had only written once to Conti, a symptom of indifference which had not
escaped the watchful eyes of Camille, who imparted it to Calyste. All
Calyste's life was concentrated in the short moment of the day during
which he was allowed to see the marquise. This drop of water, far from
allaying his thirst, only redoubled it. The magic promise, "Beatrix
shall love you," made by Camille, was the talisman with which he strove
to restrain the fiery ardor of his passion. But he knew not how to
consume the time; he could not sleep, and spent the hours of the
night in reading; every evening he brought back with him, as Mariotte
remarked, cartloads of books.

His aunt called down maledictions on the head of Mademoiselle des
Touches; but his mother, who had gone on several occasions to his room
on seeing his light burning far into the night, knew by this time the
secret of his conduct. Though for her love was a sealed book, and she
was even unaware of her own ignorance, Fanny rose through maternal
tenderness into certain ideas of it; but the depths of such sentiment
being dark and obscured by clouds to her mind, she was shocked at the
state in which she saw him; the solitary uncomprehended desire of his
soul, which was evidently consuming him, simply terrified her. Calyste
had but one thought; Beatrix was always before him. In the evenings,
while cards were being played, his abstraction resembled his father's
somnolence. Finding him so different from what he was when he loved
Camille, the baroness became aware, with a sort of horror, of the
symptoms of real love,--a species of possession which had seized upon
her son,--a love unknown within the walls of that old mansion.

Feverish irritability, a constant absorption in thought, made Calyste
almost doltish. Often he would sit for hours with his eyes fixed on some
figure in the tapestry. One morning his mother implored him to give up
Les Touches, and leave the two women forever.

"Not go to Les Touches!" he cried.

"Oh! yes, yes, go! do not look so, my darling!" she cried, kissing him
on the eyes that had flashed such flames.

Under these circumstances Calyste often came near losing the fruit of
Camille's plot through the Breton fury of his love, of which he was
ceasing to be the master. Finally, he swore to himself, in spite of his
promise to Felicite, to see Beatrix, and speak to her. He wanted to read
her eyes, to bathe in their light, to examine every detail of her
dress, bre