IX A FIRST MEETING

What young man full of abounding but restrained life and emotion would

not have had the glorious idea of going to Croisic to see Madame de

Rochefide land, and examine her incognito? Calyste greatly surprised

his father and mother by going off in the morning without waiting for

the mid-day breakfast. Heaven knows with what agility the young

Breton's feet sped along. Some unknown vigor seemed lent to him; he

walked on air, gliding along by the walls of Les Touches that he might

not be seen from the house. The adorable boy was ashamed of his ardor,

and afraid of being laughed at; Felicite and Vignon were so

perspicacious! besides, in such cases young fellows fancy that their

foreheads are transparent.

He reached the shore, strengthened by a stone embankment, at the foot

of which is a house where travellers can take shelter in storms of

wind or rain. It is not always possible to cross the little arm of the

sea which separates the landing-place of Guerande from Croisic; the

weather may be bad, or the boats not ready; and during this time of

waiting, it is necessary to put not only the passengers but their

horses, donkeys, baggages, and merchandise under cover.

Calyste presently saw two boats coming over from Croisic, laden with

baggage,trunks, packages, bags, and chests,the shape and

appearance of which proved to a native of these parts that such

extraordinary articles must belong to travellers of distinction. In

one of the boats was a young woman in a straw bonnet with a green

veil, accompanied by a man. This boat was the first to arrive. Calyste

trembled until on closer view he saw they were a maid and a man-

servant.

"Are you going over to Croisic, Monsieur Calyste?" said one of the

boatmen; to whom he replied with a shake of the head, annoyed at being

called by his name.

He was captivated by the sight of a chest covered with tarred cloth on

which were painted the words, MME. LA MARQUISE DE ROCHEFIDE. The name

shone before him like a talisman; he fancied there was something

fateful in it. He knew in some mysterious way, which he could not

doubt, that he should love that woman. Why? In the burning desert of

his new and infinite desires, still vague and without an object, his

fancy fastened with all its strength on the first woman that presented

herself. Beatrix necessarily inherited the love which Camille had

rejected.

Calyste watched the landing of the luggage, casting from time to time

a glance at Croisic, from which he hoped to see another boat put out

to cross to the little promontory, and show him Beatrix, already to

his eyes what Beatrice was to Dante, a marble statue on which to hang

his garlands and his flowers. He stood with arms folded, lost in

meditation. Here is a fact worthy of remark, which, nevertheless, has

never been remarked: we often subject ourselves to sentiments by our

own volition,deliberately bind ourselves, and create our own fate;

chance has not as much to do with it as we believe.

"I don't see any horses," said the maid, sitting on a trunk.

"And I don't see any road," said the footman.

"Horses have been here, though," replied the woman, pointing to the

proofs of their presence. "Monsieur," she said, addressing Calyste,

"is this really the way to Guerande?"

"Yes," he replied, "are you expecting some one to meet you?"

"We were told that they would fetch us from Les Touches. If they don't

come," she added to the footman, "I don't know how Madame la marquise

will manage to dress for dinner. You had better go and find

Mademoiselle des Touches. Oh! what a land of savages!"

Calyste had a vague idea of having blundered.

"Is your mistress going to Les Touches?" he inquired.

"She is there; Mademoiselle came for her this morning at seven

o'clock. Ah! here come the horses."

Calyste started toward Guerande with the lightness and agility of a

chamois, doubling like a hare that he might not return upon his tracks

or meet any of the servants of Les Touches. He did, however, meet two

of them on the narrow causeway of the marsh along which he went.

"Shall I go in, or shall I not?" he thought when the pines of Les

Touches came in sight. He was afraid; and continued his way rather

sulkily to Guerande, where he finished his excursion on the mall and

continued his reflections.

"She has no idea of my agitation," he said to himself.

His capricious thoughts were so many grapnels which fastened his heart

to the marquise. He had known none of these mysterious terrors and

joys in his intercourse with Camille. Such vague emotions rise like

poems in the untutored soul. Warmed by the first fires of imagination,

souls like his have been known to pass through all phases of

preparation and to reach in silence and solitude the very heights of

love, without having met the object of so many efforts.

