XIII DUEL BETWEEN WOMEN

Perhaps one of the greatest enjoyments that small minds or inferior

minds can obtain is that of deceiving a great soul, and laying snares

for it. Beatrix knew herself far beneath Camille Maupin. This

inferiority lay not only in the collection of mental and moral

qualities which we call /talent/, but in the things of the heart

called /passion/.

At the moment when Calyste was hurrying to Les Touches with the

impetuosity of a first love borne on the wings of hope, the marquise

was feeling a keen delight in knowing herself the object of the first

love of so charming a young man. She did not go so far as to wish

herself a sharer in the sentiment, but she thought it heroism on her

part to repress the /capriccio/, as the Italians say. She thought she

was equalling Camille's devotion, and told herself, moreover, that she

was sacrificing herself to her friend. The vanities peculiar to

Frenchwomen, which constitute the celebrated coquetry of which she was

so signal an instance, were flattered and deeply satisfied by

Calyste's love. Assailed by such powerful seduction, she was resisting

it, and her virtues sang in her soul a concert of praise and self-

approval.

The two women were half-sitting, half lying, in apparent indolence on

the divan of the little salon, so filled with harmony and the

fragrance of flowers. The windows were open, for the north wind had

ceased to blow. A soothing southerly breeze was ruffling the surface

of the salt lake before them, and the sun was glittering on the sands

of the shore. Their souls were as deeply agitated as the nature before

them was tranquil, and the heat within was not less ardent.

Bruised by the working of the machinery which she herself had set in

motion, Camille was compelled to keep watch for her safety, fearing

the amazing cleverness of the friendly enemy, or, rather, the inimical

friend she had allowed within her borders. To guard her own secrets

and maintain herself aloof, she had taken of late to contemplations of

nature; she cheated the aching of her own heart by seeking a meaning

in the world around her, finding God in that desert of heaven and

earth. When an unbeliever once perceives the presence of God, he

flings himself unreservedly into Catholicism, which, viewed as a

system, is complete.

That morning Camille's brow had worn the halo of thoughts born of

these researches during a night-time of painful struggle. Calyste was

ever before her like a celestial image. The beautiful youth, to whom

she had secretly devoted herself, had become to her a guardian angel.

Was it not he who led her into those loftier regions, where suffering

ceased beneath the weight of incommensurable infinity? and now a

certain air of triumph about Beatrix disturbed her. No woman gains an

advantage over another without allowing it to be felt, however much

she may deny having taken it. Nothing was ever more strange in its

course than the dumb, moral struggle which was going on between these

two women, each hiding from the other a secret,each believing

herself generous through hidden sacrifices.

Calyste arrived, holding the letter between his hand and his glove,

ready to slip it at some convenient moment into the hand of Beatrix.

Camille, whom the subtle change in the manner of her friend had not

escaped, seemed not to watch her, but did watch her in a mirror at the

moment when Calyste was just entering the room. That is always a

crucial moment for women. The cleverest as well as the silliest of

them, the frankest as the shrewdest, are seldom able to keep their

secret; it bursts from them, at any rate, to the eyes of another

woman. Too much reserve or too little; a free and luminous look; the

mysterious lowering of eyelids,all betray, at that sudden moment,

the sentiment which is the most difficult of all to hide; for real

indifference has something so radically cold about it that it can

never be simulated. Women have a genius for shades,shades of detail,

shades of character; they know them all. There are times when their

eyes take in a rival from head to foot; they can guess the slightest

movement of a foot beneath a gown, the almost imperceptible motion of

the waist; they know the significance of things which, to a man, seem

insignificant. Two women observing each other play one of the choicest

scenes of comedy that the world can show.

"Calyste has committed some folly," thought Camille, perceiving in

each of her guests an indefinable air of persons who have a mutual

understanding.

There was no longer either stiffness or pretended indifference on the

part of Beatrix; she now regarded Calyste as her own property. Calyste

was even more transparent; he colored, as guilty people, or happy

people color. He announced that he had come to make arrangements for

the excursion on the following day.

"Then you really intend to go, my dear?" said Camille,

interrogatively.

