Calyste was enchanted at the sight of a trunk covered with waterproof canvas, on which he read Madame la Marquise de Rochefide
. The name glittered in his eyes like some talisman; it had to him a purport of mysterious doom; he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he should fall in love with this woman; the smallest things relating to her interested him already, spurred his fancy and his curiosity. Why?—In the burning desert of its immeasurable and objectless desires does not youth put forth all its powers towards the first woman who comes within reach? Béatrix had fallen heir to the love that Camille had disdained.
Calyste watched the landing of the luggage, looking out from time to time at le Croisic, hoping to see a boat come out of the harbor, cross to this little headland, and reveal to him the Béatrix who had already become to him what another Béatrix was to Dante, an eternal statue of marble on whose hands he would hang his flowers and wreaths. He stood with his arms folded, lost in the dream of expectancy. A thing worthy of remark, but which nevertheless has never been remarked, is the way in which we frequently subordinate our feelings to our will, how we pledge ourself to ourself, as it were, and how we make our fate; chance has certainly far less share in it than we suppose.
“I see no horses,” said the maid, sitting on a trunk.
“And I see no carriage-road,” said the valet.
“Well, horses have certainly been here,” replied the woman, pointing to their traces. “Monsieur,” said she, addressing Calyste, “is that the road leading to Guérande?”
“Yes,” said he; “whom are you expecting?”
“We were told that we should be met, fetched to les Touches.—If they are very late, I do not know how Madame can dress,” said she to the man. “You had better walk on to les Touches. What a land of savages!”
It dawned on Calyste that he was in a false position.
“Then your mistress is going to les Touches?” he asked.
“Mademoiselle came to meet her at seven this morning.” was the reply. “Ah! here come the horses.”
Calyste fled, running back to Guérande with the swiftness and lightness of a chamois, and doubling like a hare to avoid being seen by the servants from les Touches; still, he met two of them in the narrow way across the marsh which he had to cross.
“Shall I go in? Shall I not?” he asked himself as he saw the tops of the pine-trees of les Touches.
He was afraid; he returned to Guérande hangdog and repentant, and walked up and down the Mall, where he continued the discussion with himself.
He started as he caught sight of les Touches, and studied the weathercocks.
“She can have no idea of my excitement,” said he to himself.
His wandering thoughts became so many grapnels that caught in his heart and held the Marquise there. Calyste had felt none of these terrors, these anticipatory joys with regard to Camille; he had first met her on horseback, and his desire had sprung up, as at the sight of a beautiful flower he might have longed to pluck. These vacillations constitute a sort of poem in a timid soul. Fired by the first flames of imagination, these souls rise up in wrath, are appeased, and eager by turns, and in silence and solitude reach the utmost heights of love before they have even spoken to the object of so many struggles.
Calyste saw from afar, on the Mall, the Chevalier du Halga, walking with Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël; he hid himself. The Chevalier and the old lady, believing themselves alone on the Mall, were talking aloud.
“Since Charlotte de Kergarouët is coming to you,” said the Chevalier, “keep her three or four months. How can you expect her to flirt with Calyste? She never stays here long enough to attempt it; whereas, if they see each other every day, the two children will end by being desperately in love, and you will see them married this winter. If you say two words of your plans to Charlotte, she will at once say four to Calyste; and a girl of sixteen will certainly win the day against a woman of forty-something!”
The two old folks turned to retrace their steps. Calyste heard no more, but he had understood what Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël’s plan was. In his present frame of mind nothing could be more disastrous. Is it in the fever of a preconceived passion that a young man will accept as his wife a girl found for him by others? Calyste, who cared not a straw for Charlotte de Kergarouët, felt inclined to repulse her. Considerations of money could not touch him; he had been accustomed from childhood to the modest style of his father’s house; besides, seeing Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël live as poorly as the Guénics themselves, he had no notion of her wealth. And a youth brought up as Calyste had been would not, in any case, consider anything but feeling; and all his mind was set on the Marquise.
Compared with the portrait drawn by Camille, what was Charlotte? The companion of his childhood, whom he treated as his sister.
He did not get home till five o’clock. When he went into the room, his mother, with a melancholy smile, handed him a note from Mademoiselle des Touches, as follows:—
“My dear Calyste—The beautiful Marquise de Rochefide has arrived; we count on you to do honor to her advent. Claude, always satirical, declares that you will be Bice and she Dante. The honor of Brittany and of the Guénics is at stake when there is a Casteran to be welcomed. So let us meet soon.—Yours,
Calyste showed his mother the note, and went at once.
“What are these Casterans?” said she to the Baron.
“An old Norman
