prided himself on having met one day at some ceremony.
"She devotes herself," said the Prince, "to the practices of piety."

"She is admirable for her nobility, and her simplicity," said Choulette.
"In her house, surrounded by her gentlemen and her ladies, she causes the
most rigorous etiquette to be observed, so that her grandeur is almost a
penance, and every morning she scrubs the pavement of the church. It is a
village church, where the chickens roam, while the 'cure' plays briscola
with the sacristan."

And Choulette, bending over the table, imitated, with his napkin, a
servant scrubbing; then, raising his head, he said, gravely:

"After waiting in consecutive anterooms, I was at last permitted to kiss
her hand."

And he stopped.

Madame Martin asked, impatiently:

"What did she say to you, that Princess so admirable for her nobility and
her simplicity?"

"She said to me: 'Have you visited Florence? I am told that recently new
and handsome shops have been opened which are lighted at night.' She said
also 'We have a good chemist here. The Austrian chemists are not better.
He placed on my leg, six months ago, a porous plaster which has not yet
come off.' Such are the words that Maria Therese deigned to address to
me. O simple grandeur! O Christian virtue! O daughter of Saint Louis! O
marvellous echo of your voice, holy Elizabeth of Hungary!"

Madame Martin smiled. She thought that Choulette was mocking. But he
denied the charge, indignantly, and Miss Bell said that Madame Martin was
wrong. It was a fault of the French, she said, to think that people were
always jesting.

Then they reverted to the subject of art, which in that country is
inhaled with the air.

"As for me," said the Countess Martin, "I am not learned enough to admire
Giotto and his school. What strikes me is the sensuality of that art of
the fifteenth century which is said to be Christian. I have seen piety
and purity only in the images of Fra Angelico, although they are very
pretty. The rest, those figures of Virgins and angels, are voluptuous,
caressing, and at times perversely ingenuous. What is there religious in
those young Magian kings, handsome as women; in that Saint Sebastian,
brilliant with youth, who seems merely the dolorous Bacchus of
Christianity?"

Dechartre replied that he thought as she did, and that they must be
right, she and he; since Savonarola was of the same opinion, and, finding
no piety in any work of art, wished to burn them all.

"There were at Florence, in the time of the superb Manfred, who was half
a Mussulman, men who were said to be of the sect of Epicurus, and who
sought for arguments against the existence of God. Guido Cavalcanti
disdained the ignorant folk who believed in the immortality of the soul.
The following phrase by him was quoted: 'The death of man is exactly
similar to that of brutes.' Later, when antique beauty was excavated from
ruins, the Christian style of art seemed sad. The painters that worked in
the churches and cloisters were neither devout nor chaste. Perugino was
an atheist, and did not conceal it."

"Yes," said Miss Bell; "but it was said that his head was hard, and that
celestial truths, could not penetrate his thick cranium. He was harsh and
avaricious, and quite embedded in material interests. He thought only of
buying houses."

Professor Arrighi defended Pietro Vanucci of Perugia.

"He was," he said, "an honest man. And the prior of the Gesuati of
Florence was wrong to mistrust him. That monk practised the art of
manufacturing ultramarine blue by crushing stones of burned lapis-lazuli.
Ultramarine was then worth its weight in gold; and the prior, who
doubtless had a secret, esteemed it more precious than rubies or
sapphires. He asked Pietro Vanucci to decorate the two cloisters of his
convent, and he expected marvels, less from the skilfulness of the master
than from the beauty of that ultramarine in the skies. During all the
time that the painter worked in the cloisters at the history of Jesus
Christ, the prior kept by his side and presented to him the precious
powder in a bag which he never quitted. Pietro took from it, under the
saintly man's eyes, the quantity he needed, and dipped his brush, loaded
with color, in a cupful of water, before rubbing the wall with it. He
used in that manner a great quantity of the powder. And the good father,
seeing his bag getting thinner, sighed: 'Jesus! How that lime devours the
ultramarine!' When the frescoes were finished, and Perugino had received
from the monk the agreed price, he placed in his hand a package of blue
powder: 'This is for you, father. Your ultramarine which I took with my
brush fell to the bottom of my cup, whence I gathered it every day. I
return it to you. Learn to trust honest people."

"Oh," said Therese, "there is nothing extraordinary in the fact that
Perugino was avaricious yet honest. Interested people are not always the
least scrupulous. There are many misers who are honest."

"Naturally, darling," said Miss Bell. "Misers do not wish to owe
anything, and prodigal people can bear to have debts. They do not think
of the money they have, and they think less of the money they owe. I did
not say that Pietro Vanucci of Perugia was a man without property. I said
that he had a hard business head and that he bought houses. I am very
glad to hear that he returned the ultramarine to the prior of the
Gesuati."

