d
drawing back to let the marquise pass.

The descent of that ancient staircase was to Calyste like the moment
of going into battle for the first time. His heart failed him, he had
nothing to say; a slight sweat pearled upon his forehead and wet his
back; his arm trembled so much that as they reached the lowest step the
marquise said to him: "Is anything the matter?"

"Oh!" he replied, in a muffled tone, "I have never seen any woman so
beautiful as you, except my mother, and I am not master of my emotions."

"But you have Camille Maupin before your eyes."

"Ah! what a difference!" said Calyste, ingenuously.

"Calyste," whispered Felicite, who was just behind him, "did I not tell
you that you would forget me as if I had never existed? Sit there," she
said aloud, "beside the marquise, on her right, and you, Claude, on her
left. As for you, Gennaro, I retain you by me; we will keep a mutual eye
on their coquetries."

The peculiar accept which Camille gave to the last word struck Claude
Vignon's ear, and he cast that sly but half-abstracted look upon Camille
which always denoted in him the closest observation. He never ceased to
examine Mademoiselle des Touches throughout the dinner.

"Coquetries!" replied the marquis, taking off her gloves, and showing
her beautiful hands; "the opportunity is good, with a poet," and she
motioned to Claude, "on one side, and poesy the other."

At these words Conti turned and gave Calyste a look that was full of
flattery.

By artificial light, Beatrix seemed more beautiful than before. The
white gleam of the candles laid a satiny lustre on her forehead, lighted
the spangles of her eyes, and ran through her swaying curls, touching
them here and there into gold. She threw back the thin gauze scarf she
was wearing and disclosed her neck. Calyste then saw its beautiful nape,
white as milk, and hollowed near the head, until its lines were lost
toward the shoulders with soft and flowing symmetry. This neck, so
dissimilar to that of Camille, was the sign of a totally different
character in Beatrix.

Calyste found much trouble in pretending to eat; nervous motions within
him deprived him of appetite. Like other young men, his nature was in
the throes and convulsions which precede love, and carve it indelibly on
the soul. At his age, the ardor of the heart, restrained by moral ardor,
leads to an inward conflict, which explains the long and respectful
hesitations, the tender debatings, the