Beatrix. Honore de Balzac
had aunts and rich relations in London who recalled themselves to her remembrance by many presents. Several of her sisters, married to great wealth, took enough interest in Calyste to wish to find him an heiress, knowing that he, like Fanny their exiled favorite, was noble and handsome.
“You stayed at Les Touches longer than you did last night, my dear one,” said the mother at last, in an agitated tone.
“Yes, dear mother,” he answered, offering no explanation.
The curtness of this answer brought clouds to his mother’s brow, and she resolved to postpone the explanation till the morrow. When mothers admit the anxieties which were now torturing the baroness, they tremble before their sons; they feel instinctively the effect of the great emancipation that comes with love; they perceive what that sentiment is about to take from them; but they have, at the same time, a sense of joy in knowing that their sons are happy; conflicting feelings battle in their hearts. Though the result may be the development of their sons into superior men, true mothers do not like this forced abdication; they would rather keep their children small and still requiring protection. Perhaps that is the secret of their predilection for feeble, deformed, or weak-minded offspring.
“You are tired, dear child; go to bed,” she said, repressing her tears.
A mother who does not know all that her son is doing thinks the worst; that is, if a mother loves as much and is as much beloved as Fanny. But perhaps all other mothers would have trembled now as she did. The patient care of twenty years might be rendered worthless. This human masterpiece of virtuous and noble and religious education, Calyste, might be destroyed; the happiness of his life, so long and carefully prepared for, might be forever ruined by this woman.
The next day Calyste slept till mid-day, for his mother would not have him wakened. Mariotte served the spoiled child’s breakfast in his bed. The inflexible and semi-conventual rules which regulated the hours for meals yielded to the caprices of the chevalier. If it became desirable to extract from Mademoiselle du Guenic her array of keys in order to obtain some necessary article of food outside of the meal hours, there was no other means of doing it than to make the pretext of its serving some fancy of Calyste.
About one o’clock the baron, his wife, and Mademoiselle were seated in the salon, for they dined at three o’clock. The baroness was again reading the “Quotidienne” to her husband, who was always more awake before the dinner hour. As she finished a paragraph she heard the steps of her son on the upper floor, and she dropped the paper, saying:—
“Calyste must be going to dine again at Les Touches; he has dressed himself.”
“He amuses himself, the dear boy,” said the old sister, taking a silver whistle from her pocket and whistling once.
Mariotte came through the tower and appeared at the door of communication which was hidden by a silken curtain like the other doors of the room.
“What is it?” she said; “anything wanted?”
“The chevalier dines at Les Touches; don’t cook the fish.”
“But we are not sure as yet,” said the baroness.
“You seem annoyed, sister; I know it by the tone of your voice.”
“Monsieur Grimont has heard some very grave charges against Mademoiselle des Touches, who for the last year has so changed our dear Calyste.”
“Changed him, how?” asked the baron.
“He reads all sorts of books.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the baron, “so that’s why he has given up hunting and riding.”
“Her morals are very reprehensible, and she has taken a man’s name,” added Madame du Guenic.
“A war name, I suppose,” said the old man. “I was called ‘l’Intime,’ the Comte de Fontaine ‘Grand-Jacques,’ the Marquis de Montauran the ‘Gars.’ I was the friend of Ferdinand, who never submitted, any more than I did. Ah! those were the good times; people shot each other, but what of that? we amused ourselves all the same, here and there.”
This 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,”