"Since your Pietro was rich," said Choulette, "it was his duty to return
the ultramarine. The rich are morally bound to be honest; the poor are
not."

At this moment, Choulette, to whom the waiter was presenting a silver
bowl, extended his hands for the perfumed water. It came from a vase
which Miss Bell passed to her guests, in accordance with antique usage,
after meals.

"I wash my hands," he said, "of the evil that Madame Martin does or may
do by her speech, or otherwise."

And he rose, awkwardly, after Miss Bell, who took the arm of Professor
Arrighi.

In the drawing-room she said, while serving the coffee:

"Monsieur Choulette, why do you condemn us to the savage sadness of
equality? Why, Daphnis's flute would not be melodious if it were made of
seven equal reeds. You wish to destroy the beautiful harmonies between
masters and servants, aristocrats and artisans. Oh, I fear you are a sad
barbarian, Monsieur Choulette. You are full of pity for those who are in
need, and you have no pity for divine beauty, which you exile from this
world. You expel beauty, Monsieur Choulette; you repudiate her, nude and
in tears. Be certain of this: she will not remain on earth when the poor
little men shall all be weak, delicate, and ignorant. Believe me, to
abolish the ingenious grouping which men of diverse conditions form in
society, the humble with the magnificent, is to be the enemy of the poor
and of the rich, is to be the enemy of the human race."

"Enemies of the human race!" replied Choulette, while stirring his
coffee. "That is the phrase the harsh Roman applied to the Christians who
talked of divine love to him."

Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes about
art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times
prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he had
seen, to love all that he loved.

He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of spring.
He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw already the
light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow of laurel-trees
falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of Florence had nothing
more to do than to serve as an adornment to this young woman.

He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics of
her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which
every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated and
living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one never
forgets.

Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which had
pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure taste.
But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the
compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of feeling
only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious details of
it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their effeminate air. She
was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in their
appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic
admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received
agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was
too intimate and almost indiscreet.

"So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?"

No, he seldom looked at them. There were so few women well dressed, even
now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He found no
pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a woman having
rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her.

He continued, in a tone a little more elevated:

"I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day,
without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She
dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We must,
like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint, carve,
or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit."

"Monsieur Dechartre," asked Prince Albertinelli, "how do you think a
mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?"

"I think," said Choulette, "so little of a terrestrial future, that I
have written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily,
leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence."

He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never
lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not
desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this.

"Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put
into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be
accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are
to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what is,
and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur Dechartre?
Beware, for God may hear you."

Dechartre replied:

"It would be enough for me to live one moment more."

And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort Madame
Martin to the Brancacci chapel.

An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon
citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her
head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was
thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life:
Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows,
ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad,
and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince
Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas,
and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.

She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those
that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer
tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She
discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful
to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered.
She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being. She
had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. He
walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could not
see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She was
not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight on,
without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only a
black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps she had been
capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, without
even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never had had
another. "I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me," she
thought.

Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was
not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said
to herself:

"He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is with his aunt, whom he
admires." She calmed her fears and returned to the charming gayety of
Florence. She had seen casually, at the Offices, a picture that Dechartre
liked. It was a decapitated head of the Medusa, a work wherein Leonardo,
the sculptor said, had expressed the minute profundity and tragic
refinement of his genius. She wished to see it again, regretting that she
had not seen it better at first. She extinguished her lamp and went to
sleep.

She dreamed that she met in a deserted church Robert Le Menil enveloped
in furs which she had never seen him wear. He was waiting for her, but a
crowd of priests had separated them. She did not know what had become of
him. She had not seen his face, and that frightened her. She awoke and
heard at the open window a sad, monotonous cry, and saw a humming-bird
darting about in the light of early dawn. Then, without cause, she began
to weep in a passion of self-pity, and with the abandon of a child.




CHAPTER XI

"THE DAWN OF FAITH AND LOVE"

She took pleasure in dressing early, with delicate and subtle taste. Her
dressing-room, an aesthetic fantasy of Vivian Bell, with its coarsely
varnished pottery, its tall copper pitchers, and its faience pavement,
like a chess-board, resembled a fairy's kitchen. It was rustic and
marvellous, and the Countess Martin could have in it the agreeable
surprise of mistaking herself for a fairy. While her maid was dressing
her hair, she heard Dechartre and Choulette talking under her windows.
She rearranged all the work Pauline had done, and uncovered the line of
her nape, which was fine and pure. She looked at herself in the glass,
and went into the garden.

