“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“They are unpublished, my angel.”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 justification—but 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.