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The Bell villa took, from a distance, an air of sentimental fantasy. She felt herself that she was too closely observed at Resole. Madame Marmet annoyed her. Prince Albertinelli disquieted her. The meetings in the pavilion of the Via Alfieri had become difficult and dangerous.
We were wet and frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious quarrel?
"The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else knew a word of that language, the last vestige of which is lost.
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.
The whistler, reindeer, mountain sheep and goat, ermine, musk-rat, marmet, wolf and bear, are tracked and trapped by the red-man; but I doubt if the foot of the white-man is likely to venture far into the almost impenetrable confusion of logs and brush that is the distinguishing feature of the Alaskan wilderness.
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.
He drew from it several puffs of infectious vapor, then he continued, tranquilly: "And it would be practical. You may refuse to acknowledge any quality in me except my clear view of situations. Ah, Madame Marmet, you will never know how true it is that the great works of this world were always achieved by madmen.
When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously of Paul Vence if he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know. "I never know anything," she said. "But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at the death of Marmet. "The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling.
She added, brusquely: "You know Miss Bell has invited me to spend a month with her at Fiesole. I have accepted; I am going." Less astonished than discontented, he asked her with whom she was going. At once she answered: "With Madame Marmet." There was no objection to make.
We were wet and frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read under his umbrella a speech full of jovial cruelty and triumphant pity, which he took afterward to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious quarrel?
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