first, repulsed love.

When the baron du Guenic reached home the splendor of his apartments
made him think of the sort of mediocrity of which Beatrix had spoken,
and he hated his wealth because it could not belong to that fallen
angel. When he was told that Sabine had long been in bed he rejoiced
to find himself rich in the possession of a night in which to live
over his emotions. He cursed the power of divination which love had
bestowed upon Sabine. When by chance a man is adored by his wife, she
reads on his face as in a book; she learns every quiver of its
muscles, she knows whence comes its calmness, she asks herself the
reason of the slightest sadness, seeking to know if haply the cause is
in herself; she studies the eyes; for her the eyes are tinted with the
dominant thought,--they love or they do not love. Calyste knew himself
to be the object of so deep, so naive, so jealous a worship that he
doubted his power to compose a cautious face that should not betray
the change in his moral being.

"How shall I manage to-morrow morning?" he said to himself as he went
to sleep, dreading the sort of inspection to which Sabine would have
recourse. When they came together at night, and sometimes during the
day, Sabine would ask him, "Do you still love me?" or, "I don't weary
you, do I?" Charming interrogations, varied according to the nature or
the cleverness of women, which hide their anxieties either feigned or
real.

To the surface of the noblest and purest hearts the mud and slime cast
up by hurricanes must come. So on that morrow morning, Calyste, who
certainly loved his child, quivered with joy on learning that Sabine
feared the croup, and was watching for the cause of slight