20. Last Wreaths

“I am not a famous flower-gatherer,” he said. “I am like the poor fellow who, wishing to pray to God in the church and to kiss the ground, gave himself a bump on the forehead by striking his head on the marble floor.” “Don’t tell me anything to make me laugh,” said Maroussia. “Stop, enough, enough! Come and be seated, you have gathered so many flowers that I cannot find myself among them. I have enough to make a hundred wreaths.”

And the little girl tried to arrange the flowers in some order.

“Don’t spare them, then,” said her good friend. “Do you want some more?”

“No, no, these are enough, ten times more than I want. Rest yourself now, in your turn.”

The Envoy, convinced, seated himself by her side, and followed, with much interest, first the work of the little fingers arranging the wreath, then the changes of Maroussia’s face. From having been almost gay just now, she became thoughtful.

“Of what is my child thinking?” he asked Maroussia. She hesitated to answer; but very soon, hiding her golden head on the bosom of her good friend:

“I was thinking,” she said, “I was thinking of the blue-bottle flowers at home, and of the wreaths of other days which gave my little brothers so much pleasure, and also of those which my mother made for me when I was very small.”

“That was in the happy time,” said Tchetchevik, “when children did not have the duty of being heroes. Ah, dear little girl, my visit to your father’s and mother’s house was not a happy thing for you, nor for them either, the good people! May God obtain their pardon for me!”

The child quickly put her hand over his mouth and burst into tears.

“Hush,” she said. “Don’t make me cry just now. Don’t take away the courage which my father himself commanded me to have—the courage which I still need, which I must have, and which I will have unto the end. As to our life since we left home together, Ah, what a good life! Ah, what beautiful days! Ah, what a noble dream! But now—our soldiers, where are they? Méphodiévna, our Méphodiévna who loved you and Ukraine so much, where is she?”

Tchetchevik in his turn stopped her:

“Yes, where is she?” he said, and hid his sad face in his hands. Neither the man nor the child thought of conversing any more.