Calyste’s eager eye took in these beauties at a glance, and carved them on his soul.  The fair Beatrix and the dark Felicite might have sat for those contrasting portraits in “keepsakes” which English designers and engravers seek so persistently.  Here were the force and the feebleness of womanhood in full development, a perfect antithesis.  These two women could never be rivals; each had her own empire.  Here was the delicate campanula, or the lily, beside the scarlet poppy; a turquoise near a ruby.  In a moment, as it were,—­at first sight, as the saying is,—­Calyste was seized with a love which crowned the secret work of his hopes, his fears, his uncertainties.  Mademoiselle des Touches had awakened his nature; Beatrix inflamed both his heart and thoughts.  The young Breton suddenly felt within him a power to conquer all things, and yield to nothing that stood in his way.  He looked at Conti with an envious, gloomy, savage rivalry he had never felt for Claude Vignon.  He employed all his strength to control himself; but the inward tempest went down as soon as the eyes of Beatrix turned to him, and her soft voice sounded in his ear.  Dinner was announced.

“Calyste, give your arm to the marquise,” said Mademoiselle des Touches, taking Conti with her right hand, and Claude Vignon with her left, and drawing back to let the marquise pass.

The descent of that ancient staircase was to Calyste like the moment of going into battle for the first time.  His heart failed him, he had nothing to say; a slight sweat pearled upon his forehead and wet his back; his arm trembled so much that as they reached the lowest step the marquise said to him:  “Is anything the matter?”

“Oh!” he replied, in a muffled tone, “I have never seen any woman so beautiful as you, except my mother, and I am not master of my emotions.”

“But you have Camille Maupin before your eyes.”

“Ah! what a difference!” said Calyste, ingenuously.

“Calyste,” whispered Felicite, who was just behind him, “did I not tell you that you would forget me as if I had never existed?  Sit there,” she said aloud, “beside the marquise, on her right, and you, Claude, on her left.  As for you, Gennaro, I retain you by me; we will keep a mutual eye on their coquetries.”

The peculiar accept which Camille gave to the last word struck Claude Vignon’s ear, and he cast that sly but half-abstracted look upon Camille which always denoted in him the closest observation.  He never ceased to examine Mademoiselle des Touches throughout the dinner.

“Coquetries!” replied the marquis, taking off her gloves, and showing her beautiful hands; “the opportunity is good, with a poet,” and she motioned to Claude, “on one side, and poesy the other.”

At these words Conti turned and gave Calyste a look that was full of flattery.