things nowadays!" she said to
Francoise Cochet, who had become her waiting-maid.

"That poor young man, mademoiselle, who has got a fever--"

"Who told you that?"

"Monsieur Butscha. He came here this afternoon and asked me to say to
you that he hoped you would notice he had kept his word on the appointed
day."

Modeste came down into the salon dressed with royal simplicity.

"My dear father," she said aloud, taking the colonel by the arm, "please
go and ask after Monsieur de La Briere's health, and take him back his
present. You can say that my small means, as well as my natural tastes,
forbid my wearing ornaments which are only fit for queens or courtesans.
Besides, I can only accept gifts from a bridegroom. Beg him to keep the
whip until you know whether you are rich enough to buy it back."

"My little girl has plenty of good sense," said the colonel, kissing his
daughter on the forehead.

Canalis took advantage of a conversation which began between the duke
and Madame Mignon to escape to the terrace, where Modeste joined him,
influenced by curiosity, though the poet believed her desire to become
Madame de Canalis had brought her there. Rather alarmed at the indecency
with which he had just executed what soldiers call a "volte-face," and
which, according to the laws of ambition, every man in his position
would have executed quite as brutally, he now endeavored, as the
unfortunate Modeste approached him, to find plausible excuses for his
conduct.

"Dear Modeste," he began, in a coaxing tone, "considering the terms on
which we stand to each other, shall I displease you if I say that
your replies to the Duc d'Herouville were very painful to a man in
love,--above all, to a poet whose soul is feminine, nervous, full of the
jealousies of true passion. I should make a poor diplomatist indeed if
I had not perceived that your first coquetries, your little premeditated
inconsistencies, were only assumed for the purpose of studying our
characters--"

Modeste raised her head with the rapid, intelligent, half-coquettish
motion of a wild animal, in whom instinct produces such miracles of
grace.

"--and therefore when I returned home and thought them over, they never
misled me. I only marvelled at a cleverness so in harmony with your
character and your countenance. Do not be uneasy, I never doubted that
your assumed duplicity covered an angelic candor. No, your mind, your
education, have in no way lessened the preciou