Camille at once led Calyste into her own room, so as not to be overheard, for women have an admirable sense of distrust.
“My child,” said she, “you must pretend to love me or you are lost. You are a perfect child; you know nothing about women, you know only how to love. To love and to be loved are two very different things. You are rushing into terrible suffering. I want you to be happy. If you provoke Béatrix, not in her pride, but in her obstinacy, she is capable of flying off to join Conti at a few leagues from Paris. Then what would become of you?”
“I should love her,” replied Calyste.
“You would not see her again.”
“Oh, yes, I should,” said he.
“Pray how?”
“I should follow her.”
“But you are as poor as Job, my dear child!”
“My father, Gasselin, and I lived in la Vendée for three months on a hundred and fifty francs, marching day and night.”
“Calyste,” said Félicité, “listen to me. I see you are too honest to act a part; I do not wish to corrupt so pure a nature as yours. I will take it all on myself. Béatrix shall love you.”
“Is it possible?” he cried, clasping his hands.
“Yes,” said Camille. “But we must undo the vows she had made to herself. I will lie for you. Only, do not interfere in any way with the arduous task I am about to undertake. The Marquise has much aristocratic cunning; she is intellectually suspicious; no hunter ever had to take more difficult game; so in this case, my poor boy, the sportsman must take his dog’s advice. Will you promise to obey me blindly? I will be your Fox,” said she, naming Calyste’s best hound.
“What, then, am I to do?” replied the young man.
“Very little,” said Camille. “Come here every day at noon. I, like an impatient mistress, shall always be at the window of the corridor that looks out on the Guérande road to see you coming. I shall fly to my room, so as not to be seen—not to let you know the depth of a passion that is a burden on you; but sometimes you will see me and wave your handkerchief to me. Then in the courtyard, and as you come upstairs, you must put on a look of some annoyance. That will be no dissimulation, my child,” said she, leaning her head on his breast, “will it?—Do not hurry up; look out of the staircase window on to the garden to look for Béatrix. When she is there—and she will be there, never fear—if she sees you, come straight, but very slowly, to the little drawing-room, and thence to my room. If you should see me at the window spying your treachery, you must start back that I may not catch you imploring a glance from Béatrix. Once in my room you will be my prisoner.—Yes; we will sit there till four o’clock. You may spend the time in reading; I will smoke. You will be horribly bored by not seeing her, but I will provide you with interesting books. You have read nothing of George Sand’s; I will send a man tonight to buy her works at Nantes, and those of some other writers that are unknown to you.
“I shall be the first to leave the room; you must not put down your book or come into the little drawing-room till you hear Béatrix in there talking to me. Whenever you see a music-book open on the piano, you can ask if you may stay. You may be positively rude to me if you can; I give you leave; all will be well.”
“I know, Camille,” said he, with delightful good faith, “that you have the rarest affection for me; it makes me quite sorry that I ever saw Béatrix; but what do you hope for?”
“In a week Béatrix will be crazy about you.”
“Good God!” cried he, “is that possible?” and, clasping his hands, he fell on his knees before Camille, who was touched and happy to give him such joy at her own cost.
“Listen to me,” said she. “If you speak to the Marquise—not merely in the way of conversation, but if you exchange even a few words with her—if you allow her to question you, if you fail in the wordless part I set you to play, and which is certainly easy enough, understand clearly,” and she spoke in a serious tone, “you will lose her forever.”
“I do not understand anything of all this, Camille,” cried Calyste, looking at her with adorable guilelessness.
“If you understood, you would not be the exquisite child that you are, the noble, handsome Calyste,” said she, taking his hand and kissing it.
And Calyste did what he had never done before; he put his arm round Camille and kissed her gently in the neck, without passion, but tenderly, as he kissed his mother. Mademoiselle des Touches could not restrain a burst of tears.
“Now go, child,” said she, “and tell your Viscountess that my carriage is at her orders.”
Calyste wanted to stay, but he was obliged to obey Camille’s imperious and imperative gesture. He went home in high spirits, for he was sure of being loved within a week by the beautiful Rochefide.
The mouche players found in him the Calyste they had lost these two months. Charlotte ascribed the change to her own presence. Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël was affectionately teasing. The Abbé Grimont tried to read in the Baroness’ eyes the reason for the calm he saw there. The Chevalier du Halga rubbed his hands.
The two old maids were as lively as a couple of lizards. The Viscountess owed five francs worth of
