Calyste turned scarlet from his neck to his forehead; even his ears were on fire.

“Oh! forgive me,” she cried.  “How can I heedlessly deprave your girlish innocence!  Forgive me, Calyste—­” She paused.  “There are some superb, consistent natures who say at a certain age:  ’If I had my life to live over again, I would so the same things.’  I who do not think myself weak, I say, ‘I would be a woman like your mother, Calyste.’  To have a Calyste, oh! what happiness!  I could be a humble and submissive woman—­And yet, I have done no harm except to myself.  But alas! dear child, a woman cannot stand alone in society except it be in what is called a primitive state.  Affections which are not in harmony with social or with natural laws, affections that are not obligatory, in short, escape us.  Suffering for suffering, as well be useful where we can.  What care I for those children of my cousin Faucombe?  I have not seen them these twenty years, and they are married to merchants.  You are my son, who have never cost me the miseries of motherhood; I shall leave you my fortune and make you happy—­at least, so far as money can do so, dear treasure of beauty and grace that nothing should ever change or blast.”

“You would not take my love,” said Calyste, “and I shall return your fortune to your heirs.”

“Child!” answered Camille, in a guttural voice, letting the tears roll down her cheeks.  “Will nothing save me from myself?” she added, presently.

“You said you had a history to tell me, and a letter to—­” said the generous youth, wishing to divert her thoughts from her grief; but she did not let him finish.

“You are right to remind me of that.  I will be an honest woman before all else.  I will sacrifice no one—­Yes, it was too late, yesterday, but to-day we have time,” she said, in a cheerful tone.  “I will keep my promise; and while I tell you that history I will sit by the window and watch the road to the marshes.”

Calyste arranged a great Gothic chair for her near the window, and opened one of the sashes.  Camille Maupin, who shared the oriental taste of her illustrious sister-author, took a magnificent Persian narghile, given to her by an ambassador.  She filled the nipple with patchouli, cleaned the bochettino, perfumed the goose-quill, which she attached to the mouthpiece and used only once, set fire to the yellow leaves, placing the vase with its long neck enamelled in blue and gold at some distance from her, and rang the bell for tea.

“Will you have cigarettes?—­Ah!  I am always forgetting that you do not smoke.  Purity such as yours is so rare!  The hand of Eve herself, fresh from the hand of her Maker, is alone innocent enough to stroke your cheek.”

Calyste colored; sitting down on a stool at Camille’s feet, he did not see the deep emotion that seemed for a moment to overcome her.

VIII

LA MARQUISE BEATRIX