Twenty-four hours later, Selby had completely forgotten about Rue Barrée.
For the rest of the week, he threw himself into his work at the studio. By Saturday night, he was so exhausted that he went to bed before dinner and dreamed he was drowning in a river of yellow paint.
On Sunday morning, for no reason at all, he suddenly thought of Rue Barrée.
Ten seconds later, he saw her.
She was at the flower market on the marble bridge, standing beside a gardener and examining a pot of pansies. The gardener was clearly doing his best to make the sale, but Rue shook her head.
Selby might have walked straight past her if Clifford had not told him the whole story about what had happened on Tuesday.
Perhaps curiosity got the better of him. After all, a nineteen-year-old boy is one of the most openly curious creatures on earth. By the time he is twenty, he usually learns to hide it.
Still, the flower market itself was hard to resist.
Under a perfectly clear sky, flowers were piled along the marble bridge all the way to the railing. The air was warm and soft. Sunlight filtered through the palms, and the centers of countless roses seemed to glow.
Spring had arrived in full force.
Water carts sprayed the boulevard, leaving the streets fresh and bright. Sparrows had become noisy and shameless. Along the Seine, fishermen watched their bright quill floats nervously as they drifted through the soapy water around the laundry boats.
Chestnut trees covered in fresh green leaves hummed with bees. Cheap little butterflies showed off their faded winter wings among the heliotropes.
The whole air smelled of fresh earth.
The soft movement of the Seine sounded like a woodland stream, while swallows skimmed over the water and circled the boats tied along the bank.
Somewhere nearby, a caged bird was singing as if its heart might break.
Selby looked at the cabbage roses.
Then he looked up at the sky.
Perhaps it was the bird’s song that touched him. Perhaps it was simply the dangerous sweetness of a May morning.
At first, he hardly realized that he had stopped.
Then he realized he had stopped, but not why.
He thought about walking on.
Then he decided not to.
Finally, he looked at Rue.
The gardener held up the pansies.
“Mademoiselle, surely you can see that these are excellent pansies.”
Rue shook her head.
The gardener smiled.
She obviously didn’t want them.
She had bought pansies from him every spring, usually two or three pots, and she had never haggled over the price.
So what was she really looking for?
The gardener began to understand. The pansies were probably only the beginning of a larger purchase.
He rubbed his hands and glanced around.
“These tulips are magnificent,” he said.
Then he pointed toward another display.
“And these hyacinths—just look at them.”
He seemed almost hypnotized by the fragrant flowers.
Rue slowly raised her closed parasol and pointed toward a magnificent rosebush.
“That one.”
Her voice trembled slightly.
Selby noticed.
He was listening, although he knew he shouldn’t be.
The gardener noticed too.
He buried his nose among the roses and took a deep breath. He could smell a sale.
To his credit, he did not raise the price. Rue was probably poor, and anyone could see that she was a charming young woman.
“Fifty francs, Mademoiselle.”
His voice was serious.
Rue knew there was no point arguing.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The gardener did not praise the rosebush. He didn’t need to. It was magnificent, and anyone could see that.
“I’ll take the pansies,” Rue said quietly.
She pulled two francs from an old, worn purse.
Then she looked up.
A tear was caught in her eye, reflecting the sunlight like a tiny diamond.
As it slipped toward the corner of her nose, she suddenly saw Selby standing there.
The handkerchief quickly wiped away the tear, but Selby himself was now impossible to miss.
He was horribly embarrassed.
He immediately looked up at the sky as if he had suddenly become fascinated by astronomy.
He kept staring upward.
For five full minutes.
The gardener looked up too.
Then the policeman nearby looked up.
Finally, Selby looked down at the tips of his boots.
The gardener looked at him.
The policeman lost interest and walked away.
Rue Barrée had already been gone for some time.
“What may I offer you, Monsieur?” the gardener asked.
Selby had no idea why, but he suddenly began buying flowers.
The gardener was astonished.
He had never sold so many flowers in one transaction.
He had never received such generous prices.
And he had certainly never met a customer who agreed with everything he said.
But somehow, the whole thing felt wrong.
There was no bargaining.
No arguing.
No dramatic appeals to Heaven.
The transaction had no excitement at all.
“These tulips are magnificent!” the gardener announced.
“They are!” Selby replied enthusiastically.
“But, unfortunately, they are expensive.”
“I’ll take them.”
“Dieu!” the gardener muttered, already sweating. “He’s crazier than most Englishmen.”
“And this cactus—”
“Gorgeous!”
“Unfortunately—”
“Send it with the others.”
The gardener had to lean against the river wall.
“That magnificent rosebush…” he began weakly.
“That is a beauty,” Selby said.
Then he hesitated.
“I believe it’s fifty francs.”
He stopped, his face turning bright red.
The gardener enjoyed his embarrassment.
But after a moment, Selby recovered his confidence.
He looked the gardener straight in the eye.
“I’ll take the rosebush. Why didn’t the young lady buy it?”
“Mademoiselle isn’t wealthy.”
“How do you know?”
“Dame, I sell her many pots of pansies. Pansies are cheap.”
“Those are the pansies she bought?”
“Yes, Monsieur. The blue and gold ones.”
“And you’re going to send them to her?”
“At noon, after the market.”
“Then send this rosebush with them.”
Selby suddenly became very serious.
“And don’t you dare tell her who sent it.”
The gardener’s eyes widened.
Selby continued, now completely calm.
“Send the other flowers to the Hôtel du Sénat, 7 rue de Tournon. I’ll leave instructions with the concierge.”
He buttoned his glove with great dignity and walked away.
But the moment he turned the corner and was safely out of the gardener’s sight, his face became violently red.
He suddenly realized what he had done.
He was an idiot.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in his room at the Hôtel du Sénat, still wearing his hat and gloves.
“What an ass I am,” he muttered with a foolish smile.
“What an absolute ass.”
An hour later, he was still sitting in exactly the same chair.
His hat and gloves were still on.
His walking stick was still in his hand.
But now he was silent, staring down at the tips of his boots.
His smile had changed.
It was no longer quite so foolish.
It almost looked thoughtful.