had　the　air　of　a　nymph；　a　Psyche；　her　cheeks　glowed　with　the　divine
  color　of　happiness。
  〃Who　wrote　the　words　to　which　you　have　put　that　pretty　music？〃　asked
  her　mother。
  〃Canalis；　mamma；〃　she　answered；　flushing　rosy　red　from　her　throat　to
  her　forehead。
  〃Canalis！〃　cried　the　dwarf；　to　whom　the　inflections　of　the　girl's
  voice　and　her　blush　told　the　only　thing　of　which　he　was　still
  ignorant。　〃He；　that　great　poet；　does　he　write　songs？〃
  〃They　are　only　simple　verses；〃　she　said；　〃which　I　have　ventured　to　set
  to　German　airs。〃
  〃No；　no；〃　interrupted　Madame　Mignon；　〃the　music　is　your　own；　my
  daughter。〃
  Modeste；　feeling　that　she　grew　more　and　more　crimson；　went　off　into
  the　garden；　calling　Butscha　after　her。
  〃You　can　do　me　a　great　service；〃　she　said。　〃Dumay　is　keeping　a　secret
  from　my　mother　and　me　as　to　the　fortune　which　my　father　is　bringing
  back　with　him；　and　I　want　to　know　what　it　is。　Did　not　Dumay　send　papa
  when　he　first　went　away　over　five　hundred　thousand　francs？　Yes。　Well；
  papa　is　not　the　kind　of　man　to　stay　away　four　years　and　only　double
  his　capital。　It　seems　he　is　coming　back　on　a　ship　of　his　own；　and
  Dumay's　share　amounts　to　almost　six　hundred　thousand　francs。〃
  〃There　is　no　need　to　question　Dumay；〃　said　Butscha。　〃Your　father　lost；
  as　you　know；　about　four　millions　when　he　went　away；　and　he　has
  doubtless　recovered　them。　He　would　of　course　give　Dumay　ten　per　cent
  of　his　profits；　the　worthy　man　admitted　the　other　day　how　much　it　was；
  and　my　master　and　I　think　that　in　that　case　the　colonel's　fortune　must
  amount　to　six　or　seven　millions〃
  〃Oh；　papa！〃　cried　Modeste；　crossing　her　hands　on　her　breast　and
  looking　up　to　heaven；　〃twice　you　have　given　me　life！〃
  〃Ah；　mademoiselle！〃　said　Butscha；　〃you　love　a　poet。　That　kind　of　man
  is　more　or　less　of　a　Narcissus。　Will　he　know　how　to　love　you？　A
  phrase…maker；　always　busy　in　fitting　words　together；　must　be　a　bore。
  Mademoiselle；　a　poet　is　no　more　poetry　than　a　seed　is　a　flower。〃
  〃Butscha；　I　never　saw　so　handsome　a　man。〃
  〃Beauty　is　a　veil　which　often　serves　to　hide　imperfections。〃
  〃He　has　the　most　angelic　heart　of　heaven〃
  〃I　pray　God　you　may　be　right；〃　said　the　dwarf；　clasping　his　hands；
  〃and　happy！　That　man　shall　have；　as　you　have；　a　servant　in　Jean
  Butscha。　I　will　not　be　notary；　I　shall　give　that　up；　I　shall　study　the
  sciences。〃
  〃Why？〃
  〃Ah；　mademoiselle；　to　train　up　your　children；　if　you　will　deign　to
  make　me　their　tutor。　But；　oh！　if　you　would　only　listen　to　some　advice。
  Let　me　take　up　this　matter；　let　me　look　into　the　life　and　habits　of
  this　man；find　out　if　he　is　kind；　or　bad…tempered；　or　gentle；　if　he
  commands　the　respect　which　you　merit　in　a　husband；　if　he　is　able　to
  love　utterly；　preferring　you　to　everything；　even　his　own　talent〃
  〃What　does　that　signify　if　I　love　him？〃
  〃Ah；　true！〃　cried　the　dwarf。
  At　that　instant　Madame　Mignon　was　saying　to　her　friends；
  〃My　daughter　saw　the　man　she　loves　this　morning。〃
