At a spot where the road is shaded and as moist and green as a cool forest path, where the wheels of the carriage were scarcely audible, and the wind brought a resinous scent, Camille remarked on the beauty of the place, and, leaning her hand on Béatrix’s knee, she pointed to Calyste and said:
“How well he rides!”
“Calyste?” said Madame de Kergarouët. “He is a capital horseman.”
“Oh, Calyste is so nice!” said Charlotte.
“There are so many Englishmen just like him—” replied the Marquise, indifferently, without finishing her sentence.
“His mother is Irish—an O’Brien,” said Charlotte, feeling personally attacked.
Camille and the Marquise drove into Guérande with the Vicomtesse de Kergarouët and her daughter, to the great astonishment of the gaping townspeople; they left their traveling companions at the corner of the little Rue du Guénic, where there was something very like a crowd. Calyste had ridden on to announce to his mother the arrival of the party, who were expected to dinner. The meal had been politely put off till four o’clock.
The Chevalier went back to give the ladies his arm; he kissed Canaille’s hand, hoping to touch that of the Marquise, but she firmly kept her arms folded, and he besought her in vain with eyes sparkling through wasted tears.
“You little goose!” said Camille in his ear, with a light, friendly kiss on it.
“True enough!” said Calyste to himself as the carriage turned. “I forget my mother’s counsels—but I believe I always shall forget them.”
Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, who arrived valiantly mounted on a hired nag, Madame de Kergarouët, and Charlotte found the table laid, and were cordially, if not luxuriously, received by the du Guénics. Old Zéphirine had sent for certain bottles of fine wine from the depths of the cellar, and Mariotte had surpassed herself in Breton dishes. The Viscountess, delighted to have traveled with the famous Camille Maupin, tried to expatiate on modern literature, and the place held in it by Camille; but as it had been with the game of whist, so it was with literary matters; neither the du Guénics, nor the Curé, who looked in, nor the Chevalier du Halga, understood anything about them. The Abbé and the old naval officer sipped the liqueurs at dessert.
As soon as Mariotte, helped by Gasselin and by Madame de Kergarouët’s maid, had cleared the table, there was an enthusiastic clamor for mouche. Joy prevailed. Everybody believed Calyste to be free, and saw him married ere long to little Charlotte. Calyste sat silent. For the first time in his life he was making comparisons between the Kergarouëts and the two elegant and clever women, full of taste, who, at this very moment, were probably laughing at the two provincials, if he might judge from the first glances they had exchanged. Fanny, knowing Calyste’s secret, noticed his dejection. Charlotte’s coquetting and her mother’s attacks had no effect on him. Her dear boy was evidently bored; his body was in this room, where of yore he could have been amused by the absurdities of mouche, but his spirit was wandering round les Touches.
“How can I send him off to Camille’s?” thought the mother, who loved him and who was bored because he was bored. Her affection lent her inventiveness.
“You are dying to be off to les Touches to see her?” she whispered to Calyste.
The boy’s answer was a smile and a blush that thrilled this devoted mother to her heart’s very core.
“Madame,” said she to the Viscountess, “you will be very uncomfortable tomorrow in the carriage chaise, and obliged to start very early in the morning. Would it not be better if you were to have Mademoiselle des Touches’ carriage? Go over, Calyste,” said she, turning to her son, “and arrange the matter at les Touches; but come back quickly.”
“It will not take ten minutes,” cried Calyste, giving his mother a wild hug out on the steps, whither she followed him.
Calyste flew with the speed of a fawn, and was in the entrance hall of les Touches just as Camille and Béatrix came out of the dining-room after dinner. He had the wit to offer his arm to Félicité.
“You have deserted the Viscountess and her daughter for us,” said she, pressing his arm. “We are able to appreciate the extent of the sacrifice.”
“Are these Kergarouëts related to the Portenduères and old Admiral de Kergarouët, whose widow married Charles de Vandenesse?” Madame de Rochefide asked Camille.
“Mademoiselle Charlotte is the Admiral’s grandniece,” replied Camille.
“She is a charming young person,” said Béatrix, seating herself in a Gothic armchair; “the very thing for Monsieur du Guénic.”
“That marriage shall never be!” cried Camille, vehemently.
Calyste, overwhelmed by the cold indifference of the Marquise, who spoke of the little country girl as the only creature for whom he was a match, sat speechless and bewildered.
“And why not, Camille?” said Madame de Rochefide.
“My dear,” said Camille, seeing Calyste’s despair, “I did not advise Conti to get married, and I believe I was delightful to him—you are ungenerous.”
Béatrix looked at her with surprise mingled with indefinable suspicions. Calyste almost understood Camille’s self-immolation as he saw the pale flush rise in her cheeks, which, in her, betrayed the most violent emotions: he went up to her awkwardly enough, took her hand, and kissed it. Camille sat down to the piano with an easy air, as if equally sure of her friend and of the lover she had claimed, turning her back upon them, and leaving them to each other. She improvised some variations on airs, unconsciously suggested by her thoughts, for they were all deeply sad. The Marquise
