t he was
incapable of conceiving that one might talk without an object,
disinterestedly, and to express general ideas. He imagined that Countess
Martin-Belleme was suggesting to him projects that she wished him to
consider. And as he was thinking of defending himself and also avenging
himself, he made velvet eyes at her and talked with tender gallantry:

"You display, Madame, the pride of the beautiful and intelligent French
women whom subjection irritates. French women love liberty, and none of
them is as worthy of liberty as you. I have lived in France a little. I
have known and admired the elegant society of Paris, the salons, the
festivals, the conversations, the plays. But in our mountains, under our
olive-trees, we become rustic again. We assume golden-age manners, and
marriage is for us an idyl full of freshness."

Vivian Bell examined the statuette which Dechartre had left on the table.

"Oh! it was thus that Beatrice looked, I am sure. And do you know,
Monsieur Dechartre, there are wicked men who say that Beatrice never
existed?"

Choulette declared he wished to be counted among those wicked men. He did
not believe that Beatrice had any more reality than other ladies through
whom ancient poets who sang of love represented some scholastic idea,
ridiculously subtle.

Impatient at praise which was not destined for himself, jealous of Dante
as of the universe, a refined man of letters, Choulette continued:

"I suspect that the little sister of the angels never lived, except in
the imagination of the poet. It seems a pure allegory, or, rather, an
exercise in arithmetic or a theme of astrology. Dante, who was a good
doctor of Bologna and had many moons in his head, under his pointed
cap--Dante believed in the virtue of numbers. That inflamed mathematician
dreamed of figures, and his Beatrice is the flower of arithmetic, that is
all."

And he lighted his pipe.

Vivian Bell exclaimed:

"Oh, do not talk in that way, Monsieur Choulette. You grieve me much, and
if our friend Monsieur Gebhart heard you, he would not be pleased with
you. To punish you, Prince Albertinelli will read to you the canticle in
which Beatrice explains the spots on the moon. Take the Divine Comedy,
Eusebio. It is the white book which you see on the table. Open it and
read it."

During the Prince's reading, Dechartre, seated on the couch near Countess
Martin, talked of Dante with enthusiasm as the best sculptor among the
poets. He recal