True love wraps itself in the mysteries of reserve, even in its
expression; it proves itself by itself; it does not feel the
necessity, as a false love does, of lighting a conflagration. By an
observer (if such a being could have glided into the Thuillier salon)
a book might have been made in comparing the two scenes of
love-making, and in watching the enormous preparations of Theodose
and the simplicity of Felix: one was nature, the other was society,
--the true and the false embodied. Noticing her daughter glowing with
happiness, exhaling her soul through the pores of her face, and
beautiful with the beauty of a young girl gathering the first roses
of an indirect declaration, Flavie had an impulse of jealousy in her
heart. She came across to Celeste and said in her ear:--

"You are not behaving well, my daughter; everybody is observing you;
you are compromising yourself by talking so long to Monsieur Felix
without knowing whether we approve of it."

"But, mamma, my godmother is here."

"Ah! pardon me, dear friend," said Madame Colleville; "I did not
notice you."

"You do as others do," said the poor nonentity.

That reply stung Madame Colleville, who regarded it as a barbed arrow.
She cast a haughty glance at Felix and said to Celeste, "Sit there, my
daughter," seating herself at the same time beside Madame Thuillier
and pointing to a chair on the other side of her.

"I will work myself to death," said Felix to Madame Thuillier. "I'll