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But in another garret, another workingman, sober, sad, and a chemist, swears to himself that he will commit an expiatory murder." He rose and said good-night. She called him back. "Monsieur Vence, you know that I was serious. Bring Choulette to me."
She knew the name of every one who came to see her charming persons. Choulette looked at her sadly, and said, shaking his head: "Madame Marmet, those whom you call by their terrestrial names have other names which you do not know, and which are their real names." Madame Martin asked Choulette if he thought that misfortune needed to cross the threshold in order to enter one's life.
But since Choulette interests you, listen to his latest adventure. Paul Vence related it to me. I understand it better in this street, where there are shirts and flowerpots at the windows.
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.
"Then," exclaimed Madame Martin, "I will take him to Italy with me. Find him, Monsieur Vence, and bring him to me. I am going next week." M. Martin then excused himself, not being able to remain longer. He had to finish a report which was to be laid before the Chamber the next day. Madame Martin said that nobody interested her so much as Choulette.
He will enjoy in peace the fruit of his work, and he will make bread with the wheat that he has sown, and he will eat the fruits of the trees that he has cut." "Ah, Monsieur Choulette," said Prince Albertinelli, gravely, "you are right to take interest in the state of our unfortunate fields, which taxes exhaust. What fruit can be drawn from a soil taxed to thirty-three per cent. of its net income?
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.
He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile, absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened, thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses which she had composed in the night.
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."
He was astonished, naively, and he suffered from her antipathy to them. He said nothing. The sight of a public-house, the panes of which were flaming, recalled to him the poet Choulette, who passed for a drunkard. He asked her if she still saw that Choulette, who called on her wearing a mackintosh and a red muffler. It annoyed her that he spoke like General Lariviere.
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