whom they clung as a matter of honor, unless he wounded them; they
felt that a second love was unworthy of them, and so forth. His ethics
were of the highest order; shedding incense on the altar where he knew
that one heart at least, pierced by many a blow, was bleeding. Camille
and Beatrix alone understood the bitterness of the sarcasms shot forth
in the guise of eulogy. At times they both flushed scarlet, but they
were forced to control themselves. When dinner was over, they took
each other by the arm to return to Camille's salon, and, as if by
mutual consent, they turned aside into the great salon, where they
could be alone for an instant in the darkness.

"It is dreadful to let Conti ride over me roughshod; and yet I can't
defend myself," said Beatrix, in a low voice. "The galley-slave is
always a slave to his chain-companion. I am lost; I must needs return
to my galleys! And it is you, Camille, who have cast me there! Ah! you
brought him back a day too soon, or a day too late. I recognize your
infernal talent as author. Well, your revenge is complete, the finale
perfect!"

"I may have told you that I would write to Conti, but to do it was
another matter," cried Camille. "I am incapable of such baseness. But
you are unhappy, and I will forgive the suspicion."

"What will become of Calyste?" said the marquise, with naive
self-conceit.

"Then Conti carries you off, does he?" asked Camille.

"Ah! you think you triumph!" cried Beatrix.