Come, don't
worry yourself; she loves nobody but you. You ought to be very glad
that she goes into these enthusiasms for the corsairs of Byron and
the heroes of Walter Scott and your own Germans, Egmont, Goethe,
Werther, Schiller, and all the other 'ers.'"
"Well, madame, what do you say to that?" asked Dumay, respectfully,
alarmed at Madame Mignon's silence.
"Modeste is not only inclined to love, but she loves some man,"
answered the mother, obstinately.
"Madame, my life is at stake, and you must allow me--not for my sake,
but for my wife, my colonel, for all of us--to probe this matter to
the bottom, and find out whether it is the mother or the watch-dog who
is deceived."
"It is you who are deceived, Dumay. Ah! if I could but see my
daughter!" cried the poor woman.
"But whom is it possible for her to love?" asked the notary. "I'll
answer for my Exupere."
"It can't be Gobenheim," said Dumay, "for since the colonel's
departure he has not spent nine hours a week in this house. Besides,
he doesn't even notice Modeste--that five-franc piece of a man! His
uncle Gobenheim-Keller is all the time writing him, 'Get rich enough
to marry a Keller.
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