  〃Then　it　must　have　been　that　sulphur　waistcoat　which　puzzled　you　so；
  Latournelle；〃　said　his　wife。　〃The　young　man　had　a　pretty　white　rose　in
  his　buttonhole。〃
  〃Ah！〃　sighed　the　mother；　〃the　sign　of　recognition。〃
  〃And　he　also　wore　the　ribbon　of　an　officer　of　the　Legion　of　honor。　He
  is　a　charming　young　man。　But　we　are　all　deceiving　ourselves；　Modeste
  never　raised　her　veil；　and　her　clothes　were　huddled　on　like　a　beggar…
  woman's〃
  〃And　she　said　she　was　ill；〃　cried　the　notary；　〃but　she　has　taken　off
  her　mufflings　and　is　just　as　well　as　she　ever　was。〃
  〃It　is　incomprehensible！〃　said　Dumay。
  〃Not　at　all；〃　said　the　notary；　〃it　is　now　as　clear　as　day。〃
  〃My　child；〃　said　Madame　Mignon　to　Modeste；　as　she　came　into　the　room；
  followed　by　Butscha；　〃did　you　see　a　well…dressed　young　man　at　church
  this　morning；　with　a　white　rose　in　his　button…hole？〃
  〃I　saw　him；〃　said　Butscha　quickly；　perceiving　by　everybody's　strained
  attention　that　Modeste　was　likely　to　fall　into　a　trap。　〃It　was
  Grindot；　the　famous　architect；　with　whom　the　town　is　in　treaty　for　the
  restoration　of　the　church。　He　has　just　come　from　Paris；　and　I　met　him
  this　morning　examining　the　exterior　as　I　was　on　my　way　to　Sainte…
  Adresse。〃
  〃Oh；　an　architect；　was　he？　he　puzzled　me；〃　said　Modeste；　for　whom
  Butscha　had　thus　gained　time　to　recover　herself。
  Dumay　looked　askance　at　Butscha。　Modeste；　fully　warned；　recovered　her
  impenetrable　composure。　Dumay's　distrust　was　now　thoroughly　aroused；
  and　he　resolved　to　go　the　mayor's　office　early　in　the　morning　and
  ascertain　if　the　architect　had　really　been　in　Havre　the　previous　day。
  Butscha；　on　the　other　hand；　was　equally　determined　to　go　to　Paris　and
  find　out　something　about　Canalis。
  Gobenheim　came　to　play　whist；　and　by　his　presence　subdued　and
  compressed　all　this　fermentation　of　feelings。　Modeste　awaited　her
  mother's　bedtime　with　impatience。　She　intended　to　write；　but　never　did
  so　except　at　night。　Here　is　the　letter　which　love　dictated　to　her
  while　all　the　world　was　sleeping：
  To　Monsieur　de　Canalis；Ah！　my　friend；　my　well…beloved！　What
  atrocious　falsehoods　those　portraits　in　the　shop…windows　are！　And
  I；　who　made　that　horrible　lithograph　my　joy！I　am　humbled　at　the
  thought　of　loving　one　so　handsome。　No；　it　is　impossible　that　those
  Parisian　women　are　so　stupid　as　not　to　have　seen　their　dreams
  fulfilled　in　you。　You　neglected！　you　unloved！　I　do　not　believe　a
  word　of　all　that　you　have　written　me　about　your　lonely　and　obscure
  life；　your　hunger　for　an　idol；sought　in　vain　until　now。　You　have
  been　too　well　loved；　monsieur；　your　brow；　white　and　smooth　as　a
  magnolia　leaf；　reveals　it；　and　it　is　I　who　must　be　neglected；for
  who　am　I？　Ah！　why　have　you　called　me　to　life？　I　felt　for　a　moment
  as　though　the　heavy　burden　of　the　flesh　was　leaving　me；　my　soul
  had　broken　the　crystal　which　held　it　captive；　it　pervaded　my　whole
  being；　the　cold　silence　of　material　things　had　ceased；　all　things
