tired, regretted
green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said:

"There are woods and rocks, a fair sky and white clouds. I have walked
there in the footsteps of good Saint Francis, and I transcribed his
canticle to the sun in old French rhymes, simple and poor."

Madame Martin said she would like to hear it. Miss Bell was already
listening, and her face wore the fervent expression of an angel
sculptured by Mino.

Choulette told them it was a rustic and artless work. The verses were not
trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven, for the sake
of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous voice, he recited the
canticle.

"Oh, Monsieur Choulette," said Miss Bell, "this canticle goes up to
heaven, like the hermit in the Campo Santo of Pisa, whom some one saw
going up the mountain that the goats liked. I will tell you. The old
hermit went up, leaning on the staff of faith, and his step was unequal
because the crutch, being on one side, gave one of his feet an advantage
over the other. That is the reason why your verses are unequal. I have
understood it."

The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly deserved
it.

"You have faith, Monsieur Choulette," said Therese. "Of what use is it to
you if not to write beautiful verses?"

"Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame."

"Oh, we commit sins without that."

Madame Marmet appeared, equipped for the journey, in the tranquil joy of
returning to her pretty apartment, her little dog Toby, her old friend
Lagrange, and to see again, after the Etruscans of Fiesole, the skeleton
warrior who, among the bonbon boxes, looked out of the window.

Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage.

CHAPTER XXV

"WE ARE ROBBING LIFE"

Dechartre came to the carriage to salute the two travellers. Separated
from him, Therese felt what he was to her: he had given to her a new
taste of life, delicious and so vivid, so real, that she felt it on her
lips. She lived under a charm in the dream of seeing him again, and was
surprised when Madame Marmet, along the journey, said: "I think we are
passing the frontier," or "Rose-bushes are in bloom by the seaside." She
was joyful when, after a night at the hotel in Marseilles, she saw the
gray olive-trees in the stony fields, then the mulberry-trees and the
distant profile of Mount Pilate, and the Rhone, and Lyons, and then the
familiar landscapes, the trees raising their summi