The viscountess,
therefore, eager to see her, dragged her old sister forward, paying no
attention to her jeremiads.
"Good-morning, Calyste," said Charlotte.
"Oh! good-morning, Charlotte," replied Calyste, not offering his arm.
Both were confused; she by his coldness, he by his cruelty, as they
walked up the sort of ravine, which is called in Saint-Nazaire a
street, following the two sisters in silence. In a moment the little
girl of sixteen saw her castle in Spain, built and furnished with
romantic hopes, a heap of ruins. She and Calyste had played together
so much in childhood, she was so bound up with him, as it were, that
she had quietly supposed her future unassailable; she arrived now,
swept along by thoughtless happiness, like a circling bird darting
down upon a wheat-field, and lo! she was stopped in her flight, unable
to imagine the obstacle.
"What is the matter, Calyste?" she said, taking his hand.
"Nothing," replied the young man, releasing himself with cruel haste
as he remembered the projects of his aunt and her friend.
Tears came into Charlotte's eyes.
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