tead of
over-reaching her, was she being over-reached herself? was she only a
toy, a pleasure, which Camille was giving to her child, whom she loved
with an extraordinary passion that was free from all vulgarity?

To a woman like Beatrix this thought came like a thunder-clap. She went
over in her mind minutely the history of the past week. In a moment
the part which Camille was playing, and her own, unrolled themselves to
their fullest extent before her eyes; she felt horribly belittled.
In her fury of jealous anger, she fancied she could see in Camille's
conduct an intention of vengeance against Conti. Was the hidden wrath of
the past two years really acting upon the present moment?

Once on the path of these doubts and superstitions, Beatrix did not
pause. She walked up and down her room, driven to rapid motion by the
impetuous movements of her soul, sitting down now and then, and trying
to decide upon a course, but unable to do so. And thus she remained,
a prey to indecision until the dinner hour, when she rose hastily, and
went downstairs without dressing. No sooner did Camille see her, than
she felt that a crisis had come. Beatrix, in her morning gown, with a
chilling air and a taciturn manner, indicated to an observer as keen as
Maupin the coming hostilities of an embittered heart.

Camille instantly left the room and gave the order which so astonished
Calyste; she feared that he might arrive in the midst of the quarrel,
and she determined to be alone, without witnesses, in fighting this
duel of deception on both sides. Beatrix, without an auxiliary, would
infallibly succumb. Camille well knew the barrenness of that soul, the
pettiness of that pride, to which she had justly applied the epithet of
obstinate.

The dinner was gloomy. Camille was gentle and kind; she felt herself
the superior being. Beatrix was hard and cutting; she felt she was
being managed like a child. During dinner the battle began with glances,
gestures, half-spoken sentences,--not enough to enlighten the servants,
but enough to prepare an observer for the coming storm. When the time
to go upstairs came, Camille offered her arm maliciously to Beatrix, who
pretended not to see it, and sprang up the stairway alone. When coffee
had been served Mademoiselle des Touches said to the footman, "You may
go,"--a brief sentence, which served as a signal for the combat.

"The novels you make, my dear, are more dangerous than those you write,"
said the