“How came you to tell me she had six millions?” said Canalis to La Briere, in a low voice. “My friend,” said Ernest, “I do assure you that I was bound to silence by an oath; perhaps, even now, I ought not to say as much as that.” “Bound! to whom?” “To Monsieur Mignon.” “Ernest! you who know how essential fortune is to me--” Butscha snored. “--who know my situation, and all that I shall lose in the Duchesse de Chaulieu, by this attempt at marrying, YOU could coldly let me plunge into such a thing as this?” exclaimed Canalis, turning pale. “It was a question of friendship; and ours was a compact entered into long before you ever saw that crafty Mignon.” “My dear fellow,” said Ernest, “I love Modeste too well to--” “Fool! then take her,” cried the poet, “and break your oath.” “Will you promise me on your word of honor to forget what I now tell you, and to behave to me as though this confidence had never been made, whatever happens?” “I’ll swear that, by my mother’s memory.” “Well then,” said La Briere, “Monsieur Mignon told me in Paris that he was very far from having the colossal fortune which the Mongenods told me about and which I mentioned to you. The colonel intends to give two hundred thousand francs to his daughter. And now, Melchior, I ask you, was the father really distrustful of us, as you thought; or was he sincere? It is not for me to answer those questions. If Modeste without a fortune deigns to choose me, she will be my wife.” “A blue-stocking! educated till she is a terror! a girl who has read everything, who knows everything,--in theory,” cried Canalis, hastily, noticing La Briere’s gesture, “a spoiled child, brought up in luxury in her childhood, and weaned of it for five years. Ah! my poor friend, take care what you are about.” “Ode and Code,” said Butscha, waking up, “you do the ode and I the code; there’s only a C’s difference between us. Well, now, code comes from ‘coda,’ a tail,--mark that word! See here! a bit of good advice is worth your wine and your cream of tea. Father Mignon--he’s cream, too; the cream of honest men--he is going with his daughter on this riding party; do you go up frankly and talk ‘dot’ to him. He’ll answer plainly, and you’ll get at the truth, just as surely as I’m drunk, and you’re a great poet,--but no matter for that; we are to leave Havre together, that’s settled, isn’t it? I’m to be your secretary in place of that little fellow who sits there grinning at me and thinking I’m drunk. Come, let’s go, and leave him to marry the girl.” Canalis rose to leave the room to dress for the excursion. “Hush, not a word,--he is going to commit suicide,” whispered Butscha, sober as a judge, to La Briere as he made the gesture of a street boy at Canalis’s back. “Adieu, my chief!” he shouted, in stentorian tones, “will you allow me to take a snooze in that kiosk down in the garden?” “Make yourself at home,” answered the poet.