Modeste, recovering her first impression, renewed her confidence in that soul, in that countenance as ravishing as the face of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre.  She paid no further attention to the publisher.  And so, about the beginning of the month of August she wrote the following letter to this Dorat of the sacristy, who still ranks as a star of the modern Pleiades.

To Monsieur de Canalis,—­Many a time, monsieur, I have wished to write to you; and why?  Surely you guess why,—­to tell you how much I admire your genius.  Yes, I feel the need of expressing to you the admiration of a poor country girl, lonely in her little corner, whose only happiness is to read your thoughts.  I have read Rene, and I come to you.  Sadness leads to reverie.  How many other women are sending you the homage of their secret thoughts?  What chance have I for notice among so many?  This paper, filled with my soul,—­can it be more to you than the perfumed letters which already beset you.  I come to you with less grace than others, for I wish to remain unknown and yet to receive your entire confidence —­as though you had long known me.

  Answer my letter and be friendly with me.  I cannot promise to make
  myself known to you, though I do not positively say I will not
  some day do so.

  What shall I add?  Read between the lines of this letter, monsieur,
  the great effort which I am making:  permit me to offer you my
  hand,—­that of a friend, ah! a true friend.

Your servant, O. d’Este M.

P.S.—­If you do me the favor to answer this letter address your
reply, if you please, to Mademoiselle F. Cochet, “poste restante,”
Havre.

CHAPTER VII

A poet of the angelic school

All young girls, romantic or otherwise, can imagine the impatience in which Modeste lived for the next few days.  The air was full of tongues of fire.  The trees were like a plumage.  She was not conscious of a body; she hovered in space, the earth melted away under her feet.  Full of admiration for the post-office, she followed her little sheet of paper on its way; she was happy, as we all are happy at twenty years of age, in the first exercise of our will.  She was possessed, as in the middle ages.  She made pictures in her mind of the poet’s abode, of his study; she saw him unsealing her letter; and then followed myriads of suppositions.

After sketching the poetry we cannot do less than give the profile of the poet.  Canalis is a short, spare man, with an air of good-breeding, a dark-complexioned, moon-shaped face, and a rather mean head like that of a man who has more vanity than pride.  He loves luxury, rank, and splendor.  Money is of more importance to him than to most men.  Proud of his birth, even more than of his talent, he destroys the value of his ancestors by making too much of them