Chaulieu, he was bound to be worthy of his reputation as a man who knew women, when, in fact, he did not know them at all,—­which is often the case with those who are the happy victims of an exclusive passion.  While poor Ernest, gloomily ensconced in his corner of the caleche, gave way to the terrors of genuine love, and foresaw instinctively the anger, contempt, and disdain of an injured and offended young girl, Canalis was preparing himself, not less silently, like an actor making ready for an important part in a new play; certainly neither of them presented the appearance of a happy man.  Important interests were involved for Canalis.  The mere suggestion of his desire to marry would bring about a rupture of the tie which had bound him for the last ten years to the Duchesse de Chaulieu.  Though he had covered the purpose of his journey with the vulgar pretext of needing rest,—­in which, by the bye, women never believe, even when it is true,—­his conscience troubled him somewhat; but the word “conscience” seemed so Jesuitical to La Briere that he shrugged his shoulders when the poet mentioned his scruples.

“Your conscience, my friend, strikes me as nothing more nor less than a dread of losing the pleasures of vanity, and some very real advantages and habits by sacrificing the affections of Madame de Chaulieu; for, if you were sure of succeeding with Modeste, you would renounce without the slightest compunction the wilted aftermath of a passion that has been mown and well-raked for the last eight years.  If you simply mean that you are afraid of displeasing your protectress, should she find out the object of your stay here, I believe you.  To renounce the duchess and yet not succeed at the Chalet is too heavy a risk.  You take the anxiety of this alternative for remorse.”

“You have no comprehension of feelings,” said the poet, irritably, like a man who hears truth when he expects a compliment.

“That is what a bigamist should tell the jury,” retorted La Briere, laughing.

This epigram made another disagreeable impression on Canalis.  He began to think La Briere too witty and too free for a secretary.

The arrival of an elegant caleche, driven by a coachman in the Canalis livery, made the more excitement at the Chalet because the two suitors were expected, and all the personages of this history were assembled to receive them, except the duke and Butscha.

“Which is the poet?” asked Madame Latournelle of Dumay in the embrasure of a window, where she stationed herself as soon as she heard the wheels.

“The one who walks like a drum-major,” answered the lieutenant.