s known to all young men. A subtle fire flames within their
breasts and darts outwardly about them, like the rays of a nimbus around
the heads of divine personages in works of religious art; through it
they see all Nature glorious, and woman radiant. Are they not then like
those haloed saints, full of faith, hope, ardor, purity?

The young Breton found the company assembled in the little salon of
Camille's suite of rooms. It was then about six o'clock; the sun, in
setting, cast through the windows its ruddy light chequered by the
trees; the air was still; twilight, beloved of women, was spreading
through the room.

"Here comes the future deputy of Brittany," said Camille Maupin,
smiling, as Calyste raised the tapestry portiere,--"punctual as a king."

"You recognized his step just now," said Claude to Felicite in a low
voice.

Calyste bowed low to the marquise, who returned the salutation with an
inclination of her head; he did not look at her; but he took the hand
Claude Vignon held out to him and pressed it.

"This is the celebrated man of whom we have talked so much, Gennaro
Conti," said Camille, not replying to Claude Vignon's remark.

She presented to Calyste a man of medium height, thin and slender, with
chestnut hair, eyes that were almost red, and a white skin, freckled
here and there, whose head was so precisely the well-known head of Lord
Byron (though rather better carried on his shoulders) that description
is superfluous. Conti was rather proud of this resemblance.

"I am fortunate," he said, "to meet Monsieur du Guenic during the one
day that I spend at Les Touches."

"It was for me to say that to you," replied Calyste, with a certain
ease.

"He is handsome as an angel," said the marquise in an under tone to
Felicite.

Standing between the sofa and the two ladies, Calyste heard the words
confusedly. He seated himself in an arm-chair and looked furtively
toward the marquise. In the soft half-light he saw, reclining on a
divan, as if a sculptor had placed it there, a white and serpentine
shape which thrilled him. Without being aware of it, Felicite had done
her friend a service; the marquise was much superior to the unflattered
portrait Camille had drawn of her the night before. Was it to do
honor to the guest that Beatrix had wound into her hair those tufts of
blue-bells that gave value to the pale tints of her creped curls, so
arranged as to fall around her face and play upon the cheeks? The cir