ress that death was making in
their bodies. Camille Maupin knew the passion within her as those men of
science knew their own anatomy.

"I have brought him here to judge him, and he is already bored," she
continued. "He pines for Paris, I tell him; the nostalgia of criticism
is on him; he has no author to pluck, no system to undermine, no poet
to drive to despair, and he dares not commit some debauch in this house
which might lift for a moment the burden of his ennui. Alas! my love is
not real enough, perhaps, to soothe his brain; I don't intoxicate him!
Make him drunk at dinner to-night and I shall know if I am right. I will
say I am ill, and stay in my own room."

Calyste turned scarlet from his neck to his forehead; even his ears were
on fire.

"Oh! forgive me," she cried. "How can I heedlessly deprave your girlish
innocence! Forgive me, Calyste--" She paused. "There are some superb,
consistent natures who say at a certain age: 'If I had my life to live
over again, I would so the same things.' I who do not think myself
weak, I say, 'I would be a woman like your mother, Calyste.' To have
a Calyste, oh! what happiness! I could be a humble and submissive
woman--And yet, I have done no harm except to myself. But alas! dear
child, a woman cannot stand alone in society except it be in what is
called a primitive state. Affections which are not in harmony with
social or with natural laws, affections that are not obligatory, in
short, escape us. Suffering for suffering, as well be useful where we
can. What care I for those children of my cousin Faucombe? I have not
seen them these twenty years, and they are married to merchants. You are
my son, who have never cost me the miseries of motherhood; I shall leave
you my fortune and make you happy--at least, so far as money can do so,
dear treasure of beauty and grace that nothing should ever change or
blast."

"You would not take my love," said Calyste, "and I shall return your
fortune to your heirs."

"Child!" answered Camille, in a guttural voice, letting the tears
roll down her cheeks. "Will nothing save me from myself?" she added,
presently.

"You said you had a history to tell me, and a letter to--" said the
generous youth, wishing to divert her thoughts from her grief; but she
did not let him finish.

"You are right to remind me of that. I will be an honest woman before
all else. I will sacrifice no one--Yes, it was too late, yesterday,
but to-day we have time," sh