CHAPTER XV. THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

Therese, after quitting Dechartre, took breakfast with her friend

and Madame Marmet at the house of an old Florentine lady whom Victor

Emmanuel had loved when he was Duke of Savoy. For thirty years she had

not once gone out of her palace on the Arno, where, she painted, and

wearing a wig, she played the guitar in her spacious white salon. She

received the best society of Florence, and Miss Bell often called on

her. At table this recluse, eighty-seven years of age, questioned the

Countess Martin on the fashionable world of Paris, whose movement was

familiar to her through the journals. Solitary, she retained respect and

a sort of devotion for the world of pleasure.

As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was

blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets

with black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in

the pure air, stands a hill with three slender trees. They walked; and

Vivian showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging,

some marble masterpiece--a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine. They

walked through these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or

San Michele, where it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them.

Therese was thinking of him now with deepest interest. Madame Marmet

was thinking of buying a veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso. This

affair recalled to her M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day,

took from his pocket a veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with

it, thinking it was his handkerchief. The audience was astonished, and

whispered to one another. It was a veil that had been confided to him

the day before by his niece, Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had

accompanied to the theatre, and Madame Marmet explained how, finding

it in the pocket of his overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his

niece.

At Lagrange’s name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the

savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for

that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble.

But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared

of clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold. Miss

Bell showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled

niches, ornament the facade of the church.

“See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George. Saint George was

formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed.”

But “darling” said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn.

At this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her

pocket.

“Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre,” said the good Madame Marmet.

He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle. He should

have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello’s St. George

held for Miss Bell. He too admired that famous figure. But he retained

a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could

see in his niche at the left.

When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she

saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint.

Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his

St. Mark with abundant friendship.

“It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence. I failed to

do this only once. He will forgive me; he is an excellent man. He is

not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention. I take

pleasure in his society, however. He is vivid. I understand that

Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed: ‘Mark, why do you not

speak?’”

Madame Marmet, tired of admiring St. Mark, and feeling on her face the

burning wind, dragged Miss Bell toward Calzaioli Street in search of a

veil.

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.”

“Ah,” she said, “I have forgotten his name. When we talk with Monsieur

Choulette we call him Quentin Matsys, because he resembles the old men

of that painter.”

As they were turning the corner of the church to see the facade, she

found herself before the post-box, which was so dusty and rusty that it

seemed as if the postman never came near it. She put her letter in it

under the ingenuous gaze of St. Mark.

Dechartre saw her, and felt as if a heavy blow had been struck at

his heart. He tried to speak, to smile; but the gloved hand which had

dropped the letter remained before his eyes. He recalled having seen in

the morning Therese’s letters on the hall tray. Why had she not put

that one with the others? The reason was not hard to guess. He remained

immovable, dreamy, and gazed without seeing. He tried to be reassured;

perhaps it was an insignificant letter which she was trying to hide from

the tiresome curiosity of Madame Marmet.

“Monsieur Dechartre, it is time to rejoin our friends at the

dressmaker’s.”

Perhaps it was a letter to Madame Schmoll, who was not a friend of

Madame Marmet, but immediately he realized that this idea was foolish.

All was clear. She had a lover. She was writing to him. Perhaps she was

saying to him: “I saw Dechartre to-day; the poor fellow is deeply in

love with me.” But whether she wrote that or something else, she had a

lover. He had not thought of that. To know that she belonged to another

made him suffer profoundly. And that hand, that little hand dropping the

letter, remained in his eyes and made them burn.

She did not know why he had become suddenly dumb and sombre. When she

saw him throw an anxious glance back at the post-box, she guessed the

reason. She thought it odd that he should be jealous without having the

right to be jealous; but this did not displease her.

When they reached the Corso, they saw Miss Bell and Madame Marmet coming

out of the dressmaker’s shop.

Dechartre said to Therese, in an imperious and supplicating voice:

“I must speak to you. I must see you alone tomorrow; meet me at six

o’clock at the Lungarno Acciaoli.”

She made no reply.