e
her too vividly in her tomb. She frightens me. Shall you go to Venice,
Monsieur Dechartre? Or are you tired of gondolas, of canals bordered by
palaces, and of the pigeons of Saint Mark? I confess that I still like
Venice, after being there three times."

He said she was right. He, too, liked Venice.

Whenever he went there, from a sculptor he became a painter, and made
studies. He would like to paint its atmosphere.

"Elsewhere," he said, "even in Florence, the sky is too high. At Venice
it is everywhere; it caresses the earth and the water. It envelops
lovingly the leaden domes and the marble facades, and throws into the
iridescent atmosphere its pearls and its crystals. The beauty of Venice
is in its sky and its women. What pretty creatures the Venetian women
are! Their forms are so slender and supple under their black shawls. If
nothing remained of these women except a bone, one would find in that
bone the charm of their exquisite structure. Sundays, at church, they
form laughing groups, agitated, with hips a little pointed, elegant
necks, flowery smiles, and inflaming glances. And all bend, with the
suppleness of young animals, at the passage of a priest whose head
resembles that of Vitellius, and who carries the chalice, preceded by two
choir-boys."

He walked with unequal step, following the rhythm of his ideas, sometimes
quick, sometimes slow. She walked more regularly, and almost outstripped
him. He looked at her sidewise, and liked her firm and supple carriage.
He observed the little shake which at moments her obstinate head gave to
the holly on her toque.

Without expecting it, he felt a charm in that meeting, almost intimate,
with a young woman almost unknown.

They had reached the place where the large avenue unfolds its four rows
of trees. They were following the stone parapet surmounted by a hedge of
boxwood, which entirely hides the ugliness of the buildings on the quay.
One felt the presence of the river by the milky atmosphere which in misty
days seems to rest on the water. The sky was clear. The lights of the
city were mingled with the stars. At the south shone the three golden
nails of the Orion belt. Dechartre continued:

"Last year, at Venice, every morning as I went out of my house, I saw at
her door, raised by three steps above the canal, a charming girl, with
small head, neck round and strong, and graceful hips. She was there, in
the sun and surrounded by vermin, as pure as an amphora,