tear.

Toward morning, Calyste, worn-out with emotion, fell asleep in his
arm-chair; and the marquise in her turn, watched his charming face,
paled by his feelings and his vigil of love. She heard him murmur her
name as he slept.

"He loves while sleeping," she said to Camille.

"We must send him home," said Felicite, waking him.

No one was anxious at the hotel du Guenic, for Mademoiselle des Touches
had written a line to the baroness telling her of the accident.

Calyste returned to dinner at Les Touches and found Beatrix up and
dressed, but pale, feeble, and languid. No longer was there any
harshness in her words or any coldness in her looks. After this evening,
filled with music by Camille, who went to her piano to leave Calyste
free to take and press the hands of Beatrix (though both were unable to
speak), no storms occurred at Les Touches. Felicite completely effaced
herself.

Cold, fragile, thin, hard women like Madame de Rochefide, women whose
necks turn in a manner to give them a vague resemblance to the feline
race, have souls of the same pale tint as their light eyes, green
or gray; and to melt them, to fuse those blocks of stone it needs a
thunderbolt. To Beatrix, Calyste's fury of love and his mad action came
as the thunderbolt that nought resists, which changes all natures, even
the most stubborn. She felt herself inwardly humbled; a true, pure love
bathed her heart with its soft and limpid warmth. She breathed a sweet
and genial atmosphere of feelings hitherto unknown to her, by which she
felt herself magnified, elevated; in fact, she rose into that heaven
where Bretons throughout all time have placed the Woman. She relished
with delight the respectful adoration of the youth, whose happiness cost
her little, for a gesture, a look, a word was enough to satisfy him.
The value which Calyste's heart gave to these trifles touched her
exceedingly; to hold her gloved hand was more to that young angel than
the possession of her whole person to the man who ought to have been
faithful to her. What a contrast between them!

Few women could resist such constant deification. Beatrix felt herself
sure of being obeyed and understood. She might have asked Calyste to
risk his life for the slightest of her caprices, and he would never have
reflected for a moment. This consciousness gave her a certain noble and
imposing air. She saw love on the side of its grandeur; and her heart
sought for some foothold on which sh