Beatrix, armed with Calyste's own letter, quoted the passage in which
he said that to love was the first happiness, that of being loved came
later; and she used that axiom to restrain his passion to the limits
of respectful idolatry, which pleased her well. She liked to feel her
soul caressed by those sweet hymns of praise and adoration which
nature suggests to youth; in them is so much artless art; such
innocent seduction is in their cries, their prayers, their
exclamations, their pledges of themselves in the promissory notes
which they offer on the future; to all of which Beatrix was very
careful to give no definite answer. Yes, she heard him; but she
doubted! Love was not yet the question; what he asked of her was
permission to love. In fact, that was all the poor lad really asked
for; his mind still clung to the strongest side of love, the spiritual
side. But the woman who is firmest in words is often the feeblest in
action. It is strange that Calyste, having seen the progress his suit
had made by pushing Beatrix into the sea, did not continue to urge it
violently. But love in young men is so ecstatic and religious that
their inmost desire is to win its fruition through moral conviction.
In that is the sublimity of their love.

Nevertheless the day came when the Breton, driven to desperation,
complained to Camille of Beatrix's conduct.

"I meant to cure you by making you quickly understand her," replied
Mademoiselle des Touches; "but you have spoiled all. Ten days ago you
were her master; to-day, my poor boy, you are her slave. You will
never have the strength now to do as I advise."

"What ought I to do?"