"My son," she said, "you are so surrounded by true affection that I
never thought how my thoughtless use of that familiar phrase might be

construed; but you must thank me for my little blunder, because it has
served to show you what friends your noble qualities have won."

"Then you must have news from Monsieur Mignon," resumed the notary.
"He is on his way home," said Madame Mignon; "but let us keep the

secret to ourselves. When my husband learns how faithful Butscha has
been to us, how he has shown us the warmest and the most disinterested

friendship when others have given us the cold shoulder, he will not
let you alone provide for him, Dumay. And so, my friend," she added,

turning her blind face toward Butscha; "you can begin at once to
negotiate with Latournelle."

"He's of legal age, twenty-five and a half years. As for me, it will
be paying a debt, my boy, to make the purchase easy for you," said the

notary.
Butscha was kissing Madame Mignon's hand, and his face was wet with

tears as Modeste opened the door of the salon.
"What are you doing to my Black Dwarf?" she demanded. "Who is making

him unhappy?"
"Ah! Mademoiselle Mignon, do we luckless fellows, cradled in

misfortune, ever weep for grief? They have just shown me as much
affection as I could feel for them if they were indeed my own

relations. I'm to be a notary; I shall be rich. Ha! ha! the poor
Butscha may become the rich Butscha. You don't know what audacity

there is in this abortion," he cried.
With that he gave himself a resounding blow on the cavity of his chest

and took up a position before the fireplace, after casting a glance at
Modeste, which slipped like a ray of light between his heavy

half-closed eyelids. He perceived, in this unexpectedincident, a
chance of interrogating the heart of his sovereign. Dumay thought for

a moment that the clerk dared to aspire to Modeste, and he exchanged a
rapid glance with the others, who understood him, and began to eye the

little man with a species of terror mingled with curiosity.
"I, too, have my dreams," said Butscha, not taking his eyes from

Modeste.
The young girl lowered her eyelids with a movement that was a

revelation to the young man.
"You love romance," he said, addressing her. "Let me, in this moment

of happiness, tell you mine; and you shall tell me in return whether
the conclusion of the tale I have invented for my life is possible. To

me wealth would bring greater happiness than to other men; for the
highest happiness I can imagine would be to enrich the one I loved.

You, mademoiselle, who know so many things, tell me if it is possible
for a man to make himself belovedindependently of his person, be it

handsome or ugly, and for his spirit only?"
Modeste raised her eyes and looked at Butscha. It was a piercing and

questioning glance; for she shared Dumay's suspicion of Butscha's
motive.

"Let me be rich, and I will seek some beautiful poor girl, abandoned
like myself, who has suffered, who knows what misery is. I will write

to her and console her, and be her guardian spirit; she shall read my
heart, my soul; she shall possess by double wealth, my two wealths,--

my gold, delicately offered, and my thought robed in all the splendor
which the accident of birth has denied to my grotesque body. But I

myself shall remain hidden like the cause that science seeks. God
himself may not be glorious to the eye. Well, naturally, the maiden

will be curious; she will wish to see me; but I shall tell her that I
am a monster of ugliness; I shall picture myself hideous."

At these words Modeste gave Butscha a glance that looked him through
and through. If she had said aloud, "What do you know of my love?" she

could not have been more explicit.
"If I have the honor of being loved for the poem of my heart, if some

day such love may make a woman think me only slightly deformed, I ask
you, mademoiselle, shall I not be happier than the handsomest of men,

--as happy as a man of geniusbeloved by some celestial being like
yourself."

The color which suffused the young girl's face told the cripple nearly
all he sought to know.

"Well, if that be so," he went on, "if we enrich the one we love, if
we please the spirit and withdraw the body, is not that the way to

make one's self beloved? At any rate it is the dream of your poor
dwarf,--a dream of yesterday; for to-day your mother gives me the key

to future wealth by promising me the means of buying a practice. But
before I become another Gobenheim, I seek to know whether this dream

could be really carried out. What do you say, mademoiselle, YOU?"
Modeste was so astonished that she did not notice the question. The

trap of the lover was much better baited than that of the soldier, for
the poor girl was rendered speechless.

"Poor Butscha!" whispered Madame Latournelle to her husband. "Do you
think he is going mad?"

"You want to realize the story of Beauty and the Beast," said Modeste
at length; "but you forget that the Beast turned into Prince

Charming."
"Do you think so?" said the dwarf. "Now I have always thought that

that transformation meant the phenomenon of the soul made visible,
obliterating the form under the light of the spirit. If I were not

loved I should stay hidden, that is all. You and yours, madame," he
continued, addressing his mistress, "instead of having a dwarf at your

service, will now have a life and a fortune."
So saying, Butscha resumed his seat, remarking to the three whist-

players with an assumption of calmness, "Whose deal is it?" but within
his soul he whispered sadly to himself: "She wants to be loved for

herself; she corresponds with some pretended great man; how far has it
gone?"

"Dear mamma, it is nearly ten o'clock," said Modeste.
Madame Mignon said good-night to her friends, and went to bed.

They who wish to love in secret may have Pyrenean hounds, mothers,
Dumays, and Latournelles to spy upon them, and yet not be in any

danger; but when it comes to a lover!--ah! that is diamond cut
diamond, flame against flame, mind to mind, an equation whose terms

are mutual.
On Sunday morning Butscha arrived at the Chalet before Madame

Latournelle, who always came to take Modeste to church, and he
proceeded to blockade the house in expectation of the postman.

"Have you a letter for Mademoiselle Mignon?" he said to that humble
functionary when he appeared.

"No, monsieur, none."
"This house has been a good customer to the post of late," remarked

the clerk.
"You may well say that," replied the man.

Modeste both heard and saw the little colloquy from her chamber
window, where she always posted herself behind the blinds at this

particular hour to watch for the postman. She ran downstairs, went
into the little garden, and called in an imperative voice:--

"Monsieur Butscha!"
"Here am I, mademoiselle," said the cripple, reaching the gate as

Modeste herself opened it.
"Will you be good enough to tell me whether among your various titles

to a woman's affection you count that of the shameless spying in which
you are now engaged?" demanded the girl, endeavoring to crush her

slave with the glance and gesture of a queen.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he answered proudly. "Ah! I never expected," he

continued in a low tone, "that the grub could be of service to a star,
--but so it is. Would you rather that your mother and Monsieur Dumay

and Madame Latournelle had guessed your secret than one, excluded as
it were from life, who seeks to be to you one of those flowers that

you cut and wear for a moment? They all know you love; but I, I alone,
KNOW HOW. Use me as you would a vigilant watch-dog; I will obey you,

protect you, and never bark; neither will I condemn you. I ask only to
be of service to you. Your father has made Dumay keeper of the hen-