'Imagine, lovely lily,' he says to her, 'that this silly and vain rose
thinks she is the queen of flowers. She is beautiful, no doubt, but
what is her beauty compared to yours? What is her perfume? Almost
insipid compared to your enchanting, intoxicating fragrance. What is her
shape compared to your glorious figure? Why, she looks like a pink
cabbage. Is not, after all, pure whiteness incomparable? My dear lady,
you are above competition.'

The vain lily listens with attention and pleasure. The wily butterfly
sees he is making progress. He goes on flattering, then risks a few
words of love.

'Ah!' sighs the lily, 'if you were not a fickle butterfly, I might
believe half of what you say!'

'You do not know me!' he exclaims indignantly. 'I have only the shape of
a butterfly; I have not the heart of one. How could I be unfaithful to
you if you loved me? Are you not the most beautiful of flowers? How
could it be possible for me to prefer any other to you? No, no; for the
rest of my life there will be but the lily for me.'

The vanity of the lily is flattered, she believes him, and gives herself
up to the passionate embrace of the butterfly.

'Oh, beloved one,' she exclaims in ecstasy, 'you will love me for ever;
you will always be mine as I am yours!'

'To tell you the truth, my dear lily,' says the butterfly coolly, 'you
are very nice, but your perfume is rather strong, a little vulgar, and
one gets tired of it quickly. I am not sure that I do not prefer the
rose to you. Now, be good, and let me go quickly. I am a butterfly. I
cannot help my nature; I was made like that. Good-bye!'

THE MODEST VIOLET

Then he flies towards a timid violet, modestly hidden in the ivy near
the wall. Her sweet odour reveals her presence. So he stops and says to
her:

'Sweet, exquisite violet, how I do love you! Other flowers may be
beautiful, my darling, but that is all. You, besides, are good and
modest; as for your sweet, delicious perfume, it is absolutely beyond
competition. I might admire a rose or a lily for a moment, lose my head
over them, but not my heart. You alone can inspire sincere and true
love. If you will marry me--for you do not imagine that I could ask you
to love me without at the same time asking you to be my wife--we will
lead a quiet, retired life of eternal bliss, hidden in the ivy, far from
the noise and the crowd.'

'This would be beautiful,' says the violet, 'but I am afraid you are too
brilliant for me