“You have done right, Calyste,” she replied, pressing his hand.

Beatrix turned round, saw her young lover, and gave him the most imperious look in her repertory.  A smile, which the marquise detected on the eloquent lips of Mademoiselle des Touches, made her aware of the vulgarity of such conduct, worthy only of a bourgeoise.  She then said to Calyste, smiling,—­

“Are you not guilty of a slight impertinence in supposing that I should bore Camille, if left alone with her?”

“My dear, one man to two widows is none too much,” said Mademoiselle des Touches, taking Calyste’s arm, and leaving Beatrix to watch the vessel till it disappeared.

At this moment Calyste heard the approaching voices of Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, the Vicomtesse de Kergarouet, Charlotte, and Gasselin, who were all talking at once, like so many magpies.  The old maid was questioning Gasselin as to what had brought him and his master to Saint-Nazaire; the carriage of Mademoiselle des Touches had already caught her eye.  Before the young Breton could get out of sight, Charlotte had seen him.

“Why, there’s Calyste!” she exclaimed eagerly.

“Go and offer them seats in my carriage,” said Camille to Calyste; “the maid can sit with the coachman.  I saw those ladies lose their places in the mail-coach.”

Calyste, who could not help himself, carried the message.  As soon as Madame de Kergarouet learned that the offer came from the celebrated Camille Maupin, and that the Marquise de Rochefide was of the party, she was much surprised at the objections raised by her elder sister, who refused positively to profit by what she called the devil’s carryall.  At Nantes, which boasted of more civilization than Guerande, Camille was read and admired; she was thought to be the muse of Brittany and an honor to the region.  The absolution granted to her in Paris by society, by fashion, was there justified by her great fortune and her early successes in Nantes, which claimed the honor of having been, if not her birthplace, at least her cradle.  The viscountess, therefore, eager to see her, dragged her old sister forward, paying no attention to her jeremiads.

“Good-morning, Calyste,” said Charlotte.

“Oh! good-morning, Charlotte,” replied Calyste, not offering his arm.

Both were confused; she by his coldness, he by his cruelty, as they walked up the sort of ravine, which is called in Saint-Nazaire a street, following the two sisters in silence.  In a moment the little girl of sixteen saw her castle in Spain, built and furnished with romantic hopes, a heap of ruins.  She and Calyste had played together so much in childhood, she was so bound up with him, as it were, that she had quietly supposed her future unassailable; she arrived now, swept along by thoughtless happiness, like a circling bird darting down upon a wheat-field, and lo! she was stopped in her flight, unable to imagine the obstacle.