of happiness, which the breath of pleasure dissipates? Ah! shall I
never wander in those sweet by-paths moist with dew; never stand beneath
the drenching of a gutter and not know it rains, like those lovers seen
by Diderot; never take, like the Duc de Lorraine, a live coal in my
hand? Are there no silken ladders for me, no rotten trellises to cling
to and not fall? Shall I know nothing of woman but conjugal submission;
nothing of love but the flame of its lamp-wick? Are my longings to be
satisfied before they are roused? Must I live out my days deprived of
that madness of the heart that makes a man and his power? Would you
make me a married monk? No! I have eaten of the fruit of Parisian
civilization. Do you not see that you have, by the ignorant morals of
this family, prepared the fire that consumes me, that _will_ consume me
utterly, unless I can adore the divineness I see everywhere,--in those
sands gleaming in the sun, in the green foliage, in all the women,
beautiful, noble, elegant, pictured in the books and in the poems I have
read with Camille? Alas! there is but one such woman in Guerande, and
it is you, my mother! The birds of my beautiful dream, they come from
Paris, they fly from the pages of Scott, of Byron,--Parisina, Effie,
Minna! yes, and that royal duchess, whom I saw on the moors among the
furze and the ferns, whose very aspect sent the blood to my heart."

The baroness saw these thoughts flaming in the eyes of her son, clearer,
more beautiful, more living than art can tell to those who read them.
She grasped them rapidly, flung to her as they were in glances like
arrows from an upset quiver. Without having read Beaumarchais, she
felt, as other women would have felt, that it would be a crime to marry
Calyste.

"Oh! my child!" she said, taking him in her arms, and kissing the
beautiful hair that was still hers, "marry whom you will, and when you
will, but be happy! My part in life is not to hamper you."

Mariotte came to lay the table. Gasselin was out exercising Calyste's
horse, which the youth had not mounted for two months. The three women,
mother, aunt, and Mariotte, shared in the tender feminine wiliness,
which taught them to make much of Calyste when he dined at home. Breton
plainness fought against Parisian luxury, now brought to the very doors
of Guerande. Mariotte endeavored to wean her young master from the
accomplished service of Camille Maupin's kitchen, just as his mother and
aunt strove