SUPPLEMENT TO 



THE GARDENERS' MAGAZfNE. 



WAS sitting one evening, some years ago, as ^ was 

 often my custom, outside a cafe in the Boulevard des 

 Italiens, in Paris, sipping quietly a cup of coffee 

 following on my dinner. At the time my thoughts 

 were unoccupied. I was listless, and sat hardly con- 

 scious of the surroundings ; the cool air and blue sky, 

 the white houses, and the crowd of pedestrians out for 

 their usual quiet stroll and cheap enjoyment, for 

 surely a carafe of fresh water and a lump or two of 

 sugar, with, perhaps, a soupcon of fleur d'orange, that 

 favourite beverage of the abstemious French, is not 

 prohibitive luxury. Whilst in this mood I sud- 

 denly became conscious that I was an object of 

 regard to a pair of black, piercing eyes, whose fair 

 owner a moment later dexterously decorated my 

 buttonhole with a rose. A gentle voice addressed me, 

 belonging to one of the many bouquetieres who flutter 

 along the boulevards like so many butterflies, with 

 this difference, however, that they turn their brilliant-hued flowers to 

 a very practical account. Following the example of some other loungers 

 like myself, who were similarly treated by the fair nymph, I put a silver 

 coin into her hand, and thought myself extravagantly rewarded when 1 

 received a sweet smile and the pretty verbal acknowledgment ot Merci 

 bien, m'sieu." 



To meet a perambulating and irresistible bouquetiere, who places a 

 flower in your coat, and regards you smilingly as she attends lor her 

 reward, is hardly a rare occurrence in Pans ; but I was greatly inte- 

 rested, unaccountably so, in this pretty girl, for her manner and bearing 

 I could but remark, were very different from most others of her calling. 

 Without anything theatrical in her appearance she was yet such a being 

 as one can scarcely realise out of a ballet. Not that _ her dress ; was i un- 

 conventional, save, perhaps, in its coquettish simplicity, and the smart 

 ribbons which pave such a character to the little cap perched so jauntily 

 on her head. Evening after evening I saw the same girl, generally near 

 the same spot, and, as may be readily imagined became one of her 

 regular clientele. I learned, too, as many facts relating to her as one 

 could learn where most was mystery. Her peculiar and persuasive mode 

 of disposing of her flowers was her own graceful, original idea. It was 

 something new and natural, and whilst pleasing many off^dtd nont. 

 Even the surliest of old stockbrokers could not refuse being decora ec I by 

 such fair, nimble fingers. Accordingly she soon found herself positively 

 famous. Much discussion arose concerning^ her name and where jhe 

 lived. 



ISCUSSlOIl diusc v."" — © , . f 



Many an adventurous student traced her footsteps hour after 



hour, only to lose sight of her at last. 



• She always contrived to mysteriously disappear. Other stratagems 

 failing, it often occurs to the curious to ask a direct question ; but in the 

 present case this was next to impossible. Gabnelle,- for so was she 

 called, by what authority, I know not, was only seen in the most public 

 Places, and to exchange many words with her was considered ^ a feat 

 Notwithstanding her strange wild way of gaining her living, there was a 

 dignity in her manner which sufficed to cool the too curious. It soon 

 came to pass that, being so attractive a personality, managers of cafes 



chantant were not slow to see money might be made out of her, and it 

 was said she was offered and rejected many lucrative engagements. She 

 treated these offers with the most glorious contempt. There was, indeed, 

 something realistically dramatic in the bouquetiere's disdain of the 

 drama. She, who lived a perfect romance, could never descend to act in 

 one. It may well be supposed that where so much mystery existed 

 imagination would not be idle. To have believed the conflicting stories 

 told about her would be to arrive at the conclusion that she was the 



stolen child of noble parents, brought up by an honest ouvrier. Some 

 said her reputed father was a tailor of dissolute habits, who now lived on 

 her industry, that her mother was a deceased duchess. Others denied 

 her grace's death, and stated that she, under a false name, carried on a 

 flourishing business as a blanchisseuse. As for the private life of the 

 young lady herself, it was reflected in such a magic mirror of con- 

 tradictory impossibilities, in the delicate discussions held on the subject, 

 that one had no choice but to disbelieve everything. 



