“I left her about six days ago.”
“Is she well?” persisted the duke.
“Perfectly well.”
“Have the kindness to remember me to her when you write.”
“They say she is charming,” remarked Modeste, addressing the duke.
“Monsieur le baron can speak more confidently than I,” replied the grand equerry.
“More than charming,” said Canalis, making the best of the duke’s perfidy; “but I am partial, mademoiselle; she has been a friend to me for the last ten years; I owe all that is good in me to her; she has saved me from the dangers of the world. Moreover, Monsieur le Duc de Chaulieu launched me in my present career. Without the influence of that family the king and the princesses would have forgotten a poor poet like me; therefore my affection for the duchess must always be full of gratitude.”
His voice quivered.
“We ought to love the woman who has led you to write those sublime poems, and who inspires you with such noble feelings,” said Modeste, quite affected. “Who can think of a poet without a muse!”
“He would be without a heart,” replied Canalis. “He would write barren verses like Voltaire, who never loved any one but Voltaire.”