Béatrix

France, and more especially Brittany, still has some few towns that stand entirely outside the social movement which gives a character to the nineteenth century. For lack of rapid and constant communications with Paris, connected only by an ill-made road with the prefecture or chief town to which they belong, these places hear and see modern civilization pass by like a spectacle; they are amazed, but they do not applaud; and whether they fear it or make light of it, they remain faithful to the antiquated manners of which they preserve the stamp. Anyone who should travel as a moral archaeologist, and study men instead of stones, might find a picture of the age of Louis XV in some village of Provence, that of the time of Louis XIV in the depths of Poitou, that of yet remoter ages in the heart of Brittany.

Most of these places have fallen from some splendor of which history has kept no record, busied as it is with facts and dates rather than manners, but of which the memory still survives in tradition; as in Brittany, where the character of the people allows no forgetfulness of anything that concerns the home country. Many of these towns have been the capital of some little feudal territory⁠—a county or a duchy conquered by the Crown, or broken up by inheritors in default of a direct male line.

“What does she do that is so extraordinary, this Mademoiselle des Touches?” asked the Baron.

“She smokes,” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël.

“It is very wholesome,” said the Chevalier.

“Her bacon?” asked the Baron.

“Her bacon! She does not save it,” retorted the old maid.

“Everyone played, and everyone is looed; I have the king, queen, and knave of trumps, mistigris, and a king,” said the Baroness. “The pool is ours, sister.”

This stroke, won without play, overwhelmed Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, who thought no more of Calyste and Mademoiselle des Touches. At nine o’clock no one remained in the room but the Baroness and the Curé. The four old people had gone away and to bed.

The Chevalier, as usual, escorted Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël to her own house in the Market Place, making remarks on the skill of the last player, on their good or ill luck, or on the ever-new glee with which Mademoiselle Zéphirine’s pocket engulfed her winnings, for the old blind woman made no attempt now to disguise the expression of her sentiments in her face. Madame du Guénic’s absence of mind was their subject tonight. The Chevalier had observed the charming Irishwoman’s inattention to the game. On the doorstep, when her boy had gone upstairs, the old lady replied in confidence to the Chevalier’s guesses as to the Baroness’ strange manner by these words, big with importance:

“I know the reason; Calyste is done for if he is not soon married. He is in love with Mademoiselle des Touches⁠—an actress!”

“In that case, send for Charlotte.”

“My sister shall hear from me tomorrow,” said Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoël, bidding him good night.

“My dear mother,” said Calyste, kneeling down before her, “I did not think it necessary to proclaim my defeat. Mademoiselle des Touches, or, if you prefer it, Camille Maupin, rejected my love eighteen months since, when she was here last. She gently made fun of me; she might be my mother, she said; a woman of forty who loved a minor committed a sort of incest, and she was incapable of such depravity. In short, she laughed at me in a hundred ways, and quite overpowered me, for she has the wit of an angel. Then, when she saw me crying bitter tears, she comforted me by offering me her friendship in the noblest way. She has even more heart than brains; she is as generous as you are. I am like a child to her now.⁠—Then, when she came here again, I heard that she loved another man, and I resigned myself.⁠—Do not repeat all the calumnies you hear about her; Camille is an artist; she has genius, and leads one of those exceptional lives which cannot be judged by ordinary standards.”

“My child!” said the pious Fanny, “nothing can excuse a woman for not living according to the ordinances of the Church. She fails in her duties towards God and towards society by failing in the gentle religion of her sex. A woman commits a sin even by going to a theatre; but when she writes impieties to be repeated by actors, and flies about the world, sometimes with an enemy of the Pope’s, sometimes with a musician⁠—Oh! Calyste! you will find it hard to convince me that such things are acts of faith, hope, or charity. Her fortune was given her by God to do good. What use does she make of it?”

“I! Marry at my age?” said he, with one of those looks which weaken a mother’s reason. “Am I to have no sweet and crazy lovemaking? Am I never to tremble, thrill, flutter, fear, lie down under a pitiless gaze and presently melt it? May I never know the beauty that is free, the fancy of the soul, the clouds that fleet over the serene blue of happiness and that the breath of enjoyment blows away? May I never stand under a gutter spout without discovering that it is raining, like the lovers seen by Diderot? Shall I never hold a burning coal in the palm of my hand like the Duc de Lorraine? Shall I never climb a silken rope-ladder, nor cling to a rotten, old trellis without feeling it yield? Am I never to hide in a closet or under a bed? Can I know nothing of woman but wifely surrender, or of love but its equable lamplight? Is all my curiosity to be satiated before it is excited? Am I to live without ever feeling that fury of the heart which adds to a man’s power? Am I to be a married monk?⁠—No! I have set my teeth in the Paris apple of civilization. Do you not perceive that by your chaste, your ignorant family habits you have laid the fire that is consuming me, and that I shall be burnt up before I can adore the divinity I see wherever I turn⁠—in the green foliage and in the sand glowing in the sunshine, and in all the beautiful, lordly, and elegant women who are described in the books and poems I have devoured at Camille’s? Alas!

“What is the matter with you, my boy?” said Claude Vignon, stealing quietly in after him and taking his hand. “You are in love, you believe yourself scorned; but it is not so. In a few days the field will be open to you, you will be supreme here, and be loved by more than one woman; in fact, if you know how to manage matters, you will be a Sultan here.”

“What are you saying?” cried Calyste, starting to his feet and dragging Claude away into the library. “Who that is here loves me?”

“Camille,” said Vignon.

“Camille loves me?” said Calyste. “And what of you?”

“I,” said Claude, “I⁠—”

He paused. Then he sat down and rested his head against a pillow, in the deepest melancholy.

“I am weary of life,” he went on, after a short silence, “and I have not the courage to end it. I wish I were mistaken in what I have told you; but within the last few days more than one vivid gleam has flashed upon me. I did not wander about the rocks of le Croisic for my amusement, on my soul! The bitterness of my tone when, on my return, I found you talking to Camille, had its source in the depths of my wounded self-respect. I will have an explanation presently with Camille. Two minds so clear-sighted as hers and mine cannot deceive each other. Between two professional duelists a fight is soon ended. So I may at once announce my departure. Yes, I shall leave les Touches, tomorrow perhaps, with Conti.

“When we are no longer here, some strange⁠—perhaps terrible⁠—things will certainly happen, and I shall be sorry not to look on at these struggles