“That is evident,” said Claude Vignon, who had only read the first page. “Do people reason on their situation when they really love; are they as shrewd as the marquise, as observing, as discriminating? Your dear Beatrix is held to Conti now by pride only; she is condemned to love him quand meme.”
“Poor woman!” said Camille.
Calyste’s eyes were fixed on the table; he saw nothing about him. The beautiful woman in the fanciful dress described that morning by Felicite appeared to him crowned with light; she smiled to him, she waved her fan; the other hand, issuing from its ruffle of lace, fell white and pure on the heavy folds of her crimson velvet robe.
“She is just the thing for you,” said Claude Vignon, smiling sardonically at Calyste.
The young man was deeply wounded by the words, and by the manner in which they were said.
“Don’t put such ideas into Calyste’s mind; you don’t know how dangerous such jokes may prove to be,” said Mademoiselle des Touches, hastily. “I know Beatrix, and there is something too grandiose in her nature to allow her to change. Besides, Conti will be here.”
“Ha!” said Claude Vignon, satirically, “a slight touch of jealousy, eh?”
“Can you really think so?” said Camille, haughtily.
“You are more perspicacious than a mother,” replied Claude Vignon, still sarcastically.
“But it would be impossible,” said Camille, looking at Calyste.