justify my love by showing him how it was born, and how sincere my
efforts were to cure you of your fancy."

"But how came the idea of that unworthy masquerade ever to arise?" she
said, with a sort of impatience.

La Briere related truthfully the scene in the poet's study which
Modeste's first letter had occasioned, and the sort of challenge that
resulted from his expressing a favorable opinion of a young girl thus
led toward a poet's fame, as a plant seeks its share of the sun.

"You have said enough," said Modeste, restraining some emotion. "If
you have not my heart, monsieur, you have at least my esteem."

These simple words gave the young man a violent shock; feeling himself
stagger, he leaned against a tree, like a man deprived for a moment of
reason. Modest, who had left him, turned her head and came hastily
back.

"What is the matter?" she asked, taking his hand to prevent him from
falling.

"Forgive me--I thought you despised me."

"But," she answered, with a distant and disdainful manner, "I did not
say that I loved you."

And she left him again. But this time, in spite of her harshness, La
Briere thought he walked on air; the earth softened under his feet,
the trees bore flowers; the skies were rosy, the air cerulean, as they