What made her anxious was a sly smile on the Prince’s face.

“Darling, do you wish a place near me in that rustic cemetery?  Shall we rest side by side under a little earth and a great deal of sky?  But I do wrong to extend to you an invitation which you can not accept.  It will not be permitted to you to sleep your eternal sleep at the foot of the hill of Fiesole, my love.  You must rest in Paris, in a handsome tomb, by the side of Count Martin-Belleme.”

“Why?  Do you think, dear, that the wife must be united to her husband even after death?”

“Certainly she must, darling.  Marriage is for time and for eternity.  Do you not know the history of a young pair who loved each other in the province of Auvergne?  They died almost at the same time, and were placed in two tombs separated by a road.  But every night a sweetbrier bush threw from one tomb to the other its flowery branches.  The two coffins had to be buried together.”

When they had passed the Badia, they saw a procession coming up the side of the hill.  The wind blew on the candles borne in gilded wooden candlesticks.  The girls of the societies, dressed in white and blue, carried painted banners.  Then came a little St. John, blond, curly-haired, nude, under a lamb’s fleece which showed his arms and shoulders; and a St. Mary Magdalene, seven years old, crowned only with her waving golden hair.  The people of Fiesole followed.  Countess Martin recognized Choulette among them.  With a candle in one hand, a book in the other, and blue spectacles on the end of his nose, he was singing.  His unkempt beard moved up and down with the rhythm of the song.  In the harshness of light and shade that worked in his face, he had an air that suggested a solitary monk capable of accomplishing a century of penance.

“How amusing he is!” said Therese.  “He is making a spectacle of himself for himself.  He is a great artist.”

“Darling, why will you insist that Monsieur Choulette is not a pious man?  Why?  There is much joy and much beauty in faith.  Poets know this.  If Monsieur Choulette had not faith, he could not write the admirable verses that he does.”

“And you, dear, have you faith?”

“Oh, yes; I believe in God and in the word of Christ.”

Now the banners and the white veils had disappeared down the road.  But one could see on the bald cranium of Choulette the flame of the candle reflected in rays of gold.

Dechartre, however, was waiting alone in the garden.  Therese found him resting on the balcony of the terrace where he had felt the first sufferings of love.  While Miss Bell and the Prince were trying to fix upon a suitable place for the campanile, Dechartre led his beloved under the trees.

“You promised me that you would be in the garden when I came.  I have been waiting for you an hour, which seemed eternal.  You were not to go out.  Your absence has surprised and grieved me.”