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Updated: May 17, 2025
Therese and Dechartre remained. "I like him," continued the sculptor; "I like Saint Mark because I feel in him, much more than in the Saint George, the hand and mind of Donatello, who was a good workman. I like him even more to-day, because he recalls to me, in his venerable and touching candor, the old cobbler to whom you were speaking so kindly this morning."
He replied: "If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die." Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: "You know..." She looked at him and waited. He finished his phrase: "... that I love you?" She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the lids of which were trembling.
He replied: "If the poor little plant comes into bloom it will die." Therese, when she left him, placed a coin on the table. Dechartre was near her. Gravely, almost severely, he said to her: "You know . . . " She looked at him and waited. He finished his phrase: " . . . that I love you?" She continued to fix on him, silently, the gaze of her clear eyes, the lids of which were trembling.
Countess Martin would have wished Dechartre to give his opinion. But he excused himself with a sort of fright. "Do you know," said Schmoll again, "the parable of the three rings, sublime inspiration of a Portuguese Jew." Garain, while complimenting Paul Vence on his brilliant paradox, regretted that wit should be exercised at the expense of morality and justice.
There, between wood and coal yards, was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows. Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the obscure alley. She asked: "Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half-past seven. We are mad."
She was resigned to the appreciation of women only, and these had in their appreciation narrowness of mind, malignity, and envy. The artistic admiration of Dechartre astonished and pleased her. She received agreeably the praise he gave her, without thinking that perhaps it was too intimate and almost indiscreet. "So you look at gowns, Monsieur Dechartre?" No, he seldom looked at them.
They would cross the square and at once discover the masterpiece in stone. They went. They looked at the St. George and at the bronze St. Mark. Dechartre saw again on the wall the post-box, and he recalled with painful exactitude the little gloved hand that had dropped the letter. He thought it hideous, that copper mouth which had swallowed Therese's secret.
She did not think M. Le Menil was ever tiresome when talking of the hares that danced in the moonlight on the plains and among the vines. She would like to raise a hare, like Phanion. "Darling, you do not know Phanion. Oh, I am sure that Monsieur Dechartre knows her. She was beautiful, and dear to poets.
And I say to God: 'Since, in your anger, you gave to her riches and beauty, regard her, Lord, with kindness, and treat her in accordance with your sovereign mercy." And he went erect, and dragging his leg, along the populous avenue. Enveloped in a mantle of pink broad cloth, Therese went down the steps with Dechartre. He had come in the morning to Joinville.
One by Ricard represented Philippe Dechartre, very pale, with rumpled hair, and eyes lost in a romantic dream. The other showed a middle-aged woman, almost beautiful in her ardent slightness. It was Madame Philippe Dechartre. "My poor mother's room is like me," said Jacques; "it remembers." "You resemble your mother," said Therese; "you have her eyes. Paul Vence told me she adored you."
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