ge near Notre Dame. They had
loved each other that day--perhaps more than usual. Her heart softened
at that reminiscence. But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor
little flower skeleton, in her memory.

While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her
dress, followed her. One of them made propositions to her: a dinner and
the theatre. It amused her. She was not at all disturbed; this was not a
crisis. She thought: "How do other women manage such things? And I, who
promised myself not to spoil my life. What is life worth?"

Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil
disturbed by workmen. There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made
of a narrow flexible plank. She had stepped on it, when she saw at the
other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her. He recognized
her and bowed. It was Dechartre. She saw that he was happy to meet her;
she thanked him with a smile. He asked her permission to walk a few
steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space. In this
place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal
a glimpse of the sky.

He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of
her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively.

"Graceful movements," he added, "are like music for the eyes."

She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause
of her good health.

He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields. The
mystery of highways tempted him. He liked to travel. Although voyages
had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm.
He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the
Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother
country of his mind.

"I shall go there next week," he said. "I long to see again Ravenna
asleep among the black pines of its sterile shore. Have you seen
Ravenna, Madame? It is an enchanted tomb where sparkling phantoms
appear. The magic of death lies there. The mosaic works of Saint Vitale,
with their barbarous angels and their aureolated empresses, make one
feel the monstrous delights of the Orient. Despoiled to-day of its
silver lamels, the grave of Galla Placidia is frightful under its
crypt, luminous yet gloomy. When one looks through an opening in the
sarcophagus, it seems as if one saw the daughter of Theodosius,
seated on her golden chair, erect i