r of
telling you as to the nature of poets. Be cautious not to marry,
as you say, a dunce, but seek the partner whom God has made for
you. There are souls, believe me, who are fit to appreciate you,
and to make you happy. If I were rich, if you were poor, I would
lay my heart and my fortunes at your feet; for I believe your soul
to be full of riches and of loyalty; to you I could confide my
life and my honor in absolute security.

Once more, adieu, adieu, fairest daughter of Eve the fair.

The reading of this letter, swallowed like a drop of water in the
desert, lifted the mountain which weighed heavily on Modeste's heart:
then she saw the mistake she had made in arranging her plan, and
repaired it by giving Francoise some envelopes directed to herself, in
which the maid could put the letters which came from Paris and drop them
again into the box. Modeste resolved to receive the postman herself on
the steps of the Chalet at the hour when he made his delivery.

As to the feelings that this reply, in which the noble heart of poor
La Briere beat beneath the brilliant phantom of Canalis, excited in
Modeste, they were as multifarious and confused as the waves which
rushed to die along the shore while with her eyes fixed on the wide
ocean she gave herself up to the joy of having (if we dare say so)
harpooned an angelic soul in the Parisian Gulf, of having divined that
hearts of price might still be found in harmony with genius, and, above
all, for having followed the magic voice of intuition.

A vast interest was now about to animate her life. The wires of her cage
were broken: the bolts and bars of the pretty Chalet--where were they?
Her thoughts took wings.

"Oh, father!" she cried, looking out to the horizon. "Come back and make
us rich and happy."

The answer which Ernest de La Briere received some five days later will
tell the reader more than any elaborate disquisition of ours.

CHAPTER IX. THE POWER OF THE UNSEEN

To Monsieur de Canalis:

My friend,--Suffer me to give you that name,--you have delighted
me; I would not have you other than you are in this letter, the
first--oh, may it not be the last! Who but a poet could have
excused and understood a young girl so delicately?

I wish to speak with the sincerity that dictated the first lines
of your letter. And first, let me say that most fortunately you do
not know me. I can joyfully assure you than I am neither that