By dint of reflecting on his position as an unfortunate and despised lover, Ernest went through something of the same process as Modeste’s first letter had forced upon him.  Though sorrow is said to develop virtue, it only develops it in virtuous persons; that cleaning-out of the conscience takes place only in persons who are by nature clean.  La Briere vowed to endure his sufferings in Spartan silence, to act worthily, and give way to no baseness; while Canalis, fascinated by the enormous “dot,” was telling himself to take every means of captivating the heiress.  Selfishness and devotion, the key-notes of the two characters, therefore took, by the action of a moral law which is often very odd in its effects, certain measures that were contrary to their respective natures.  The selfish man put on self-abnegation; the man who thought chiefly of others took refuge on the Aventinus of pride.  That phenomenon is often seen in political life.  Men frequently turn their characters wrong side out, and it sometimes happens that the public is unable to tell which is the right side.

After dinner the two friends heard of the arrival of the grand equerry, who was presented at the Chalet the same evening by Latournelle.  Mademoiselle d’Herouville had contrived to wound that worthy man by sending a footmen to tell him to come to her, instead of sending her nephew in person; thus depriving the notary of a distinguished visit he would certainly have talked about for the rest of his natural life.  So Latournelle curtly informed the grand equerry, when he proposed to drive him to the Chalet, that he was engaged to take Madame Latournelle.  Guessing from the little man’s sulky manner that there was some blunder to repair, the duke said graciously:—­

“Then I shall have the pleasure, if you will allow me, of taking Madame Latournelle also.”

Disregarding Mademoiselle d’Herouville’s haughty shrug, the duke left the room with the notary.  Madame Latournelle, half-crazed with joy at seeing the gorgeous carriage at her door, with footmen in royal livery letting down the steps, was too agitated on hearing that the grand equerry had called for her, to find her gloves, her parasol, her absurdity, or her usual air of pompous dignity.  Once in the carriage, however, and while expressing confused thanks and civilities to the little duke, she suddenly exclaimed, from a thought in her kind heart,—­

“But Butscha, where is he?”

“Let us take Butscha,” said the duke, smiling.

When the people on the quays, attracted in groups by the splendor of the royal equipage, saw the funny spectacle, the three little men with the spare gigantic woman, they looked at one another and laughed.

“If you melt all three together, they might make one man fit to mate with that big cod-fish,” said a sailor from Bordeaux.

“Is there any other thing you would like to take with you, madame?” asked the duke, jestingly, while the footman awaited his orders.