Mont
Blanc? It is not possible. This landscape has the beauty of an antique
medal and of a precious painting. It is a perfect and measured work of
art. And here is another thing that I do not know how to say, that I
can not even understand, but which is a real thing. In this country I
feel--and you will feel as I do, darling--half alive and half dead; in
a condition which is sad, noble, and very sweet. Look, look again; you
will realize the melancholy of those hills that surround Florence, and
see a delicious sadness ascend from the land of the dead."

The sun was low over the horizon. The bright points of the
mountain-peaks faded one by one, while the clouds inflamed the sky.
Madame Marmet sneezed.

Miss Bell sent for some shawls, and warned the French women that the
evenings were fresh and that the night-air was dangerous.

Then suddenly she said:

"Darling, you know Monsieur Jacques Dechartre? Well, he wrote to me that
he would be at Florence next week. I am glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre
is to meet you in our city. He will accompany us to the churches and
to the museums, and he will be a good guide. He understands beautiful
things, because he loves them. And he has an exquisite talent as a
sculptor. His figures in medallions are admired more in England than in
France. Oh, I am so glad Monsieur Jacques Dechartre and you are to meet
at Florence, darling!"

CHAPTER IX. CHOULETTE FINDS A NEW FRIEND

She next day, as they were traversing the square where are planted, in
imitation of antique amphitheatres, two marble pillars, Madame Marmet
said to the Countess Martin:

"I think I see Monsieur Choulette."

Seated in a shoemaker's shop, his pipe in his hand, Choulette was making
rhythmic gestures, and appeared to be reciting verses. The Florentine
cobbler listened with a kind smile. He was a little, bald man, and
represented one of the types familiar to Flemish painters. On a table,
among wooden lasts, nails, leather, and wax, a basilic plant displayed
its round green head. A sparrow, lacking a leg, which had been replaced
by a match, hopped on the old man's shoulder and head.

Madame Martin, amused by this spectacle, called Choulette from the
threshold. He was softly humming a tune, and she asked him why he had
not gone with her to visit the Spanish chapel.

He arose and replied:

"Madame, you are preoccupied by vain images; but I live in life and in
truth."

He shook the cobbler's hand and followed