marquise.

"They have one advantage, however," replied Camille, lighting a
cigarette.

"What is that?" asked Beatrix.

"They are unpublished, my angel."

"Is the one in which you are putting me to be turned into a book?"

"I've no fancy for the role of OEdipus; I know you have the wit and
beauty of a sphinx, but don't propound conundrums. Speak out, plainly,
my dear Beatrix."

"When, in order to make a man happy, amuse him, please him, and save him
from ennui, we allow the devil to help us--"

"That man would reproach us later for our efforts on his behalf, and
would think them prompted by the genius of depravity," said Camille,
taking the cigarette from her lips to interrupt her friend.

"He forgets the love which carried us away, and is our sole
justification--but that's the way of men, they are all unjust and
ungrateful," continued Beatrix. "Women among themselves know each other;
they know how proud and noble their own minds are, and, let us frankly
say so, how virtuous! But, Camille, I have just recognized the truth
of certain criticisms upon your nature, of which you have sometimes
complained. My dear, you have something of the man about you; you
behave like a man; nothing restrains you; if you haven't all a man's
advantages, you have a man's spirit in all your ways; and you share his
contempt for women. I have no reason, my dear, to be satisfied with you,
and I am too frank to hide my dissatisfaction. No one has ever given or
ever will give, perhaps, so cruel a wound to my heart as that from
which I am now suffering. If you are not a woman in love, you are one in
vengeance. It takes a _woman_ of genius to discover the most sensitive
spot of all in another woman's delicacy. I am talking now of Calyste,
and the trickery, my dear,--that is the word,--_trickery_,--you have
employed against me. To what depths have you descended, Camille Maupin!
and why?"

"More and more sphinx-like!" said Camille, smiling.

"You want me to fling myself at Calyste's head; but I am still too young
for that sort of thing. To me, love is sacred; love is love with all
its emotions, jealousies, and despotisms. I am not an author; it is
impossible for me to see ideas where the heart feels sentiments."

"You think yourself capable of loving foolishly!" said Camille. "Make
yourself easy on that score; you still have plenty of sense. My dear,
you calumniate yourself; I assure you that your nature is cold enough to
enable your head