between you and me, Modeste is sure to be rich.  I hear talk on the quays against it; but that’s all nonsense; people are jealous.  Why, there’s no such ‘dot’ in Havre,” cried Butscha, beginning to count on his fingers.  “Two to three hundred thousand in ready money,” bending back the thumb of his left hand with the forefinger of his right, “that’s one item; the reversion of the villa Mignon, that’s another; ‘tertio,’ Dumay’s property!” doubling down his middle finger.  “Ha! little Modeste may count upon her six hundred thousand francs as soon as the two old soldiers have got their marching orders for eternity.”

This coarse and candid statement, intermingled with a variety of liqueurs, sobered Canalis as much as it appeared to befuddle Butscha.  To the latter, a young provincial, such a fortune must of course seem colossal.  He let his head fall into the palm of his right hand, and putting his elbows majestically on the table, blinked his eyes and continued talking to himself:—­

“In twenty years, thanks to that Code, which pillages fortunes under what they call ‘Successions,’ an heiress worth a million will be as rare as generosity in a money-lender.  Suppose Modeste does want to spend all the interest of her own money,—­well, she is so pretty, so sweet and pretty; why she’s—­you poets are always after metaphors —­she’s a weasel as tricky as a monkey.”

“How came you to tell me she had six millions?” said Canalis to La Briere, in a low voice.

“My friend,” said Ernest, “I do assure you that I was bound to silence by an oath; perhaps, even now, I ought not to say as much as that.”

“Bound! to whom?”

“To Monsieur Mignon.”

“Ernest! you who know how essential fortune is to me—­”

Butscha snored.

“—­who know my situation, and all that I shall lose in the Duchesse de Chaulieu, by this attempt at marrying, YOU could coldly let me plunge into such a thing as this?” exclaimed Canalis, turning pale.  “It was a question of friendship; and ours was a compact entered into long before you ever saw that crafty Mignon.”

“My dear fellow,” said Ernest, “I love Modeste too well to—­”

“Fool! then take her,” cried the poet, “and break your oath.”

“Will you promise me on your word of honor to forget what I now tell you, and to behave to me as though this confidence had never been made, whatever happens?”

“I’ll swear that, by my mother’s memory.”

“Well then,” said La Briere, “Monsieur Mignon told me in Paris that he was very far from having the colossal fortune which the Mongenods told me about and which I mentioned to you.  The colonel intends to give two hundred thousand francs to his daughter.  And now, Melchior, I ask you, was the father really distrustful of us, as you thought; or was he sincere?  It is not for me to answer those questions.  If Modeste without a fortune deigns to choose me, she will be my wife.”