"Have you a letter for Mademoiselle Mignon?" he said to that humble
functionary when he appeared.
"No, monsieur, none."
"This house has been a good customer to the post of late," remarked
the clerk.
"You may well say that," replied the man.
Modeste both heard and saw the little colloquy from her chamber
window, where she always posted herself behind the blinds at this
particular hour to watch for the postman. She ran downstairs, went
into the little garden, and called in an imperative voice:--
"Monsieur Butscha!"
"Here am I, mademoiselle," said the cripple, reaching the gate as
Modeste herself opened it.
"Will you be good enough to tell me whether among your various titles
to a woman's affection you count that of the shameless spying in which
you are now engaged?" demanded the girl, endeavoring to crush her
slave with the glance and gesture of a queen.
"Yes, mademoiselle," he answered proudly. "Ah! I never expected," he
continued in a low tone, "that the grub could be of service to a star,
--but so it is. Would you rather that your mother and Monsieur Dumay
and Madame Latournelle had guessed your secret than one, excluded as
it were from life, who seeks to be to you one of those flowers that
you cut and wear for a moment? They all know you love; but I, I alone,
_know how_.
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