Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody

else will be coming

to Malmaison to-night.

White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the

antechamber.

Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished

to dust. Ashes of roses,

ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!

Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches

the rain. Behind her

a clock ticks -- ticks again. The sound knocks upon her

thought

with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places

her hands on her ears,

but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And

years to come

each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years,

and tears,

and cold pouring rain.

I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation

I have

is that I am no more.

Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!

V

The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not

only roses. Tulips, myrtles,

geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths.

All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand,

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