and sublime thing! Others--scoffers--light their cigars with such
letters, or give them to their wives for curl-papers; but I, who am a

bachelor, monsieur, I have too much delicacy not to preserve these
artless offerings--so fresh, so disinterested--in a tabernacle of

their own. In fact, I guard them with a species of veneration, and at
my death they will be burned before my eyes. People may call that

ridiculous, but I do not care. I am grateful; these proofs of devotion
enable me to bear the criticisms and annoyances of a literary life.

When I receive a shot in the back from some enemy lurking under cover
of a daily paper, I look at that casket and think,--here and there in

this wide world there are hearts whose wounds have been healed, or
soothed, or dressed by me!"

This bit of poetry, declaimed with all the talent of a great actor,
petrified the lieutenant, whose eyes opened to their utmost extent,

and whose astonishmentdelighted the poet.
"I will permit you," continued the peacock, spreading his tail, "out

of respect for your position, which I fully appreciate, to open that
coffer and look for the letter of your young lady. Though I know I am

right, I remember names, and I assure you you are mistaken in
thinking--"

"And this is what a poor child comes to in this gulf of Paris!" cried
Dumay,--"the darling of her parents, the joy of her friends, the hope

of all, petted by all, the pride of a family, who has six persons so
devoted to her that they would willingly make a rampart of their lives

and fortunes between her and sorrow. Monsieur," Dumay remarked after a
pause, "you are a great poet, and I am only a poor soldier. For

fifteen years I served my country in the ranks; I have had the wind of
many a bullet in my face; I have crossed Siberia and been a prisoner

there; the Russians flung me on a kibitka, and God knows what I
suffered. I have seen thousands of my comrades die,--but you, you have

given me a chill to the marrow of my bones, such as I never felt
before."

Dumay fancied that his words moved the poet, but in fact they only
flattered him,--a thing which at this period of his life had become

almost an impossibility; for his ambitious mind had long forgotten the
first perfumed phial that praise had broken over his head.

"Ah, my soldier!" he said solemnly, laying his hand on Dumay's
shoulder, and thinking to himself how droll it was to make a soldier

of the empire tremble, "this young girl may be all in all to you, but
to society at large what is she? nothing. At this moment the greatest

mandarin in China may be yielding up the ghost and putting half the
universe in mourning, and what is that to you? The English are killing

thousands of people in India more worthy than we are; why, at this
very moment while I am speaking to you some ravishing woman is being

burned alive,--did that make you care less for your cup of coffee this
morning at breakfast? Not a day passes in Paris that some mother in

rags does not cast her infant on the world to be picked up by whoever
finds it; and yet see! here is this delicious tea in a cup that cost

five louis, and I write verses which Parisian women rush to buy,
exclaiming, 'Divine! delicious! charming! food for the soul!' Social

nature, like Nature herself, is a great forgetter. You will be quite
surprised ten years hence at what you have done to-day. You are here

in a city where people die, where they marry, where they adore each
other at an assignation, where young girls suffocate themselves, where

the man of genius with his cargo of thoughts teeming with humane
beneficence goes to the bottom,--all side by side, sometimes under the

same roof, and yet ignorant of each other, ignorant and indifferent.
And here you come among us and ask us to expire with grief at this

commonplace affair."
"You call yourself a poet!" cried Dumay, "but don't you feel what you

write?"
"Good heavens! if we endured the joys or the woes we sing we should be

as worn out in three months as a pair of old boots," said the poet,
smiling. "But stay, you shall not come from Havre to Paris to see

Canalis without carrying something back with you. Warrior!" (Canalis
had the form and action of an Homeric hero) "learn this from the poet:

Every noble sentiment in man is a poem so exclusively individual that
his nearest friend, his other self, cares nothing for it. It is a

treasure which is his alone, it is--"
"Forgive me for interrupting you," said Dumay, who was gazing at the

poet with horror, "but did you ever come to Havre?"
"I was there for a day and a night in the spring of 1824 on my way to

London."
"You are a man of honor," continued Dumay; "will you give me your word

that you do not know Mademoiselle Modeste Mignon?"
"This is the first time that name ever struck my ear," replied

Canalis.
"Ah, monsieur!" said Dumay, "into what dark intrigue am I about to

plunge? Can I count upon you to help me in my inquiries?--for I am
certain that some one has been using your name. You ought to have had

a letter yesterday from Havre."
"I received none. Be sure, monsieur, that I will help you," said

Canalis, "so far as I have the opportunity of doing so."
Dumay withdrew, his heart torn with anxiety, believing that the

wretched Butscha had worn the skin of the poet to deceive Modeste;
whereas Butscha himself, keen-witted as a prince seeking revenge, and

far cleverer than any paid spy, was ferretting out the life and
actions of Canalis, escaping notice by his insignificance, like an

insect that bores its way into the sap of a tree.
The Breton had scarcely left the poet's house when La Briere entered

his friend's study. Naturally, Canalis told him of the visit of the
man from Havre.

"Ha!" said Ernest, "Modeste Mignon; that is just what I have come to
speak of."

"Ah, bah!" cried Canalis; "have I had a triumph by proxy?"
"Yes; and here is the key to it. My friend, I am loved by the sweetest

girl in all the world,--beautiful enough to shine beside the greatest
beauties in Paris, with a heart and mind worthy of Clarissa. She has

seen me; I have pleased her, and she thinks me the great Canalis. But
that is not all. Modeste Mignon is of high birth, and Mongenod has

just told me that her father, the Comte de La Bastie, has something
like six millions. The father is here now, and I have asked him

through Mongenod for an interview at two o'clock. Mongenod is to give
him a hint, just a word, that it concerns the happiness of his

daughter. But you will readily understand that before seeing the
father I feel I ought to make a clean breast of it to you."

"Among the plants whose flowers bloom in the sunshine of fame," said
Canalis, impressively, "there is one, and the most magnificent, which

bears like the orange-tree a golden fruit amid the mingled perfumes of
beauty and of mind; a lovely plant, a true tenderness, a perfect

bliss, and--it eludes me." Canalis looked at the carpet that Ernest
might not read his eyes. "Could I," he continued after a pause to

regain his self-possession, "how could I have divined that flower from
a pretty sheet of perfumed paper, that true heart, that young girl,

that woman in whom love wears the livery of flattery, who loves us for
ourselves, who offers us felicity? It needed but an angel or a demon

to perceive her; and what am I but the ambitious head of a Court of
Claims! Ah, my friend, fame makes us the target of a thousand arrows.

One of us owes his rich marriage to an hydraulic piece of poetry,
while I, more seductive, more a woman's man than he, have missed mine,

--for, do you love her, poor girl?" he said, looking up at La Briere.
"Oh!" ejaculated the young man.

"Well then," said the poet, taking his secretary's arm and leaning
heavily upon it, "be happy, Ernest. By a mere accident I have been not

ungrateful to you. You are richly rewarded for your devotion, and I
will generously further your happiness."

Canalis was furious; but he could not behaveotherwise than with
propriety, and he made the best of his disappointment by mounting it

as a pedestal.
"Ah, Canalis, I have never really known you till this moment."

"Did you expect to? It takes some time to go round the world," replied
the poet with his pompous irony.

"But think," said La Briere, "of this enormous fortune."
"Ah, my friend, is it not well invested in you?" cried Canalis,

accompanying the words with a charminggesture.