As they came out of the palazzo, in order to avoid the wind which was blowing on the river, Miss Bell led her friends into the old streets with black stone houses and a view of the distant horizon, where, in the pure air, stands a hill with three slender trees.  They walked; and Vivian showed to her friend, on facades where red rags were hanging, some marble masterpiece—­a Virgin, a lily, a St. Catherine.  They walked through these alleys of the antique city to the church of Or San Michele, where it had been agreed that Dechartre should meet them.  Therese was thinking of him now with deepest interest.  Madame Marmet was thinking of buying a veil; she hoped to find one on the Corso.  This affair recalled to her M. Lagrange, who, at his regular lecture one day, took from his pocket a veil with gold dots and wiped his forehead with it, thinking it was his handkerchief.  The audience was astonished, and whispered to one another.  It was a veil that had been confided to him the day before by his niece, Mademoiselle Jeanne Michot, whom he had accompanied to the theatre, and Madame Marmet explained how, finding it in the pocket of his overcoat, he had taken it to return it to his niece.

At Lagrange’s name, Therese recalled the flaming comet announced by the savant, and said to herself, with mocking sadness, that it was time for that comet to put an end to the world and take her out of her trouble.  But above the walls of the old church she saw the sky, which, cleared of clouds by the wind from the sea, shone pale blue and cold.  Miss Bell showed to her one of the bronze statues which, in their chiselled niches, ornament the facade of the church.

“See, darling, how young and proud is Saint George.  Saint George was formerly the cavalier about whom young girls dreamed.”

But “darling” said that he looked precise, tiresome, and stubborn.  At this moment she recalled suddenly the letter that was still in her pocket.

“Ah! here comes Monsieur Dechartre,” said the good Madame Marmet.

He had looked for them in the church, before the tabernacle.  He should have recalled the irresistible attraction which Donatello’s St. George held for Miss Bell.  He too admired that famous figure.  But he retained a particular friendship for St. Mark, rustic and frank, whom they could see in his niche at the left.

When Therese approached the statue which he was pointing out to her, she saw a post-box against the wall of the narrow street opposite the saint.  Dechartre, placed at the most convenient point of view, talked of his St. Mark with abundant friendship.

“It is to him I make my first visit when I come to Florence.  I failed to do this only once.  He will forgive me; he is an excellent man.  He is not appreciated by the crowd, and does not attract attention.  I take pleasure in his society, however.  He is vivid.  I understand that Donatello, after giving a soul to him, exclaimed:  ‘Mark, why do you not speak?’”