would have liked to arrive there at the same time, or, rather, to go
there together. They had thought it indispensable that he should remain
three or four days longer in Florence, but their meeting would not be
retarded beyond that. They had appointed a rendezvous, and she rejoiced
in the thought of it. She wore her love mingled with her being and
running in her blood. Still, a part of herself remained in the pavilion
decorated with goats and nymphs a part of herself which never would
return to her. In the full ardor of life, she was dying for things
infinitely delicate and precious. She recalled that Dechartre had said
to her: "Love likes charms. I gathered from the terrace the leaves of a
tree that you had admired." Why had she not thought of taking a stone of
the pavilion wherein she had forgotten the world?

A shout from Pauline drew her from her thoughts. Choulette, jumping from
a bush, had suddenly kissed the maid, who was carrying overcoats and bags
into the carriage. Now he was running through the alleys, joyful, his
ears standing out like horns. He bowed to the Countess Martin.

"I have, then, to say farewell to you, Madame."

He intended to remain in Italy. A lady was calling him, he said: it was
Rome. He wanted to see the cardinals. One of them, whom people praised
as an old man full of sense, would perhaps share the ideas of the
socialist and revolutionary church. Choulette had his aim: to plant on
the ruins of an unjust and cruel civilization the Cross of Calvary, not
dead and bare, but vivid, and with its flowery arms embracing the world.
He was founding with that design an order and a newspaper. Madame Martin
knew the order. The newspaper was to be sold for one cent, and to be
written in rhythmic phrases. It was a newspaper to be sung. Verse,
simple, violent, or joyful, was the only language that suited the people.