into such a thing as this?" exclaimed Canalis, turning pale. "It was a
question of friendship; and ours was a compact entered into long

before you ever saw that crafty Mignon."
"My dear fellow," said Ernest, "I love Modeste too well to--"

"Fool! then take her," cried the poet, "and break your oath."
"Will you promise me on your word of honor to forget what I now tell

you, and to behave to me as though this confidence had never been
made, whatever happens?"

"I'll swear that, by my mother's memory."
"Well then," said La Briere, "Monsieur Mignon told me in Paris that he

was very far from having the colossal fortune which the Mongenods told
me about and which I mentioned to you. The colonel intends to give two

hundred thousand francs to his daughter. And now, Melchior, I ask you,
was the father really distrustful of us, as you thought; or was he

sincere? It is not for me to answer those questions. If Modeste
without a fortune deigns to choose me, she will be my wife."

"A blue-stocking! educated till she is a terror! a girl who has read
everything, who knows everything,--in theory," cried Canalis, hastily,

noticing La Briere's gesture, "a spoiled child, brought up in luxury
in her childhood, and weaned of it for five years. Ah! my poor friend,

take care what you are about."
"Ode and Code," said Butscha, waking up, "you do the ode and I the

code; there's only a C's difference between us. Well, now, code comes
from 'coda,' a tail,--mark that word! See here! a bit of good advice

is worth your wine and your cream of tea. Father Mignon--he's cream,
too; the cream of honest men--he is going with his daughter on this

riding party; do you go up frankly and talk 'dot' to him. He'll answer
plainly, and you'll get at the truth, just as surely as I'm drunk, and

you're a great poet,--but no matter for that; we are to leave Havre
together, that's settled, isn't it? I'm to be your secretary in place

of that little fellow who sits there grinning at me and thinking I'm
drunk. Come, let's go, and leave him to marry the girl."

Canalis rose to leave the room to dress for the excursion.
"Hush, not a word,--he is going to commit suicide," whispered Butscha,

sober as a judge, to La Briere as he made the gesture of a street boy
at Canalis's back. "Adieu, my chief!" he shouted, in stentorian tones,

"will you allow me to take a snooze in that kiosk down in the garden?"
"Make yourself at home," answered the poet.

Butscha, pursued by the laughter of the three servants of the
establishment, gained the kiosk by walking over the flower-beds and

round the vases with the perverse grace of an insect describing its
interminable zig-zags as it tries to get out of a closed window. When

he had clambered into the kiosk, and the servants had retired, he sat
down on a wooden bench and wallowed in the delights of his triumph. He

had completely fooled a great man; he had not only torn off his mask,
but he had made him untie the strings himself; and he laughed like an

author over his own play,--that is to say, with a true sense of the
immense value of his "vis comica."

"Men are tops!" he cried, "you've only to find the twine to wind 'em
up with. But I'm like my fellows," he added, presently. "I should

faint away if any one came and said to me 'Mademoiselle Modeste has
been thrown from her horse, and has broken her leg.'"

CHAPTER XXIV
THE POET FEELS THAT HE IS LOVED TOO WELL

An hour later, Modeste, charmingly equipped in a bottle-green
cassimere habit, a small hat with a green veil, buckskin gloves, and

velvet boots which met the lace frills of her drawers, and mounted on
an elegantly caparisoned little horse, was exhibiting to her father

and the Duc d'Herouville the beautiful present she had just received;
she was evidentlydelighted with an attention of a kind that

particularly flatters women.
"Did it come from you, Monsieur le duc?" she said, holding the

sparkling handle toward him. "There was a card with it, saying, 'Guess
if you can,' and some asterisks. Francoise and Dumay credit Butscha

with this charming surprise; but my dear Butscha is not rich enough to
buy such rubies. And as for papa (to whom I said, as I remember, on

Sunday evening, that I had no whip), he sent to Rouen for this one,"--
pointing to a whip in her father's hand, with a top like a cone of

turquoise, a fashion then in vogue which has since become vulgar.
"I would give ten years of my old age, mademoiselle, to have the right

to offer you that beautiful jewel," said the duke, courteously.
"Ah, here comes the audacious giver!" cried Modeste, as Canalis rode

up. "It is only a poet who knows where to find such choice things.
Monsieur," she said to Melchior, "my father will scold you, and say

that you justify those who accuse you of extravagance."
"Oh!" exclaimed Canalis, with apparentsimplicity, "so that is why La

Briere rode at full gallop from Havre to Paris?"
"Does your secretary take such liberties?" said Modeste, turning pale,

and throwing the whip to Francoise with an impetuosity that expressed
scorn. "Give me your whip, papa."

"Poor Ernest, who lies there on his bed half-dead with fatigue!" said
Canalis, overtaking the girl, who had already started at a gallop.

"You are pitiless, mademoiselle. 'I have' (the poor fellow said to me)
'only this one chance to remain in her memory.'"

"And should you think well of a woman who could take presents from
half the parish?" said Modeste.

She was surprised to receive no answer to this inquiry, and attributed
the poet's inattention to the noise of the horse's feet.

"How you delight in tormenting those who love you," said the duke.
"Your nobility of soul and your pride are so inconsistent with your

faults that I begin to suspect you calumniate yourself, and do those
naughty things on purpose."

"Ah! have you only just found that out, Monsieur le duc?" she
exclaimed, laughing. "You have the sagacity of a husband."

They rode half a mile in silence. Modeste was a good deal astonished
not to receive the fire of the poet's eyes. The evening before, as she

was pointing out to him an admirable effect of settingsunlight across
the water, she had said, remarking his inattention, "Well, don't you

see it?"--to which he replied, "I can see only your hand"; but now his
admiration for the beauties of nature seemed a little too intense to

be natural.
"Does Monsieur de La Briere know how to ride?" she asked, for the

purpose of teasing him.
"Not very well, but he gets along," answered the poet, cold as

Gobenheim before the colonel's return.
At a cross-road, which Monsieur Mignon made them take through a lovely

valley to reach a height overlooking the Seine, Canalis let Modeste
and the duke pass him, and then reined up to join the colonel.

"Monsieur le comte," he said, "you are an open-hearted soldier, and I
know you will regard my frankness as a title to your esteem. When

proposals of marriage, with all their brutal,--or, if you please, too
civilized--discussions, are carried on by third parties, it is an

injury to all. We are both gentlemen, and both discreet; and you, like
myself, have passed beyond the age of surprises. Let us therefore

speak as intimates. I will set you the example. I am twenty-nine years
old, without landed estates, and full of ambition. Mademoiselle

Modeste, as you must have perceived, pleases me extremely. Now, in
spite of the little defects which your dear girl likes to assume--"

"--not counting those she really possesses," said the colonel,
smiling,--

"--I should gladly make her my wife, and I believe I could render her
happy. The question of money is of the utmost importance to my future,

which hangs to-day in the balance. All young girls expect to be loved
WHETHER OR NO--fortune or no fortune. But you are not the man to marry

your dear Modeste without a 'dot,' and my situation does not allow me
to make a marriage of what is called love unless with a woman who has

a fortune at least equal to mine. I have, from my emoluments and
sinecures, from the Academy and from my works, about thirty thousand

francs a year, a large income for a bachelor. If my wife brought me as
much more, I should still be in about the same condition that I am