Modest, who had left him, turned her head and came hastily
back.
"What is the matter?" she asked, taking his hand to prevent him from
falling.
"Forgive me--I thought you despised me."
"But," she answered, with a distant and disdainful manner, "I did not
say that I loved you."
And she left him again. But this time, in spite of her harshness, La
Briere thought he walked on air; the earth softened under his feet,
the trees bore flowers; the skies were rosy, the air cerulean, as they
are in the temples of Hymen in those fairy pantomimes which finish
happily. In such situations every woman is a Janus, and sees behind
her without turning round; and thus Modeste perceived on the face of
her lover the indubitable symptoms of a love like Butscha's,--surely
the "ne plus ultra" of a woman's hope. Moreover, the great value which
La Briere attached to her opinion filled Modeste with an emotion that
was inestimably sweet.
"Mademoiselle," said Canalis, leaving the colonel and waylaying
Modeste, "in spite of the little value you attach to my sentiments, my
honor is concerned in effacing a stain under which I have suffered too
long.
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