The Greeks believed that the red rose only came into being
on the fair day when Venus, seeing Ascanius slumbering on a bed of
white roses, pressed handsful of the blossoms to her lips, and the
pale petals blushed into their crimson loveliness beneath the kisses
of the goddess. Louis the Eleventh knew nothing of the legend, but
the red rose was his fancy and a corner of the royal garden was
dedicated to its service. In the oldest part of the palace, hard by
the grey and ancient tower where the king loved to out-watch the
stars and to brood over strange wisdom, overlooked by a terrace
whose very steps were littered with petals, the caressed earth
glowed into a very miracle of roses. Every shade of red that a rose
can wear was represented in that dazzling pleasaunce, from the faint
pink that surely the lips of divinity had scarcely brushed to the
smiling scarlet that suggested Aphrodite's mouth, from the imperial
purple of a Caesar's pomp to the crimson so deep that it was almost
black, black as the congealed blood on the torn thigh of Adonis.
Here, when the stars eluded or deceived him, King Louis would come,
creeping down the winding stairs of his tower, with the names of
saints upon his thin lips, to breathe the sunlit or moonlit
fragrance of his roses, to seek a little rest for his restless mind,
a little quiet for his unquiet heart.
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