The Red Lily, vol 2 | Page 4

may wish to sample the author's ideas before making
an entire meal of them. D.W.]

THE RED LILY
By ANATOLE FRANCE

BOOK 2.
CHAPTER X
DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE
They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was
sketching monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know
what they would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express
rare ideas in odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in
this way that she often found her inspiration.
Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian 'O Lola'! His soft
fingers hardly touched the keys.
Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles

that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a
needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and
which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences and the
strength of the good advice that he had received from it. He thought he
had lost it in the hall devoted to historic subjects in the Pitti Palace; and
he blamed for this loss the Medicis and all the Italian painters.
Looking at Miss Bell with an evil eye, he said:
"I compose verses while mending my clothes. I like to work with my
hands. I sing songs to myself while sweeping my room; that is the
reason why my songs have gone to the hearts of men, like the old songs
of the farmers and artisans, which are even more beautiful than mine,
but not more natural. I have pride enough not to want any other servant
than myself. The sacristan's widow offered to repair my clothes. I
would not permit her to do it. It is wrong to make others do servilely
for us work which we can do ourselves with noble pride."
The Prince was nonchalantly playing his nonchalant music. Therese,
who for eight days had been running to churches and museums in the
company of Madame Marmet, was thinking of the annoyance which
her companion caused her by discovering in the faces of the old
painters resemblances to persons she knew. In the morning, at the
Ricardi Palace, on the frescoes of Gozzoli, she had recognized M.
Gamin, M. Lagrange, M. Schmoll, the Princess Seniavine as a page,
and M. Renan on horseback. She was terrified at finding M. Renan
everywhere. She led all her ideas back to her little circle of
academicians and fashionable people, by an easy turn, which irritated
her friend. She recalled in her soft voice the public meetings at the
Institute, the lectures at the Sorbonne, the evening receptions where
shone the worldly and the spiritualist philosophers. As for the women,
they were all charming and irreproachable. She dined with all of them.
And Therese thought: "She is too prudent. She bores me." And she
thought of leaving her at Fiesole and visiting the churches alone.
Employing a word that Le Menil had taught her, she said to herself:
"I will 'plant' Madame Marmet."

A lithe old man came into the parlor. His waxed moustache and his
white imperial made him look like an old soldier; but his glance
betrayed, under his glasses, the fine softness of eyes worn by science
and voluptuousness. He was a Florentine, a friend of Miss Bell and of
the Prince, Professor Arrighi, formerly adored by women, and now
celebrated in Tuscany for his studies of agriculture. He pleased the
Countess Martin at once. She questioned him on his methods, and on
the results he obtained from them. He said that he worked with prudent
energy. "The earth," he said, "is like women. The earth does not wish
one to treat it with either timidity or brutality." The Ave Maria rang in
all the campaniles, seeming to make of the sky an immense instrument
of religious music. "Darling," said Miss Bell, "do you observe that the
air of Florence is made sonorous and silvery at night by the sound of
the bells?"
"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.
Choulette approached Madame Marmet, and said, gravely "Madame
Marmet, is it possible for you to look at a door--a simple, painted,
wooden door like yours, I suppose, or like mine, or like this one, or like
any other --without being terror-stricken at the thought of the visitor
who might, at any moment, come in? The door of one's room, Madame
Marmet, opens on the infinite. Have you ever thought of that? Does one
ever know the true name of the man or woman, who, under a human
guise, with a known face, in