oundings, to
the point of being actually unrecognizable."

"Society exists through settled opinions," said the Duc d'Herouville.

"What laxity!" whispered Madame Latournelle to her husband.

"He is a poet," said Gobenheim, who overheard her.

Canalis, who was ten leagues above the heads of his audience, and who
may have been right in his last philosophical remark, took the sort
of coldness which now overspread the surrounding faces of a symptom of
provincial ignorance; but seeing that Modeste understood him, he
was content, being wholly unaware that monologue is particularly
disagreeable to country-folk, whose principal desire it is to exhibit
the manner of life and the wit and wisdom of the provinces to Parisians.

"It is long since you have seen the Duchesse de Chaulieu?" asked the
duke, addressing Canalis, as if to change the conversation.

"I left her about six days ago."

"Is she well?" persisted the duke.

"Perfectly well."

"Have the kindness to remember me to her when you write."

"They say she is charming," remarked Modeste, addressing the duke.

"Monsieur le baron can speak more confidently than I," replied the grand
equerry.

"More than charming," said Canalis, making the best of the duke's
perfidy; "but I am partial, mademoiselle; she has been a friend to me
for the last ten years; I owe all that is good in me to her; she has
saved me from the dangers of the world. Moreover, Monsieur le Duc de
Chaulieu launched me in my present career. Without the influence of that
family the king and the princesses would have forgotten a poor poet
like me; therefore my affection for the duchess must always be full of
gratitude."

His voice quivered.

"We ought to love the woman who has led you to write those sublime
poems, and who inspires you with such noble feelings," said Modeste,
quite affected. "Who can think of a poet without a muse!"

"He would be without a heart," replied Canalis. "He would write barren
verses like Voltaire, who never loved any one but Voltaire."

"I thought you did me the honor to say, in Paris," interrupted Dumay,
"that you never felt the sentiments you expressed."

"The shoe fits, my soldier," replied the poet, smiling; "but let me tell
you that it is quite possible to have a great deal of feeling both in
the intellectual life and in real life. My good friend here, La Briere,
is madly in love," continued Canalis, with a fine show of generosity,
looking at Modeste. "I, who cer