A DIPLOMATIC LETTER
The poet's reflections during the night were thoroughly matter-of

fact. He sincerely saw nothing worse in life than the situation of a
married man without money. Still trembling at the danger he had been

led into by his vanity, his desire to get the better of the duke, and
his belief in the Mignon millions, he began to ask himself what the

duchess must be thinking of his stay in Havre, aggravated by the fact
that he had not written to her for fourteen days, whereas in Paris

they exchanged four or five letters a week.
"And that poor woman is working hard to get me appointed commander of

the Legion and ambassador to the Court of Baden!" he cried.
Thereupon, with that promptitude of decision which results--in poets

as well as in speculators--from a lively intuition of the future, he
sat down and composed the following letter:--

To Madame la Duchesse de Chaulieu:
My dear Eleonore,--You have doubtless been surprised at not

hearing from me; but the stay I am making in this place is not
altogether on account of my health. I have been trying to do a

good turn to our little friend La Briere. The poor fellow has
fallen in love with a certain Mademoiselle Modeste de La Bastie, a

rather pale, insignificant, and thread-papery little thing, who,
by the way, has the vice of likingliterature, and calls herself a

poet to excuse the caprices and humors of a rather sullen nature.
You know Ernest,--he is so easy to catch that I have been afraid

to leave him to himself. Mademoiselle de La Bastie was inclined to
coquet with your Melchior, and was only too ready to become your

rival, though her arms are thin, and she has no more bust than
most girls; moreover, her hair is as dead and colorless as that of

Madame de Rochefide, and her eyes small, gray, and very
suspicious. I put a stop--perhaps rather brutally--to the

attentions of Mademoiselle Immodeste; but love, such as mine for
you, demanded it. What care I for all the women on earth,--

compared to you, what are they?
The people with whom I pass my time, and who form the circle round

the heiress, are so thoroughly bourgeois that they almost turn my
stomach. Pity me; imagine! I pass my evenings with notaries,

notaresses, cashiers, provincial money-lenders--ah! what a change
from my evenings in the rue de Grenelle. The alleged fortune of

the father, lately returned from China, has brought to Havre that
indefatigable suitor, the grand equerry, hungry after the

millions, which he wants, they say, to drain his marshes. The king
does not know what a fatal present he made the duke in those waste

lands. His Grace, who has not yet found out that the lady had only
a small fortune, is jealous of ME; for La Briere is quietly making

progress with his idol under cover of his friend, who serves as a
blind.

Notwithstanding Ernest's romantic ecstasies, I myself, a poet,
think chiefly of the essential thing, and I have been making some

inquiries which darken the prospects of our friend. If my angel
would like absolution for some of our little sins, she will try to

find out the facts of the case by sending for Mongenod, the
banker, and questioning him, with the dexterity that characterizes

her, as to the father's fortune? Monsieur Mignon, formerly colonel
of cavalry in the Imperial guard, has been for the last seven

years a correspondent of the Mongenods. It is said that he gives
his daughter a "dot" of two hundred thousand francs, and before I

make the offer on Ernest's behalf I am anxious to get the rights
of the story. As soon as the affair is arranged I shall return to

Paris. I know a way to settle everything to the advantage of our
young lover,--simply by the transmission of the father-in-law's

title, and no one, I think, can more readilyobtain that favor
than Ernest, both on account of his own services and the influence

which you and I and the duke can exert for him. With his tastes,
Ernest, who of course will step into my office when I go to Baden,

will be perfectly happy in Paris with twenty-five thousand francs
a year, a permanent place, and a wife--luckless fellow!

Ah, dearest, how I long for the rue de Grenelle! Fifteen days of
absence! when they do not kill love, they revive all the ardor of

its earlier days, and you know, better than I, perhaps, the
reasons that make my love eternal,--my bones will love thee in the

grave! Ah! I cannot bear this separation. If I am forced to stay
here another ten days, I shall make a flying visit of a few hours

to Paris.
Has the duke obtained for me the thing we wanted; and shall you,

my dearest life, be ordered to drink the Baden waters next year?
The billing and cooing of the "handsome disconsolate," compared

with the accents of our happy love--so true and changeless for now
ten years!--have given me a great contempt for marriage. I had

never seen the thing so near. Ah, dearest! what the world calls a
"false step" brings two beings nearer together than the law--does

it not?
The concluding idea served as a text for two pages of reminiscences

and aspirations a little too confidential for publication.
The evening before the day on which Canalis put the above epistle into

the post, Butscha, under the name of Jean Jacmin, had received a
letter from his fictitious cousin, Philoxene, and had mailed his

answer, which thus preceded the letter of the poet by about twelve
hours. Terribly anxious for the last two weeks, and wounded by

Melchior's silence, the duchess herself dictated Philoxene's letter to
her cousin, and the moment she had read the answer, rather too

explicit for her quinquagenary vanity, she sent for the banker and
made close inquiries as to the exact fortune of Monsieur Mignon.

Finding herself betrayed and abandoned for the millions, Eleonore gave
way to a paroxysm of anger, hatred, and cold vindictiveness. Philoxene

knocked at the door of the sumptuous room, and entering found her
mistress with her eyes full of tears,--so unprecedented a phenomenon

in the fifteen years she had waited upon her that the woman stopped
short stupefied.

"We expiate the happiness of ten years in ten minutes," she heard the
duchess say.

"A letter from Havre, madame."
Eleonore read the poet's prose without noticing the presence of

Philoxene, whose amazement became still greater when she saw the dawn
of fresh serenity on the duchess's face as she read further and

further into the letter. Hold out a pole no thicker than a walking-
stick to a drowning man, and he will think it a high-road of safety.

The happy Eleonore believed in Canalis's good faith when she had read
through the four pages in which love and business, falsehood and

truth, jostled each other. She who, a few moments earlier, had sent
for her husband to prevent Melchior's appointment while there was

still time, was now seized with a spirit of generosity that amounted
almost to the sublime.

"Poor fellow!" she thought; "he has not had one faithless thought; he
loves me as he did on the first day; he tells me all--Philoxene!" she

cried, noticing her maid, who was standing near and pretending to
arrange the toilet-table.

"Madame la duchesse?"
"A mirror, child!"

Eleonore looked at herself, saw the fine razor-like lines traced on
her brow, which disappeared at a little distance; she sighed, and in

that sigh she felt she bade adieu to love. A brave thought came into
her mind, a manly thought, outside of all the pettiness of women,--a

thought which intoxicates for a moment, and which explains, perhaps,
the clemency of the Semiramis of Russia when she married her young and

beautiful rival to Momonoff.
"Since he has not been faithless, he shall have the girl and her

millions," she thought,--"provided Mademoiselle Mignon is as ugly as
he says she is."