“Mademoiselle,” said Canalis, leaving the colonel and waylaying Modeste, “in spite of the little value you attach to my sentiments, my honor is concerned in effacing a stain under which I have suffered too long.  Here is a letter which I received from the Duchesse de Chaulieu five days after my arrival in Havre.”

He let Modeste read the first lines of the letter we have seen, which the duchess began by saying that she had seen Mongenod, and now wished to marry her poet to Modeste; then he tore that passage from the body of the letter, and placed the fragment in her hand.

“I cannot let you read the rest,” he said, putting the paper in his pocket; “but I confide these few lines to your discretion, so that you may verify the writing.  A young girl who could accuse me of ignoble sentiments is quite capable of suspecting some collusion, some trickery.  Ah, Modeste,” he said, with tears in his voice, “your poet, the poet of Madame de Chaulieu, has no less poetry in his heart than in his mind.  You are about to see the duchess; suspend your judgment of me till then.”

He left Modeste half bewildered.

“Oh, dear!” she said to herself; “it seems they are all angels—­and not marriageable; the duke is the only one that belongs to humanity.”

“Mademoiselle Modeste,” said Butscha, appearing with a parcel under his arm, “this hunt makes me very uneasy.  I dreamed your horse ran away with you, and I have been to Rouen to see if I could get a Spanish bit which, they tell me, a horse can’t take between his teeth.  I entreat you to use it.  I have shown it to the colonel, and he has thanked me more than there is any occasion for.”

“Poor, dear Butscha!” cried Modeste, moved to tears by this maternal care.

Butscha went skipping off like a man who has just heard of the death of a rich uncle.

“My dear father,” said Modeste, returning to the salon; “I should like to have that beautiful whip,—­suppose you were to ask Monsieur de La Briere to exchange it for your picture by Van Ostade.”

Modeste looked furtively at Ernest, while the colonel made him this proposition, standing before the picture which was the sole thing he possessed in memory of his campaigns, having bought it of a burgher at Rabiston; and she said to herself as La Briere left the room precipitately, “He will be at the hunt.”

A curious thing happened.  Modeste’s three lovers each and all went to Rosembray with their hearts full of hope, and captivated by her many perfections.

Rosembray,—­an estate lately purchased by the Duc de Verneuil, with the money which fell to him as his share of the thousand millions voted as indemnity for the sale of the lands of the emigres,—­is remarkable for its chateau, whose magnificence compares only with that of Mesniere or of Balleroy.  This imposing and noble edifice is approached by a wide avenue of four rows of venerable elms, from which the visitor enters an immense rising court-yard, like