“If that creature were to ask this evening for one of the atrocious books in which atheists nowadays laugh everything to scorn, the young Chevalier would come and saddle his horse with his own hands, to ride off at a gallop to fetch it for her from Nantes. I do not know that Calyste would do so much for the Church. And then, Bretonne as she is, she is not a Royalist. If it were necessary to march out, gun in hand, for the good cause, should Mademoiselle des Touches—or Camille Maupin, for that, I remember, is her name—want to keep Calyste with her, your son would let his old father set out alone.”
“No,” said the Baroness.
“I should not like to put him to the test, you might feel it too painfully,” replied the Curé. “All Guérande is in a commotion over the Chevalier’s passion for this amphibious creature that is neither man nor woman, who smokes like a trooper, writes like a journalist, and, at this moment, has under her roof the most malignant writer of them all, according to the postmaster—a trimmer who reads all the papers. It is talked of at Nantes. This morning the Kergarouët cousin, who wants to see Charlotte married to a man who has sixty thousand francs a year, came to call on Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, and turned her head with roundabout tales about Mademoiselle des Touches which lasted seven hours.—There is a quarter to ten striking by the church clock, and Calyste is not come in; he is at les Touches—perhaps he will not come back till morning.”
The Baroness listened to the Curé, who had unconsciously substituted monologue for dialogue; he was looking at this lamb of his flock, reading her uneasy thoughts in her face. The Baroness was blushing and trembling. When the Abbé Grimont saw tears in the distressed mother’s beautiful eyes, he was deeply touched.
“I will see Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël tomorrow, be comforted,” said he, in an encouraging tone. “The mischief is, perhaps, not so great as rumor says; I will find out the truth. Besides, Mademoiselle Jacqueline has confidence in me. Again, we have brought up Calyste, and he will not allow himself to be bewitched by the demon; he will do nothing to disturb the peace of his family, or the plans we are making for his future life. Do not weep; all is not lost, madame; one fault is not vice.”
“You only tell me the details,” said the Baroness. “Was not I the first to perceive the change in Calyste? A mother feels keenly the pain of being second in her son’s affections, the grief of not being alone in his heart. That phase of a man’s life is one of the woes of motherhood; but though I knew it must come, I did not expect it so soon. And, then, I could have wished that he should have taken into his heart some beautiful and noble creature, not a mere actress, a posture-maker, a woman who frequents theatres, an authoress accustomed to feign feeling, a bad woman who will deceive him and make him wretched. She has had ‘affairs?’ ”
“With many men,” said the Abbé Grimont. “And yet this miscreant was born in Brittany. She is a disgrace to her native soil. On Sunday I will preach a sermon about her.”
“By no means!” exclaimed the Baroness. “The marshmen and peasants are capable of attacking les Touches. Calyste is worthy of his name; he is a true Breton; and some evil might come of it if he were there, for he would fight for her as if she were the Blessed Virgin.”
“It is striking ten; I will bid you good night,” said the Abbé, lighting the oribus of his lantern, of which the clear glass panes and glittering metalwork showed his housekeeper’s minute care for all the concerns of the house. “Who could have told me, madame,” he went on, “that a young man nursed at your breast, brought up by me in Christian ideas, a fervent Catholic, a boy who lived like a lamb without spot, would plunge into such a foul bog?”
“But is that quite certain?” said the mother. “And, after all, how could any woman help loving Calyste?”
“No proof is needed beyond that witch’s prolonged stay at les Touches. During twenty-four years, since she came of age, this is the longest visit she has paid here. Happily for us, her apparitions have hitherto been brief.”
“A woman past forty!” said the Baroness. “I have heard it said in Ireland that such a woman is the most dangerous mistress a young man can have.”
“On that point I am ignorant,” replied the Curé. “Nay, and I shall die in my ignorance.”
“Alas! and so shall I,” said the Baroness. “I wish now that I had ever been in love, to be able to study, advise, and comfort Calyste.”
The priest did not cross the clean little courtyard alone; Madame du Guénic went with him as far as the gate, in the hope of hearing Calyste’s step in Guérande; but she heard only the heavy sound of the Abbé’s deliberate tread, which grew fainter in the distance, and ceased when the shutting of the priest’s door echoed through the silent town.
The poor mother went indoors in despair at learning that the whole town was informed of what she had believed herself alone in knowing. She sat down, revived the lamp by cutting the wick with a pair of old scissors, and took up the worsted work she was accustomed to do while waiting for Calyste. She flattered herself that she thus induced her son to come home earlier, to spend less time with Mademoiselle des Touches. But this stratagem of maternal jealousy was in vain. Calyste’s visits to les Touches became more and more
