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.”