Butscha, pursued by the laughter of the three servants of the establishment, gained the kiosk by walking over the flower-beds and round the vases with the perverse grace of an insect describing its interminable zig-zags as it tries to get out of a closed window. When he had clambered into the kiosk, and the servants had retired, he sat down on a wooden bench and wallowed in the delights of his triumph. He had completely fooled a great man; he had not only torn off his mask, but he had made him untie the strings himself; and he laughed like an author over his own play,--that is to say, with a true sense of the immense value of his “vis comica.” “Men are tops!” he cried, “you’ve only to find the twine to wind ‘em up with. But I’m like my fellows,” he added, presently. “I should faint away if any one came and said to me ‘Mademoiselle Modeste has been thrown from her horse, and has broken her leg.’” CHAPTER XXIV. THE POET FEELS THAT HE IS LOVED TOO WELL An hour later, Modeste, charmingly equipped in a bottle-green cassimere habit, a small hat with a green veil, buckskin gloves, and velvet boots which met the lace frills of her drawers, and mounted on an elegantly caparisoned little horse, was exhibiting to her father and the Duc d’Herouville the beautiful present she had just received; she was evidently delighted with an attention of a kind that particularly flatters women. “Did it come from you, Monsieur le duc?” she said, holding the sparkling handle toward him. “There was a card with it, saying, ‘Guess if you can,’ and some asterisks. Francoise and Dumay credit Butscha with this charming surprise; but my dear Butscha is not rich enough to buy such rubies. And as for papa (to whom I said, as I remember, on Sunday evening, that I had no whip), he sent to Rouen for this one,”--pointing to a whip in her father’s hand, with a top like a cone of turquoise, a fashion then in vogue which has since become vulgar. “I would give ten years of my old age, mademoiselle, to have the right to offer you that beautiful jewel,” said the duke, courteously. “Ah, here comes the audacious giver!” cried Modeste, as Canalis rode up. “It is only a poet who knows where to find such choice things. Monsieur,” she said to Melchior, “my father will scold you, and say that you justify those who accuse you of extravagance.” “Oh!” exclaimed Canalis, with apparent simplicity, “so that is why La Briere rode at full gallop from Havre to Paris?” “Does your secretary take such liberties?” said Modeste, turning pale, and throwing the whip to Francoise with an impetuosity that expressed scorn. “Give me your whip, papa.” “Poor Ernest, who lies there on his bed half-dead with fatigue!” said Canalis, overtaking the girl, who had already started at a gallop. “You are pitiless, mademoiselle. ‘I have’ (the poor fellow said to me) ‘only this one chance to remain in her memory.’” “And should you think well of a woman who could take presents from half the parish?” said Modeste.