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He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her. "For its fragrance, signora!" It was the next day. Having carefully placed on the drawing-room table his knotty stick, his pipe, and his antique carpet-bag, Choulette bowed to Madame Martin, who was reading at the window. He was going to Assisi. He wore a sheepskin coat, and resembled the old shepherds in pictures of the Nativity.
But one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle reflected in rays of gold. Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden. Therese found him resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first sufferings of love. While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under the trees.
If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed with fright." Therese smiled: "Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara." He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger: "You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame."
Nevertheless, Choulette had heard people say this in cafes. Madame Marmet was astonished that Choulette, a Catholic and a socialist, should speak so disrespectfully of a pope friendly to the republic. But he did not like Leo XIII.
Miss Bell was already listening, and her face wore the fervent expression of an angel sculptured by Mino. Choulette told them it was a rustic and artless work. The verses were not trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven, for the sake of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous voice, he recited the canticle.
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.
His unkempt beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song. In the harshness of light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that suggested a solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance. "How amusing he is!" said Therese. "He is making a spectacle of himself for himself. He is a great artist." "Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious man?
Choulette had his aim: to plant on the ruins of an unjust and cruel civilization the Cross of Calvary, not dead and bare, but vivid, and with its flowery arms embracing the world. He was founding with that design an order and a newspaper. Madame Martin knew the order. The newspaper was to be sold for one cent, and to be written in rhythmic phrases. It was a newspaper to be sung.
He had no other ambition than to resemble him, and it was without trying to be that he was different from the others. They worked not for glory, but to live." "They were right," said Choulette. "Nothing is better than to work for a living." "The desire to attain fame," continued Dechartre, "did not trouble them.
Under the awning of a restaurant men and women were taking breakfast. Therese recognized among them, alone, at a small table against a laurel-tree in a box, Choulette lighting his pipe. Having seen her, he threw superbly a five-franc piece on the table, rose, and bowed. He was grave; his long frock-coat gave him an air of decency and austerity.
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