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Either because the martyr was at the wine-shop, where she is familiarly known, or because she was busy in her room, she did not open the door. Choulette rang for a long time, and so violently that the bellrope remained in his hand.
Marguerite, in the garden, was spinning and singing. When she had finished, Miss Bell said to Madame Martin: "Darling, Monsieur Choulette has written me a perfectly beautiful letter. He has told me that he is very celebrated. And I am glad to know it. He said also: 'The glory of other poets reposes in myrrh and aromatic plants.
And that brute Choulette is right too, when he says we ought to live without thinking and without desiring. Our friend the cobbler of Santa Maria Novella, who knows nothing of what might make him unjust and unfortunate, is a master of the art of living. I ought to love you naively, without that sort of metaphysics which is passional and makes me absurd and wicked.
"My dear, I can not understand you. You are very inconsequential. It does you a great deal of harm. And you wish to run through Europe with whom? With a Bohemian, a drunkard that man Choulette." She replied that she should travel with Madame Marmet, in which there could be nothing objectionable.
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.
Dante, who was a good doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his pointed cap Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed mathematician dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of arithmetic, that is all." And he lighted his pipe. Vivian Bell exclaimed: "Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette.
It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for people who lived by writing and were not of his circle. "Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits you wrapped in a red muffler?" "My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on anybody. Men and women nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal.
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.
"This winter, one night when it was raining, Choulette went into a public-house in a street the name of which I have forgotten, but which must resemble this one, and met there an unfortunate girl whom the waiters would not have noticed, and whom he liked for her humility. Her name was Maria. The name was not hers. She found it nailed on her door at the top of the stairway where she went to lodge.
Choulette wished to express in it human misery, not simple and touching, such as men of other times may have felt it in a world of mingled harshness and kindness; but hideous, and reflecting the state of ugliness created by the free-thinking bourgeois and the military patriots of the French Revolution. According to him the present regime embodied only hypocrisy and brutality.
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