"Will you go with me alone?" asked Calyste, in a troubled voice.
"If I refused to do so," she replied, "I should give you reason to
suppose I thought you dangerous. Alas! as I have told you again and
again I belong to another, and I must be his only; I chose him knowing
nothing of love. The fault was great, and bitter is my punishment."
When she talked thus, her eyes moist with the scanty tears shed by
that class of woman, Calyste was filled with a compassion that reduced
his fiery ardor; he adored her then as he did a Madonna. We have no
more right to require different characters to be alike in the
expression of feelings than we have to expect the same fruits from
different trees. Beatrix was at this moment undergoing an inward
struggle; she hesitated between herself and Calyste,--between the
world she still hoped to re-enter, and the young happiness offered to
her; between a second and an unpardonable love, and social
rehabilitation. She began, therefore, to listen, without even acted
displeasure, to the talk of the youth's blind passion; she allowed his
soft pity to soothe her.
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