war memory, pushing aside paternal anxiety, saddened Fanny for a moment. The rector’s revelations, the want of confidence shown to her by Calyste, had kept her from sleeping.
“Suppose Monsieur le chevalier does love Mademoiselle des Touches, where’s the harm?” said Mariotte. “She has thirty thousand francs a year and she is very handsome.”
“What is that you say, Mariotte?” exclaimed the old baron. “A Guenic marry a des Touches! The des Touches were not even grooms in the days when du Guesclin considered our alliance a signal honor.”
“A woman who takes a man’s name, – Camille Maupin!” said the baroness.
“The Maupins are an old family,” said the baron; “they bear: gules, three – ” He stopped. “But she cannot be a Maupin and a des Touches both,” he added.
“She is called Maupin on the stage.”
“A des Touches could hardly be an actress,” said the old man. “Really, Fanny, if I did not know you, I should think you were out of your head.”
“She writes plays, and books,” continued the baroness.
“Books?” said the baron, looking at his wife with an air of as much surprise as though she were telling of a miracle. “I have heard that Mademoiselle Scudery and Madame de Sevigne wrote books, but it was not the best thing they did.”
“Are you going to dine at Les Touches, monsieur?” said Mariotte, when Calyste entered.
“Probably,” replied the young man.
Mariotte was not inquisitive; she was part of the family; and she left the room without waiting to hear what the baroness would say to her son.
“Are you going again to Les Touches, my Calyste?” The baroness emphasized the my. “Les Touches is not a respectable or decent house. Its mistress leads an irregular life; she will corrupt our Calyste. Already Camille Maupin has made him read many books; he has had adventures – You knew all that, my naughty child, and you never said one word to your best friends!”
“The chevalier is discreet,” said his father, – “a virtue of the olden time.”
“Too discreet,” said the jealous mother, observing the red flush on her son’s forehead.
“My dear mother,” said Calyste, kneeling down beside the baroness, “I didn’t think it necessary to publish my defeat. Mademoiselle des Touches, or, if you choose to call her so, Camille Maupin, rejected my love more than eighteen months ago, during her last stay at Les Touches. She laughed at me, gently; saying she might very well be my mother; that a woman of forty committed a sort of crime against nature in loving a minor, and that she herself was incapable of such depravity. She made a thousand little jokes, which hurt me – for she is witty as an angel; but when she saw me weep hot tears she tried to comfort me, and offered me her friendship in the noblest manner. She has more heart than even talent; she is as generous as you are yourself. I am now her child. On her return here lately, hearing from her that she loves another, I have resigned myself. Do not repeat the calumnies that have been said of her. Camille is an artist, she has genius, she leads one of those exceptional existences which cannot be judged like ordinary lives.”
“My child,” said the religious Fanny, “nothing can excuse a woman for not conducting herself as the Church requires. She fails in her duty to God and to society by abjuring the gentle tenets of her sex. A woman commits a sin in even going to a theatre; but to write the impieties that actors repeat, to roam about the world, first with an enemy to the Pope, and then with a musician, ah! Calyste, you can never persuade me that such acts are deeds of faith, hope, or charity. Her fortune was given her by God to do good, and what good does she do with hers?”
Calyste sprang up suddenly, and looked at his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “Camille is my friend; I cannot hear her spoken of in this way; I would give my very life for her.”
“Your life!” said the baroness, looking at her son, with startled eyes. “Your life is our life, the life of all of us.”
“My nephew has just said many things I do not understand,” said the old woman, turning toward him.
“Where did he learn them?” said the mother; “at Les Touches.”
“Yes, my darling mother; she found me ignorant as a carp, and she has taught me.”
“You knew the essential things when you learned the duties taught us by religion,” replied the baroness. “Ah! this woman is fated to destroy your noble and sacred beliefs.”
The old maid rose, and solemnly stretched forth her hands toward her brother, who was dozing in his chair.
“Calyste,” she said, in a voice that came from her heart, “your father has never opened books, he speaks Breton, he fought for God and for the king. Educated people did the evil, educated noblemen deserted their land, – be educated if you choose!”
So saying, she sat down and began to knit with a rapidity which betrayed her inward emotion.
“My angel,” said the mother, weeping, “I foresee some evil coming down upon you in that house.”
“Who is making Fanny weep?” cried the old man, waking with a start at the sound of his wife’s voice. He looked round upon his sister, his son, and the baroness. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing, my friend,” replied his wife.
“Mamma,” said Calyste, whispering in his mother’s ear, “it is impossible for me to explain myself just now; but to-night you and I will talk of this. When you know all, you will bless Mademoiselle des Touches.”
“Mothers do not like to curse,” replied the baroness. “I could not curse a woman who truly loved my Calyste.”
The young man bade adieu to his father and went out. The baron and his wife rose to see him pass through the court-yard, open the gate, and disappear. The baroness did not again take up the newspaper; she was too agitated. In this tranquil, untroubled life such a discussion was the equivalent of a quarrel in other homes. Though somewhat calmed, her motherly uneasiness was not dispersed. Whither would such a friendship, which might claim the life of Calyste and destroy it, lead her boy? Bless Mademoiselle des Touches? how could that be? These questions were as momentous to her simple soul as the fury of revolutions to a statesman. Camille Maupin was Revolution itself in that calm and placid home.
“I fear that woman will ruin him,” she said, picking up the paper.
“My dear Fanny,” said the old baron, with a jaunty air, “you are too much of an angel to understand these things. Mademoiselle des Touches is, they say, as black as a crow, as strong as a Turk, and forty years old. Our dear Calyste was certain to fall in love with her. Of course he will tell certain honorable little lies to conceal his happiness. Let him alone to amuse himself with his first illusions.”
“If it had been any other woman – ” began the baroness.
“But, my dear Fanny, if the woman were a saint she would not accept your son.” The baroness again picked up the paper. “I will go and see her myself,” added the baron, “and tell you all about her.”
This speech has no savor at the present moment. But after reading the biography of Camille Maupin