Presently Calyste saw, coming toward him, the Chevalier du Halga and

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel, who were walking together on the mall. He

heard them say his name, and he slipped aside out of sight, but not

out of hearing. The chevalier and the old maid, believing themselves

alone, were talking aloud.

"If Charlotte de Kergarouet comes," said the chevalier, "keep her four

or five months. How can you expect her to coquette with Calyste? She

is never here long enough to undertake it. Whereas, if they see each

other every day, those two children will fall in love, and you can

marry them next winter. If you say two words about it to Charlotte

she'll say four to Calyste, and a girl of sixteen can certainly carry

off the prize from a woman of forty."

Here the old people turned to retrace their steps and Calyste heard no

more. But remembering what his mother had told him, he saw

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel's intention, and, in the mood in which he

then was, nothing could have been more fatal. The mere idea of a girl

thus imposed upon him sent him with greater ardor into his imaginary

love. He had never had a fancy for Charlotte de Kergarouet, and he now

felt repugnance at the very thought of her. Calyste was quite

unaffected by questions of fortune; from infancy he had accustomed his

life to the poverty and the restricted means of his father's house. A

young man brought up as he had been, and now partially emancipated,

was likely to consider sentiments only, and all his sentiments, all

his thought now belonged to the marquise. In presence of the portrait

which Camille had drawn for him of her friend, what was that little

Charlotte? the companion of his childhood, whom he thought of as a

sister.

He did not go home till five in the afternoon. As he entered the hall

his mother gave him, with a rather sad smile, the following letter

from Mademoiselle des Touches:

My dear Calyste,The beautiful marquise has come; we count on you

to help us celebrate her arrival. Claude, always sarcastic,

declares that you will play Bice and that she will be Dante. It is

for our honor as Bretons, and yours as a du Guenic to welcome a

Casteran. Come soon.

Your friend, Camille Maupin.

Come as you are, without ceremony; otherwise you will put us to

the blush.

Calyste gave the letter to his mother and departed.

"Who are the Casterans?" said Fanny to the baron.

"An old Norman family, allied to William the Conqueror," he replied.

"They bear on a shield tierce fessed azure, gules and sable, a horse

rearing argent, shod with gold. That beautiful creature for whom the

Gars was killed at Fougeres in 1800 was the daughter of a Casteran who

made herself a nun, and became an abbess after the Duc de Verneuil

deserted her."

"And the Rochefides?"

"I don't know that name. I should have to see the blazon," he replied.

The baroness was somewhat reassured on hearing that the Marquise de

Rochefide was born of a noble family, but she felt that her son was

now exposed to new seductions.

Calyste as he walked along felt all sorts of violent and yet soft

inward movements; his throat was tight, his heart swelled, his brain

was full, a fever possessed him. He tried to walk slowly, but some

superior power hurried him. This impetuosity of the several senses

excited by vague expectation is known to all young men. A subtle fire

flames within their breasts and darts outwardly about them, like the

rays of a nimbus around the heads of divine personages in works of

religious art; through it they see all Nature glorious, and woman

radiant. Are they not then like those haloed saints, full of faith,

hope, ardor, purity?

The young Breton found the company assembled in the little salon of

Camille's suite of rooms. It was then about six o'clock; the sun, in

setting, cast through the windows its ruddy light chequered by the

trees; the air was still; twilight, beloved of women, was spreading

through the room.

"Here comes the future deputy of Brittany," said Camille Maupin,

smiling, as Calyste raised the tapestry portiere,"punctual as a

king."

"You recognized his step just now," said Claude to Felicite in a low

voice.

Calyste bowed low to the marquise, who returned the salutation with an

inclination of her head; he did not look at her; but he took the hand

Claude Vignon held out to him and pressed it.

"This is the celebrated man of whom we have talked so much, Gennaro

Conti," said Camille, not replying to Claude Vignon's remark.

