"You would never have flung /me/ into the water," said Camille,
brushing away a tear.
Toward morning, Calyste, worn-out with emotion, fell asleep in his
arm-chair; and the marquise in her turn, watched his charming face,
paled by his feelings and his vigil of love. She heard him murmur her
name as he slept.
"He loves while sleeping," she said to Camille.
"We must send him home," said Felicite, waking him.
No one was anxious at the hotel du Guenic, for Mademoiselle des
Touches had written a line to the baroness telling her of the
accident.
Calyste returned to dinner at Les Touches and found Beatrix up and
dressed, but pale, feeble, and languid. No longer was there any
harshness in her words or any coldness in her looks. After this
evening, filled with music by Camille, who went to her piano to leave
Calyste free to take and press the hands of Beatrix (though both were
unable to speak), no storms occurred at Les Touches. Felicite
completely effaced herself.
Cold, fragile, thin, hard women like Madame de Rochefide, women whose
necks turn in a manner to give them a vague resemblance to the feline
race, have souls of the same pale tint as their light eyes, green or
gray; and to melt them, to fuse those blocks of stone it needs a
thunderbolt.
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