and bidding the company good-night.

"Calyste is much changed," remarked Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"We haven't beautiful dresses trimmed with lace; we don't shake our
sleeves like this, or twist our bodies like that; we don't know how to
give sidelong glances, and turn our eyes," said Charlotte, mimicking the
air, and attitude, and glances of the marquise. "_We_ haven't that head
voice, nor the interesting little cough, _heu! heu!_ which sounds like
the sigh of a spook; _we_ have the misfortune of being healthy and
robust, and of loving our friends without coquetry; and when we look
at them, we don't pretend to stick a dart into them, or to watch them
slyly; _we_ can't bend our heads like a weeping willow, just to look the
more interesting when we raise them--this way."

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel could not help laughing at her niece's gesture;
but neither the chevalier nor the baron paid any heed to this truly
provincial satire against Paris.

"But the Marquise de Rochefide is a very handsome woman," said the old
maid.

"My dear," said the baroness to her husband, "I happen to know that she
is going over to Croisic to-morrow. Let us walk on the jetty; I should
like to see her."

While Calyste was racking his brains to imagine what could have closed
the doors of Les Touches to him, a scene was passing between Camille and
Beatrix which was to have its influence on the events of the morrow.

Calyste's last letter had stirred in Madame de Rochefide's heart
emotions hitherto unknown to it. Women are not often the subject of a
love so young, guileless, sincere, and unconditional as that of this
youth, this child. Beatrix had loved more than she had been loved. After
being all her life a slave, she suddenly felt an inexplicable desire to
be a tyrant. But, in the midst of her pleasure, as she read and re-read
the letter, she was pierced through and through with a cruel idea.

What were Calyste and Camille doing together ever since Claude Vignon's
departure? If, as Calyste said, he did not love Camille, and if Camille
knew it, how did they employ their mornings, and why were they alone
together? Memory suddenly flashed into her mind, in answer to these
questions, certain speeches of Camille; a grinning devil seemed to
show her, as in a magic mirror, the portrait of that heroic woman, with
certain gestures, certain aspects, which suddenly enlightened her. What!
instead of being her equal, was she crushed by Felicite? ins