nce of opposition or caprice into my love;
it would falsify it. Calyste will do with me what he pleases.
According to your theory, the more I am a woman the more I make
myself his toy; for I am, and I know it, horribly weak in my
happiness; I cannot resist a single glance of my lord. But no! I
do not abandon myself to love; I only cling to it, as a mother
presses her infant to her breast, fearing some evil.

Note.--When "Beatrix" was first published, in 1839, the volume ended
with the following paragraph: "Calyste, rich and married to the
most beautiful woman in Paris, retains a sadness in his soul which
nothing dissipates,--not even the birth of a son at Guerande, in
1839, to the great joy of Zephirine du Guenic. Beatrix lives still
in the depths of his heart, and it is impossible to foresee what
disasters might result should he again meet with Madame de
Rochefide." In 1842 this concluding paragraph was suppressed and
the story continued as here follows.--TR.

XVIII. THE END OF A HONEY-MOON

Guerande, July, 1838.

To Madame la Duchesse de Grandlieu:

Ah, my dear mamma! at the end of three months to know what it is
to be jealous! My heart completes its experience; I now feel the
deepest hatred and the deepest love! I am more than betrayed,--I
am not loved. How fortunate for me to have a mother, a heart on
which to cry out as I will!

It is enough to say to wives who are still half girls: "Here's a
key rusty with memories among those of your palace; go everywhere,
enjoy everything, but keep away from Les Touches!" to make us
eager to go there hot-foot, our eyes shining with the curiosity of
Eve. What a root of bitterness Mademoiselle des Touches planted in
my love! Why did she forbid me to go to Les Touches? What sort of
happiness is mine if it depends on an excursion, on a visit to a
paltry house in Brittany? Why should I fear? Is there anything to
fear? Add to this reasoning of Mrs. Blue-Beard the desire that
nips all women to know if their power is solid or precarious, and
you'll understand how it was that I said one day, with an
unconcerned little air:--

"What sort of place is Les Touches?"

"Les Touches belongs to you," said my divine, dear mother-in-law.

"If Calyste had never set foot in Les Touches!"--cried my aunt
Zephirine, shaking her head.

"He would not be my husband," I added.

"Then you know