But she left him and
seated herself carelessly at the piano, like a woman so sure of her
friend and lover that she can afford to leave him with another woman.
She played variations, improvising them as she played, on certain
themes chosen, unconsciously to herself, by the impulse of her mind;
they were melancholy in the extreme.
Beatrix seemed to listen to the music, but she was really observing
Calyste, who, much too young and artless for the part which Camille
was intending him to play, remained in rapt adoration before his real
idol.
After about an hour, during which time Camille continued to play,
Beatrix rose and retired to her apartments. Camille at once took
Calyste into her chamber and closed the door, fearing to be overheard;
for women have an amazing instinct of distrust.
"My child," she said, "if you want to succeed with Beatrix, you must
seem to love me still, or you will fail. You are a child; you know
nothing of women; all you know is how to love. Now loving and making
one's self beloved are two very different things. If you go your own
way you will fall into horrible suffering, and I wish to see you
happy.
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