“I’m mute.  Ah! in the olden time I knew all about it,” said the old chevalier, striking an attitude.  “The weather was fine, the breeze nor’east. Tudieu! how the ‘Belle-Poule’ kept close to the wind that day when—­Oh!” he cried, interrupting himself, “we shall have a change of weather; my ears are buzzing, and I feel the pain in my ribs!  You know, don’t you, that the battle of the ‘Belle-Poule’ was so famous that women wore head-dresses ‘a la Belle-Poule.’  Madame de Kergarouet was the first to come to the opera in that head-dress, and I said to her:  ‘Madame, you are dressed for conquest.’  The speech was repeated from box to box all through the house.”

The baroness listened pleasantly to the old hero, who, faithful to the laws of gallantry, escorted her to the alley of her house, neglecting Thisbe.  The secret of Thisbe’s existence had once escaped him.  Thisbe was the granddaughter of a delightful Thisbe, the pet of Madame l’Amirale de Kergarouet, first wife of the Comte de Kergarouet, the chevalier’s commanding officer.  The present Thisbe was eighteen years old.

The baroness ran up to Calyste’s room.  He was absent; she saw a letter, not sealed, but addressed to Madame de Rochefide, lying on the table.  An invincible curiosity compelled the anxious mother to read it.  This act of indiscretion was cruelly punished.  The letter revealed to her the depths of the gulf into which his passion was hurling Calyste.

  Calyste to Madame la Marquise de Rochefide.

What care I for the race of the du Guenics in these days, Beatrix? what is their name to me?  My name is Beatrix; the happiness of Beatrix is my happiness; her life is my life, and all my fortune is in her heart.  Our estates have been mortgaged these two hundred years, and so they may remain for two hundred more; our farmers have charge of them; no one can take them from us.  To see you, to love you,—­that is my property, my object, my religion!

You talk to me of marrying! the very thought convulses my heart.  Is there another Beatrix?  I will marry no one but you; I will wait for you twenty years, if need be.  I am young, and you will be ever beautiful.  My mother is a saint.  I do not blame her, but she has never loved.  I know now what she has lost, and what sacrifices she has made.  You have taught me, Beatrix, to love her better; she is in my heart with you, and no other can ever be there; she is your only rival,—­is not this to say that you reign in that heart supreme?  Therefore your arguments have no force upon my mind.

As for Camille, you need only say the word, or give me a mere sign, and I will ask her to tell you herself that I do not love her.  She is the mother of my intellect; nothing more, nothing less.  From the moment that I first saw you she became to me a sister, a friend, a comrade, what you will of that kind; but we have no rights other than those of friendship upon each other.  I took