xpected of
her.

"I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming
with me."

The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent
for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented.

CHAPTER VII

MADAME HAS HER WAY

The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran, and
the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell from
the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came and
went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a small
rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one's hand. Countess Martin
and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under the
rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions. Choulette
had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer. Yet he had
promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements to go, and
had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices. 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. She expected him no longer. She should not have counted on
his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment when the engine began
to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was looking out of the window,
said, quietly:

"I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming."

He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his
head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost
repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so
clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been
retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express
the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist. When she saw him, Therese
regretted having invited so strange a companion. He walked along,
throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which, little by
little, became sullen and distrustful. But when he recognized Madame
Martin, he smiled so sweetly and said good-morning to her in so caressing
a voice that nothing was left of the ferocious old vagabond walking on
the quay, nothing except the old carpet-bag, t