“You will be dining at les Touches, won’t you, monsieur?” said Mariotte to Calyste, who came in.
“Probably,” said the young man.
Mariotte was not inquisitive, and she was one of the family; she left the room without waiting to hear the question Madame du Guénic was about to put to Calyste.
“You are going to les Touches again, my Calyste?” said she, with an emphasis on my Calyste. “And les Touches is not a decent and reputable house. The mistress of it leads a wild life; she will corrupt our boy. Camille Maupin makes him read a great many books—she has had a great many adventures! And you knew it, bad child, and never said anything about it to your old folks.”
“The Chevalier is discreet,” said his father, “an old world virtue!”
“Too discreet!” said the jealous mother, as she saw the color mount to her son’s brow.
“My dear mother,” said Calyste, kneeling down before her, “I did not think it necessary to proclaim my defeat. Mademoiselle des Touches, or, if you prefer it, Camille Maupin, rejected my love eighteen months since, when she was here last. She gently made fun of me; she might be my mother, she said; a woman of forty who loved a minor committed a sort of incest, and she was incapable of such depravity. In short, she laughed at me in a hundred ways, and quite overpowered me, for she has the wit of an angel. Then, when she saw me crying bitter tears, she comforted me by offering me her friendship in the noblest way. She has even more heart than brains; she is as generous as you are. I am like a child to her now.—Then, when she came here again, I heard that she loved another man, and I resigned myself.—Do not repeat all the calumnies you hear about her; Camille is an artist; she has genius, and leads one of those exceptional lives which cannot be judged by ordinary standards.”
“My child!” said the pious Fanny, “nothing can excuse a woman for not living according to the ordinances of the Church. She fails in her duties towards God and towards society by failing in the gentle religion of her sex. A woman commits a sin even by going to a theatre; but when she writes impieties to be repeated by actors, and flies about the world, sometimes with an enemy of the Pope’s, sometimes with a musician—Oh! Calyste! you will find it hard to convince me that such things are acts of faith, hope, or charity. Her fortune was given her by God to do good. What use does she make of it?”
Calyste suddenly stood up; he looked at his mother and said:
“Mother, Camille is my friend. I cannot hear her spoken of in this way, for I would give my life for her.”
“Your life?” said the Baroness, gazing at her son in terror. “Your life is our life—the life of us all!”
“My handsome nephew has made use of many words that I do not understand,” said the old blind woman, turning to Calyste.
“Where has he learnt them?” added his mother. “At les Touches.”
“Why, my dear mother, she found me as ignorant as a carp.”
“You knew all that was essential in knowing the duties enjoined on us by religion,” replied the Baroness. “Ah! that woman will undermine your noble and holy beliefs.”
The old aunt rose and solemnly extended her hand towards her brother, who was sleeping.
“Calyste,” said she, in a voice that came from her heart, “your father never opened a book, he speaks Breton, he fought in the midst of perils for the King and for God. Educated men had done the mischief, and gentlemen of learning had deserted their country.—Learn if you will.”
She sat down again, and began knitting with the vehemence that came of her mental agitation. Calyste was struck by this Phocion-like utterance.
“In short, my dearest, I have a presentiment of some evil hanging over you in that house,” said his mother, in a broken voice as her tears fell.
“Who is making Fanny cry?” exclaimed the old man, suddenly wakened by the sound of his wife’s voice. He looked round at her, his son, and his sister.
“What is the matter?”
“Nothing, my dear,” replied the Baroness.
“Mamma,” said Calyste in his mother’s ear, “it is impossible that I should explain matters now; but we will talk it over this evening. When you know all, you will bless Mademoiselle des Touches.”
“Mothers have no love of cursing,” replied the Baroness, “and I should never curse any woman who truly loved my Calyste.”
The young man said goodbye to his father, and left the house. The Baron and his wife rose to watch him as he crossed the courtyard, opened the gate, and disappeared. The Baroness did not take up the paper again; she was agitated. In a life so peaceful, so monotonous, this little discussion was as serious as a quarrel in any other family; and the mother’s anxiety, though soothed, was not dispelled. Whither would this friendship, which might demand and imperil her boy’s life, ultimately lead him? How could she, the Baroness, have reason to bless Mademoiselle des Touches? These two questions were as all-important to her simple soul as the maddest revolution can be to a diplomatist. Camille Maupin was a revolution in the quiet and simple home.
“I am very much afraid that this woman will spoil him for us,” said she, taking up the newspaper again.
“My dear Fanny,” said the old Baron, with knowing sprightliness, “you are too completely an angel to understand such things. Mademoiselle des Touches is, they say, as black as a crow, as strong as a Turk, and she is forty—our dear boy was sure to be
