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Why had she not thought of taking a stone of the pavilion wherein she had forgotten the world? A shout from Pauline drew her from her thoughts. Choulette, jumping from a bush, had suddenly kissed the maid, who was carrying overcoats and bags into the carriage. Now he was running through the alleys, joyful, his ears standing out like horns. He bowed to the Countess Martin.
And then there are unworthy saints, just as there are bad angels: Choulette is a worldly saint, that is all. But his poems are true poems, and much finer than those written by the bishops of the seventeenth century." She interrupted him: "While I think of it, I wish to congratulate you on your friend Dechartre. He has a charming mind." She added: "Perhaps he is a little too timid."
I am going to kneel before the happy crypt where Saint Francis is resting in a stone manger, with a stone for a pillow. For he would not even take out of this world a shroud out of this world where he left the revelation of all joy and of all kindness." "Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Bring me a medal of Saint Clara. I like Saint Clara a great deal."
Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the strength of the good advice that he had received from it.
"But, darling, since the Prince has said that a woman can not have at the same time happiness and security, tell me what your friend should choose." "One never chooses, Vivian; one never chooses. Do not make me say what I think of marriage." At this moment Choulette appeared, wearing the magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud.
Your husband thinks he would be agreeable company for you. We might give him the blue room." "As you wish. But I should prefer that you keep the blue room for Paul Vence, who wishes to come. It is possible, too, that Choulette may come without warning. It is his habit. We shall see him some morning ringing like a beggar at the gate.
Choulette began to relate to Madame Marmet the incidents of a call he had made during the day on the Princess of the House of France to whom the Marquise de Rieu had given him a letter of introduction.
That is what he wishes to say. He is right. You may always explain: you never are understood." "There are signs " said Paul Vence. "Don't you think, Monsieur Vence, that signs also are a form of hieroglyphics? Give me news of Monsieur Choulette. I do not see him any more." Vence replied that Choulette was very busy in forming the Third Order of Saint Francis.
She had examined at Santa Maria-Novella the frescoes of Ghirlandajo, the stalls of the choir, the Virgin of Cimabue, the paintings in the cloister. She had done this carefully, in memory of her husband, who had greatly liked Italian art. She was tired. Choulette sat by her and said: "Madame, could you tell me whether it is true that the Pope's gowns are made by Worth?" Madame Marmet thought not.
"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.
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