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 of gold. She left you this bouquet, and a message to say that she would pass this way to-morrow morning at eight o’clock.’

The little soldier cursed his sleep, but tried to console himself by looking at his bouquet, which was of immortelles.

‘It is the flower of remembrance,’ thought he, forgetting that it is also the flower of the dead.

When the night came, he slept with one eye open, and jumped up twenty times an hour. When the birds began to sing he could lie still no longer, and climbed out of his window into the branches of one of the great lime-trees that stood before the door. There he sat, dreamily gazing at his bouquet till he ended by going fast asleep.

Once asleep, nothing was able to wake him; neither the brightness of the sun, nor the songs of the birds, nor the noise of Ludovine’s golden coach, nor the cries of the landlady who sought him in every place she could think of.



As the clock struck twelve he woke, and his heart sank as he came down out of his tree and saw them laying the table for dinner.

‘Did the Princess come?’ he asked.

‘Yes, indeed, she did. She left this flower-coloured scarf for you; said she would pass by to-morrow at seven o’clock, but it would be the last time.’

‘I must have been bewitched,’ thought the little soldier. Then