"Yes," said Beatrix.

"How did you know it, Calyste?" asked Mademoiselle des Touches.

"I came here to find out," replied Calyste, on a look flashed at him

by Madame de Rochefide, who did not wish Camille to gain the slightest

inkling of their correspondence.

"They have an agreement together," thought Camille, who caught the

look in the powerful sweep of her eye.

Under the pressure of that thought a horrible discomposure overspread

her face and frightened Beatrix.

"What is the matter, my dear?" she cried.

"Nothing. Well, then, Calyste, send my horses and yours across to

Croisic, so that we may drive home by way of Batz. We will breakfast

at Croisic, and get home in time for dinner. You must take charge of

the boat arrangements. Let us start by half-past eight. You will see

some fine sights, Beatrix, and one very strange one; you will see

Cambremer, a man who does penance on a rock for having wilfully killed

his son. Oh! you are in a primitive land, among a primitive race of

people, where men are moved by other sentiments than those of ordinary

mortals. Calyste shall tell you the tale; it is a drama of the

seashore."

She went into her bedroom, for she was stifling. Calyste gave his

letter to Beatrix and followed Camille.

"Calyste, you are loved, I think; but you are hiding something from

me; you have done some foolish thing."

"Loved!" he exclaimed, dropping into a chair.

Camille looked into the next room; Beatrix had disappeared. The fact

was odd. Women do not usually leave a room which contains the man they

admire, unless they have either the certainty of seeing him again, or

something better still. Mademoiselle des Touches said to herself:

"Can he have given her a letter?"

But she thought the innocent Breton incapable of such boldness.

"If you have disobeyed me, all will be lost, through your own fault,"

she said to him very gravely. "Go, now, and make your preparations for

to-morrow."

She made a gesture which Calyste did not venture to resist.

As he walked toward Croisic, to engage the boatmen, fears came into

Calyste's mind. Camille's speech foreshadowed something fatal, and he

believed in the second sight of her maternal affection. When he

returned, four hours later, very tired, and expecting to dine at Les

Touches, he found Camille's maid keeping watch over the door, to tell

him that neither her mistress nor the marquise could receive him that

evening. Calyste, much surprised, wished to question her, but she bade

him hastily good-night and closed the door.

Six o'clock was striking on the steeple of Guerande as Calyste entered

his own house, where Mariotte gave him his belated dinner; after

which, he played /mouche/ in gloomy meditation. These alternations of

joy and gloom, happiness and unhappiness, the extinction of hopes

succeeding the apparent certainty of being loved, bruised and wounded

the young soul which had flown so high on outstretched wings that the

fall was dreadful.

"Does anything trouble you, my Calyste?" said his mother.

"Nothing," he replied, looking at her with eyes from which the light

of the soul and the fire of love were withdrawn.

It is not hope, but despair, which gives the measure of our ambitions.

The finest poems of hope are sung in secret, but grief appears without

a veil.

"Calyste, you are not nice," said Charlotte, after vainly attempting

on him those little provincial witcheries which degenerate usually

into teasing.

"I am tired," he said, rising, and bidding the company good-night.

"Calyste is much changed," remarked Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel.

"We haven't beautiful dresses trimmed with lace; we don't shake our

sleeves like this, or twist our bodies like that; we don't know how to

give sidelong glances, and turn our eyes," said Charlotte, mimicking

the air, and attitude, and glances of the marquise. "/We/ haven't that

head voice, nor the interesting little cough, /heu! heu!/ which sounds

like the sigh of a spook; /we/ have the misfortune of being healthy

and robust, and of loving our friends without coquetry; and when we

look at them, we don't pretend to stick a dart into them, or to watch

them slyly; /we/ can't bend our heads like a weeping willow, just to

look the more interesting when we raise themthis way."

Mademoiselle de Pen-Hoel could not help laughing at her niece's

gesture; but neither the chevalier nor the baron paid any heed to this

truly provincial satire against Paris.

"But the Marquise de Rochefide is a very handsome woman," said the old

maid.

"My dear," said the baroness to her husband, "I happen to know that

she is going over to Croisic to-morrow. Let us walk on the jetty; I

should like to see her."

