“More than charming,” said Canalis, making the best of the duke’s
perfidy; “but I am partial, mademoiselle; she has been a friend to me
for the last ten years; I owe all that is good in me to her; she has
saved me from the dangers of the world. Moreover, Monsieur le Duc de
Chaulieu launched me in my present career. Without the influence of that
family the king and the princesses would have forgotten a poor poet
like me; therefore my affection for the duchess must always be full of
gratitude.”
His voice quivered.
“We ought to love the woman who has led you to write those sublime
poems, and who inspires you with such noble feelings,” said Modeste,
quite affected. “Who can think of a poet without a muse!”
“He would be without a heart,” replied Canalis. “He would write barren
verses like Voltaire, who never loved any one but Voltaire.”
“I thought you did me the honor to say, in Paris,” interrupted Dumay,
“that you never felt the sentiments you expressed.”
“The shoe fits, my soldier,” replied the poet, smiling; “but let me tell
you that it is quite possible to have a great deal of feeling both in
the intellectual life and in real life. My good friend here, La Briere,
is madly in love,” continued Canalis, with a fine show of generosity,
looking at Modeste. “I, who certainly love as much as he,--that is, I
think so unless I delude myself,--well, I can give to my love a literary
form in harmony with its character. But I dare not say, mademoiselle,”
he added, turning to Modeste with too studied a grace, “that to-morrow I
may not be without inspiration.”
Thus the poet triumphed over all obstacles. In honor of his love he
rode a-tilt at the hindrances that were thrown in his way, and Modeste
remained wonder-struck at the Parisian wit that scintillated in his
declamatory discourse, of which she had hitherto known little or
nothing.
“What an acrobat!” whispered Butscha to Latournelle, after listening
to a magnificent tirade on the Catholic religion and the happiness
of having a pious wife,--served up in response to a remark by Madame
Mignon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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