“He has still to learn her death,” said Madame Mignon.

“He attributes her disaster, and I think he is right, to the rapacity of young men after great fortunes.  My poor colonel expects to find the lost sheep here.  Let us be happy among ourselves but say nothing to any one, not even to Latournelle, if that is possible.  Mademoiselle,” he whispered in Modeste’s ear, “write to your father and tell him of his loss and also the terrible results on your mother’s health and eyesight; prepare him for the shock he has to meet.  I will engage to get the letter into his hands before he reaches Havre, for he will have to pass through Paris on his way.  Write him a long letter; you have plenty of time.  I will take the letter on Monday; Monday I shall probably go to Paris.”

Modeste was so afraid that Canalis and Dumay would meet that she started hastily for the house to write to her poet and put off the rendezvous.

“Mademoiselle,” said Dumay, in a very humble manner and barring Modeste’s way, “may your father find his daughter with no other feelings in her heart than those she had for him and for her mother before he was obliged to leave her.”

“I have sworn to myself, to my sister, and to my mother to be the joy, the consolation, and the glory of my father, and I shall keep my oath!” replied Modeste with a haughty and disdainful glance at Dumay.  “Do not trouble my delight in the thought of my father’s return with insulting suspicions.  You cannot prevent a girl’s heart from beating —­you don’t want me to be a mummy, do you?” she said.  “My hand belongs to my family, but my heart is my own.  If I love any one, my father and my mother will know it.  Does that satisfy you, monsieur?”

“Thank you, mademoiselle; you restore me to life,” said Dumay, “but you might still call me Dumay, even when you box my ears!”

“Swear to me,” said her mother, “that you have not engaged a word or a look with any young man.”

“I can swear that, my dear mother,” said Modeste, laughing, and looking at Dumay who was watching her and smiling to himself like a mischievous girl.

“She must be false indeed if you are right,” cried Dumay, when Modeste had left them and gone into the house.

“My daughter Modeste may have faults,” said her mother, “but falsehood is not one of them; she is incapable of saying what is not true.”

“Well! then let us feel easy,” continued Dumay, “and believe that misfortune has closed his account with us.”

“God grant it!” answered Madame Mignon.  “You will see him, Dumay; but I shall only hear him.  There is much of sadness in my joy.”

CHAPTER XII

A declaration of love,—­set to music