You, mademoiselle, who know so many things, tell me if it is possible
for a man to make himself beloved independently of his person, be it
handsome or ugly, and for his spirit only?"
Modeste raised her eyes and looked at Butscha. It was a piercing and
questioning glance; for she shared Dumay's suspicion of Butscha's
motive.
"Let me be rich, and I will seek some beautiful poor girl, abandoned
like myself, who has suffered, who knows what misery is. I will write
to her and console her, and be her guardian spirit; she shall read my
heart, my soul; she shall possess by double wealth, my two wealths,
--my gold, delicately offered, and my thought robed in all the
splendor which the accident of birth has denied to my grotesque body.
But I myself shall remain hidden like the cause that science seeks.
God himself may not be glorious to the eye. Well, naturally, the
maiden will be curious; she will wish to see me; but I shall tell her
that I am a monster of ugliness; I shall picture myself hideous."
At these words Modeste gave Butscha a glance that looked him through
and through. If she had said aloud, "What do you know of my love?" she
could not have been more explicit.
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