Camille instantly left the room and gave the order which so astonished Calyste; she feared that he might arrive in the midst of the quarrel, and she determined to be alone, without witnesses, in fighting this duel of deception on both sides.  Beatrix, without an auxiliary, would infallibly succumb.  Camille well knew the barrenness of that soul, the pettiness of that pride, to which she had justly applied the epithet of obstinate.

The dinner was gloomy.  Camille was gentle and kind; she felt herself the superior being.  Beatrix was hard and cutting; she felt she was being managed like a child.  During dinner the battle began with glances, gestures, half-spoken sentences,—­not enough to enlighten the servants, but enough to prepare an observer for the coming storm.  When the time to go upstairs came, Camille offered her arm maliciously to Beatrix, who pretended not to see it, and sprang up the stairway alone.  When coffee had been served Mademoiselle des Touches said to the footman, “You may go,”—­a brief sentence, which served as a signal for the combat.

“The novels you make, my dear, are more dangerous than those you write,” said the marquise.

“They have one advantage, however,” replied Camille, lighting a cigarette.

“What is that?” asked Beatrix.

“They are unpublished, my angel.”

“Is the one in which you are putting me to be turned into a book?”

“I’ve no fancy for the role of OEdipus; I know you have the wit and beauty of a sphinx, but don’t propound conundrums.  Speak out, plainly, my dear Beatrix.”

“When, in order to make a man happy, amuse him, please him, and save him from ennui, we allow the devil to help us—­”

“That man would reproach us later for our efforts on his behalf, and would think them prompted by the genius of depravity,” said Camille, taking the cigarette from her lips to interrupt her friend.

“He forgets the love which carried us away, and is our sole justification—­but that’s the way of men, they are all unjust and ungrateful,” continued Beatrix.  “Women among themselves know each other; they know how proud and noble their own minds are, and, let us frankly say so, how virtuous!  But, Camille, I have just recognized the truth of certain criticisms upon your nature, of which you have sometimes complained.  My dear, you have something of the man about you; you behave like a man; nothing restrains you; if you haven’t all a man’s advantages, you have a man’s spirit in all your ways; and you share his contempt for women.  I have no reason, my dear, to be satisfied with you, and I am too frank to hide my dissatisfaction.  No one has ever given or ever will give, perhaps, so cruel a wound to my heart as that from which I am now suffering.  If you are not a woman in love, you are one in vengeance.  It takes a woman of genius to discover the most sensitive spot of all in another woman’s delicacy.  I am talking now of Calyste, and the trickery, my dear,—­that is the word,—­trickery,—­you have employed against me.  To what depths have you descended, Camille Maupin! and why?”