The following evening, therefore, Modeste was to see all three of her
lovers. No matter what young girls may say, and though the logic of
the heart may lead them to sacrifice everything to preference, it is
extremely flattering to their self-love to see a number of rival
adorers around them,--distinguished or celebrated men, or men of
ancient lineage,--all endeavoring to shine and to please. Suffer as
Modeste may in general estimation, it must be told she subsequently
admitted that the sentiments expressed in her letters paled before the
pleasure of seeing three such different minds at war with one another,
--three men who, taken separately, would each have done honor to the
most exacting family. Yet this luxury of self-love was checked by a
misanthropical spitefulness, resulting from the terrible wound she had
received,--although by this time she was beginning to think of that
wound as a disappointment only. So when her father said to her,
laughing, "Well, Modeste, do you want to be a duchess?" she answered,
with a mocking curtsey,--
"Sorrows have made me philosophical."
"Do you mean to be only a baroness?" asked Butscha.
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