Dechartre was there, reciting verses of Dante, and looking at Florence:
"At the hour when our mind, a greater stranger to the flesh. . ."

Near him, Choulette, seated on the balustrade of the terrace, his legs
hanging, and his nose in his beard, was still at work on the figure of
Misery on his stick.

Dechartre resumed the rhymes of the canticle: "At the hour when our mind,
a greater stranger to the flesh; and less under the obsession of
thoughts, is almost divine in its visions, . . . ."

She approached beside the boxwood hedge, holding a parasol and dressed in
a straw-colored gown. The faint sunlight of winter enveloped her in pale
gold.

Dechartre greeted her joyfully.

She said:

"You are reciting verses that I do not know. I know only Metastasio. My
teacher liked only Metastasio. What is the hour when the mind has divine
visions?"

"Madame, that hour is the dawn of the day. It may be also the dawn of
faith and of love."

Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave
at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether
strangers to the flesh. But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the
pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the
golden hills. He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images
that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not
related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the
contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day.

Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket.

"Yes," said Dechartre, "the things we see at night are unfortunate
remains of what we have neglected the day before. Dreams avenge things
one has disdained. They are reproaches of abandoned friends. Hence their
sadness."

She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said:

"That is perhaps true."

Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait of
Misery on his stick. Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and
Choulette recognized the Virgin in it. He had even composed a quatrain
which he was to write on it in spiral form--a didactic and moral
quatrain. He would cease to write, except in the style of the
commandments of God rendered into French verses. The four lines expressed
simplicity and goodness. He consented to recite them.

Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the
distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa,
almost as blue as the sky. Jacques Dechartre looked at her. It seemed to
him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he
discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested
with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace. The daylight
which she liked, was indulgent to her. And truly she was pretty, bathed
in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms and feeds noble
thoughts. A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded cheeks; her eyes,
bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the brilliancy of her teeth
set off her lips of ardent sweetness. His look embraced her supple bust,
her full hips, and the bold attitude of her waist. She held her parasol
with her left hand, the other hand played with violets. Dechartre had a
mania for beautiful hands. Hands presented to his eyes a physiognomy as
striking as the face--a character, a soul. These hands enchanted him.
They were exquisite. He adored their slender fingers, their pink nails,
their palms soft and tender, traversed by lines as elegant as arabesques,
and rising at the base of the fingers in harmonious mounts. He examined
them with charmed attention until she closed them on the handle of her
umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he looked at her again. Her bust and
arms, graceful and pure in line, her beautiful form, which was like that
of a living amphora, pleased him.

"Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, is
it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many flowers in
them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees."

It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of
her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it.

He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but
felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened,
seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things:

"That view is beautiful, The weather is fine."




CHAPTER XII

HEARTS AWAKENED

In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking
of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of
the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy,
who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the
illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and
resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in
language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the
adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark and
blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning more
charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those magnificent
forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was through him,
that she understood art and life. She took no interest in things that did
not interest him. How had this affection come to her? She had no precise
remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul Vence wished to
introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, no presentiment that
he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze statuettes, fine
waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked at the Champ de Mars
salon or at Durand-Ruel's. But she did not imagine that he could be
agreeable to her, or more seductive than many artists and lovers of art
at whom she laughed with her friends. When she saw him, he pleased her;
she had a desire to attract him, to see him often. The night he dined at
her house she realized that she had for him a noble and elevating
affection. But soon after he irritated her a little; it made her
impatient to see him closeted within himself and too little preoccupied
by her. She would have liked to disturb him. She was in that state of
impatience when she met him one evening, in front of the grille of the
Musee des Religions, and he talked to her of Ravenna and of the Empress
seated on a gold chair in her tomb. She had found him serious and
charming, his voice warm, his eyes soft in the shadow of the night, but
too much a stranger, too far from her, too unknown. She had felt a sort
of uneasiness, and she did not know, when she walked along the boxwood
bordering the terrace, whether she desired to see him every day or never
to see him again.

Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near
her, to hear him. He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new.
He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened in
her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant. Now she was
determined never to give him up. But how? She foresaw difficulties; her
lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her. For a moment
she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer,
exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without being
exacting. But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea. If
Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm. She did not dare to
think of the future. She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and
closing her eyes.

She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when
Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea. On an envelope
marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the
handwriting of Le Menil. She had expected that letter. She was only
astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, when
the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson.

In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches. Why did she go without
saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell? Since his return to
Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come. He was
happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two or
three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he
regretted not being able to print them. Anxious, he had gone to her
house.

