"You, whom Mademoiselle Modeste consults--"
"Yes, she consults me."
"Well, do you think she loves me?" asked the poet.
"Loves you? yes, more than she loves the duke," answered the dwarf,
rousing himself from a stupor which was admirably played. "She loves
you for your disinterestedness. She told me she was ready to make the
greatest sacrifices for your sake; to give up dress and spend as
little as possible on herself, and devote her life to showing you that
in marrying her you hadn't done so" (hiccough) "bad a thing for
yourself. She's as right as a trivet,--yes, and well informed. She
knows everything, that girl."
"And she has three hundred thousand francs?"
"There may be quite as much as that," cried the dwarf,
enthusiastically. "Papa Mignon,--mignon by name, mignon by nature, and
that's why I respect him,--well, he would rob himself of everything to
marry his daughter. Your Restoration" (hiccough) "has taught him how
to live on half-pay; he'd be quite content to live with Dumay on next
to nothing, if he could rake and scrape enough together to give the
little one three hundred thousand francs.
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370