of a district made ugly by progress of population.

In fine, notwithstanding its appearance of ruin and its green drapery,
that little house had its charm. Suddenly and instinctively, Therese
discovered in it other harmonies. In the elegant negligence which
extended from the walls covered with vines to the darkened panes of the
studio, and even in the bent tree, the bark of which studded with its
shells the wild grass of the courtyard, she divined the mind of the
master, nonchalant, not skilful in preserving, living in the long
solitude of passionate men. She had in her joy a sort of grief at
observing this careless state in which her lover left things around him.
She found in it a sort of grace and nobility, but also a spirit of
indifference contrary to her own nature, opposite to the interested and
careful mind of the Montessuys. At once she thought that, without
spoiling the pensive softness of that rough corner, she would bring to it
her well-ordered activity; she would have sand thrown in the alley, and
in the angle wherein a little sunlight came she would put the gayety of
flowers. She looked sympathetically at a statue which had come there
from some park, a Flora, lying on the earth, eaten by black moss, her two
arms lying by her sides. She thought of raising her soon, of making of
her a centrepiece for a fountain. Dechartre, who for an hour had been
watching for her coming, joyful, anxious, trembling in his agitated
happiness, descended the steps. In the fresh shade of the vestibule,
wherein she divined confusedly the severe splendor of bronze and marble
statues, she stopped, troubled by the beatings of her heart, which
throbbed with all its might in her chest. He pressed her in his arms and
kissed her. She heard him, through the tumult of her temples, recalling
to her the short delights of the day before. She saw again the lion of
the Atlas on the carpet, and returned to Jacques his kisses with
delicious slowness. He led her, by a wooden stairway, into the vast hall