true joy. I shall be that
poet, Madame, if I can despoil myself of reason and of conceit. For all
moral beauty is achieved in this world through the inconceivable wisdom
that comes from God and resembles folly."

"I shall not discourage you, Monsieur Choulette. But I am anxious about
the fate which you reserve for the poor women in your new society. You
will imprison them all in convents."

"I confess," replied Choulette, "that they embarrass me a great deal in
my project of reform. The violence with which one loves them is harsh
and injurious. The pleasure they give is not peaceful, and does not lead
to joy. I have committed for them, in my life, two or three abominable
crimes of which no one knows. I doubt whether I shall ever invite you to
supper, Madame, in the new Saint Mary of the Angels." He took his pipe,
his carpet-bag, and his stick:

"The crimes of love shall be forgiven. Or, rather, one can not do
evil when one loves purely. But sensual love is formed of hatred,
selfishness, and anger as much as of passion. Because I found you
beautiful one night, on this sofa, I was assailed by a cloud of violent
thoughts. I had come from the Albergo, where I had heard Miss Bell's
cook improvise magnificently twelve hundred verses on Spring. I was
inundated by a celestial joy which the sight of you made me lose. It
must be that a profound truth is enclosed in the curse of Eve. For, near
you, I felt reckless and wicked. I had soft words on my lips. They were
lies. I felt that I was your adversary and your enemy; I hated you. When
I saw you smile, I felt a desire to kill you."

"Truly?"

"Oh, Madame, it is a very natural sentiment, which you must have
inspired more than once. But common people feel it without being
conscious of it, while my vivid imagination represents me to myself
incessantly. I contemplate my mind, at times splendid, often hideous.
If you had been able to read my mind that night you would have screamed
with fright."

Therese smiled:

"Farewell, Monsieur Choulette. Do not forget my medal of Saint Clara."

He placed his bag on the floor, raised his arm, and pointed his finger:

"You have nothing to fear from me. But the one whom you will love and
who will love you will harm you. Farewell, Madame."

He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form
disappear behind the bushes of the garden.

In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for
her. She desired yet