“The romances you act out, my dear, are rather more dangerous than those you write,” said the Marquise.
“They have, however, one great merit,” said Camille, taking a cigarette.
“What is that?” asked Béatrix.
“They are unpublished, my angel.”
“Will that in which you have plunged me make a book?”
“I have no genius for the task of Oedipus; you have the wit and beauty of the Sphinx, I know, but do not ask me any riddles; speak out, my dear Béatrix.”
“When, in order to make men happy, to amuse them, please them, dispel their annoyances, we appeal to the devil to help us—”
“The men blame us afterwards for our endeavor, and believe it to be dictated by a spirit of depravity,” said Camille, taking her cigarette from her lips to interrupt her friend.
“They forget the love which carried us away, and which justified our excesses—for whither may we not be carried?—But they are only playing out their part as men, they are ungrateful and unjust,” said Béatrix. “Women know each other; they know how truly lofty and noble their attitude is under all circumstances—nay, I may say how virtuous.
“Still, Camille, I have begun to perceive the truth of certain remarks I have heard you complain of. Yes, my dear, there is something of the man in you; you behave like men; nothing checks you; and if you have not all their merits, your mind conducts itself like theirs, and you share their contempt for us women. I have no reason to be pleased with you, my dear, and I am too frank to conceal the fact. Nobody, perhaps, will ever inflict so deep a wound on my heart as that I am now suffering from. Though you are not always a woman in love matters, you become one again in revenge. Only a woman of genius could have discovered the tenderest spot in our delicate sentiments—I am speaking of Calyste, and of the trickery, my dear, for that is the right word, that you have employed against me. How low you have fallen, you, Camille Maupin; and to what end?”
“Still and still more the sphinx,” said Camille, smiling.
“You wanted to make me throw myself at Calyste’s head; I am still too young for such doings. To me love is love, with its intolerable jealousy and despotic demands. I am not a writer; it is not possible to me to find ideas in feelings—”
“You think yourself capable of loving foolishly?” Camille asked her. “Be quite easy, you still have all your wits about you. You malign yourself, my dear; you are cold enough for your head always to remain supreme judge of the achievements of your heart.”
This epigram brought the color to the Marquise’s face; she shot a look full of hatred, an envenomed look, at Camille; and at once, without stopping to choose them, let fly all the sharpest arrows in her quiver. Camille, smoking her cigarette, listened calmly to this furious attack, bristling with such virulent abuse that it is impossible to record it. Béatrix, provoked by her adversary’s imperturbable manner, fell back on odious personalities and Mademoiselle des Touches’ age.
“Is that all?” asked Camille, blowing a cloud of smoke. “Are you in love with Calyste?”
“Certainly not.”
“So much the better,” replied Camille. “I am, and far too much for my happiness. He has, no doubt, a fancy for you. You are the loveliest blonde in the world, and I am as brown as a mole; you are slim and slender, my figure is too dignified. In short, you are young; that is the great fact, and you have not spared me. You have made an abuse of your advantages over me as a woman, neither more nor less than as a comic paper makes an abuse of humor. I have done all in my power to prevent what is now inevitable,” and she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “However little I may seem to be a woman, I still have enough of the woman in me for a rival to need my help in order to triumph over me!” This cruel speech, uttered with an air of perfect innocence, went to the Marquise’s heart. “You must think me a very idiotic person if you believe all that Calyste tries to make you believe about me. I am neither lofty nor mean; I am a woman, and very much a woman. Throw off your airs and give me your hand,” said Camille, taking possession of Béatrix’s hand. “You do not love Calyste, that is the truth—is it not? Then do not get in a rage! Be stern with him tomorrow, cold and hard, and he will end by submitting after the scolding I shall give him, for I have not exhausted the resources of our arsenal, and, after all, pleasure always gets the better of desire.
“But Calyste is a Breton. If he persists in paying you his addresses, tell me honestly, and you can go at once to a little country-house of mine at six leagues from Paris, where you will find every comfort, and where Conti can join you. If Calyste slanders me! Why, good heavens! The purest love lies six times a day; its illusions prove its strength.”
There was a proud coldness in Camille’s expression that made the Marquise uneasy and afraid. She did not know what answer to make.
Camille struck the final blow.
“I am more trusting and less bitter than you,” she went on. “I do not imagine that you intended to hide under recrimination an attack which would imperil my life; you know me; I should not survive the loss of Calyste, and I must lose him sooner or later. But, indeed, Calyste loves me, and I know it.”
“Here is his answer to a letter from me in which I wrote only of you,” said Béatrix, holding out Calyste’s letter.
Camille took it and read it. As she read, her eyes filled with tears; she wept, as all women
