He continued, in a tone a little more elevated: 

“I can not think of a woman who takes care to deck herself every day, without meditating on the great lesson which she gives to artists.  She dresses for a few hours, and the care she has taken is not lost.  We must, like her, ornament life without thinking of the future.  To paint, carve, or write for posterity is only the silliness of conceit.”

“Monsieur Dechartre,” asked Prince Albertinelli, “how do you think a mauve waist studded with silver flowers would become Miss Bell?”

“I think,” said Choulette, “so little of a terrestrial future, that I have written my finest poems on cigarette paper.  They vanished easily, leaving to my verses only a sort of metaphysical existence.”

He had an air of negligence for which he posed.  In fact, he had never lost a line of his writing.  Dechartre was more sincere.  He was not desirous of immortality.  Miss Bell reproached him for this.

“Monsieur Dechartre, that life may be great and complete, one must put into it the past and the future.  Our works of poetry and of art must be accomplished in honor of the dead and with the thought of those who are to come after us.  Thus we shall participate in what has been, in what is, and in what shall be.  You do not wish to be immortal, Monsieur Dechartre?  Beware, for God may hear you.”

Dechartre replied: 

“It would be enough for me to live one moment more.”

And he said good-night, promising to return the next day to escort Madame Martin to the Brancacci chapel.

An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life:  Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows, ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.

She thought he had a charming imagination, a mind richer than all those that had been revealed to her, and an attraction which she no longer tried to resist.  She had always recognized his gift to please.  She discovered now that he had the will to please.  This idea was delightful to her; she closed her eyes to retain it.  Then, suddenly, she shuddered.  She had felt a deep blow struck within her in the depth of her being.  She had a sudden vision of Robert, his gun under his arm, in the woods.  He walked with firm and regular step in the shadowy thicket.  She could not see his face, and that troubled her.  She bore him no ill-will.  She was not discontented with him, but with herself.  Robert went straight on, without turning his head, far, and still farther, until he was only a black point in the desolate wood.  She thought that perhaps she had been capricious and harsh in leaving him without a word of farewell, without even a letter.  He was her lover and her only friend.  She never had had another.  “I do not wish him to be unfortunate because of me,” she thought.