“How do you write your books?” she began.
“Much as you do your worsted-work or knitting,” replied Camille.
“But where do you find those deep reflections, those seductive pictures?”
“Where you find the witty things you say, madame; there is nothing so easy as to write books, provided you will--”
“Ah! does it depend wholly on the will? I shouldn’t have thought it. Which of your compositions do you prefer?”
“I find it difficult to prefer any of my little kittens.”
“I see you are _blasee_ on compliments; there is really nothing new that one can say.”
“I assure you, madame, that I am very sensible to the form which you give to yours.”
The viscountess, anxious not to seem to neglect the marquise, remarked, looking at Beatrix with a meaning air,--
“I shall never forget this journey made between Wit and Beauty.”
“You flatter me, madame,” said the marquise, laughing. “I assure you that my wit is but a small matter, not to be mentioned by the side of genius; besides, I think I have not said much as yet.”
Charlotte, who keenly felt her mother’s absurdity, looked at her, endeavoring to stop its course; but Madame de Kergarouet went bravely on in her tilt with the satirical Parisians.
Calyste, who was trotting slowly beside the carriage, could only see the faces of the two ladies on the front seat, and his eyes expressed, from time to time, rather painful thoughts. Forced, by her position, to let herself be looked at, Beatrix constantly avoided meeting the young man’s eyes, and practised a manoeuvre most exasperating to lovers; she held her shawl crossed and her hands crossed over it, apparently plunged in the deepest meditation.
At a part of the road which is shaded, dewy, and verdant as a forest glade, where the wheels of the carriage scarcely sounded, and the breeze brought down balsamic odors and waved the branches above their heads, Camille called Madame de Rochefide’s attention to the harmonies of the place, and pressed her knee to make her look at Calyste.
“Oh! Calyste does everything well,” said Charlotte.
“He rides like an Englishman,” said the marquise, indifferently.
“His mother is Irish,--an O’Brien,” continued Charlotte, who thought herself insulted by such indifference.
Camille and the marquise drove through Guerande with the viscountess and her daughter, to the great astonishment of the inhabitants of the town. They left the mother and daughter at the end of the lane leading to the Guenic mansion, where a crowd came near gathering, attracted by so unusual a sight. Calyste had ridden on to announce the arrival of the company to his mother and aunt, who expected them to dinner, that meal having been postponed till four o’clock. Then he returned to the gate to give his arm to the two ladies, and bid Camille and Beatrix adieu.