“And those lovely smooth cheeks,” thought she, “where the rich young blood flows in a thousand tiny veins, belong to another woman, who is mistress, too, of that girl-like brow? Passion will stamp them with its agitations, and dim those fine eyes, as liquid now as a child’s!”
The bitter thought fell heavy on Madame du Guénic’s heart, and spoilt her pleasure.
It must seem strange that, in a family where six persons were obliged to live on three thousand francs a year, the son should have a velvet coat, and the mother a velvet dress; but Fanny O’Brien had rich relations and aunts in London, who reminded the Breton Baroness of their existence by sending her presents. Some of her sisters, having married well, took an interest in Calyste so far as to think of finding him a rich wife, knowing that he was as handsome and as wellborn as their exiled favorite Fanny.
“You stayed later at les Touches than you did yesterday, my darling?” she said at last, in a broken voice.
“Yes, mother dear,” replied he, without adding any explanation.
The brevity of the answer brought a cloud to his mother’s brow; she postponed any explanation till the morrow. When mothers are disturbed by such alarms as the Baroness felt at this moment, they almost tremble before their sons; they instinctively feel the effects of the great emancipation of love; they understand all that this new feeling will rob them of; but, at the same time, they are, in a sense, glad of their son’s happiness; there is a fierce struggle in their heart. Though the result is that the son is grown up, and on a higher level, true mothers do not like their tacit abdication; they would rather keep their child little and wanting care. That, perhaps, is the secret of mothers’ favoritism for weakly, deformed, and helpless children.
“You are very tired, dear child,” said she, swallowing down her tears. “Go to bed.”
A mother who does not know everything her son is doing thinks of him as lost when she loves and is as well loved as Fanny. And perhaps any other mother would have quaked in her place as much as Madame du Guénic. The patience of twenty years might be made useless. Calyste—a human masterpiece of noble, prudent, and religious training—might be ruined; the happiness so carefully prepared for him might be destroyed forever by a woman.
Next day Calyste slept till noon, for his mother would not allow him to be roused; Mariotte gave the spoilt boy his breakfast in bed. The immutable and almost conventual rule that governed the hours of meals yielded to the young gentleman’s caprices. Indeed, when at any time it was necessary to obtain Mademoiselle du Guénic’s bunch of keys to get out something between meals which would necessitate interminable explanations, the only way of doing it was to plead some whim of Calyste’s.
At about one o’clock, the Baron, his wife, and Mademoiselle were sitting in the dining-room; they dined at three. The Baroness had taken up the Quotidienne, and was finishing it to her husband, who was always rather more wakeful before his meals. Just as she had done, Madame du Guénic heard her son’s step on the floor above, and laid down the paper, saying:
“Calyste, I suppose, is dining at les Touches again today; he has just finished dressing.”
“He takes his pleasure—that boy!” said the old lady, pulling a silver whistle out of her pocket, and whistling once.
Mariotte came through the turret, making her appearance at the door, which was hidden by a silk damask curtain, like those at the windows.
“Yes,” said she, “did you please to want anything?”
“The Chevalier is dining at les Touches; we shall not want the fish.”
“Well, we do not know yet,” said the Baroness.
“You seem vexed about it, sister; I know by the tone of your voice,” said the blind woman.
“Monsieur Grimont has learnt some serious facts about Mademoiselle des Touches, who, during the last year, has done so much to change our dear Calyste.”
“In what way?” asked the Baron.
“Well, he reads all sorts of books.”
“Ah, ha!” said the Baron; “then that is why he neglects hunting and riding.”
“She leads a very reprehensible life, and calls herself by a man’s name,” Madame du Guénic went on.
“A nickname among comrades,” said the old man. “I used to be called ‘l’Intimé,’ the Comte de Fontaine was ‘Grand-Jacques,’ the Marquis de Montauran was ‘le Gars.’ I was a great friend of ‘Ferdinand’s’; he did not submit, any more than I did. Those were good times! There was plenty of fighting, and we had some fun here and there, all the same.”
These reminiscences of the war, thus taking the place of paternal anxiety, distressed Fanny for a moment. The Curé’s revelations, and her son’s want of confidence, had hindered her sleeping.
“And if Monsieur le Chevalier should be in love with Mademoiselle des Touches, where is the harm?” exclaimed Mariotte. “She is a fine woman, and has thirty thousand crowns a year.”
“What are you talking about, Mariotte,” cried the old man. “A du Guénic to marry a des Touches! The des Touches were not even our squires at a time when the du Guesclins regarded an alliance with us as a distinguished honor.”
“A woman who calls herself by a man’s name—Camille Maupin!” added the Baroness.
“The Maupins are an old family,” said the old man. “They are Norman, and bear gules, three—” he stopped short. “But she cannot be a man and a woman at the same time.”
“She calls herself Maupin at the theatre.”
“A des Touches cannot be an actress,” said the old man. “If I did not know you, Fauny, I should think you were mad.”
“She writes pieces and books,” the Baroness went on.
“Writes
