This butterfly, this Psyche of my
thoughts, this dual soul which I have nurtured with maternal care, my
love, my sacred love, this living mystery of mysteries--it is about to
fall into vulgar hands, and they will tear its diaphanous wings and
rend its veil under the miserable pretext of enlightening me, of
discovering whether genius is as prudent as a banker, whether my
Melchior has saved his money, or whether he has some entanglement to
shake off; they want to find out if he is guilty to bourgeois eyes of
youthful indiscretions,--which to the sun of our love are like the
clouds of the dawn. Oh! what will come of it? what will they do? See!
feel my hand, it burns with fever. Ah! I shall never survive it."
And Modeste, really taken with a chill, was forced to go to bed,
causing serious uneasiness to her mother, Madame Latournelle, and
Madame Dumay, who took good care of her during the journey of the
lieutenant to Paris,--to which city the logic of events compels us to
transport our drama for a moment.
Truly modest minds, like that of Ernest de La Briere, but especially
those who, knowing their own value, also know that they are neither
loved nor appreciated, can understand the infinite joy to which the
young secretary abandoned himself on reading Modeste's letter.
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