g back
with him; and I want to know what it is. Did not Dumay send papa when
he first went away over five hundred thousand francs? Yes. Well, papa is
not the kind of man to stay away four years and only double his capital.
It seems he is coming back on a ship of his own, and Dumay's share
amounts to almost six hundred thousand francs."

"There is no need to question Dumay," said Butscha. "Your father lost,
as you know, about four millions when he went away, and he has doubtless
recovered them. He would of course give Dumay ten per cent of his
profits; the worthy man admitted the other day how much it was, and my
master and I think that in that case the colonel's fortune must amount
to six or seven millions--"

"Oh, papa!" cried Modeste, crossing her hands on her breast and looking
up to heaven, "twice you have given me life!"

"Ah, mademoiselle!" said Butscha, "you love a poet. That kind of man
is more or less of a Narcissus. Will he know how to love you? A
phrase-maker, always busy in fitting words together, must be a bore.
Mademoiselle, a poet is no more poetry than a seed is a flower."

"Butscha, I never saw so handsome a man."

"Beauty is a veil which often serves to hide imperfections."

"He has the most angelic heart of heaven--"

"I pray God you may be right," said the dwarf, clasping his hands,
"--and happy! That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean
Butscha. I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the
sciences."

"Why?"

"Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign to make
me their tutor. But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice. Let
me take up this matter; let me look into the life and habits of this
man,--find out if he is kind, or bad-tempered, or gentle, if he commands
the respect which you merit in a husband, if he is able to love utterly,
preferring you to everything, even his own talent--"

"What does that signify if I love him?"

"Ah, true!" cried the dwarf.

At that instant Madame Mignon was saying to her friends,--

"My daughter saw the man she loves this morning."

"Then it must have been that sulphur waistcoat which puzzled you so,
Latournelle," said his wife. "The young man had a pretty white rose in
his buttonhole."

"Ah!" sighed the mother, "the sign of recognition."

"And he also wore the ribbon of an officer of the Legion of honor. He is
a charming young man. But we are all deceiving ourselves; Modeste
never raised her v