he said. "How am I to be certain that you will obey
me?"

"My master is obliged to go to Sainte-Adresse. He does not like it, but
he is so truly good he won't deprive me of my Sunday; I will offer to go
for him."

"Go, and I will trust you."

"You are sure I can do nothing for you in Havre?"

"Nothing. Hear me, mysterious dwarf,--look," she continued, pointing to
the cloudless sky; "can you see a single trace of that bird that flew
by just now? No; well then, my actions are pure as the air is pure, and
leave no stain behind them. You may reassure Dumay and the Latournelles,
and my mother. That hand," she said, holding up a pretty delicate hand,
with the points of the rosy fingers, through which the light shone,
slightly turning back, "will never be given, it will never even be
kissed by what people call a lover until my father has returned."

"Why don't you want me in the church to-day?"

"Do you venture to question me after all I have done you the honor to
say, and to ask of you?"

Butscha bowed without another word, and departed to find his master, in
all the rapture of being taken into the service of his goddess.

Half an hour later, Monsieur and Madame Latournelle came to fetch
Modeste, who complained of a horrible toothache.

"I really have not had the courage to dress myself," she said.

"Well then," replied the worthy chaperone, "stay at home."

"Oh, no!" said Modeste. "I would rather not. I have bundled myself up,
and I don't think it will do me any harm to go out."

And Mademoiselle Mignon marched off beside Latournelle, refusing to take
his arm lest she should be questioned about the outward trembling which
betrayed her inward agitation at the thought of at last seeing her great
poet. One look, the first,--was it not about to decide her fate?

CHAPTER XIII. A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF MONSIEUR DE LA BRIERE

Is there in the life of man a more delightful moment than that of a
first rendezvous? Are the sensations then hidden at the bottom of our
hearts and finding their first expression ever renewed? Can we feel
again the nameless pleasures that we felt when, like Ernest de
La Briere, we looked up our sharpest razors, our finest shirt, an
irreproachable collar, and our best clothes? We deify the garments
associated with that all-supreme moment. We weave within us poetic
fancies quite equal to those of the woman; and the day when either party
guesses them they take wings to themselves and fly a