,
my dear fellow, take her, love her, you'll do me a great service; I want
her to turn against me. I have been afraid of her pride and her virtue.
Perhaps, in spite of my approval of the matter, it may take some time to
effect this _chassez-croissez_. On such occasions the wisest plan is
to take no step at all. I did, just now, as we walked about the lawn,
attempt to let her see that I knew all, and was ready to congratulate
her on her new happiness. Well, she was furious! At this moment I
am desperately in love with the youngest and handsomest of our
prima-donnas, Mademoiselle Falcon of the Grand Opera. I think of
marrying her; yes, I have got as far as that. When you come to Paris you
will see that I have changed a marquise for a queen."

Calyste, whose candid face revealed his satisfaction, admitted his love
for Beatrix, which was all that Conti wanted to discover. There is no
man in the world, however _blase_ or depraved he may be, whose love will
not flame up again the moment he sees it threatened by a rival. He may
wish to leave a woman, but he will never willingly let her leave him.
When a pair of lovers get to this extremity, both the man and the woman
strive for priority of action, so deep is the wound to their vanity.
Questioned by the composer, Calyste related all that had happened during
the last three weeks at Les Touches, delighted to find that Conti, who
concealed his fury under an appearance of charming good-humor, took it
all in good part.

"Come, let us go upstairs," said the latter. "Women are so distrustful;
those two will wonder how we can sit here together without tearing each
other's hair out; they are even capable of coming down to listen. I'll
serve you faithfully, my dear boy. You'll see me rough and jealous with
the marquise; I shall seem to suspect her; there's no better way to
drive a woman to betray you. You will be happy, and I shall be free.
Seem to pity that angel for belonging to a man without delicacy; show
her a tear--for you can weep, you are still young. I, alas! can weep no
more; and that's a great advantage lost."

Calyste and Conti went up to Camille's salon. The composer, begged by
his young rival to sing, gave them that greatest of musical masterpieces
viewed as execution, the famous "_Pria che spunti l'aurora_," which
Rubini himself never attempted without trembling, and which had often
been Conti's triumph. Never was his singing more extraordinary than
on this occasion, wh