  in　nature　had　a　voice　and　spoke　to　me。　The　old　church　was
  luminous。　It's　arched　roof；　brilliant　with　gold　and　azure　like
  those　of　an　Italian　cathedral；　sparkled　above　my　head。　Melodies
  such　as　the　angels　sang　to　martyrs；　quieting　their　pains；　sounded
  from　the　organ。　The　rough　pavements　of　Havre　seemed　to　my　feet　a
  flowery　mead；　the　sea　spoke　to　me　with　a　voice　of　sympathy；　like
  an　old　friend　whom　I　had　never　truly　understood。　I　saw　clearly　how
  the　roses　in　my　garden　had　long　adored　me　and　bidden　me　love；　they
  lifted　their　heads　and　smiled　as　I　came　back　from　church。　I　heard
  your　name；　〃Melchior；〃　chiming　in　the　flower…bells；　I　saw　it
  written　on　the　clouds。　Yes；　yes；　I　live；　I　am　living；　thanks　to
  thee；my　poet；　more　beautiful　than　that　cold；　conventional　Lord
  Byron；　with　a　face　as　dull　as　the　English　climate。　One　glance　of
  thine；　thine　Orient　glance；　pierced　through　my　double　veil　and
  sent　thy　blood　to　my　heart；　and　from　thence　to　my　head　and　feet。
  Ah！　that　is　not　the　life　our　mother　gave　us。　A　hurt　to　thee　would
  hurt　me　too　at　the　very　instant　it　was　given；my　life　exists　by
  thy　thought　only。　I　know　now　the　purpose　of　the　divine　faculty　of
  music；　the　angels　invented　it　to　utter　love。　Ah；　my　Melchior；　to
  have　genius　and　to　have　beauty　is　too　much；　a　man　should　be　made
  to　choose　between　them　at　his　birth。
  When　I　think　of　the　treasures　of　tenderness　and　affection　which
  you　have　given　me；　and　more　especially　for　the　last　month；　I　ask
  myself　if　I　dream。　No；　but　you　hide　some　mystery；　what　woman　can
  yield　you　up　to　me　and　not　die？　Ah！　jealousy　has　entered　my　heart
  with　love；love　in　which　I　could　not　have　believed。　How　could　I
  have　imagined　so　mighty　a　conflagration？　And　nowstrange　and
  inconceivable　revulsion！I　would　rather　you　were　ugly。
  What　follies　I　committed　after　I　came　home！　The　yellow　dahlias
  reminded　me　of　your　waistcoat；　the　white　roses　were　my　loving
  friends；　I　bowed　to　them　with　a　look　that　belonged　to　you；　like
  all　that　is　of　me。　The　very　color　of　the　gloves；　moulded　to　hands
  of　a　gentleman；　your　step　along　the　nave；all；　all；　is　so　printed
  on　my　memory　that　sixty　years　hence　I　shall　see　the　veriest
  trifles　of　this　day　of　days；the　color　of　the　atmosphere；　the　ray
  of　sunshine　that　flickered　on　a　certain　pillar；　I　shall　hear　the
  prayer　your　step　interrupted；　I　shall　inhale　the　incense　of　the
  altar；　forever　I　shall　feel　above　our　heads　the　priestly　hands
  that　blessed　us　both　as　you　passed　by　me　at　the　closing
  benediction。　The　good　Abbe　Marcelin　married　us　then！　The
  happiness；　above　that　of　earth；　which　I　feel　in　this　new　world　of
  unexpected　emotions　can　only　be　equalled　by　the　joy　of　telling　it
  to　you；　of　sending　it　back　to　him　who　poured　it　into　my　heart　with
  the　lavishness　of　the　sun　itself。　No　more　veils；　no　more
  disguises；　my　beloved。　Come　back　to　me；　oh；　come　back　soon。　With
  joy　I　now　unma