h heard and saw the little colloquy from her chamber window,
where she always posted herself behind the blinds at this particular
hour to watch for the postman. She ran downstairs, went into the little
garden, and called in an imperative voice:--

"Monsieur Butscha!"

"Here am I, mademoiselle," said the cripple, reaching the gate as
Modeste herself opened it.

"Will you be good enough to tell me whether among your various titles to
a woman's affection you count that of the shameless spying in which you
are now engaged?" demanded the girl, endeavoring to crush her slave with
the glance and gesture of a queen.

"Yes, mademoiselle," he answered proudly. "Ah! I never expected,"
he continued in a low tone, "that the grub could be of service to a
star,--but so it is. Would you rather that your mother and Monsieur
Dumay and Madame Latournelle had guessed your secret than one, excluded
as it were from life, who seeks to be to you one of those flowers that
you cut and wear for a moment? They all know you love; but I, I alone,
_know how_. Use me as you would a vigilant watch-dog; I will obey you,
protect you, and never bark; neither will I condemn you. I ask only
to be of service to you. Your father has made Dumay keeper of the
hen-roost, take Butscha to watch outside,--poor Butscha, who doesn't ask
for anything, not so much as a bone."

"Well, I've give you a trial," said Modeste, whose strongest desire was
to get rid of so clever a watcher. "Please go at once to all the hotels
in Graville and in Havre, and ask if a gentleman has arrived from
England named Monsieur Arthur--"

"Listen to me, mademoiselle," said Butscha, interrupting Modeste
respectfully. "I will go and take a walk on the seashore, for you don't
want me to go to church to-day; that's what it is."

Modeste looked at her dwarf with a perfectly stupid astonishment.

"Mademoiselle, you have wrapped your face in cotton-wool and a silk
handkerchief, but there's nothing the matter with you; and you have put
that thick veil on your bonnet to see some one yourself without being
seen."

"Where did you acquire all that perspicacity?" cried Modeste, blushing.

"Moreover, mademoiselle, you have not put on your corset; a cold in the
head wouldn't oblige you to disfigure your waist and wear half a dozen
petticoats, nor hide your hands in these old gloves, and your pretty
feet in those hideous shoes, nor dress yourself like a beggar-woman,
nor--"

"That's enough," s