"Oh, dear!" she said to herself; "it seems they are all angels--and
not marriageable; the duke is the only one that belongs to humanity."

"Mademoiselle Modeste," said Butscha, appearing with a parcel under
his arm, "this hunt makes me very uneasy. I dreamed your horse ran
away with you, and I have been to Rouen to see if I could get a
Spanish bit which, they tell me, a horse can't take between his teeth.
I entreat you to use it. I have shown it to the colonel, and he has
thanked me more than there is any occasion for."

"Poor, dear Butscha!" cried Modeste, moved to tears by this maternal
care.

Butscha went skipping off like a man who has just heard of the death
of a rich uncle.

"My dear father," said Modeste, returning to the salon; "I should like
to have that beautiful whip,--suppose you were to ask Monsieur de La
Briere to exchange it for your picture by Van Ostade."

Modeste looked furtively at Ernest, while the colonel made him this
proposition, standing before the picture which was the sole thing he
possessed in memory of his campaigns, having bought it of a burgher at
Rabiston; and she said to herself as La Briere left the room
precipitately, "He will be at the hunt."

A curious thing happened. Modeste's three lovers each and all went to
Rosembray with their hearts full of hope, and captivated by her many
perfections.