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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 ba