a glance at
Modeste, which slipped like a ray of light between his heavy half-closed
eyelids. He perceived, in this unexpected incident, 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 beloved independently 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 genius beloved by some celestial being like
yourself."

The color which suffused the young girl's face told the c