orefathers did,
and they dispense with the duties of greatness, knowing well that they
are now but the shadow of it. The fathers retain the inherent politeness
of their vanished grandeur, like the mountain-tops still gilded by the
sun when all is twilight in the valley.

Ernest was at last able to slip a word into Modeste's ear, and she rose
immediately.

"My dear," said the duchesse, thinking she was going to dress, and
pulling a bell-rope, "they shall show you your apartment."

Ernest accompanied Modeste to the foot of the grand staircase,
presenting the request of the luckless poet, and endeavoring to touch
her feelings by describing Melchior's agony.

"You see, he loves--he is a captive who thought he could break his
chain."

"Love in such a rapid seeker after fortune!" retorted Modeste.

"Mademoiselle, you are at the entrance of life; you do not know its
defiles. The inconsistencies of a man who falls under the dominion of a
woman much older than himself should be forgiven, for he is really not
accountable. Think how many sacrifices Canalis has made to her. He
has sown too much seed of that kind to resign the harvest; the duchess
represents to him ten years of devotion and happiness. You made him
forget all that, and unfortunately, he has more vanity than pride; he
did not reflect on what he was losing until he met Madame Chaulieu here
to-day. If you really understood him, you would help him. He is a child,
always mismanaging his life. You call him a seeker after fortune, but
he seeks very badly; like all poets, he is a victim of sensations; he
is childish, easily dazzled like a child by anything that shines, and
pursuing its glitter. He used to love horses and pictures, and he craved
fame,--well, he sold his pictures to buy armor and old furniture of the
Renaissance and Louis XV.; just now he is seeking political power. Admit
that his hobbies are noble things."

"You have said enough," replied Modeste; "come," she added, seeing her
father, whom she called with a motion of her head to give her his arm;
"come with me, and I will give you that scrap of paper; you shall carry
it to the great man and assure him of my condescension to his wishes,
but on one condition,--you must thank him in my name for the pleasure I
have taken in seeing one of the finest of the German plays performed in
my honor. I have learned that Goethe's masterpiece is neither Faust
nor Egmont--" and then, as Ernest looked at the malicious