He who despised his mistress for flinging her glove among
the lions, and ordering him to bring it back to her, did not /love!/
He denied your right to test our hearts, and to yield yourselves only
to our utmost devotion. I will sacrifice to you my family, my name, my
future."
"But what an insult in that word 'sacrifice'!" she said, in
reproachful tones, which made poor Calyste feel the folly of his
speech.
None but women who truly love, or inborn coquettes, know how to use a
word as a point from which to make a spring.
"You are right," said Calyste, letting fall a tear; "that word can
only be said of the cruel struggles which you ask of me."
"Hush!" said Beatrix, struck by an answer in which, for the first
time, Calyste had really made her feel his love. "I have done wrong
enough; tempt me no more."
At this moment they had reached the base of the rock on which grew the
plant of box. Calyste felt a thrill of delight as he helped the
marquise to climb the steep ascent to the summit, which she wished to
reach. To the poor lad it was a precious privilege to hold her up, to
make her lean upon him, to feel her tremble; she had need of him.
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