The Red Lily, vol 2 | Page 8

Roman applied to the Christians
who talked of divine love to him."
Dechartre, seated near Madame Martin, questioned her on her tastes
about art and beauty, sustained, led, animated her admirations, at times
prompted her with caressing brusquerie, wished her to see all that he
had seen, to love all that he loved.
He wished that she should go in the gardens at the first flush of spring.
He contemplated her in advance on the noble terraces; he saw already
the light playing on her neck and in her hair; the shadow of laurel-trees
falling on her eyes. For him the land and the sky of Florence had
nothing more to do than to serve as an adornment to this young woman.
He praised the simplicity with which she dressed, the characteristics of
her form and of her grace, the charming frankness of the lines which
every one of her movements created. He liked, he said, the animated
and living, subtle, and free gowns which one sees so rarely, which one
never forgets.
Although she had been much lauded, she had never heard praise which
had pleased her more. She knew she dressed well, with bold and sure
taste. But no man except her father had made to her on the subject the
compliments of an expert. She thought that men were capable of
feeling only the effect of a gown, without understanding the ingenious
details of it. Some men who knew gowns disgusted her by their
effeminate air. 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. There were so few women well dressed,
even now, when women dress as well as, and even better, than ever. He
found no pleasure in seeing packages of dry-goods walk. But if a
woman having rhythm and line passed before him, he blessed her.
He continued, in a tone a little more elevated:
"I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day,
without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists. She
dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost. We must,
like her, ornament life without thinking of the future. To paint, carve,
or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit."
"Monsieur Dechartre," asked Prince Albertinelli, "how do you think a
mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?"
"I think," said Choulette, "so little of a terrestrial future, that I have
written my finest poems on cigarette paper. They vanished easily,
leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence."
He had an air of negligence for which he posed. In fact, he had never
lost a line of his writing. Dechartre was more sincere. He was not
desirous of immortality. Miss Bell reproached him for this.
"Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put
into it the past and the future. Our works of poetry and of art must be
accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who
are to come after us. Thus we shall participate in what has been, in
what is, and in what shall be. You do not wish to be immortal,
Monsieur Dechartre? Beware, for God may hear you."
Dechartre replied:
"It would be enough for me to live one moment more."
And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort
Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel.

An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon citron-
trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head
on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was
thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life:
Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows,
ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad, and
looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince
Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas,
and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.
She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all
those that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no
longer tried to resist. She had always recognized his gift to please. She
discovered now that he had the will to please. This idea was delightful
to her; she closed her eyes to retain it. Then, suddenly, she shuddered.
She had felt a deep blow struck within her