make; he is full of vanity, full of angles that will sharply wound

a woman's proper pride, and kill a tenderness which has no
experience of life. The wife of a poet should love him long before

she marries him; she must train herself to the charity of angels,
to their forbearance, to all the virtues of motherhood. Such

qualities, mademoiselle, are but germs in a young girl.
Hear the whole truth,--do I not owe it to you in return for your

intoxicating flattery? If it is a glorious thing to marry a great
renown, remember also that you must soon discover a superior man

to be, in all that makes a man, like other men. He therefore
poorly realizes the hopes that attach to him as a phoenix. He

becomes like a woman whose beauty is over-praised, and of whom we
say: "I thought her far more lovely." She has not warranted the

portrait painted by the fairy to whom I owe your letter,--the
fairy whose name is Imagination.

Believe me, the qualities of the mind live and thrive only in a
sphere invisible, not in daily life; the wife of a poet bears the

burden; she sees the jewels manufactured, but she never wears
them. If the glory of the position fascinates you, hear me now

when I tell you that its pleasures are soon at an end. You will
suffer when you find so many asperities in a nature which, from a

distance, you thought equable, and such coldness at the shining
summit. Moreover, as women never set their feet within the world

of real difficulties, they cease to appreciate what they once
admired as soon as they think they see the inner mechanism of it.

I close with a last thought, in which there is no disguised
entreaty; it is the counsel of a friend. The exchange of souls can

take place only between persons who are resolved to hide nothing
from each other. Would you show yourself for such as you are to an

unknown man? I dare not follow out the consequences of that idea.
Deign to accept, mademoiselle, the homage which we owe to all

women, even those who are disguised and masked.
So this was the letter she had worn between her flesh and her corset

above her palpitating heart throughout one whole day! For this she had
postponed the reading until the midnight hour when the household

slept, waiting for the solemn silence with the eager anxiety of an
imagination on fire! For this she had blessed the poet by

anticipation, reading a thousand letters ere she opened one,--fancying
all things, except this drop of cold water falling upon the vaporous

forms of her illusion, and dissolving them as prussic acid dissolves
life. What could she do but hide herself in her bed, blow out her

candle, bury her face in the sheets and weep?
All this happened during the first days of July. But Modeste presently

got up, walked across the room and opened the window. She wanted air.
The fragrance of the flowers came to her with the peculiar freshness

of the odors of the night. The sea, lighted by the moon, sparkled like
a mirror. A nightingale was singing in a tree. "Ah, there is the

poet!" thought Modeste, whose anger subsided at once. Bitter
reflections chased each other through her mind. She was cut to the

quick; she wished to re-read the letter, and lit a candle; she studied
the sentences so carefully studied when written; and ended by hearing

the wheezing voice of the outer world.
"He is right, and I am wrong," she said to herself. "But who could

ever believe that under the starrymantle of a poet I should find
nothing but one of Moliere's old men?"

When a woman or young girl is taken in the act, "flagrante delicto,"
she conceives a deadlyhatred to the witness, the author, or the

object of her fault. And so the true, the single-minded, the untamed
and untamable Modeste conceived within her soul an unquenchable desire

to get the better of that righteous spirit, to drive him into some
fatal inconsistency, and so return him blow for blow. This girl, this

child, as we may call her, so pure, whose head alone had been
misguided,--partly by her reading, partly by her sister's sorrows, and

more perhaps by the dangerous meditations of her solitary life,--was
suddenly caught by a ray of sunshine flickering across her face. She

had been standing for three hours on the shores of the vast sea of
Doubt. Nights like these are never forgotten. Modeste walked straight

to her little Chinese table, a gift from her father, and wrote a
letter dictated by the infernal spirit of vengeance which palpitates

in the hearts of young girls.
CHAPTER VIII

BLADE TO BLADE
To Monsieur de Canalis:

Monsieur,--You are certainly a great poet, and you are something
more,--an honest man. After showing such loyal frankness to a

young girl who was stepping to the verge of an abyss, have you
enough left to answer without hypocrisy or evasion the following

question?
Would you have written the letter I now hold in answer to mine,--

would your ideas, your language have been the same,--had some one
whispered in your ear (what may prove true), Mademoiselle O.

d'Este M. has six millions and does intend to have a dunce for a
master?

Admit the supposition for a moment. Be with me what you are with
yourself; fear nothing. I am wiser than my twenty years; nothing

that is frank can hurt you in my mind. When I have read your
confidence, if you deign to make it, you shall receive from me an

answer to your first letter.
Having admired your talent, often so sublime, permit me to do

homage to your delicacy and your integrity, which force me to
remain always,

Your humble servant,
O. d'Este M.

When Ernest de La Briere had held this letter in his hands for some
little time he went to walk along the boulevards, tossed in mind like

a tiny vessel by a tempest when the wind is blowing from all points of
the compass. Most young men, specially true Parisians, would have

settled the matter in a single phrase, "The girl is a little hussy."
But for a youth whose soul was noble and true, this attempt to put

him, as it were, upon his oath, this appeal to truth, had the power to
awaken the three judges hidden in the conscience of every man. Honor,

Truth, and Justice, getting on their feet, cried out in their several
ways energetically.

"Ah, my dear Ernest," said Truth, "you never would have read that
lesson to a rich heiress. No, my boy; you would have gone in hot haste

to Havre to find out if the girl were handsome, and you would have
been very unhappy indeed at her preference for genius; and if you

could have tripped up your friend and supplanted him in her
affections, Mademoiselle d'Este would have been a divinity."

"What?" cried Justice, "are you not always bemoaning yourselves, you
penniless men of wit and capacity, that rich girls marry beings whom

you wouldn't take as your servants? You rail against the materialism
of the century which hastens to join wealth to wealth, and never

marries some fine young man with brains and no money to a rich girl.
What an outcry you make about it; and yet here is a young woman who

revolts against that very spirit of the age, and behold! the poet
replies with a blow at her heart!"

"Rich or poor, young or old, ugly or handsome, the girl is right; she
has sense and judgment, she has tripped you over into the slough of

self-interest and lets you know it," cried Honor. "She deserves an
answer, a sincere and loyal and frank answer, and, above all, the

honest expression of your thought. Examine yourself! sound your heart
and purge it of its meannesses. What would Moliere's Alceste say?"

And La Briere, having started from the boulevard Poissoniere, walked
so slowly, absorbed in these reflections, that he was more than an

hour in reaching the boulevard des Capucines. Then he followed the
quays, which led him to the Cour des Comptes, situated in that time

close to the Saint-Chapelle. Instead of beginning on the accounts as
he should have done, he remained at the mercy of his perplexities.

"One thing is evident," he said to himself; "she hasn't six millions;
but that's not the point--"

Six days later, Modeste received the following letter:
Mademoiselle,--You are not a D'Este. The name is a feigned one to

conceal your own. Do I owe the revelations which you solicit to a
person who is untruthful about herself? Question for question: Are

you of an illustrious family? or a noble family? or a middle-class