“If you made no selection,” said Conti, “we should not be so proud of being loved.”
“When shall I be chosen and distinguished by a woman?” Calyste wondered to himself, restraining his agony of emotion with difficulty.
He reddened like a sufferer on whose wound a finger is laid. Mademoiselle des Touches was startled by the expression she saw in Calyste’s face, and tried to comfort him with a sympathizing look. Claude Vignon caught that look. From that moment the writer’s spirits rose, and he vented his gaiety in sarcasms; he maintained that love lived only in desire, that most women were mistaken in their love, that they often loved for reasons unknown to the men and to themselves, that they sometimes wished to deceive themselves; that the noblest of them were still insincere.
“Be content to criticise books, and do not criticise our feelings,” said Camille, with an imperious flash.
The dinner ceased to be lively. Claude Vignon’s satire had made both the women grave. Calyste was in acute torment in spite of the happiness of gazing at Béatrix. Conti tried to read Madame de Rochefide’s eyes and guess her thoughts. When the meal was ended, Mademoiselle des Touches took Calyste’s arm, left the other two men to the Marquise, and allowed them to lead the way, so as to say to the youth:
“My dear boy, if the Marquise falls in love with you, she will pitch Conti out of the window; but you are behaving in such a way as to tighten their bonds. Even if she were enchanted by your worship, could she take any notice of it? Command yourself.”
“She is so hard on me, she will never love me,” said Calyste; “and if she does not love me, I shall die.”
“Die! you! My dear Calyste, you are childish,” said Camille. “You would not have died for me, then?”
“You made yourself my friend,” he replied.
After the little chat that always accompanies the coffee, Vignon begged Conti to sing. Mademoiselle des Touches sat down to the piano. Camille and Gennaro sang “Dunque il mio bene tu mia sarai”, the final duet in Zingarelli’s Romeo e Giulietta, one of the most pathetic pages of modern music. The passage Di tanti palpiti expresses love in all its passion. Calyste, sitting in the armchair where he had sat when Félicité had told him the story of the Marquise, listened devoutly. Béatrix and Vignon stood on each side of the piano.
Conti’s exquisite voice blended perfectly with Félicité’s. They both had frequently sung the piece; they knew all its resources, and agreed wonderfully in bringing them out. It was in their hands what the musician had intended to create, a poem of divine melancholy, the swan-song of two lovers. When the duet was ended the hearers were all in a state of feeling that cannot find expression in vulgar applause.
“Oh, Music is the queen of the arts!” exclaimed the Marquise.
“Camille gives the first place to youth and beauty—the queen of all poetry,” said Claude Vignon.
Mademoiselle des Touches looked at Claude, dissembling a vague uneasiness. Béatrix, not seeing Calyste, looked round to see what effect the music had had on him, less out of interest in him than for Conti’s satisfaction. In a recess she saw a pale face covered with tears. At the sight she hastily turned away, as if some acute pain had stung her, and looked at Gennaro.
It was not merely that Music had risen up before Calyste, had touched him with her divine hand, had launched him on creation and stripped it of its mysteries to his eyes—he was overwhelmed by Conti’s genius. In spite of what Camille Maupin had told him of the man’s character, he believed at this moment that the singer must have a beautiful soul, a heart full of love. How was he to contend against such an artist? How could a woman ever cease to adore him? The song must pierce her soul like another soul.
The poor boy was as much overcome by poetic feeling as by despair: he saw himself as so small a thing! This ingenuous conviction of his own nothingness was to be read in his face, mingling with his admiration. He did not observe Béatrix, who, attracted to Calyste by the contagion of genuine feeling, pointed him out by a glance to Mademoiselle des Touches.
“Oh! such a delightful nature!” said Félicité. “Conti, you will never receive any applause to compare with the homage paid you by this boy. Let us sing a trio.—Come, Béatrix, my dear.”
When the Marquise, Camille, and Conti had returned to the piano, Calyste rose unperceived, flung himself on a sofa in the adjoining bedroom, of which the door was open, and remained there sunk in despair.
Part II
The Drama
“What is the matter with you, my boy?” said Claude Vignon, stealing quietly in after him and taking his hand. “You are in love, you believe yourself scorned; but it is not so. In a few days the field will be open to you, you will be supreme here, and be loved by more than one woman; in fact, if you know how to manage matters, you will be a Sultan here.”
“What are you saying?” cried Calyste, starting to his feet and dragging Claude away into the library. “Who that is here loves me?”
“Camille,” said Vignon.
“Camille loves me?” said Calyste. “And what of you?”
“I,” said Claude, “I—”
He paused. Then he sat down and rested his head against a pillow, in the deepest melancholy.
“I am weary of life,” he went on, after a short silence, “and I have not the courage to end it. I wish I were mistaken in what I have told you; but within the last few days more than one vivid gleam has flashed upon me. I did not wander about the rocks of le Croisic for my amusement, on my soul! The bitterness
