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"I believe, Monsieur Choulette, that men were always as they are to-day, selfish, avaricious, and pitiless. I believe that laws and manners were always harsh and cruel to the unfortunate." Between La Roche and Dijon they took breakfast in the dining-car, and left Choulette in it, alone with his pipe, his glass of benedictine, and his irritation.
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.
"His work," replied Choulette, "was destroyed while he lived. Yet he died happy, because in him was joy with humility. He was, in fact, God's sweet singer. And it is right that another poor poet should take his task and teach the world true religion and true joy. I shall be that poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit.
"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.
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.
They returned to Fiesole by the steam tramway which goes up the hill. The rain fell. Madame Marmet went to sleep and Choulette complained.
She hurried the rest, said a great deal of Vivian Bell and of Prince Albertinelli, a little of Choulette, and that she had seen Dechartre at Florence. She praised some pictures of the museums, but without discrimination, and only to fill the pages. She knew that Robert had no appreciation of painting; that he admired nothing except a little cuirassier by Detaille, bought at Goupil's.
"It is singular," said Choulette, "we have the air of people who are waiting for something." Vivian Bell replied that they were waiting for M. Dechartre. He was a little late; she feared he had missed the train.
It will ring for you, for me, for the Prince, for good Madame Marmet, for Monsieur Choulette, for all our friends." "Dear, bells never ring for real joys and for real sufferings. Bells are honest functionaries, who know only official sentiments." "Oh, darling, you are much mistaken. Bells know the secrets of souls; they know everything. But I am very glad to find you here.
"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.
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