to hold him in the net of their tenderness and render all
comparison impossible.

"There's a salmon-trout for dinner, Monsieur Calyste, and snipe, and
pancakes such as I know you can't get anywhere but here," said Mariotte,
with a sly, triumphant look as she smoothed the cloth, a cascade of
snow.

After dinner, when the old aunt had taken up her knitting, and the
rector and Monsieur du Halga had arrived, allured by their precious
_mouche_, Calyste went back to Les Touches on the pretext of returning
the letter.

Claude Vignon and Felicite were still at table. The great critic was
something of a gourmand, and Felicite pampered the vice, knowing how
indispensable a woman makes herself by such compliance. The dinner-table
presented that rich and brilliant aspect which modern luxury, aided by
the perfecting of handicrafts, now gives to its service. The poor
and noble house of Guenic little knew with what an adversary it was
attempting to compete, or what amount of fortune was necessary to enter
the lists against the silverware, the delicate porcelain, the beautiful
linen, the silver-gilt service brought from Paris by Mademoiselle des
Touches, and the science of her cook. Calyste declined the liqueurs
contained in one of those superb cases of precious woods, which are
something like tabernacles.

"Here's the letter," he said, with innocent ostentation, looking at
Claude, who was slowly sipping a glass of _liqueur-des-iles_.

"Well, what did you think of it?" asked Mademoiselle des Touches,
throwing the letter across the table to Vignon, who began to read it,
taking up and putting down at intervals his little glass.

"I thought--well, that Parisian women were very fortunate to have men of
genius to adore who adore them."

"Ah! you are still in your village," said Felicite, laughing. "What! did
you not see that she loves him less, and--"

"That is evident," said Claude Vignon, who had only read the first page.
"Do people reason on their situation when they really love; are they
as shrewd as the marquise, as observing, as discriminating? Your dear
Beatrix is held to Conti now by pride only; she is condemned to love him
_quand meme_."

"Poor woman!" said Camille.

Calyste's eyes were fixed on the table; he saw nothing about him. The
beautiful woman in the fanciful dress described that morning by Felicite
appeared to him crowned with light; she smiled to him, she waved her
fan; the other hand, issuing from its ruffl