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 was sending me a soul of price, an angel with golden wings! Bah! I'll make a poem on it, and perhaps the chance will come again. Heavens! the luck of that little La Briere,--strutting about in my lustre--plagiarism! I'm the cast and he's to be the statue, is he? It is the old fable of Bertrand and Raton. Six millions, a beauty, a Mignon de La Bastie, an aristocratic divinity loving poetry and the poet! And I, who showed my muscle as man of the world, who did those Alcide exercises to silence by moral force the champion of physical force, that old soldier with a heart, that friend of this very young girl, whom he'll now go and tell that I have a heart of iron!--I, to play Napoleon when I ought to have been seraphic! Good heavens! True, I shall have my friend. Friendship is a beautiful thing. I have kept him, but at what a price! Six millions, that's the cost of it; we can't have many friends if we pay all that for them."
La Briere entered the room as Canalis reached this point in his meditations. He was gloom personified.
"Well, what's the matter?" said Canalis.
"The father exacts that his daughter shall choose between the two Canalis--"
"Poor boy!" cried the poet, laughing, "he's a clever fellow, that father."
"I have pledged my honor that I will take you to Havre," said La Briere, piteously.
"My dear fellow," said Canalis, "if it is a question of your honor you may count on me. I'll ask for leave of absence for a month."
"Modeste is so beautiful!" exclaimed La Briere, in a despairing tone.
"You will crush me out of sight. I wondered all along that fate should be so kind to me; I knew it was all a mistake."
"Bah! we will see about that," said Canalis with inhuman gaiety.
That evening, after dinner, Charles Mignon and Dumay, were flying, by virtue of three francs to each postilion, from Paris to Havre. The father had eased the watch-dog's mind as to Modeste and her love affairs; the guard was relieved, and Butscha's innocence established.
"It is all for the best, my old Dumay," said the count, who had been making certain inquiries of Mongenod respecting Canalis and La Briere.
"We are going to have two actors for one part!" he cried gaily.
Nevertheless, he requested his old comrade to be absolutely silent about the comedy which was now to be played at the Chalet,--a comedy it might be, but also a gentle punishment, or, if you prefer it, a lesson given by the father to the daughter.
The two friends kept up a long conversation all the way from Paris to Havre, which put the colonel in possession of the facts relating to his family during the past four years, and informing Dumay that Desplein, the great surgeon, was coming to Havre at the end of the present month to examine the cataract on Madame Mignon's eyes, and decide if it were possible to restore her sight.
A few moments before the breakfast-hour at the Chalet, the clacking of a postilion's whip apprised the family that the two soldiers were arriving; only a father's joy at returning after long absence could be heralded with such clatter, and it brought all the women to the garden gate. There is many a father and many a child--perhaps more fathers than children--who will understand the delights of such an arrival, and that happy fact shows that literature has no need to depict it.
Perhaps all gentle and tender emotions are beyond the range of literature.
Not a word that could trouble the peace of the family was uttered on this joyful day. Truce was tacitly established between father, mother, and child as to the so-called mysterious love which had paled Modeste's cheeks,--for this was the first day she had left her bed since Dumay's departure for Paris. The colonel, with the charming delicacy of a true soldier, never left his wife's side nor released her hand; but he watched Modeste with delight, and was never weary of noting her refined, elegant, and poetic beauty. Is it not by such seeming trifles that we recognize a man of feeling? Modeste, who feared to interrupt the subdued joy of the husband and wife kept at a little distance, coming from time to time to kiss her father's forehead, and when she kissed it overmuch she seemed to mean that she was kissing it for two,--for Bettina and herself.
"Oh, my darling, I understand you," said the colonel, pressing her hand as she assailed him with kisses.
"Hush!" whispered the young girl, glancing at her mother.
Dumay's rather sly and pregnant silence made Modeste somewhat uneasy as to the upshot of his journey to Paris. She looked at him furtively every now and then, without being able to get beneath his epidermis.
The colonel, like a prudent father, wanted to study the character of his only daughter, and above all consult his wife, before entering on a conference upon which the happiness of the whole family depended.
"To-morrow, my precious child," he said as they parted for the night, "get up early, and we will go and take a walk on the seashore. We have to talk about your poems, Mademoiselle de La Bastie."
His last words, accompanied by a smile, which reappeared like an echo on Dumay's lips, were all that gave Modeste any clew to what was coming; but it was enough to calm her uneasiness and keep her awake far into the night with her head full of suppositions; this, however, did not prevent her from being dressed and ready in the morning long before the colonel.
