to judge of every action of your heart."

The marquise colored high; she darted a look of hatred, a venomous look,
at Camille, and found, without searching, the sharpest arrows in her
quiver. Camille smoked composedly as she listened to a furious tirade,
which rang with such cutting insults that we do not reproduce it here.
Beatrix, irritated by the calmness of her adversary, condescended even
to personalities on Camille's age.

"Is that all?" said Felicite, when Beatrix paused, letting a cloud of
smoke exhale from her lips. "Do you love Calyste?"

"No; of course not."

"So much the better," replied Camille. "I do love him--far too much for
my own peace of mind. He may, perhaps, have had a passing fancy for you;
for you are, you know, enchantingly fair, while I am as black as a crow;
you are slim and willowy, while I have a portly dignity; in short, you
are _young_!--that's the final word, and you have not spared it to me.
You have abused your advantages as a woman against me. I have done my
best to prevent what has now happened. However little of a woman you may
think me, I am woman enough, my dear, not to allow a rival to triumph
over me unless I choose to help her." (This remark, made in apparently
the most innocent manner, cut the marquise to the heart). "You take me
for a very silly person if you believe all that Calyste tries to make
you think of me. I am neither so great nor so small; I am a woman, and
very much of a woman. Come, put off your grand airs, and give me your
hand!" continued Camille, taking Madame de Rochefide's hand. "You do
not love Calyste, you say; that is true, is it not? Don't be angry,
therefore; be hard, and cold, and stern to him to-morrow; he will end by
submitting to his fate, especially after certain little reproaches which
I mean to make to him. Still, Calyste is a Breton, and very persistent;
if he should continue to pay court to you, tell me frankly, and I will
lend you my little country house near Paris, where you will find all
the comforts of life, and where Conti can come out and see you. You said
just now that Calyste calumniated me. Good heavens! what of that? The
purest love lies twenty times a day; its deceptions only prove its
strength."

Camille's face wore an air of such superb disdain that the marquise grew
fearful and anxious. She knew not how to answer. Camille dealt her a
last blow.

"I am more confiding and less bitter than you," she said. "I don't
suspect you of