ways and means that might be
called the trapeze of the mind; a little mimicry goes with it; in fact
there is always, morally speaking, something of the comedian in a poet.
There is a vast difference between expressing sentiments we do not feel,
though we may imagine all their variations, and feigning to feel them
when bidding for success on the theatre of private life. And yet, though
the necessary hypocrisy of a man of the world may have gangrened a poet,
he ends by carrying the faculties of his talent into the expression of
any required sentiment, just as a great man doomed to solitude ends by
infusing his heart into his mind.

"He is after the millions," thought La Briere, sadly; "and he can play
passion so well that Modeste will believe him."

Instead of endeavoring to appear more amiable and wittier than his
rival, Ernest imitated the Duc d'Herouville, and was gloomy, anxious,
and watchful; but whereas the courier studied the freaks of the young
heiress, Ernest simply fell a prey to the pains of dark and concentrated
jealousy. He had not yet been able to obtain a glance from his idol.
After a while he left the room with Butscha.

"It is all over!" he said; "she is caught by him; I am more disagreeable
to her, and moreover, she is right. Canalis is charming; there's
intellect in his silence, passion in his eyes, poetry in his
rhodomontades."

"Is he an honest man?" asked Butscha.

"Oh, yes," replied La Briere. "He is loyal and chivalrous, and capable
of getting rid, under Modeste's influence, of those affectations which
Madame de Chaulieu has taught him."

"You are a fine fellow," said the hunchback; "but is he capable of
loving,--will he love her?"

"I don't know," answered La Briere. "Has she said anything about me?" he
asked after a moment's silence.

"Yes," said Butscha, and he repeated Modeste's speech about disguises.

Poor Ernest flung himself upon a bench and held his head in his hands.
He could not keep back his tears, and he did not wish Butscha to see
them; but the dwarf was the very man to guess his emotion.

"What troubles you?" he asked.

"She is right!" cried Ernest, springing up; "I am a wretch."

And he related the deception into which Canalis had led him when
Modeste's first letter was received, carefully pointing out to Butscha
that he had wished to undeceive the young girl before she herself
took off the mask, and apostrophizing, in rather juvenile fashion, his
luckless destiny. B