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Updated: September 3, 2025
So my cousin Philoxene, enticed by the bait of a highly improbable fortune, has told me a good many things." "The duchess is vindictive?" said La Briere. "Vindictive as a queen, Philoxene says; she has never yet forgiven the duke for being nothing more than her husband," replied Butscha. "She hates as she loves.
Butscha bowed without another word, and departed to find his master, in all the rapture of being taken into the service of his goddess. Half an hour later, Monsieur and Madame Latournelle came to fetch Modeste, who complained of a horrible toothache. "I really have not had the courage to dress myself," she said. "Well then," replied the worthy chaperone, "stay at home." "Oh, no!" said Modeste.
"And have you studied Modeste?" "I thought I told you," replied Butscha, "that my life belongs to her, just as France belongs to the king. Do you now understand what you called my spying in Paris?
Like a true soldier of the imperial school, Dumay, whose Breton blood had boiled all the way to Paris, considered a poet to be a poor stick of a fellow, of no consequence whatever, a buffoon addicted to choruses, living in a garret, dressed in black clothes that were white at every seam, wearing boots that were occasionally without soles, and linen that was unmentionable, and whose fingers knew more about ink than soap; in short, one who looked always as if he had tumbled from the moon, except when scribbling at a desk, like Butscha.
Overhearing a few acid though polite remarks exchanged between the poet and the two noble ladies, Gobenheim nudged Butscha with his elbow, and said in an undertone, motioning towards the poet and the grand equerry, "They'll demolish one another!" "Canalis has genius enough to demolish himself all alone," answered the dwarf.
He would of course give Dumay ten per cent of his profits; the worthy man admitted the other day how much it was, and my master and I think that in that case the colonel's fortune must amount to six or seven millions " "Oh, papa!" cried Modeste, crossing her hands on her breast and looking up to heaven, "twice you have given me life!" "Ah, mademoiselle!" said Butscha, "you love a poet.
"Oh!" exclaimed Butscha in an altered voice; "that thought is an insult. And even now, who knows if she really loves? does she know herself?
"What has happened to my Black Dwarf? why are you talking so loud!" she said, appearing at the door. "Mademoiselle, Butscha has gone to Paris, and you, no doubt, know why, to carry on that affair of the little architect with the sulphur waistcoat, who, unluckily for the hunchback's lies, has never been here."
"I'm very near it, my Black Dwarf," she said, with a smile that might have made an angel swear. "Good God!" exclaimed Butscha, letting fall his hands, which struck the marble steps.
"The baron's valet has hired Madame Amaury's villa at Sanvic, all furnished, for seven hundred francs; he has written to his master that he may start, and that all will be ready on his arrival. So the two gentlemen will be here Sunday. I have also had a letter from Butscha; here it is; it's not long: 'My dear master, I cannot get back till Sunday.
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