usions. We can be pitiless to the eagles,
requiring from them the quality of the diamond, incorruptible
perfection; but as for Canalis, we take him for what he is and let the
rest go. He seems a good fellow; the affectations of the angelic school
have answered his purpose and succeeded, just as a woman succeeds when
she plays the ingenue cleverly, and simulates surprise, youth, innocence
betrayed, in short, the wounded angel.

Modeste, recovering her first impression, renewed her confidence in
that soul, in that countenance as ravishing as the face of Bernardin de
Saint-Pierre. She paid no further attention to the publisher. And so,
about the beginning of the month of August she wrote the following
letter to this Dorat of the sacristy, who still ranks as a star of the
modern Pleiades.

To Monsieur de Canalis,--Many a time, monsieur, I have wished to
write to you; and why? Surely you guess why,--to tell you how much
I admire your genius. Yes, I feel the need of expressing to you
the admiration of a poor country girl, lonely in her little
corner, whose only happiness is to read your thoughts. I have read
Rene, and I come to you. Sadness leads to reverie. How many other
women are sending you the homage of their secret thoughts? What
chance have I for notice among so many? This paper, filled with my
soul,--can it be more to you than the perfumed letters which
already beset you. I come to you with less grace than others, for
I wish to remain unknown and yet to receive your entire confidence
--as though you had long known me.

Answer my letter and be friendly with me. I cannot promise to make
myself known to you, though I do not positively say I will not
some day do so.

What shall I add? Read between the lines of this letter, monsieur,
the great effort which I am making: permit me to offer you my
hand,--that of a friend, ah! a true friend.

Your servant, O. d'Este M.

P.S.--If you do me the favor to answer this letter address your
reply, if you please, to Mademoiselle F. Cochet, "poste restante,"
Havre.

CHAPTER VII. A POET OF THE ANGELIC SCHOOL

All young girls, romantic or otherwise, can imagine the impatience in
which Modeste lived for the next few days. The air was full of tongues
of fire. The trees were like a plumage. She was not conscious of a body;
she hovered in space, the earth melted away under her feet. Full of
admiration for the post-office,