colossal. He let his head fall into the palm of his right hand, and
putting his elbows majestically on the table, blinked his eyes and
continued talking to himself:--

"In twenty years, thanks to that Code, which pillages fortunes under
what they call 'Successions,' an heiress worth a million will be as rare
as generosity in a money-lender. Suppose Modeste does want to spend all
the interest of her own money,--well, she is so pretty, so sweet and
pretty; why she's--you poets are always after metaphors--she's a weasel
as tricky as a monkey."

"How came you to tell me she had six millions?" said Canalis to La
Briere, in a low voice.

"My friend," said Ernest, "I do assure you that I was bound to silence
by an oath; perhaps, even now, I ought not to say as much as that."

"Bound! to whom?"

"To Monsieur Mignon."

"Ernest! you who know how essential fortune is to me--"

Butscha snored.

"--who know my situation, and all that I shall lose in the Duchesse de
Chaulieu, by this attempt at marrying, YOU could coldly let me plunge
into such a thing as this?" exclaimed Canalis, turning pale. "It was a
question of friendship; and ours was a compact entered into long before
you ever saw that crafty Mignon."

"My dear fellow," said Ernest, "I love Modeste too well to--"

"Fool! then take her," cried the poet, "and break your oath."

"Will you promise me on your word of honor to forget what I now tell
you, and to behave to me as though this confidence had never been made,
whatever happens?"

"I'll swear that, by my mother's memory."

"Well then," said La Briere, "Monsieur Mignon told me in Paris that he
was very far from having the colossal fortune which the Mongenods told
me about and which I mentioned to you. The colonel intends to give two
hundred thousand francs to his daughter. And now, Melchior, I ask you,
was the father really distrustful of us, as you thought; or was he
sincere? It is not for me to answer those questions. If Modeste without
a fortune deigns to choose me, she will be my wife."

"A blue-stocking! educated till she is a terror! a girl who has read
everything, who knows everything,--in theory," cried Canalis, hastily,
noticing La Briere's gesture, "a spoiled child, brought up in luxury in
her childhood, and weaned of it for five years. Ah! my poor friend, take
care what you are about."

"Ode and Code," said Butscha, waking up, "you do the ode and I the code;
there's only a C's difference between