“Ah, mademoiselle!” said Butscha, “you love a poet. That kind of man is more or less of a Narcissus. Will he know how to love you? A phrase-maker, always busy in fitting words together, must be a bore. Mademoiselle, a poet is no more poetry than a seed is a flower.”
“Butscha, I never saw so handsome a man.”
“Beauty is a veil which often serves to hide imperfections.”
“He has the most angelic heart of heaven—”
“I pray God you may be right,” said the dwarf, clasping his hands, “—and happy! That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean Butscha. I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the sciences.”
“Why?”
“Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign to make me their tutor. But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice. Let me take up this matter; let me look into the life and habits of this man,—find out if he is kind, or bad-tempered, or gentle, if he commands the respect which you merit in a husband, if he is able to love utterly, preferring you to everything, even his own talent—”
“What does that signify if I love him?”
“Ah, true!” cried the dwarf.
At that instant Madame Mignon was saying to her friends,—