nkment, at the foot of
which is a house where travellers can take shelter in storms of wind or
rain. It is not always possible to cross the little arm of the sea which
separates the landing-place of Guerande from Croisic; the weather may
be bad, or the boats not ready; and during this time of waiting, it
is necessary to put not only the passengers but their horses, donkeys,
baggages, and merchandise under cover.

Calyste presently saw two boats coming over from Croisic, laden with
baggage,--trunks, packages, bags, and chests,--the shape and appearance
of which proved to a native of these parts that such extraordinary
articles must belong to travellers of distinction. In one of the boats
was a young woman in a straw bonnet with a green veil, accompanied by a
man. This boat was the first to arrive. Calyste trembled until on closer
view he saw they were a maid and a man-servant.

"Are you going over to Croisic, Monsieur Calyste?" said one of the
boatmen; to whom he replied with a shake of the head, annoyed at being
called by his name.

He was captivated by the sight of a chest covered with tarred cloth on
which were painted the words, MME. LA MARQUISE DE ROCHEFIDE. The name
shone before him like a talisman; he fancied there was something fateful
in it. He knew in some mysterious way, which he could not doubt, that
he should love that woman. Why? In the burning desert of his new and
infinite desires, still vague and without an object, his fancy fastened
with all its strength on the first woman that presented herself. Beatrix
necessarily inherited the love which Camille had rejected.

Calyste watched the landing of the luggage, casting from time to time
a glance at Croisic, from which he hoped to see another boat put out
to cross to the little promontory, and show him Beatrix, already to his
eyes what Beatrice was to Dante, a marble statue on which to hang his
garlands and his flowers. He stood with arms folded, lost in meditation.
Here is a fact worthy of remark, which, nevertheless, has never
been remarked: we often subject ourselves to sentiments by our own
volition,--deliberately bind ourselves, and create our own fate; chance
has not as much to do with it as we believe.

"I don't see any horses," said the maid, sitting on a trunk.

"And I don't see any road," said the footman.

"Horses have been here, though," replied the woman, pointing to the
proofs of their presence. "Monsieur," she said, addressing Calyste, "