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 in the depth of her being. She
had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods. He
walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket. She could not
see his face, and that troubled her. She bore him no ill-will. She was
not discontented with him, but with herself. Robert went straight on,
without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only a
black point in the desolate wood. She thought that perhaps she had been
capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, without
even a letter. He was her lover and her only friend. She never had had
another. "I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me," she
thought.

Little by little she was reassured. He loved her, doubtless; but he was
not susceptible, not ingenious, happily, in tormenting himself. She said
to herself:

"He is hunting and enjoying the sport. He is w