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Updated: June 2, 2025
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.
In the first place, when Paul Vence wished to introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, no presentiment that he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze statuettes, fine waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked at the Champ de Mars salon or at Durand-Ruel's.
Here came the Renaissance, and Vence had eager, if not famous sculptors, painters, and organ-builders, and a family of artists whom even the dilettante Francis I deigned to patronise. Such memories of a busy, energetic past seem fairy-tales to those who walk to-day about the dark and narrow streets of Vence.
But I see you prefer to be witty only in tete-a-tetes." Count Martin-Belleme escorted the men to the smoking-room. Paul Vence alone remained with the women. Princess Seniavine asked him if he had finished his novel, and what was the subject of it. It was a study in which he tried to reach the truth through a series of plausible conditions.
M. Martin-Belleme said everyone should bow before such reasons, and that one was too happy to read the articles and the fine books written by M. Paul Vence to have any wish to take him from his work. "Oh, my books! One never says in a book what one wishes to say. It is impossible to express one's self.
"My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one." A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed with brusque suppleness. "Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil." They had met before at Madame Martin's, and saw each other often at the Fencing Club.
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.
"Thus," he said, "the novel acquires a moral force which history, in its heavy frivolity, never had." She inquired whether the book was written for women. He said it was not. "You are wrong, Monsieur Vence, not to write for women. A superior man can do nothing else for them." He wished to know what gave her that idea. "Because I see that all the intelligent women love fools." "Who bore them."
Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin's house. He had been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius, original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree of innocence. The doors closed.
The Princess asked whether she found what she was reading amusing. "I do not know. I was reading and thinking. Paul Vence is right: 'We find only ourselves in books." Through the hangings came from the billiard-room the voices of the players and the click of the balls. "I have it!" exclaimed the Princess, throwing down the cards.
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