“Ah, monsieur!” cried Ernest, rising and grasping Monsieur Mignon’s hand; “you take a load from my breast.  Nothing can now hinder my happiness.  I have friends, influence; I shall certainly be chief of the Court of Claims.  Had Mademoiselle Mignon no more than ten thousand francs, if I had even to make a settlement on her, she should still be my wife; and to make her happy as you, monsieur, have made your wife happy, to be to you a real son (for I have no father), are the deepest desires of my heart.”

Charles Mignon stepped back three paces and fixed upon La Briere a look which entered the eyes of the young man as a dagger enters its sheath; he stood silent a moment, recognizing the absolute candor, the pure truthfulness of that open nature in the light of the young man’s inspired eyes.  “Is fate at last weary of pursuing me?” he asked himself.  “Am I to find in this young man the pearl of sons-in-law?” He walked up and down the room in strong agitation.

“Monsieur,” he said at last, “you are bound to submit wholly to the judgment which you have come here to seek, otherwise you are now playing a farce.”

“Oh, monsieur!”

“Listen to me,” said the father, nailing La Briere where he stood with a glance.  “I shall be neither harsh, nor hard, nor unjust.  You shall have the advantages and the disadvantages of the false position in which you have placed yourself.  My daughter believes that she loves one of the great poets of the day, whose fame is really that which has attracted her.  Well, I, her father, intend to give her the opportunity to choose between the celebrity which has been a beacon to her, and the poor reality which the irony of fate has flung at her feet.  Ought she not to choose between Canalis and yourself?  I rely upon your honor not to repeat what I have told you as to the state of my affairs.  You may each come, I mean you and your friend the Baron de Canalis, to Havre for the last two weeks of October.  My house will be open to both of you, and my daughter must have an opportunity to study you.  You must yourself bring your rival, and not disabuse him as to the foolish tales he will hear about the wealth of the Comte de La Bastie.  I go to Havre to-morrow, and I shall expect you three days later.  Adieu, monsieur.”

Poor La Briere went back to Canalis with a dragging step.  The poet, meantime, left to himself, had given way to a current of thought out of which had come that secondary impulse which Monsieur de Talleyrand valued so much.  The first impulse is the voice of nature, the second that of society.

“A girl worth six millions,” he thought to himself, “and my eyes were not able to see that gold shining in the darkness!  With such a fortune I could be peer of France, count, marquis, ambassador.  I’ve replied to middle-class women and silly women, and crafty creatures who wanted autographs; I’ve tired myself to death with masked-ball intrigues,—­at the very moment when God