"I will permit you," continued the peacock, spreading his tail, "out
of respect for your position, which I fully appreciate, to open that
coffer and look for the letter of your young lady. Though I know I am
right, I remember names, and I assure you you are mistaken in
thinking--"
"And this is what a poor child comes to in this gulf of Paris!" cried
Dumay,--"the darling of her parents, the joy of her friends, the hope
of all, petted by all, the pride of a family, who has six persons so
devoted to her that they would willingly make a rampart of their lives
and fortunes between her and sorrow. Monsieur," Dumay remarked after a
pause, "you are a great poet, and I am only a poor soldier. For
fifteen years I served my country in the ranks; I have had the wind of
many a bullet in my face; I have crossed Siberia and been a prisoner
there; the Russians flung me on a kibitka, and God knows what I
suffered. I have seen thousands of my comrades die,--but you, you have
given me a chill to the marrow of my bones, such as I never felt
before."
Dumay fancied that his words moved the poet, but in fact they only
flattered him,--a thing which at this period of his life had become
almost an impossibility; for his ambitious mind had long forgotten the
first perfumed phial that praise had broken over his head.
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