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“I think he can hear us,” murmured the Princess, as a hint to the Duchess not to speak so loud.

“Your Highness needn’t be afraid, he’s as deaf as a post,” said the Duchess, without lowering her voice, though the General could hear her perfectly.

“The thing is, I believe M. de Saint-Loup is in a place that is not very safe,” said the Princess.

“It can’t be helped,” replied the Duchess, “he’s in the same boat as everybody else, the only difference being that it was he who asked to be sent there. Besides, no, it’s not really dangerous; if it was, you can imagine how anxious I should be to help. I’d have spoken to Saint-Joseph about it during dinner. He has far more influence, and he’s a real worker. But, as you see, he’s gone now. Besides, it would be less awkward than going to this one, who has three of his sons in Morocco just now and has refused to apply for them to be transferred; he might raise that as an objection. Since your Highness insists, I shall speak to Saint-Joseph—if I see him again, or to Beautreillis. But if I don’t see either of them, you mustn’t waste your pity on Robert. It was explained to us the other day where he is. I don’t think he could be anywhere better.”

“What a pretty flower, I’ve never seen one like it; there’s no one like you, Oriane, for having such marvellous things in your house,” said the Princesse de Parme, who, fearing that General de Monserfeuil might have overheard the Duchess, sought now to change the subject. I looked and recognised a plant of the sort that I had watched Elstir painting.

“I’m so glad you like them; they are charming, do look at their little purple velvet collars; the only thing against them is—as may happen with people who are very pretty and very nicely dressed—they have a hideous name and a horrid smell. In spite of which I’m very fond of them. But what is rather sad is that they’re going to die.”

“But they’re growing in a pot, they aren’t cut flowers,” said the Princess.

“No,” answered the Duchess with a smile, “but it comes to the same thing, as they’re all ladies. It’s a kind of plant where the ladies and the gentlemen don’t both grow on the same stalk. I’m like the people who keep a lady dog. I have to find a husband for my flowers. Otherwise I shan’t have any young ones!”

“How very strange. Do you mean to say that in nature . . . ?”

“Yes, there are certain insects whose duty it is to bring about the marriage, as with sovereigns, by proxy, without the bride and bridegroom ever having set eyes on one another. And so, I assure you, I always tell my man to put my plant at the open window as often as possible, on the courtyard side and the garden side turn about, in the hope that the necessary insect will arrive. But the odds are so enormous! Just think, he would need to have just visited a person of the same species and the opposite sex, and he must then have taken it into his head to come and leave cards at the house. He hasn’t appeared so far—I believe my plant still deserves the name of virgin, but I must say a little more shamelessness would please me better. It’s just the same with that fine tree we have in the courtyard—it will die childless because it belongs to a species that’s very rare in these latitudes. In its case, it’s the wind that’s responsible for bringing about the union, but the wall is a trifle high.”

“Yes, indeed,” said M. de Bréauté, “you ought to have taken just a couple of inches off the top, that would have been quite enough. You have to know all the tricks of the trade. The flavour of vanilla we tasted in the excellent ice you gave us this evening, Duchess, comes from the plant of that name. It produces flowers which are both male and female, but a sort of partition between them prevents any communication. And so one could never get any fruit from them until a young negro, a native of Réunion, by the name of Albins, which by the way is rather a comic name for a black since it means ‘white,’ had the happy thought of using the point of a needle to bring the separate organs into contact.”

“Babal,