At this instant Butscha, the hidden prompter of the fishing part, was requesting the secretary to say nothing about his trip to Paris, and not to interfere in any way with what he, Butscha, might do. The dwarf had already made use of an unfavorable feeling lately roused against Monsieur Mignon in Havre in consequence of his reserve and his determination to keep silence as to the amount of his fortune. The persons who were most bitter against him even declared calumniously that he had made over a large amount of property to Dumay to save it from the just demands of his associates in China. Butscha took advantage of this state of feeling. He asked the fishermen, who owed him many a good turn, to keep the secret and lend him their tongues. They served him well. The captain of the fishing-smack told Germain that one of his cousins, a sailor, had just returned from Marseilles, where he had been paid off from the brig in which Monsieur Mignon returned to France. The brig had been sold to the account of some other person than Monsieur Mignon, and the cargo was only worth three or four hundred thousand francs at the utmost. “Germain,” said Canalis, as the valet was leaving the room, “serve champagne and claret. A member of the legal fraternity of Havre must carry away with him proper ideas of a poet’s hospitality. Besides, he has got a wit that is equal to Figaro’s,” added Canalis, laying his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, “and we must make it foam and sparkle with champagne; you and I, Ernest, will not spare the bottle either. Faith, it is over two years since I’ve been drunk,” he added, looking at La Briere. “Not drunk with wine, you mean,” said Butscha, looking keenly at him, “yes, I can believe that. You get drunk every day on yourself, you drink in so much praise. Ha, you are handsome, you are a poet, you are famous in your lifetime, you have the gift of an eloquence that is equal to your genius, and you please all women,--even my master’s wife. Admired by the finest sultana-valide that I ever saw in my life (and I never saw but her) you can, if you choose, marry Mademoiselle de La Bastie. Goodness! the mere inventory of your present advantages, not to speak of the future (a noble title, peerage, embassy!), is enough to make me drunk already,--like the men who bottle other men’s wine.” “All such social distinctions,” said Canalis, “are of little use without the one thing that gives them value,--wealth. Here we can talk as men with men; fine sentiments only do in verse.” “That depends on circumstances,” said the dwarf, with a knowing gesture. “Ah! you writer of conveyances,” said the poet, smiling at the interruption, “you know as well as I do that ‘cottage’ rhymes with ‘pottage,’--and who would like to live on that for the rest of his days?”