of such an answer. Du Halga
snuffed the air and stroked his chin; he listened attentively; he made
grimaces; and finally, he looked fixedly at the baroness with a knowing
air, as he said,--

"When thoroughbred horses want to leap a barrier, they go up to
reconnoitre it, and smell it over. Calyste is a lucky dog!"

"Oh, hush!" she cried.

"I'm mute. Ah! in the olden time I knew all about it," said the old
chevalier, striking an attitude. "The weather was fine, the breeze
nor'east. _Tudieu_! how the 'Belle-Poule' kept close to the wind that
day when--Oh!" he cried, interrupting himself, "we shall have a change
of weather; my ears are buzzing, and I feel the pain in my ribs! You
know, don't you, that the battle of the 'Belle-Poule' was so famous that
women wore head-dresses '_a la_ Belle-Poule.' Madame de Kergarouet was
the first to come to the opera in that head-dress, and I said to her:
'Madame, you are dressed for conquest.' The speech was repeated from box
to box all through the house."

The baroness listened pleasantly to the old hero, who, faithful to the
laws of gallantry, escorted her to the alley of her house, neglecting
Thisbe. The secret of Thisbe's existence had once escaped him. Thisbe
was the granddaughter of a delightful Thisbe, the pet of Madame
l'Amirale de Kergarouet, first wife of the Comte de Kergarouet, the
chevalier's commanding officer. The present Thisbe was eighteen years
old.

The baroness ran up to Calyste's room. He was absent; she saw a letter,
not sealed, but addressed to Madame de Rochefide, lying on the table. An
invincible curiosity compelled the anxious mother to read it. This act
of indiscretion was cruelly punished. The letter revealed to her the
depths of the gulf into which his passion was hurling Calyste.

Calyste to Madame la Marquise de Rochefide.

What care I for the race of the du Guenics in these days, Beatrix?
what is their name to me? My name is Beatrix; the happiness of
Beatrix is my happiness; her life is my life, and all my fortune
is in her heart. Our estates have been mortgaged these two hundred
years, and so they may remain for two hundred more; our farmers
have charge of them; no one can take them from us. To see you, to
love you,--that is my property, my object, my religion!

You talk to me of marrying! the very thought convulses my heart.
Is there another Beatrix? I will marry no one but you; I will wait
for you twenty years, if need be