a 
les 
[For The Ladies’ Floral Cabinet.] 
THE WHITE ROSE. 
A TRUE STORY. 
It is not often that flowers find their way into a 
court of justice; hut I remember reading once in a 
French paper of a White Rose, that played a promi¬ 
nent part in a Parisian police report. 
Madame Dufour was a dressmaker, whose high priv¬ 
ilege it was to fashion the garments of the most aris¬ 
tocratic dames of Paris. On one occasion, in the 
month of January, there was to be a court ball at the 
Tuileries—for it was before the days of the Com¬ 
mune, and that stately palace, so full of grandeur, so 
replete with historic associations, still graced the de¬ 
lightful gardens to which it gave its name—ancLMad- 
ora: 
ilaJEiiiet cuifl Sictoriial 
;ome ShamimiiiGiL 
the messenger arrived only to find its fragrant petals 
scattered on the floor. Elise was very sorry, but it 
could not be helped. 
“But there is another flower on the bush. That 
one will do as well.” 
“That one is not for sale,” said the girl. “It was 
the other one I sold to Madame.” 
“Well! what of that"? Madame will pay you 
double price for it, rather than disappoint her cus¬ 
tomer.” 
But the girl firmly refused to part with her rose; 
it was too late to seek for another; and the dress¬ 
maker, chagrined beyond measure, was obliged to send 
home the dress without it. 
But how describe the indignation of the noble 
countess, when the costume de bal was brought to her, 
destitute of that which was to have been its crowning- 
glory? It was in vain that Madame Dufour, for 
whom she at once sent, expatiated on the richness of 
the satin and the fleeciness of the lace—the rose, the 
“Why?” 
“ It was my mother’s.” 
“Now, your honor,” cried the dressmaker, “just see 
the impudence of this girl! She says the rose was her 
mother’s, and to my certain knowledge her mother has 
been dead these six months.” 
“ Yes, she is dead,” said Elise, bursting into tears, 
and for some moments sobs impeded her utterance. 
“ Explain yourself, my poor girl,” said the magis¬ 
trate, kindly. “ If your mother is dead, how could 
the rose be hers ? ” 
“ My mother,” said Elise, “was passionately fond 
of the white rose ; and it was my custom always on 
her birthday to present her with one. She prized it 
more than anything else that could be offered. Seven 
months ago she died ; and as I could no longer present 
to her the flower she loved, it was my intention, on her 
birthday—this very day-—to lay it on her grave. For 
this I nursed and tended it; for this I watched it day 
by day; for this 1 moved it from place to place,jthat 
ame Dufour received orders, from a certain noble lady, 
for a dress of white satin and lace, whose sole orna¬ 
ment was to be a White Rose on the bosom. 
The culture of house plants was not then so well 
understood, or so common, as it is now (for people had 
no Floral Cabinet to direct- them), neither were 
professional florists so plentiful. It was, therefore, 
somewhat difficult to procure a rose, and especially a 
white rose, in the dead of winter. But, after some 
search, a white rose bush, on which were two beau¬ 
tiful buds, was discovered in the garret room of Elise 
Bertrand, a poor sewing girl; one of which, when it 
should have opened sufficiently, Madame Dufour be¬ 
spoke for the adornment of her distinguished custom¬ 
er’s dress. 
The evening of the ball arrived; the dress was fin¬ 
ished, and about to be sent home; and at the last 
moment, that its freshness might be unimpaired, the 
rose was sent for. But alas! how vain sometimes are 
human expectations! The much-prized blossom, so 
»frail and delicate, had expanded a little too soon, and 
Feep ! 
pure white rose, so lovely in its sweet simplicity, was 
wanting, and" nothing could supply its place. So en¬ 
raged was she, that she refused to take or pay for the 
dress; and Madame Dufour found herself with the 
costly garment left on her hands. It was now her turn 
to be angry. Fuming with passion, she, on the follow¬ 
ing morning, caused Elise Bertrand to be arrested, 
and taken before a magistrate. Here she.stated the 
facts of the case, as they have been detailed above. 
Elise was asked what she had to say in her defence. 
“It is all as Madame has said,” answered she; “I am 
very sorry, but I could not help it. The day was mild, 
and I set the rose in the open window that it might 
get the sunshine, and while I was gone to my work, a 
sudden gust of wind arose and scattered its leaves on 
the floor.” 
“ But there was another rose,” said the irate dress¬ 
maker, “and she would not sell it to me, you know, 
though she was offered double price for it.” 
“No,” said the girl, “I could not part with that 
rose.” 
every ray of sunshine that found its way in at the little 
window of my attic room might shine upon it, and 
bring it to maturity. No, no! I could not sell that 
rose ! Not all the gold in Paris could have purchased 
it! Pardon me, Madame Dufour, but I could not part 
with my mother’s rose.” 
“You poor, dear child,” exclaimed the warm-hearted 
dressmaker, throwing her arms around the girl, “why 
did you not tell me all this before ? Do you take me 
for a brute—a beast—that I should want a flower that 
was vowed to the dead"?—Your mother’s rose!—And 
, she shall have it! You shall go this minute and lay 
it on her grave; and I will go with you, and mingle 
my tears with yours; for the mother of so good a 
daughter must have been a worthy woman.” 
The complaint was withdrawn; the case dismissed; 
and the good dressmaker, calling a carriage, accom¬ 
panied the young girl, first to her humble home, and 
then to the cemetery of Pere la Chaise, where lovingly 
and reverently the white rose was laid on the mother’s 
grave. I. M. 
