Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel could not help laughing at her niece’s gesture; but neither the chevalier nor the baron paid any heed to this truly provincial satire against Paris.

“But the Marquise de Rochefide is a very handsome woman,” said the old maid.

“My dear,” said the baroness to her husband, “I happen to know that she is going over to Croisic to-morrow.  Let us walk on the jetty; I should like to see her.”

While Calyste was racking his brains to imagine what could have closed the doors of Les Touches to him, a scene was passing between Camille and Beatrix which was to have its influence on the events of the morrow.

Calyste’s last letter had stirred in Madame de Rochefide’s heart emotions hitherto unknown to it.  Women are not often the subject of a love so young, guileless, sincere, and unconditional as that of this youth, this child.  Beatrix had loved more than she had been loved.  After being all her life a slave, she suddenly felt an inexplicable desire to be a tyrant.  But, in the midst of her pleasure, as she read and re-read the letter, she was pierced through and through with a cruel idea.

What were Calyste and Camille doing together ever since Claude Vignon’s departure?  If, as Calyste said, he did not love Camille, and if Camille knew it, how did they employ their mornings, and why were they alone together?  Memory suddenly flashed into her mind, in answer to these questions, certain speeches of Camille; a grinning devil seemed to show her, as in a magic mirror, the portrait of that heroic woman, with certain gestures, certain aspects, which suddenly enlightened her.  What! instead of being her equal, was she crushed by Felicite? instead of over-reaching her, was she being over-reached herself? was she only a toy, a pleasure, which Camille was giving to her child, whom she loved with an extraordinary passion that was free from all vulgarity?

To a woman like Beatrix this thought came like a thunder-clap.  She went over in her mind minutely the history of the past week.  In a moment the part which Camille was playing, and her own, unrolled themselves to their fullest extent before her eyes; she felt horribly belittled.  In her fury of jealous anger, she fancied she could see in Camille’s conduct an intention of vengeance against Conti.  Was the hidden wrath of the past two years really acting upon the present moment?

Once on the path of these doubts and superstitions, Beatrix did not pause.  She walked up and down her room, driven to rapid motion by the impetuous movements of her soul, sitting down now and then, and trying to decide upon a course, but unable to do so.  And thus she remained, a prey to indecision until the dinner hour, when she rose hastily, and went downstairs without dressing.  No sooner did Camille see her, than she felt that a crisis had come.  Beatrix, in her morning gown, with a chilling air and a taciturn manner, indicated to an observer as keen as Maupin the coming hostilities of an embittered heart.