She presented to Calyste a man of medium height, thin and slender,

with chestnut hair, eyes that were almost red, and a white skin,

freckled here and there, whose head was so precisely the well-known

head of Lord Byron (though rather better carried on his shoulders)

that description is superfluous. Conti was rather proud of this

resemblance.

"I am fortunate," he said, "to meet Monsieur du Guenic during the one

day that I spend at Les Touches."

"It was for me to say that to you," replied Calyste, with a certain

ease.

"He is handsome as an angel," said the marquise in an under tone to

Felicite.

Standing between the sofa and the two ladies, Calyste heard the words

confusedly. He seated himself in an arm-chair and looked furtively

toward the marquise. In the soft half-light he saw, reclining on a

divan, as if a sculptor had placed it there, a white and serpentine

shape which thrilled him. Without being aware of it, Felicite had done

her friend a service; the marquise was much superior to the

unflattered portrait Camille had drawn of her the night before. Was it

to do honor to the guest that Beatrix had wound into her hair those

tufts of blue-bells that gave value to the pale tints of her creped

curls, so arranged as to fall around her face and play upon the

cheeks? The circle of her eyes, which showed fatigue, was of the

purest mother-of-pearl, her skin was as dazzling as the eyes, and

beneath its whiteness, delicate as the satiny lining of an egg, life

abounded in the beautiful blue veins. The delicacy of the features was

extreme; the forehead seemed diaphanous. The head, so sweet and

fragrant, admirably joined to a long neck of exquisite moulding, lent

itself to many and most diverse expressions. The waist, which could be

spanned by the hands, had a charming willowy ease; the bare shoulders

sparkled in the twilight like a white camellia. The throat, visible to

the eye though covered with a transparent fichu, allowed the graceful

outlines of the bosom to be seen with charming roguishness. A gown of

white muslin, strewn with blue flowers, made with very large sleeves,

a pointed body and no belt, shoes with strings crossed on the instep

over Scotch thread stockings, showed a charming knowledge of the art

of dress. Ear-rings of silver filagree, miracles of Genoese jewelry,

destined no doubt to become the fashion, were in perfect harmony with

the delightful flow of the soft curls starred with blue-bells.

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.

By artificial light, Beatrix seemed more beautiful than before. The

white gleam of the candles laid a satiny lustre on her forehead,

lighted the spangles of her eyes, and ran through her swaying curls,

touching them here and there into gold. She threw back the thin gauze

scarf she was wearing and disclosed her neck. Calyste then saw its

beautiful nape, white as milk, and hollowed near the head, until its

lines were lost toward the shoulders with soft and flowing symmetry.

This neck, so dissimilar to that of Camille, was the sign of a totally

different character in Beatrix.

Calyste found much trouble in pretending to eat; nervous motions

within him deprived him of appetite. Like other young men, his nature

was in the throes and convulsions which precede love, and carve it

indelibly on the soul. At his age, the ardor of the heart, restrained

by moral ardor, leads to an inward conflict, which explains the long

and respectful hesitations, the tender debatings, the absence of all

calculation, characteristic of young men whose hearts and lives are

pure. Studying, though furtively, so as not to attract the notice of

Conti, the various details which made the marquise so purely

beautiful, Calyste became, before long, oppressed by a sense of her

majesty; he felt himself dwarfed by the hauteur of certain of her

glances, by the imposing expression of a face that was wholly

aristocratic, by a sort of pride which women know how to express in

slight motions, turns of the head, and slow gestures, effects less

plastic and less studied than we think. The false situation in which

Beatrix had placed herself compelled her to watch her own behavior,

and to keep herself imposing without being ridiculously so. Women of

the great world know how to succeed in this, which proves a fatal reef

to vulgar women.

The expression of Felicite's eyes made Beatrix aware of the inward

adoration she inspired in the youth beside her, and also that it would

be most unworthy on her part to encourage it. She therefore took

occasion now and then to give him a few repressive glances, which fell

upon his heart like an avalanche of snow. The unfortunate young fellow

turned on Felicite a look in which she could read the tears he was

suppressing by superhuman efforts. She asked him in a friendly tone

why he was eating nothing. The question piqued him, and he began to

force himself to eat and to take part in the conversation.

