The count was interrupted by a heavy sigh from Modeste. The poor girl sat with her eyes fixed on the sea, pale and rigid as death, as if a pistol shot had struck her in those fatal words, _a plain man, with fixed principles and sound morality_. “Deceived!” she said at last. “Like your poor sister, but less fatally.” “Let us go home, father,” she said, rising from the hillock on which they were sitting. “Papa, hear me, I swear before God to obey your wishes, whatever they may be, in the _affair_ of my marriage.” “Then you don’t love him any longer?” asked her father. “I loved an honest man, with no falsehood on his face, upright as yourself, incapable of disguising himself like an actor, with the paint of another man’s glory on his cheeks.” “You said nothing could change you”; remarked the colonel, ironically. “Ah, do not trifle with me!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and looking at her father in distressful anxiety; “don’t you see that you are wringing my heart and destroying my beliefs with your jokes.” “God forbid! I have told you the exact truth.” “You are very kind, father,” she said after a pause, and with a sort of solemnity. “He has kept your letters,” resumed the colonel; “now suppose the rash caresses of your soul had fallen into the hands of one of those poets who, as Dumay says, light their cigars with them?” “Oh!--you are going too far.” “Canalis told him so.” “Has Dumay seen Canalis?” “Yes,” answered her father. The two walked along in silence. “So that is why that _gentleman_,” resumed Modeste, “told me so much harm of poets and poetry; no wonder the little secretary said--Why,” she added, interrupting herself, “his virtues, his noble qualities, his fine sentiments are nothing but an epistolary theft! The man who steals glory and a name may very likely--” “--break locks, steal purses, and cut people’s throats on the highway,” cried the colonel. “Ah, you young girls, that’s just like you,--with your peremptory opinions and your ignorance of life. A man who once deceives a woman was born under the scaffold on which he ought to die.” This ridicule stopped Modeste’s effervescence for a moment and least, and again there was silence.