lead me to make this frank avowal.  If you think it desirable, a letter from my mother shall recall me, on pretence of her illness, to-morrow morning before the hunt begins.  Without your consent I do not choose to be present at a fete which I owe to your kindness, and where, if my secret should escape me, you might feel hurt and defrauded.  You will ask me why I have come here at all.  I could not withstand the invitation.  Be generous enough not to reproach me for what was almost a necessary curiosity.  But this is not the chief, not the most delicate thing I have to say to you.  You have firm friends in my father and myself,—­more so than perhaps you realize; and as my fortune was the first cause that brought you to me, I wish to say—­but without intending to use it as a sedative to calm the grief which gallantry requires you to testify—­that my father has thought over the affair of the marshes, his friend Dumay thinks your project feasible, and they have already taken steps to form a company.  Gobenheim, Dumay, and my father have subscribed fifteen hundred thousand francs, and undertake to get the rest from capitalists, who will feel it in their interest to take up the matter.  If I have not the honor of becoming the Duchesse d’Herouville, I have almost the certainty of enabling you to choose her, free from all trammels in your choice, and in a higher sphere than mine.  Oh! let me finish,” she cried, at a gesture from the duke.

“Judging by my nephew’s emotion,” whispered Mademoiselle d’Herouville to her niece, “it is easy to see you have a sister.”

“Monsieur le duc, all this was settled in my mind the day of our first ride, when I heard you deplore your situation.  This is what I have wished to say to you.  That day determined my future life.  Though you did not make the conquest of a woman, you have at least gained faithful friends at Ingouville—­if you will deign to accord us that title.”

This little discourse, which Modeste had carefully thought over, was said with so much charm of soul that the tears came to the grand equerry’s eyes; he seized her hand and kissed it.

“Stay during the hunt,” he said; “my want of merit has accustomed me to these refusals; but while accepting your friendship and that of the colonel, you must let me satisfy myself by the judgment of competent scientific men, that the draining of those marshes will be no risk to the company you speak of, before I agree to the generous offer of your friends.  You are a noble girl, and though my heart aches to think I can only be your friend, I will glory in that title, and prove it to you at all times and in all seasons.”

“In that case, Monsieur le duc, let us keep our secret.  My choice will not be known, at least I think not, until after my mother’s complete recovery.  I should like our first blessing to come from her eyes.”

CHAPTER XXIX

CONCLUSION