asked whether that were true. Lagrange ceased to
smile. He replied indifferently that such objects concerned one of his
colleagues.

"Ah!" said Madame Martin, "then they are not in your showcase."

She observed that learned men were not curious, and that it is
indiscreet to question them on things that are not in their own
showcases. It is true that Lagrange had made a scientific fortune in
studying meteors. This had led him to study comets. But he was wise. For
twenty years he had been preoccupied by nothing except dining out.

When he had left, Countess Martin told Madame Marmet what she expected
of her.

"I am going next week to Fiesole, to visit Miss Bell, and you are coming
with me."

The good Madame Marmet, with placid brow yet searching eyes, was silent
for a moment; then she refused gently, but finally consented.

CHAPTER VII. MADAME HAS HER WAY

The Marseilles express was ready on the quay, where the postmen ran,
and the carriages rolled amid smoke and noise, under the light that fell
from the windows. Through the open doors travellers in long cloaks came
and went. At the end of the station, blinding with soot and dust, a
small rainbow could be discerned, not larger than one's hand. Countess
Martin and the good Madame Marniet were already in their carriage, under
the rack loaded with bags, among newspapers thrown on the cushions.
Choulette had not appeared, and Madame Martin expected him no longer.
Yet he had promised to be at the station. He had made his arrangements
to go, and had received from his publisher the price of Les Blandices.
Paul Vence had brought him one evening to Madame Martin's house. He
had been sweet, polished, full of witty gayety and naive joy. She had
promised herself much pleasure in travelling with a man of genius,
original, picturesquely ugly, with an amusing simplicity; like a child
prematurely old and abandoned, full of vices, yet with a certain degree
of innocence. The doors closed. She expected him no longer. She should
not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind. At the moment
when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was
looking out of the window, said, quietly:

"I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming."

He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his
head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag. He was almost
repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so
clear and lust