an exclusive passion. While poor Ernest, gloomily ensconced in his
corner of the caleche, gave way to the terrors of genuine love, and
foresaw instinctively the anger, contempt, and disdain of an injured and
offended young girl, Canalis was preparing himself, not less silently,
like an actor making ready for an important part in a new play;
certainly neither of them presented the appearance of a happy man.
Important interests were involved for Canalis. The mere suggestion of
his desire to marry would bring about a rupture of the tie which had
bound him for the last ten years to the Duchesse de Chaulieu. Though
he had covered the purpose of his journey with the vulgar pretext of
needing rest,--in which, by the bye, women never believe, even when
it is true,--his conscience troubled him somewhat; but the word
"conscience" seemed so Jesuitical to La Briere that he shrugged his
shoulders when the poet mentioned his scruples.

"Your conscience, my friend, strikes me as nothing more nor less than a
dread of losing the pleasures of vanity, and some very real advantages
and habits by sacrificing the affections of Madame de Chaulieu; for, if
you were sure of succeeding with Modeste, you would renounce without the
slightest compunction the wilted aftermath of a passion that has been
mown and well-raked for the last eight years. If you simply mean that
you are afraid of displeasing your protectress, should she find out the
object of your stay here, I believe you. To renounce the duchess and yet
not succeed at the Chalet is too heavy a risk. You take the anxiety of
this alternative for remorse."

"You have no comprehension of feelings," said the poet, irritably, like
a man who hears truth when he expects a compliment.

"That is what a bigamist should tell the jury," retorted La Briere,
laughing.

This epigram made another disagreeable impression on Canalis. He began
to think La Briere too witty and too free for a secretary.

The arrival of an elegant caleche, driven by a coachman in the Canalis
livery, made the more excitement at the Chalet because the two suitors
were expected, and all the personages of this history were assembled to
receive them, except the duke and Butscha.

"Which is the poet?" asked Madame Latournelle of Dumay in the embrasure
of a window, where she stationed herself as soon as she heard the
wheels.

"The one who walks like a drum-major," answered the lieutenant.

"Ah!" said the notary's wife, examini