While Calyste was racking his brains to imagine what could have closed

the doors of Les Touches to him, a scene was passing between Camille

and Beatrix which was to have its influence on the events of the

morrow.

Calyste's last letter had stirred in Madame de Rochefide's heart

emotions hitherto unknown to it. Women are not often the subject of a

love so young, guileless, sincere, and unconditional as that of this

youth, this child. Beatrix had loved more than she had been loved.

After being all her life a slave, she suddenly felt an inexplicable

desire to be a tyrant. But, in the midst of her pleasure, as she read

and re-read the letter, she was pierced through and through with a

cruel idea.

What were Calyste and Camille doing together ever since Claude

Vignon's departure? If, as Calyste said, he did not love Camille, and

if Camille knew it, how did they employ their mornings, and why were

they alone together? Memory suddenly flashed into her mind, in answer

to these questions, certain speeches of Camille; a grinning devil

seemed to show her, as in a magic mirror, the portrait of that heroic

woman, with certain gestures, certain aspects, which suddenly

enlightened her. What! instead of being her equal, was she crushed by

Felicite? instead of over-reaching her, was she being over-reached

herself? was she only a toy, a pleasure, which Camille was giving to

her child, whom she loved with an extraordinary passion that was free

from all vulgarity?

To a woman like Beatrix this thought came like a thunder-clap. She

went over in her mind minutely the history of the past week. In a

moment the part which Camille was playing, and her own, unrolled

themselves to their fullest extent before her eyes; she felt horribly

belittled. In her fury of jealous anger, she fancied she could see in

Camille's conduct an intention of vengeance against Conti. Was the

hidden wrath of the past two years really acting upon the present

moment?

Once on the path of these doubts and superstitions, Beatrix did not

pause. She walked up and down her room, driven to rapid motion by the

impetuous movements of her soul, sitting down now and then, and trying

to decide upon a course, but unable to do so. And thus she remained, a

prey to indecision until the dinner hour, when she rose hastily, and

went downstairs without dressing. No sooner did Camille see her, than

she felt that a crisis had come. Beatrix, in her morning gown, with a

chilling air and a taciturn manner, indicated to an observer as keen

as Maupin the coming hostilities of an embittered heart.

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

justificationbut 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?"

"More and more sphinx-like!" said Camille, smiling.

"You want me to fling myself at Calyste's head; but I am still too

young for that sort of thing. To me, love is sacred; love is love with

all its emotions, jealousies, and despotisms. I am not an author; it

is impossible for me to see ideas where the heart feels sentiments."

"You think yourself capable of loving foolishly!" said Camille. "Make

yourself easy on that score; you still have plenty of sense. My dear,

you calumniate yourself; I assure you that your nature is cold enough

to enable your head to judge of every action of your heart."

The marquise colored high; she darted a look of hatred, a venomous

look, at Camille, and found, without searching, the sharpest arrows in

her quiver. Camille smoked composedly as she listened to a furious

tirade, which rang with such cutting insults that we do not reproduce

it here. Beatrix, irritated by the calmness of her adversary,

condescended even to personalities on Camille's age.

"Is that all?" said Felicite, when Beatrix paused, letting a cloud of

smoke exhale from her lips. "Do you love Calyste?"

"No; of course not."

"So much the better," replied Camille. "I do love himfar too much

for my own peace of mind. He may, perhaps, have had a passing fancy

for you; for you are, you know, enchantingly fair, while I am as black

as a crow; you are slim and willowy, while I have a portly dignity; in

short, you are /young/!that's the final word, and you have not

spared it to me. You have abused your advantages as a woman against

me. I have done my best to prevent what has now happened. However

little of a woman you may think me, I am woman enough, my dear, not to

allow a rival to triumph over me unless I choose to help her." (This

remark, made in apparently the most innocent manner, cut the marquise

to the heart). "You take me for a very silly person if you believe all

that Calyste tries to make you think of me. I am neither so great nor

so small; I am a woman, and very much of a woman. Come, put off your

grand airs, and give me your hand!" continued Camille, taking Madame

de Rochefide's hand. "You do not love Calyste, you say; that is true,

is it not? Don't be angry, therefore; be hard, and cold, and stern to

him to-morrow; he will end by submitting to his fate, especially after

certain little reproaches which I mean to make to him. Still, Calyste

is a Breton, and very persistent; if he should continue to pay court

to you, tell me frankly, and I will lend you my little country house

near Paris, where you will find all the comforts of life, and where

Conti can come out and see you. You said just now that Calyste

calumniated me. Good heavens! what of that? The purest love lies

twenty times a day; its deceptions only prove its strength."

