“You call yourself a poet!” cried Dumay, “but don’t you feel what you write?”

“Good heavens! if we endured the joys or the woes we sing we should be as worn out in three months as a pair of old boots,” said the poet, smiling.  “But stay, you shall not come from Havre to Paris to see Canalis without carrying something back with you.  Warrior!” (Canalis had the form and action of an Homeric hero) “learn this from the poet:  Every noble sentiment in man is a poem so exclusively individual that his nearest friend, his other self, cares nothing for it.  It is a treasure which is his alone, it is—­”

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” said Dumay, who was gazing at the poet with horror, “but did you ever come to Havre?”

“I was there for a day and a night in the spring of 1824 on my way to London.”

“You are a man of honor,” continued Dumay; “will you give me your word that you do not know Mademoiselle Modeste Mignon?”

“This is the first time that name ever struck my ear,” replied Canalis.

“Ah, monsieur!” said Dumay, “into what dark intrigue am I about to plunge?  Can I count upon you to help me in my inquiries?—­for I am certain that some one has been using your name.  You ought to have had a letter yesterday from Havre.”

“I received none.  Be sure, monsieur, that I will help you,” said Canalis, “so far as I have the opportunity of doing so.”

Dumay withdrew, his heart torn with anxiety, believing that the wretched Butscha had worn the skin of the poet to deceive Modeste; whereas Butscha himself, keen-witted as a prince seeking revenge, and far cleverer than any paid spy, was ferretting out the life and actions of Canalis, escaping notice by his insignificance, like an insect that bores its way into the sap of a tree.

The Breton had scarcely left the poet’s house when La Briere entered his friend’s study.  Naturally, Canalis told him of the visit of the man from Havre.

“Ha!” said Ernest, “Modeste Mignon; that is just what I have come to speak of.”

“Ah, bah!” cried Canalis; “have I had a triumph by proxy?”

“Yes; and here is the key to it.  My friend, I am loved by the sweetest girl in all the world,—­beautiful enough to shine beside the greatest beauties in Paris, with a heart and mind worthy of Clarissa.  She has seen me; I have pleased her, and she thinks me the great Canalis.  But that is not all.  Modeste Mignon is of high birth, and Mongenod has just told me that her father, the Comte de La Bastie, has something like six millions.  The father is here now, and I have asked him through Mongenod for an interview at two o’clock.  Mongenod is to give him a hint, just a word, that it concerns the happiness of his daughter.  But you will readily understand that before seeing the father I feel I ought to make a clean breast of it to you.”