“Nought is sleeping—­Heart! awaking,
  Lift thine incense to the skies.”

Butscha shuddered slightly when he caught sight of her, so changed did she seem to him.  The wings of love were fastened to her shoulders; she had the air of a nymph, a Psyche; her cheeks glowed with the divine color of happiness.

“Who wrote the words to which you have put that pretty music?” asked her mother.

“Canalis, mamma,” she answered, flushing rosy red from her throat to her forehead.

“Canalis!” cried the dwarf, to whom the inflections of the girl’s voice and her blush told the only thing of which he was still ignorant.  “He, that great poet, does he write songs?”

“They are only simple verses,” she said, “which I have ventured to set to German airs.”

“No, no,” interrupted Madame Mignon, “the music is your own, my daughter.”

Modeste, feeling that she grew more and more crimson, went off into the garden, calling Butscha after her.

“You can do me a great service,” she said.  “Dumay is keeping a secret from my mother and me as to the fortune which my father is bringing back with him; and I want to know what it is.  Did not Dumay send papa when he first went away over five hundred thousand francs?  Yes.  Well, papa is not the kind of man to stay away four years and only double his capital.  It seems he is coming back on a ship of his own, and Dumay’s share amounts to almost six hundred thousand francs.”

“There is no need to question Dumay,” said Butscha.  “Your father lost, as you know, about four millions when he went away, and he has doubtless recovered them.  He would of course give Dumay ten per cent of his profits; the worthy man admitted the other day how much it was, and my master and I think that in that case the colonel’s fortune must amount to six or seven millions—­”

“Oh, papa!” cried Modeste, crossing her hands on her breast and looking up to heaven, “twice you have given me life!”

“Ah, mademoiselle!” said Butscha, “you love a poet.  That kind of man is more or less of a Narcissus.  Will he know how to love you?  A phrase-maker, always busy in fitting words together, must be a bore.  Mademoiselle, a poet is no more poetry than a seed is a flower.”

“Butscha, I never saw so handsome a man.”

“Beauty is a veil which often serves to hide imperfections.”

“He has the most angelic heart of heaven—­”

“I pray God you may be right,” said the dwarf, clasping his hands, “—­and happy!  That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean Butscha.  I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the sciences.”

“Why?”

“Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign to make me their tutor.  But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice.  Let me take up this matter; let me look into the life and habits of this man,—­find out if he is kind, or bad-tempered, or gentle, if he commands the respect which you merit in a husband, if he is able to love utterly, preferring you to everything, even his own talent—­”