But whatever he did, Madame de Rochefide paid little attention to him.

Mademoiselle des Touches having started the topic of her journey to

Italy she related, very wittily, many of its incidents, which made

Claude Vignon, Conti, and Felicite laugh.

"Ah!" thought Calyste, "how far such a woman is from me! Will she ever

deign to notice me?"

Mademoiselle des Touches was struck with the expression she now saw on

Calyste's face, and tried to console him with a look of sympathy.

Claude Vignon intercepted that look. From that moment the great critic

expanded into gaiety that overflowed in sarcasm. He maintained to

Beatrix that love existed only by desire; that most women deceived

themselves in loving; that they loved for reasons unknown to men and

to themselves; that they wanted to deceive themselves, and that the

best among them were artful.

"Keep to books, and don't criticise our lives," said Camille, glancing

at him imperiously.

The dinner ceased to be gay. Claude Vignon's sarcasm had made the two

women pensive. Calyste was conscious of pain in the midst of the

happiness he found in looking at Beatrix. Conti looked into the eyes

of the marquise to guess her thoughts. When dinner was over

Mademoiselle des Touches took Calyste's arm, gave the other two men to

the marquise, and let them pass before her, that she might be alone

with the young Breton for a moment.

"My dear Calyste," she said, "you are acting in a manner that

embarrasses the marquise; she may be delighted with your admiration,

but she cannot accept it. Pray control yourself."

"She was hard to me, she will never care for me," said Calyste, "and

if she does not I shall die."

"Die! you! My dear Calyste, you are a child. Would you have died for

me?"

"You have made yourself my friend," he answered.

After the talk that follows coffee, Vignon asked Conti to sing

something. Mademoiselle des Touches sat down to the piano. Together

she and Gennaro sang the /Dunque il mio bene tu mia sarai/, the last

duet of Zingarelli's "Romeo e Giulietta," one of the most pathetic

pages of modern music. The passage /Di tanti palpiti/ expresses love

in all its grandeur. Calyste, sitting in the same arm-chair in which

Felicite had told him the history of the marquise, listened in rapt

devotion. Beatrix and Vignon were on either side of the piano. Conti's

sublime voice knew well how to blend with that of Felicite. Both had

often sung this piece; they knew its resources, and they put their

whole marvellous gift into bringing them out. The music was at this

moment what its creator intended, a poem of divine melancholy, the

farewell of two swans to life. When it was over, all present were

under the influence of feelings such as cannot express themselves by

vulgar applause.

"Ah! music is the first of arts!" exclaimed the marquise.

"Camille thinks youth and beauty the first of poesies," said Claude

Vignon.

Mademoiselle des Touches looked at Claude with vague uneasiness.

Beatrix, not seeing Calyste, turned her head as if to know what effect

the music had produced upon him, less by way of interest in him than

for the gratification of Conti; she saw a white face bathed in tears.

At the sight, and as if some sudden pain had seized her, she turned

back quickly and looked at Gennaro. Not only had Music arisen before

the eyes of Calyste, touching him with her divine wand until he stood

in presence of Creation from which she rent the veil, but he was

dumfounded by Conti's genius. In spite of what Camille had told him of

the musician's character, he now believed in the beauty of the soul,

in the heart that expressed such love. How could he, Calyste, rival

such as an artist? What woman could ever cease to adore such genius?

That voice entered the soul like another soul. The poor lad was

overwhelmed by poesy, and his own despair. He felt himself of no

account. This ingenuous admission of his nothingness could be read

upon his face mingled with his admiration. He did not observe the

gesture with which Beatrix, attracted to Calyste by the contagion of a

true feeling, called Felicite's attention to him.

"Oh! the adorable heart!" cried Camille. "Conti, you will never obtain

applause of one-half the value of that child's homage. Let us sing this

trio. Beatrix, my dear, come."

When the marquise, Camille, and Conti had arranged themselves at the

piano, Calyste rose softly, without attracting their attention, and

flung himself on one of the sofas in the bedroom, the door of which

stood open, where he sat with his head in his hands, plunged in

meditation.