word, that it concerns the happiness of his daughter. But you will
readily understand that before seeing the father I feel I ought to make
a clean breast of it to you."

"Among the plants whose flowers bloom in the sunshine of fame," said
Canalis, impressively, "there is one, and the most magnificent, which
bears like the orange-tree a golden fruit amid the mingled perfumes of
beauty and of mind; a lovely plant, a true tenderness, a perfect bliss,
and--it eludes me." Canalis looked at the carpet that Ernest might
not read his eyes. "Could I," he continued after a pause to regain his
self-possession, "how could I have divined that flower from a pretty
sheet of perfumed paper, that true heart, that young girl, that woman in
whom love wears the livery of flattery, who loves us for ourselves, who
offers us felicity? It needed but an angel or a demon to perceive
her; and what am I but the ambitious head of a Court of Claims! Ah, my
friend, fame makes us the target of a thousand arrows. One of us
owes his rich marriage to an hydraulic piece of poetry, while I, more
seductive, more a woman's man than he, have missed mine,--for, do you
love her, poor girl?" he said, looking up at La Briere.

"Oh!" ejaculated the young man.

"Well then," said the poet, taking his secretary's arm and leaning
heavily upon it, "be happy, Ernest. By a mere accident I have been not
ungrateful to you. You are richly rewarded for your devotion, and I will
generously further your happiness."

Canalis was furious; but he could not behave otherwise than with
propriety, and he made the best of his disappointment by mounting it as
a pedestal.

"Ah, Canalis, I have never really known you till this moment."

"Did you expect to? It takes some time to go round the world," replied
the poet with his pompous irony.

"But think," said La Briere, "of this enormous fortune."

"Ah, my friend, is it not well invested in you?" cried Canalis,
accompanying the words with a charming gesture.

"Melchior," said La Briere, "I am yours for life and death."

He wrung the poet's hand and left him abruptly, for he was in haste to
meet Monsieur Mignon.

CHAPTER XV. A FATHER STEPS IN

The Comte de La Bastie was at this moment overwhelmed with the sorrows
which lay in wait for him as their prey. He had learned from his
daughter's letter of Bettina's death and of his wife's infirmity, and
Dumay related to him, when they met, his terrible perplexity as to
Modeste'