Choulette doubted that the poet meant dreams of the morning, which leave at awakening vivid and painful impressions, and which are not altogether strangers to the flesh.  But Dechartre had quoted these verses in the pleasure of the glorious dawn which he had seen that morning on the golden hills.  He had been, for a long time, troubled about the images that one sees in sleep, and he believed that these images were not related to the object that preoccupies one the most, but, on the contrary, to ideas abandoned during the day.

Therese recalled her morning dream, the hunter lost in the thicket.

“Yes,” said Dechartre, “the things we see at night are unfortunate remains of what we have neglected the day before.  Dreams avenge things one has disdained.  They are reproaches of abandoned friends.  Hence their sadness.”

She was lost in dreams for a moment, then she said: 

“That is perhaps true.”

Then, quickly, she asked Choulette if he had finished the portrait of Misery on his stick.  Misery had now become a figure of Piety, and Choulette recognized the Virgin in it.  He had even composed a quatrain which he was to write on it in spiral form—­a didactic and moral quatrain.  He would cease to write, except in the style of the commandments of God rendered into French verses.  The four lines expressed simplicity and goodness.  He consented to recite them.

Therese rested on the balustrade of the terrace and sought in the distance, in the depth of the sea of light, the peaks of Vallambrosa, almost as blue as the sky.  Jacques Dechartre looked at her.  It seemed to him that he saw her for the first time, such was the delicacy that he discovered in her face, which tenderness and intelligence had invested with thoughtfulness without altering its young, fresh grace.  The daylight which she liked, was indulgent to her.  And truly she was pretty, bathed in that light of Florence, which caresses beautiful forms and feeds noble thoughts.  A fine, pink color rose to her well-rounded cheeks; her eyes, bluish-gray, laughed; and when she talked, the brilliancy of her teeth set off her lips of ardent sweetness.  His look embraced her supple bust, her full hips, and the bold attitude of her waist.  She held her parasol with her left hand, the other hand played with violets.  Dechartre had a mania for beautiful hands.  Hands presented to his eyes a physiognomy as striking as the face—­a character, a soul.  These hands enchanted him.  They were exquisite.  He adored their slender fingers, their pink nails, their palms soft and tender, traversed by lines as elegant as arabesques, and rising at the base of the fingers in harmonious mounts.  He examined them with charmed attention until she closed them on the handle of her umbrella.  Then, standing behind her, he looked at her again.  Her bust and arms, graceful and pure in line, her beautiful form, which was like that of a living amphora, pleased him.