Two hours later, when the setting sun made immeasurably longer the shadows on the stones, Therese, who had wished to walk alone in the city, found herself in front of the two obelisks of Santa Maria Novella without knowing how she had reached there. She saw at the corner of the square the old cobbler drawing his string with his eternal gesture. He smiled, bearing his sparrow on his shoulder.
She went into the shop, and sat on a chair. She said in French:
“Quentin Matsys, my friend, what have I done, and what will become of me?”
He looked at her quietly, with laughing kindness, not understanding nor caring. Nothing astonished him. She shook her head.
“What I did, my good Quentin, I did because he was suffering, and because I loved him. I regret nothing.”
He replied, as was his habit, with the sonorous syllable of Italy:
“Si! si!”
“Is it not so, Quentin? I have not done wrong? But, my God! what will happen now?”
She prepared to go. He made her understand that he wished her to wait. He culled carefully a bit of basilick and offered it to her.
“For its fragrance, signora!”