o far as to
destroy a friendship. If by chance Melchior was forced to listen, he
fell into another fault; he merely lent his attention, and never
gave it. Though this may not be so mortifying, it shows a kind of
semi-concession which is almost as unsatisfactory to the hearer and
leaves him dissatisfied. Nothing brings more profit in the commerce
of society than the small change of attention. He that heareth let him
hear, is not only a gospel precept, it is an excellent speculation;
follow it, and all will be forgiven you, even vice. Canalis took a great
deal of trouble in his anxiety to please Modeste; but though he was
compliant enough with her, he fell back into his natural self with the
others.

Modeste, pitiless for the ten martyrs she was making, begged Canalis to
read some of his poems; she wanted, she said, a specimen of his gift for
reading, of which she had heard so much. Canalis took the volume which
she gave him, and cooed (for that is the proper word) a poem which is
generally considered his finest,--an imitation of Moore's "Loves of the
Angels," entitled "Vitalis," which Monsieur and Madame Dumay, Madame
Latournelle, and Gobenheim welcomed with a few yawns.

"If you are a good whist-player, monsieur," said Gobenheim, flourishing
five cards held like a fan, "I must say I have never met a man as
accomplished as you."

The remark raised a laugh, for it was the translation of everybody's
thought.

"I play it sufficiently well to live in the provinces for the rest of my
days," replied Canalis. "That, I think, is enough, and more than enough
literature and conversation for whist-players," he added, throwing the
volume impatiently on a table.

This little incident serves to show what dangers environ a drawing-room
hero when he steps, like Canalis, out of his sphere; he is like the
favorite actor of a second-rate audience, whose talent is lost when he
leaves his own boards and steps upon those of an upper-class theatre.

CHAPTER XXI. MODESTE PLAYS HER PART

The game opened with the baron and the duke, Gobenheim and Latournelle
as partners. Modeste took a seat near the poet, to Ernest's deep
disappointment; he watched the face of the wayward girl, and marked the
progress of the fascination which Canalis exerted over her. La
Briere had not the gift of seduction which Melchior possessed. Nature
frequently denies it to true hearts, who are, as a rule, timid. This
gift demands fearlessness, an alacrity of