"
"The sun is the inexhaustible palette," said Modeste, looking at the
poet in a species of bewilderment.
A remark that she presently made on his absence of mind gave him an
opportunity of saying that he was just then absorbed in his own
thoughts,--an excuse that authors have more reason for giving than
other men.
"Are we really made happy by carrying our lives into the midst of the
world, and swelling them with all sorts of fictitious wants and
over-excited vanities?" said Modeste, moved by the aspect of the
fertile and billowy country to long for a philosophically tranquil
life.
"That is a bucolic, mademoiselle, which is only written on tablets of
gold," said the poet.
"And sometimes under garret-roofs," remarked the colonel.
Modeste threw a piercing glance at Canalis, which he was unable to
sustain; she was conscious of a ringing in her ears, darkness seemed
to spread before her, and then she suddenly exclaimed in icy tones:--
"Ah! it is Wednesday!"
"I do not say this to flatter your passing caprice, mademoiselle,"
said the duke, to whom the little scene, so tragical for Modeste, had
left time for thought; "but I declare I am so profoundly disgusted
with the world and the Court and Paris that had I a Duchesse
d'Herouville, gifted with the wit and graces of mademoiselle, I would
gladly bind myself to live like a philosopher at my chateau, doing
good around me, draining my marshes, educating my children--"
"That, Monsieur le duc, will be set to the account of your great
goodness," said Modeste, letting her eyes rest steadily on the noble
gentleman.
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