“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, monsieur?”

“Monsieur,” began Dumay, who remained standing.

“If you have a good deal to say,” interrupted Canalis, “I must ask you to be seated.”

And Canalis himself plunged into an armchair a la Voltaire, crossed his legs, raised the upper one to the level of his eye and looked fixedly at Dumay, who became, to use his own martial slang, “bayonetted.”

“I am listening, monsieur,” said the poet; “my time is precious,—­the ministers are expecting me.”

“Monsieur,” said Dumay, “I shall be brief.  You have seduced—­how, I do not know—­a young lady in Havre, young, beautiful, and rich; the last and only hope of two noble families; and I have come to ask your intentions.”

Canalis, who had been busy during the last three months with serious matters of his own, and was trying to get himself made commander of the Legion of honor and minister to a German court, had completely forgotten Modeste’s letter.”

“I!” he exclaimed.

“You!” repeated Dumay.

“Monsieur,” answered Canalis, smiling; “I know no more of what you are talking about than if you had said it in Hebrew.  I seduce a young girl!  I, who—­” and a superb smile crossed his features.  “Come, come, monsieur, I’m not such a child as to steal fruit over the hedges when I have orchards and gardens of my own where the finest peaches ripen.  All Paris knows where my affections are set.  Very likely there may be some young girl in Havre full of enthusiasm for my verses,—­of which they are not worthy; that would not surprise me at all; nothing is more common.  See! look at that lovely coffer of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and edged with that iron-work as fine as lace.  That coffer belonged to Pope Leo X., and was given to me by the Duchesse de Chaulieu, who received it from the king of Spain.  I use it to hold the letters I receive from ladies and young girls living in every quarter of Europe.  Oh!  I assure you I feel the utmost respect for these flowers of the soul, cut and sent in moments of enthusiasm that are worthy of all reverence.  Yes, to me the impulse of a heart is a noble and sublime thing!  Others—­scoffers—­light their cigars with such letters, or give them to their wives for curl-papers; but I, who am a bachelor, monsieur, I have too much delicacy not to preserve these artless offerings—­so fresh, so disinterested—­in a tabernacle of their own.  In fact, I guard them with a species of veneration, and at my death they will be burned before my eyes.  People may call that ridiculous, but I do not care.  I am grateful; these proofs of devotion enable me to bear the criticisms and annoyances of a literary life.  When I receive a shot in the back from some enemy lurking under cover of a daily paper, I look at that casket and think,—­here and there in this wide world there are hearts whose wounds have been healed, or soothed, or dressed by me!”