"I was astounded to hear of your departure. Your husband received me. He
said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at
Florence with Miss Bell. He said that for some time you had looked pale
and thin. He thought a change of air would do you good. You had not
wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in
persuading you.

"I had not noticed that you were thin. It seemed to me, on the contrary,
that your health was good. And then Florence is not a good winter resort.
I cannot understand your departure. I am much tormented by it. Reassure
me at once, I pray you.

"Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your husband
and to receive his confidences? He is sorry you are not here; it annoys
him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in Paris. I
heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister. This
astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among fashionable
people."

Then he related hunting tales to her. He had brought for her three
fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal
which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand.

In Paris he was worried. His cousin had been presented at the club. He
feared he might be blackballed. His candidacy had been posted. Under
these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be
taking too great a responsibility. If he were blackballed it would be
very disagreeable. He finished by praying her to write and to return
soon.

Having read this letter, she tore it up gently, threw it in the fire, and
calmly watched it burn.

Doubtless, he was right. He had said what he had to say; he had
complained, as it was his duty to complain. What could she answer? Should
she continue her quarrel? The subject of it had become so indifferent to
her that it needed reflection to recall it. Oh, no; she had no desire to
be tormented. She felt, on the contrary, very gentle toward him! Seeing
that he loved her with confidence, in stubborn tranquillity, she became
sad and frightened. He had not changed. He was the same man he had been
before. She was not the same woman. They were separated now by
imperceptible yet strong influences, like essences in the air that make
one live or die. When her maid came to dress her, she had not begun to
write an answer.

Anxious, she thought: "He trusts me. He suspects nothing." This made her
more impatient than anything. It irritated her to think that there were
simple people who doubt neither themselves nor others.

She went into the parlor, where she found Vivian Bell writing. The latter
said:

"Do you wish to know, darling, what I was doing while waiting for you?
Nothing and everything. Verses. Oh, darling, poetry must be our souls
naturally expressed."

Therese kissed Miss Bell, rested her head on her friend's shoulder, and
said:

"May I look?"

"Look if you wish, dear. They are verses made on the model of the popular
songs of your country."

"Is it a symbol, Vivian? Explain it to me."

"Oh, darling, why explain, why? A poetic image must have several
meanings. The one that you find is the real one. But there is a very
clear meaning in them, my love; that is, that one should not lightly
disengage one's self from what one has taken into the heart."

The horses were harnessed. They went, as had been agreed, to visit the
Albertinelli gallery. The Prince was waiting for them, and Dechartre was
to meet them in the palace. On the way, while the carriage rolled along
the wide highway, Vivian Bell talked with her usual transcendentalism. As
they were descending among houses pink and white, gardens and terraces
ornamented with statues and fountains, she showed to her friend the
villa, hidden under bluish pines, where the ladies and the cavaliers of
the Decameron took refuge from the plague that ravaged Florence, and
diverted one another with tales frivolous, facetious, or tragic. Then she
confessed the thought which had come to her the day before.

"You had gone, darling, to Carmine with Monsieur Dechartre, and you had
left at Fiesole Madame Marmet, who is an agreeable person, a moderate and
polished woman. She knows many anecdotes about persons of distinction who
live in Paris. And when she tells them, she does as my cook Pompaloni
does when he serves eggs: he does not put salt in them, but he puts the
salt-cellar next to them. Madame Marmet's tongue is very sweet, but the
salt is near it, in her eyes. Her conversation is like Pompaloni's dish,
my love--each one seasons to his taste. Oh, I like Madame Marmet a great
deal. Yesterday, after you had gone, I found her alone and sad in a
corner of the drawing-room. She was thinking mournfully of her husband. I
said to her: 'Do you wish me to think of your husband, too? I will think
of him with you. I have been told that he was a learned man, a member of
the Royal Society of Paris. Madame Marmet, talk to me of him.' She
replied that he had devoted himself to the Etruscans, and that he had
given to them his entire life. Oh, darling, I cherished at once the
memory of that Monsieur Marmet, who lived for the Etruscans. And then a
good idea came to me. I said to Madame Marmet, 'We have at Fiesole, in
the Pretorio Palace, a modest little Etruscan museum. Come and visit it
with me. Will you?' She replied it was what she most desired to see in
Italy. We went to the Pretorio Palace; we saw a lioness and a great many
little bronze figures, grotesque, very fat or very thin. The Etruscans
were a seriously gay people. They made bronze caricatures. But the
monkeys--some afflicted with big stomachs, others astonished to show
their bones--Madame Marmet looked at them with reluctant admiration. She
contemplated them like--there is a beautiful French word that escapes
me--like the monuments and the trophies of Monsieur Marmet."