Camille's face wore an air of such superb disdain that the marquise

grew fearful and anxious. She knew not how to answer. Camille dealt

her a last blow.

"I am more confiding and less bitter than you," she said. "I don't

suspect you of attempting to cover by a quarrel a secret injury, which

would compromise my very life. You know me; I shall never survive the

loss of Calyste, but I must lose him sooner or later. Still, Calyste

loves me now; of that I am sure."

"Here is what he answered to a letter of mine, urging him to be true

to you," said Beatrix, holding out Calyste's last letter.

Camille took it and read it; but as she read it, her eyes filled with

tears; and presently she wept as women weep in their bitterest

sorrows.

"My God!" she said, "how he loves her! I shall die without being

understoodor loved," she added.

She sat for a few moments with her head leaning against the shoulder

of her companion; her grief was genuine; she felt to the very core of

her being the same terrible blow which the Baronne du Guenic had

received in reading that letter.

"Do you love him?" she said, straightening herself up, and looking

fixedly at Beatrix. "Have you that infinite worship for him which

triumphs over all pains, survives contempt, betrayal, the certainty

that he will never love you? Do you love him for himself, and for the

very joy of loving him?"

"Dear friend," said the marquise, tenderly, "be happy, be at peace; I

will leave this place to-morrow."

"No, do not go; he loves you, I see that. Well, I love him so much

that I could not endure to see him wretched and unhappy. Still, I had

formed plans for him, projects; but if he loves you, all is over."

"And I love him, Camille," said the marquise, with a sort of

/naivete/, and coloring.

"You love him, and yet you cast him off!" cried Camille. "Ah! that is

not loving; you do not love him."

"I don't know what fresh virtue he has roused in me, but certainly he

has made me ashamed of my own self," said Beatrix. "I would I were

virtuous and free, that I might give him something better than the

dregs of a heart and the weight of my chains. I do not want a hampered

destiny either for him or for myself."

"Cold brain!" exclaimed Camille, with a sort of horror. "To love and

calculate!"

"Call it what you like," said Beatrix, "but I will not spoil his life,

or hang like a millstone round his neck, to become an eternal regret

to him. If I cannot be his wife, I shall not be his mistress. He has

you will laugh at me? No? Well, then, he has purified me."

Camille cast on Beatrix the most sullen, savage look that female

jealousy ever cast upon a rival.

"On that ground, I believed I stood alone," she said. "Beatrix, those

words of yours must separate us forever; we are no longer friends.

Here begins a terrible conflict between us. I tell you now; you will

either succumb or fly."

So saying, Camille bounded into her room, after showing her face,

which was that of a maddened lioness, to the astonished Beatrix. Then

she raised the portiere and looked in again.

"Do you intend to go to Croisic to-morrow," she asked.

"Certainly," replied the marquise, proudly. "I shall not fly, and I

shall not succumb."

"I play above board," replied Camille; "I shall write to Conti."

Beatrix became as white as the gauze of her scarf.

"We are staking our lives on this game," she replied, not knowing what

to say or do.

The violent passions roused by this scene between the two women calmed

down during the night. Both argued with their own minds and returned

to those treacherously temporizing courses which are so attractive to

the majority of women,an excellent system between men and women, but

fatally unsafe among women alone. In the midst of this tumult of their

souls Mademoiselle des Touches had listened to that great Voice whose

counsels subdue the strongest will; Beatrix heard only the promptings

of worldly wisdom; she feared the contempt of society.

Thus Felicite's last deception succeeded; Calyste's blunder was

repaired, but a fresh indiscretion might be fatal to him.