you."

They went down together to the street. She was to take a carriage a
little farther on and precede him at her house by a few minutes.

"My husband expects you to breakfast."

They talked, on the way, of insignificant things, which their love made
great and charming. They arranged their afternoon in advance in order to
put into it the infinity of profound joy and of ingenious pleasure. She
consulted him about her gowns. She could not decide to leave him, happy
to walk with him in the streets, which the sun and the gayety of noon
filled. When they reached the Avenue des Ternes they saw before them,
on the avenue, shops displaying side by side a magnificent abundance
of food. There were chains of chickens at the caterer's, and at the
fruiterer's boxes of apricots and peaches, baskets of grapes, piles
of pears. Wagons filled with fruits and flowers bordered the sidewalk.
Under the awning of a restaurant men and women were taking breakfast.
Therese recognized among them, alone, at a small table against a
laurel-tree in a box, Choulette lighting his pipe.

Having seen her, he threw superbly a five-franc piece on the table,
rose, and bowed. He was grave; his long frock-coat gave him an air of
decency and austerity.

He said he should have liked to call on Madame Martin at Dinard, but he
had been detained in the Vendee by the Marquise de Rieu. However, he
had issued a new edition of the Jardin Clos, augmented by the Verger de
Sainte-Claire. He had moved souls which were thought to be insensible,
and had made springs come out of rocks.

"So," he said, "I was, in a fashion, a Moses."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew from a book a letter, worn and
spotted.

"This is what Madame Raymond, the Academician's wife, writes me. I
publish what she says, because it is creditable to her."

And, unfolding the thin leaves, he read:

"I have made your book known to my husband, who exclaimed: 'It is pure
spiritualism. Here is a closed garden, which on the side of the lilies
and white roses has, I imagine, a small gate opening on the road to the
Academie.'"

Choulette relished these phrases, mingled in his mouth with the perfume
of whiskey, and replaced carefully the letter in its book.

Madame Martin congratulated the poet on being Madame Raymond's
candidate.

"You should be mine, Monsieur Choulette, if I were interested in
Academic elections. But does the Institute excite your envy?"

He kept for a few moments a sole