lunching with proust

by theuglyearring

But then again maybe he didn’t love her yet; he would leave before having time to fall in love with her … Grief stricken, she hung her head and her gaze fell on the most languishing of the wilted flowers on her bodice, which beneath their withered eyelids seemed ready to weep. The thought of the little that was left of her dream, of which he knew nothing, the little happiness that remained for her if it ever became realized seemed to her to be like the sadness of these flowers which, before they died, languished over the heart that they had felt beating with her first love, her first humiliation and her first sorrow.

The next day, she wanted no other flowers in her room which was usually full and reverberating with the glory of fresh roses.

When Mme Lawrence visited her she stopped before the vases of dead cattleyas, stripped of their beauty to eyes which are not in love.

– How is this, darling, you who love flowers so much?

(from l’indifferent by marcel proust)

(photo: queen maria of romania)

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