at the idea of Madame Latournelle reading Childe Harold. The stern
scion of a parliamentary house accepted the smile as an approval of
her doctrine.

"And, therefore, my dear Madame Mignon," she went on, "you have taken
Modeste's fancies, which are nothing but the results of her reading,
for a love-affair. Remember, she is just twenty. Girls fall in love
with themselves at that age; they dress to see themselves
well-dressed. I remember I used to make my little sister, now dead,
put on a man's hat and pretend we were monsieur and madame. You see,
you had a very happy youth in Frankfort; but let us be just,--Modeste
is living here without the slightest amusement. Although, to be sure,
her every wish is attended to, still she knows she is shut up and
watched, and the life she leads would give her no pleasure at all if
it were not for the amusement she gets out of her books. Come, don't
worry yourself; she loves nobody but you. You ought to be very glad
that she goes into these enthusiasms for the corsairs of Byron and
the heroes of Walter Scott and your own Germans, Egmont, Goethe,
Werther, Schiller, and all the other 'ers.'"

"Well, madame, what do you say to that?" asked Dumay, respectfully,
alarmed at Madame Mignon's silence.

"Modeste is not only inclined to love, but she loves some man,"
answered the mother, obstinately.

"Madame, my life is at stake, and you must allow me--not for my sake,
but for my wife, my colonel, for all of us--to probe this matter to
the bottom, and find out whether it is the mother or the watch-dog who
is deceived."