Madame Martin smiled. But she was restless. She thought the sky dull, the
streets ugly, the passers-by common.

"Oh, darling, the Prince will be very glad to receive you in his palace."

"I do not think so."

"Why, darling, why?"

"Because I do not please him much."

Vivian Bell declared that the Prince, on the contrary, was a great
admirer of the Countess Martin.

The horses stopped before the Albertinelli palace. On the sombre facade
were sealed those bronze rings which formerly, on festival nights, held
rosin torches. These bronze rings mark, in Florence, the palaces of the
most illustrious families. The palace had an air of lofty pride. The
Prince hastened to meet them, and led them through the empty salons into
the gallery. He, apologized for showing canvases which perhaps had not an
attractive aspect. The gallery had been formed by Cardinal Giulio
Albertinelli at a time when the taste for Guido and Caraccio, now fallen,
had predominated. His ancestor had taken pleasure in gathering the works
of the school of Bologna. But he would show to Madame Martin several
paintings which had not displeased Miss Bell, among others a Mantegna.

The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection;
she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the
darkness a bit of armor and a white horse.

A valet presented a card.

The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he
was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression of
cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors.
Dechartre was on the staircase.

The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero,
but Antinous.

"I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace," said
Miss Bell. "I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery."

And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin.
Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos.

Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old men
and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable
tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to her,
in a low tone:

"This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world
hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that
Jews could not sell."

He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green
velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo.

"I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London,
of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that
it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to sell
it for fifty thousand francs."

The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully.

"There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm that
this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old
inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about
it."

And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures
by the pre-Raphaelites.

Dechartre felt uneasy. Since the day before he had thought of Therese. He
had all night dreamed and yearned over her image. He saw her again,
delightful, but in another manner, and even more desirable than he had
imagined in his insomnia; less visionary, of a more vivid piquancy, and
also of a mind more mysteriously impenetrable. She was sad; she seemed
cold and indifferent. He said to himself that he was nothing to her; that
he was becoming importunate and ridiculous. This irritated him. He
murmured bitterly in her ear: "I have reflected. I did not wish to come.
Why did I come?" She understood at once what he meant, that he feared her
now, and that he was impatient, timid, and awkward. It pleased her that
he was thus, and she was grateful to him for the trouble and the desires
he inspired in her. Her heart throbbed faster. But, affecting to
understand that he regretted having disturbed himself to come and look at
bad paintings, she replied that in truth this gallery was not
interesting. Already, under the terror of displeasing her, he felt
reassured, and believed that, really indifferent, she had not perceived
the accent nor the significance of what he had said. He said "No, nothing
interesting." The Prince, who had invited the two visitors to breakfast,
asked their friend to remain with them. Dechartre excused himself. He was
about to depart when, in the large empty salon, he found himself alone
with Madame Martin. He had had the idea of running away from her. He had
no other wish now than to see her again. He recalled to her that she was
the next morning to visit the Bargello. "You have permitted me to
accompany you." She asked him if he had not found her moody and tiresome.
Oh, no; he had not thought her tiresome, but he feared she was sad.

"Alas," he added, "your sadness, your joys, I have not the right to know
them." She turned toward him a glance almost harsh. "You do not think
that I shall take you for a confidante, do you?" And she walked away
brusquely.




CHAPTER XIII

"YOU MUST TAKE ME WITH MY OWN SOUL!"

After dinner, in the salon of the bells, under the lamps from which the
great shades permitted only an obscure light to filter, good Madame
Marmet was warming herself by the hearth, with a white cat on her knees.
The evening was cool. Madame Martin, her eyes reminiscent of the golden
light, the violet peaks, and the ancient trees of Florence, smiled with
happy fatigue. She had gone with Miss Bell, Dechartre, and Madame Marmet
to the Chartrist convent of Ema. And now, in the intoxication of her
visions, she forgot the care of the day before, the importunate letters,
the distant reproaches, and thought of nothing in the world but cloisters
chiselled and painted, villages with red roofs, and roads where she saw
the first blush of spring. Dechartre had modelled for Miss Bell a waxen
figure of Beatrice. Vivian was painting angels. Softly bent over her,
Prince Albertinelli caressed his beard and threw around him glances that
appeared to seek admiration.

Replying to a reflection of Vivian Bell on marriage and love:

"A woman must choose," he said. "With a man whom women love her heart is
not quiet. With a man whom the women do not love she is not happy."

"Darling," asked Miss Bell, "what would you wish for a friend dear to
you?"