mania for beautiful hands. Hands presented to his eyes a physiognomy as
striking as the face--a character, a soul. These hands enchanted him.
They were exquisite. He adored their slender fingers, their pink nails,
their palms soft and tender, traversed by lines as elegant as arabesques,
and rising at the base of the fingers in harmonious mounts. He examined
them with charmed attention until she closed them on the handle of her
umbrella. Then, standing behind her, he looked at her again. Her bust and
arms, graceful and pure in line, her beautiful form, which was like that
of a living amphora, pleased him.

"Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens, is
it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many flowers in
them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees."

It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of
her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it.

He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but
felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened,
seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things:

"That view is beautiful, The weather is fine."

CHAPTER XII

HEARTS AWAKENED

In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking
of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of
the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy,
who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the
illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and
resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in
language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the
adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half open, his eyes dark and
blue, dying, enchanted. And she had liked these marvels of a morning more
charming than a day. Dechartre was for her the soul of those magnificent
forms, the mind of those noble things. It was by him, it was through him,
that she understood art and life. She took no interest in things that did
not interest him. How had this affection come to her? She had no precise
remembrance of it. In the first place, when Paul Vence wished to
introduce him to her, she had no desire to know him, no presentiment that
he would please her. She recalled elegant bronze statuettes, fine
waxworks signed with his name, that she had remarked at the Champ de Mars
salon or at Durand-Ruel's. But s