“You are a happy mother, and you must—” Camille began; but she broke off, remembering that Béatrix must have deserted her boy to follow Conti.
“Oh!” said the Viscountess, “though it is my misfortune to spend my life in the country and at Nantes, I have the comfort of knowing that my children adore me. Have you any children?” she asked Camille.
“I am Mademoiselle des Touches,” replied Camille. “Madame is the Marquise de Rochefide.”
“Then you are to be pitied for not knowing the greatest happiness we poor mere women can have. Is it not so, madame?” said she to the Marquise, to remedy her blunder. “But you have many compensations.”
A hot tear welled up in Béatrix’s eyes; she turned hastily away and went to the clumsy parapet at the edge of the rock, whither Calyste followed her.
“Madame,” said Camille in a low voice to Madame de Kergarouët, “do you not know that the Marquise is separated from her husband, that she has not seen her son for two years, and does not know when they may meet again?”
“Dear!” cried Madame de Kergarouët. “Poor lady! Is it a judicial separation?”
“No, incompatability,” said Camille.
“I can quite understand that,” replied the Viscountess, undaunted.
Old Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël had entrenched herself a few yards off with her dear Charlotte. Calyste, after assuring himself that no one could see them, took the Marquise’s hand and kissed it, leaving a tear on it. Béatrix turned on him, her eyes dried by anger; some cruel word was on her tongue, but she could say nothing as she saw the tears on the beautiful face of the angelic youth, as deeply moved as she was.
“Good heavens, Calyste!” said Camille, in a whisper, as he rejoined them with Madame de Rochefide, “you will have that for a mother-in-law, and that little gaby for your wife.”
“Because her aunt is rich,” added Calyste, sarcastically.
The whole party now moved towards the inn, and the Viscountess thought it incumbent on her to make some satirical remarks to Camille on the savages of Saint-Nazaire.
“I love Brittany, madame,” replied Félicité, gravely. “I was born at Guérande.”
Calyste could not help admiring Mademoiselle des Touches, who, by the tones of her voice, her steady gaze, and placid manners, put him at his ease, notwithstanding the terrible confessions of the scene that had taken place last night. Still, she looked tired; her features betrayed that she had not slept; they looked thickened, but the forehead suppressed the internal storm with relentless calm.
“What queens!” said he to Charlotte, pointing to Béatrix and Camille, as he gave the girl his arm, to Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoëls great satisfaction.
“What notion was this of your mother’s,” said the old lady, also giving a lean arm to her niece, “to throw us into the company of this wretched woman?”
“Oh, aunt! a woman who is the glory of Brittany.”
“The disgrace, child!—Do not let me see you too cringing to her.”
“Mademoiselle, Charlotte is right,” said Calyste; “you are unjust.”
“Oh, she has bewitched you!” retorted Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël.
“I have the same friendship for her that I have for you,” said Calyste.
“How long have the du Guénics taken to lying?” said the old woman.
“Since the Pen-Hoëls took to being deaf,” retorted Calyste.
“Then you are not in love with her?” asked the aunt, delighted.
“I was, but I am no longer,” he replied.
“Bad boy! Then why have you given us so much anxiety? I knew that love was but a folly; only marriage is to be relied on,” said she, looking at Charlotte.
Charlotte, somewhat reassured, hoped to reconquer her advantages by an appeal to the memories of their childhood, and clung to Calyste’s arm; but he vowed to himself that he would come to a clear understanding with the little heiress.
“On, what famous games of mouche we will have, Calyste,” said she, “and what capital fun!”
The horses were put in; Camille made the Viscountess and Charlotte take the best seats, for Jacqueline had disappeared; then she and the Marquise sat with their backs to the horses. Calyste, forced to give up the pleasure he had promised himself, rode at the side of the carriage; and the horses, all tired, went slowly enough to allow of his gazing at Béatrix.
History has kept no record of the singular conversation of these four persons, so strangely thrown together by chance in this carriage; for it is impossible to accept the hundred and something versions which were current at Nantes as to the stories, the repartees, and the witticisms which Madame de Kergarouët heard from Camille Maupin himself. She took good care not to repeat, nor even understand, the replies made by Mademoiselle des Touches to all her ridiculous inquiries—such as writers so often hear, and by which they are made to pay dearly for their few joys.
“How do you write your books?” asked Madame de Kergarouët.
“Why, just as you do your needlework,” said Camille, “your netting, or cross-stitch.”
“And where did you find all those deep observations and attractive pictures?”
“Where you find all the clever things you say, madame.—Nothing is easier than writing, and if you chose—”
“Ah, it all lies in the choosing? I should never have thought it!—And which of your works do you yourself prefer?”
“It is difficult to have any preference for these little kittens.”
“You are surfeited with compliments; it is impossible to say anything new.”
“Believe me, madame, I appreciate the form you give to yours.”
The Viscountess, anxious not to seem neglectful of the Marquise, said, looking archly at her:
“I shall never forget this drive, sitting between wit and beauty.”
The Marquise laughed,
“You flatter me, madame,” said she. “It is not in nature that wit should be noticed in the company of genius, and I have not yet said much.”
Charlotte, keenly alive to her mother’s absurdity, looked at her, hoping to check her; but the Viscountess
