Germain never appeared in public unless punctiliously dressed in black, with spotless gloves, well-polished boots, and otherwise as well apparelled as a lawyer.  Imagine the effect he produced in Havre, and the idea people took of the great poet from this sample of him!  The valet of a man of wit and intellect ends by getting a little wit and intellect himself which has rubbed off from his master.  Germain did not overplay his part; he was simple and good-humored, as Canalis had instructed him to be.  Poor La Briere was in blissful ignorance of the harm Germain was doing to his prospects, and the depreciation his consent to the arrangement had brought upon him; it is, however, true that some inkling of the state of things rose to Modeste’s ears from these lower regions.

Canalis had arranged to bring his secretary in his own carriage, and Ernest’s unsuspicious nature did not perceive that he was putting himself in a false position until too late to remedy it.  The delay in the arrival of the pair which had troubled Charles Mignon was caused by the painting of the Canalis arms on the panels of the carriage, and by certain orders given to a tailor; for the poet neglected none of the innumerable details which might, even the smallest of them, influence a young girl.

“It is all right,” said Latournelle to Mignon on the sixth day.  “The baron’s valet has hired Madame Amaury’s villa at Sanvic, all furnished, for seven hundred francs; he has written to his master that he may start, and that all will be ready on his arrival.  So the two gentlemen will be here Sunday.  I have also had a letter from Butscha; here it is; it’s not long:  ’My dear master,—­I cannot get back till Sunday.  Between now and then I have some very important inquiries to make which concern the happiness of a person in whom you take an interest.’”

The announcement of this arrival did not rouse Modeste from her gloom; the sense of her fall and the bewilderment of her mind were still too great, and she was not nearly as much of a coquette as her father thought her to be.  There is, in truth, a charming and permissible coquetry, that of the soul, which may claim to be love’s politeness.  Charles Mignon, when scolding his daughter, failed to distinguish between the mere desire of pleasing and the love of the mind,—­the thirst for love, and the thirst for admiration.  Like every true colonel of the Empire he saw in this correspondence, rapidly read, only the young girl who had thrown herself at the head of a poet; but in the letters which we were forced to lack of space to suppress, a better judge would have admired the dignified and gracious reserve which Modeste had substituted for the rather aggressive and light-minded tone of her first letters.  The father, however, was only too cruelly right on one point.  Modeste’s last letter, which we have read, had indeed spoken as though the marriage were a settled fact, and the remembrance of that letter filled her with shame; she thought her father very