cle
of her eyes, which showed fatigue, was of the purest mother-of-pearl,
her skin was as dazzling as the eyes, and beneath its whiteness,
delicate as the satiny lining of an egg, life abounded in the beautiful
blue veins. The delicacy of the features was extreme; the forehead
seemed diaphanous. The head, so sweet and fragrant, admirably joined to
a long neck of exquisite moulding, lent itself to many and most diverse
expressions. The waist, which could be spanned by the hands, had a
charming willowy ease; the bare shoulders sparkled in the twilight like
a white camellia. The throat, visible to the eye though covered with a
transparent fichu, allowed the graceful outlines of the bosom to be
seen with charming roguishness. A gown of white muslin, strewn with blue
flowers, made with very large sleeves, a pointed body and no belt, shoes
with strings crossed on the instep over Scotch thread stockings, showed
a charming knowledge of the art of dress. Ear-rings of silver filagree,
miracles of Genoese jewelry, destined no doubt to become the fashion,
were in perfect harmony with the delightful flow of the soft curls
starred with blue-bells.

Calyste's eager eye took in these beauties at a glance, and carved them
on his soul. The fair Beatrix and the dark Felicite might have sat for
those contrasting portraits in "keepsakes" which English designers and
engravers seek so persistently. Here were the force and the feebleness
of womanhood in full development, a perfect antithesis. These two women
could never be rivals; each had her own empire. Here was the delicate
campanula, or the lily, beside the scarlet poppy; a turquoise near
a ruby. In a moment, as it were,--at first sight, as the saying
is,--Calyste was seized with a love which crowned the secret work of
his hopes, his fears, his uncertainties. Mademoiselle des Touches had
awakened his nature; Beatrix inflamed both his heart and thoughts. The
young Breton suddenly felt within him a power to conquer all things,
and yield to nothing that stood in his way. He looked at Conti with an
envious, gloomy, savage rivalry he had never felt for Claude Vignon.
He employed all his strength to control himself; but the inward tempest
went down as soon as the eyes of Beatrix turned to him, and her soft
voice sounded in his ear. Dinner was announced.

"Calyste, give your arm to the marquise," said Mademoiselle des Touches,
taking Conti with her right hand, and Claude Vignon with her left, an