II

von Robert W. Chambers

Twenty-four hours later, Selby had completely forgotten about Rue Barrée. He spent the week working hard at the studio, and by Saturday night, he was so exhausted that he went to bed before dinner, only to be haunted by a nightmare of drowning in a river of yellow ochre.

On Sunday morning, out of nowhere, Rue Barrée popped into his mind, and just ten seconds later, he spotted her. She was at the flower market on the marble bridge, examining a pot of pansies. The gardener had clearly poured his heart into the sale, but Rue Barrée shook her head in disapproval.

It’s debatable whether Selby would have stopped to admire a cabbage-rose if Clifford hadn’t spun the tale from the previous Tuesday. Perhaps his curiosity was piqued; after all, a nineteen-year-old is one of the most openly curious creatures on the planet. From the age of twenty onward, he tries to hide it. But to be fair to Selby, the market was also quite enticing. Under a clear blue sky, flowers were piled high along the marble bridge, spilling over the parapet. The air was warm, the sun wove a delicate lace of shadows among the palms, and a thousand roses glowed in the light. Spring had fully arrived.

Watering carts and sprinklers spread freshness over the Boulevard, sparrows flitted about with an almost rude boldness, and hopeful anglers watched their colorful floats bobbing in the soapy waters of the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnut trees, dressed in tender green, buzzed with the sound of bees. Showy butterflies flaunted their tattered winter wings among the heliotrope. The scent of fresh earth filled the air, mingling with the soft sound of the Seine, while swallows soared and skimmed above the anchored boats. Somewhere, a caged bird sang its heart out to the sky.

Selby glanced at the cabbage-rose and then up at the sky. Maybe it was the song of the caged bird that stirred something in him, or perhaps it was the intoxicating sweetness of the May air.

At first, he barely realized he had stopped, then he wasn’t sure why he had paused at all. He thought about moving on, then decided against it, and finally, he turned to look at Rue Barrée.

The gardener said, “Mademoiselle, this is undoubtedly a fine pot of pansies.”

Rue Barrée shook her head.

The gardener smiled, sensing she wasn’t interested in the pansies. She had bought many pots from him over the springs, never arguing about the price. So what did she want? The pansies seemed like a prelude to something more significant. The gardener rubbed his hands together and glanced around.

“These tulips are magnificent,” he remarked, his eyes glazing over at the sight of the fragrant blooms.

“That,” Rue murmured, pointing to a stunning rosebush with her closed parasol. Despite her calm demeanor, her voice trembled slightly. Selby noticed, feeling a twinge of guilt for eavesdropping, and the gardener picked up on it too, burying his nose in the roses, sensing a potential sale. To his credit, he didn’t inflate the price, recognizing that Rue likely didn’t have much money and that she was undeniably charming.

“Fifty francs, Mademoiselle.”

The gardener’s tone was serious. Rue sensed that arguing would be pointless. They both stood in silence for a moment. The gardener didn’t need to praise his prize; the rosebush was beautiful, and anyone could see that.

“I’ll take the pansies,” she finally said, pulling two francs from a worn purse. Then she looked up, and a tear glistened in her eye, catching the light like a diamond. But as it rolled into a corner by her nose, Selby’s image replaced it in her mind. After a quick dab with her handkerchief cleared her startled blue eyes, she found Selby standing there, looking quite embarrassed. He immediately turned his gaze to the sky, seemingly engrossed in astronomical research. For a full five minutes, he continued his investigation, while the gardener and a passing policeman looked up too. Eventually, Selby glanced down at his shoes, and the gardener regarded him curiously as the policeman ambled on. By then, Rue Barrée had already walked away.

“What can I offer you, Monsieur?” the gardener asked.

Selby didn’t know why, but suddenly he found himself buying flowers. The gardener was taken aback. Never before had he sold so many flowers at such satisfying prices, and never had he found such perfect agreement with a customer. Yet he missed the thrill of haggling, the back-and-forth that added excitement to the sale.

“These tulips are magnificent!”

“They are!” Selby replied enthusiastically.

“But alas, they are expensive.”

“I’ll take them.”

“Mon Dieu!” the gardener murmured, sweating, “he’s madder than most Englishmen.”

“This cactus—”

“Is gorgeous!”

“Alas—”

“Send it with the rest.”

The gardener braced himself against the river wall.

“That splendid rosebush,” he began hesitantly.

“That is a beauty. I believe it’s fifty francs—”

He paused, his face flushed. The gardener took pleasure in his bewilderment. But then, a sudden calmness replaced his confusion, and he fixed the gardener with a steady gaze, asserting his authority.

“I’ll take that rosebush. Why didn’t the young lady buy it?”

“Mademoiselle isn’t wealthy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, I sell her a lot of pansies, and they’re not expensive.”

“Those are the pansies she bought?”

“Yes, Monsieur, the blue and gold ones.”

“Then you plan to send them to her?”

“At noon, after the market.”

“Include this rosebush with them, and”—he glared at the gardener—“don’t you dare mention who it’s from.” The gardener’s eyes widened in surprise, but Selby remained composed and triumphant. “Send the others to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I’ll leave instructions with the concierge.”

With that, he buttoned his glove with a sense of dignity and strode away. But once he turned the corner and was out of the gardener’s sight, the realization that he had acted foolishly hit him, and he felt a deep flush of embarrassment.

Ten minutes later, he sat in his room at the Hôtel du Sénat, repeating to himself with a silly grin, “What an idiot I am, what an idiot!”

An hour later, he remained in the same chair, still in the same position, his hat and gloves on, his cane in hand. He was silent now, seemingly lost in thought as he stared at his boot toes. His smile had faded, replaced by a more reflective expression.