“I dine at a restaurant with some friends.”
“A lie. Oh, fy! you are not worthy to be loved either by her or by me. Men are all cowards in their treatment of women. Go, monsieur, go and dine with your dear Sabine.”
Calyste flung himself back in his arm-chair and became as pale as death. Bretons possess a courage of nature which makes them obstinate under difficulties. Presently the young baron sat up, put his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, and looked at the implacable Beatrix with a flashing eye. He was so superb that a Northern or a Southern woman would have fallen at his feet saying, “Take me!” But Beatrix, born on the borders of Normandy and Brittany, belonged to the race of Casterans; desertion had developed in her the ferocity of the Frank, the spitefulness of the Norman; she wanted some terrible notoriety as a vengeance, and she yielded to no weakness.
“Dictate what I ought to write,” said the luckless man. “But, in that case—”
“Well, yes!” she said, “you shall love me then as you loved me at Guerande. Write: I dine out; do not expect me.”
“What next?” said Calyste, thinking something more would follow.
“Nothing; sign it. Good,” she said, darting on the note with restrained joy. “I will send it by a messenger.”
“And now,” cried Calyste, rising like a happy man.
“Ah! I have kept, I believe, my freedom of action,” she said, turning away from him and going to the fireplace, where she rang the bell. “Here, Antoine,” she said, when the old footman entered, “send this note to its address. Monsieur dines here.”