r 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.

"Monsieur Dechartre, that black spot over there is the Boboli Gardens,
is it not? I saw the gardens three years ago. There were not many
flowers in them. Nevertheless, I liked their tall, sombre trees."

It astonished him that she talked, that she thought. The clear sound of
her voice amazed him, as if he never had heard it.

He replied at random. He was awkward. She feigned not to notice it, but
felt a deep inward joy. His low voice, which was veiled and softened,
seemed to caress her. She said ordinary things:

"That view is beautiful, The weather is fine."

CHAPTER XII. HEARTS AWAKENED

In the morning, her head on the embroidered pillow, Therese was thinking
of the walks of the day before; of the Virgins, framed with angels; of
the innumerable children, painted or carved, all beautiful, all happy,
who sing ingenuously the Alleluia of grace and of beauty. In the
illustrious chapel of the Brancacci, before those frescoes, pale and
resplendent as a divine dawn, he had talked to her of Masaccio, in
language so vivid that it had seemed to her as if she had seen him, the
adolescent master of the masters, his mouth half op