Chapter 5 - Page 2

history of a young ladies'
boarding-school, the Latin and Greek of seminaries, the literature of
the dead languages, and to a very restricted choice of French writers.
When, at sixteen, he began what the Abbe Grimont called his
philosophy, he was neither more nor less than what he was when Fanny
placed him in the abbe's hands. The Church had proved as maternal as
the mother. Without being over-pious or ridiculous, the idolized young
lad was a fervent Catholic.

For this son, so noble, so innocent, the baroness desired to provide a
happy life in obscurity. She expected to inherit some property, two or
three thousand pounds sterling, from an aunt. This sum, joined to the
small present fortune of the Guenics, might enable her to find a wife
for Calyste, who would bring him twelve or even fifteen thousand
francs a year. Charlotte de Kergarouet, with her aunt's fortune, a
rich Irish girl, or any other good heiress would have suited the
baroness, who seemed indifferent as to choice. She was ignorant of
love, having never known it, and, like all the other persons grouped
about her, she saw nothing in marriage but a means of fortune. Passion
was an unknown thing to these Catholic souls, these old people
exclusively concerned about salvation, God, the king, and their
property. No one should be surprised, therefore, at the foreboding
thoughts which accompanied the wounded feelings of the mother, who
lived as much for the future interests of her son as by her love for
him. If the young household would only listen to wisdom, she thought,
the coming generation of the du Guenics, by enduring privations, and
saving, as people do save in the provinces, would be able to buy back
their estates and recover, in the end, the lustre of wealth. The
baroness prayed for a long age that she might see the dawn of this
prosperous era. Mademoiselle du Guenic had understood and fully
adopted this hope which Mademoiselle des Touches now threatened to
overthrow.

The baroness heard midnight strike, with tears; her mind conceived of
many horrors during the next hour, for the clock struck one, and
Calyste was still not at home.

"Will he stay there?" she thought. "It would be the first time. Poor
child!"

At that moment Calyste's step resounded in the lane. The poor mother,
in whose heart rejoicing drove out anxiety, flew from the house to the
gate and opened it for her boy.

"Oh!" cried Calyste, in a grieved voice, "my darling mother, why did
you sit up for me? I have a pass-key and the tinder-box."

"You know very well, my child, that I cannot sleep when you are out,"
she said, kissing him.

When the baroness reached the salon, she looked at her