"Monsieur Butscha, may I ask if I am to marry to please you?" said
Modeste, laughing.
"That fine fellow loves you as well as I do,--and you loved him for
eight days," retorted Butscha; "and HE has got a heart."
"Can he compete, pray, with an office under the Crown? There are but
six, grand almoner, chancellor, grand chamberlain, grand master, high
constable, grand admiral,--but they don't appoint high constables any
longer."
"In six months, mademoiselle, the masses--who are made up of wicked
Butschas--could send all those grand dignities to the winds. Besides,
what signifies nobility in these days? There are not a thousand real
noblemen in France. The d'Herouvilles are descended from a tipstaff in
the time of Robert of Normandy. You will have to put up with many a
vexation from the old aunt with the furrowed face. Look here,--as you
are so anxious for the title of duchess,--you belong to the Comtat,
and the Pope will certainly think as much of you as he does of all
those merchants down there; he'll sell you a duchy with some name
ending in 'ia' or 'agno.' Don't play away your happiness for an office
under the Crown.
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