One day a fresh fillip was given to gossip by the appearance of the 

 bouquetiere in a positively chic hat of some expensive straw, and made 

 in a style bordering on the ostentatious. It was not doubted but that 

 the profits of her profession would allow of such an expenditure, but in 

 Paris the adoption of a bonnet or hat, in contradistinction to the little 

 cap of the grisette, is considered the assumption of a superior grade, and 

 unless warranted by the position of the wearer is resented as an im- 

 pertinence. In Paris, indeed, there are but two classes of females, those 

 with bonnets and those without ; or, as has been wittily said, the powers 

 that be, and the powers that want to be. No French bonne would, in 

 her wildest dreams, ever think of emulating her mistress in her dress or 

 head garniture, as Mary Jane and her sisters do, as a matter of course, 

 in our own land. Surmises were many and marvellous. Was she 

 becoming proud, becoming a lady? But how, why, where ? Curiosity 

 became rampant, and scandal more inventive than ever. But soon a 

 positive catastrophe took place. 



44 One morn we missed 4 her 1 in the accustomed spot n — to employ the 

 language of poetic licence. Not only, indeed, all accustomed and pro- 

 bable spots, but the unaccustomed and improbable ones, even impossible 

 spots, all of which were duly visited. In short, she was not to be found 

 at all. All was positive amazement on the boulevards, the most hardened 

 old flaneur turned pale, and the moustachios of the jeunesse drooped. 

 Soon, however, a new sensation was provided for the sentimentalists 

 of the boulevards, and the affair of the fair flower-girl was relegated to 



the past as a nine days' wonder. 



A few months later I found myself one evening at one of those famous 

 and brilliant receptions for which Paris is so renowned. However, in 



itement prevailing, I felt unaccountably dull, and was 



with a view to my quiet departure— when the fair 



all the gay 



making for the door- w . ^ . 



hostess detained me for the purpose, as she whispered, of presenting me 

 to a lady who was monopolising all the attention of the evening. She 

 was the newly-made bride of a young baron of great wealth who was noted 

 for a certain wild kind of genius and an utter scorn of the conventionalities 

 of high life. The next moment I was introduced to a beautiful young 

 lady whose brilliant eyes there was no mistaking— it was Gabnelle, the 

 bouquetiere ! 



I took a chair at the side of the pair, and entered into conversation. 

 The Baronne observed that she had met me before, but could not 

 remember where. Almost in the same breath she abked if I was a lover 

 of flowers. I muttered something, intended as a compliment, about 

 loving beauty in any form, and admired a bouquet she held in her hand. 

 She selected a spray of roses, La France, and said was it not a fine 

 specimen. I delightedly assented, and the spray not being redemanded, I 

 did not return it. The conversation turned to the topics of the day, and 

 soon after the Baronne and her husband took their leave. They were 

 departing the next day, I casually heard, for the family estate. 



I learned subsequently that some strange stones had circulated 

 regLingthe previous life of the Baronne. Whatever they were they 

 ceftTnly speed lv increased the calling and status of the bouquetiere, and 

 ScTinSStoriy popular. Young ladies of all ages, even too, of a 

 rartain age, suddenly adopted it, and intruded their flowers with dreadful 

 SS^Jon inoffensive loungers, making war upon unoffending 

 CSSSSu mC had never done them harm. A fixed idea found favour 



was the road to a rich and noble husband, hence its 

 hSmtftt with such enthusiasm. To-day, however it hardly con- 

 Sffm having presumably proved a failure. ^J^^T 

 Lotten to mention that the day after my meeting with the Baronne 

 ^Tfrien is called on me, to whom I was about to narrate my little 

 Xntu e when an incident took place which decided me not to do so 

 On^o^ rny spray of roses, which I had preserved in a 



l him. " The rose is the 



the 



flower glass. An idea struck me. 



" You know the language of flowci 

 emblem of love, is it not ? " 



« Yes " he replied, "but yours i* a rose and a pair of rose bud s 

 emblem of S« % You hale, doubtless, another affair of the heart on 

 hand • be careful you don't betray the fair one. 



I was struck with amazement, and fell from my paradise of love to the 

 real ties of ne situation. However, I am glad I was discreet enough to 

 hSd my tongue. The events narrated above occurred dunng the Th.rd 



lioiu m) rem; NORMAN 1JRCWN, P.R.H.S. 



Kmpire. 



