if you will promise that afterward
you will do what the Sphinx did when vanquished by OEdipus."

"Oh, Edmee," I cried; "think how long I have been running my head
against walls on account of you and your interpretations. And yet you
have not guessed right a single time."

"Oh, good heavens! I have," she said, throwing the bouquet on to the
mantel-piece. "You shall see. I love M. de la Marche a little, and I
love you much. He loves me passionately, and you love me not at all.
That is the truth."

"I forgive you this malicious interpretation with all my heart