she followed her little sheet of paper
on its way; she was happy, as we all are happy at twenty years of age,
in the first exercise of our will. She was possessed, as in the middle
ages. She made pictures in her mind of the poet's abode, of his
study; she saw him unsealing her letter; and then followed myriads of
suppositions.

After sketching the poetry we cannot do less than give the profile of
the poet. Canalis is a short, spare man, with an air of good-breeding, a
dark-complexioned, moon-shaped face, and a rather mean head like that
of a man who has more vanity than pride. He loves luxury, rank, and
splendor. Money is of more importance to him than to most men. Proud of
his birth, even more than of his talent, he destroys the value of his
ancestors by making too much of them in the present day,--after all,
the Canalis are not Navarreins, nor Cadignans, nor Grandlieus. Nature,
however, helps him out in his pretensions. He has those eyes of Eastern
effulgence which we demand in a poet, a delicate charm of manner, and a
vibrant voice; yet a taint of natural charlatanism destroys the effect
of nearly all these advantages; he is a born comedian. If he puts
forward his well-shaped foot, it is because the attitude has become
a habit; if he uses exclamatory terms they are part of himself; if he
poses with high dramatic action he has made that deportment his second
nature. Such defects as these are not incompatible with a general
benevolence and a certain quality of errant and purely ideal chivalry,
which distinguishes the paladin from the knight. Canalis has not
devotion enough for a Don Quixote, but he has too much elevation of
thought not to put himself on the nobler side of questions and things.
His poetry, which takes the town by storm on all profitable occasions,
really injures the man as a poet; for he is not without mind, but
his talent prevents him from developing it; he is overweighted by his
reputation, and is always aiming to make himself appear greater than he
has the credit of being. Thus, as often happens, the man is entirely out
of keeping with the products of his thought. The author of these naive,
caressing, tender little lyrics, these calm idylls pure and cold as the
surface of a lake, these verses so essentially feminine, is an ambitious
little creature in a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with the air of
a diplomat seeking political influence, smelling of the musk of
aristocracy, full of pretension, thirsti