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Updated: September 3, 2025
Butscha, whose alert attention was comparable to that of a spy, looked at Monsieur Mignon, expecting to see him flush with sudden and violent indignation. "A little more, young lady, and you will be wanting in respect for your father," said the colonel, smiling, and noticing Butscha's look. "See what it is to spoil one's children!" "I am your only child," she said saucily.
"She swore to her mother this morning," said the notary, "in presence of Dumay, that she had not exchanged a look or a word with any living soul." "Then she loves after my fashion!" exclaimed Butscha. "And how is that, my poor lad?" asked Madame Latournelle. "Madame," said the little cripple, "I love alone and afar oh! as far as from here to the stars."
"From which you conclude, Sieur Butscha?" inquired Modeste. "To pay the utmost attention to the manoeuvres of the enemy," answered the clerk. "What did I tell you, my darling?" said Charles Mignon, alluding to their conversation on the seashore. "Men play as many parts to get married as mothers make their daughters play to get rid of them," said Latournelle.
Butscha looked at Modeste. The pair walked some distance in silence; the girl was impenetrable and not an eyelash quivered. "Mademoiselle, permit me to be the exponent of the thoughts that are lying at the bottom of your heart like sea-mosses under the waves, and which you do not choose to gather up." "Eh!" said Modeste, "so my intimate friend and counsellor thinks himself a mirror, does he?"
"Well, what's the matter with you, Butscha?" cried Madame Latournelle; "one would really think you hadn't a friend in the world." Tears shone in the eyes of the poor fellow, who was the son of a Swedish sailor, and whose mother was dead.
"Rubbish! yes, that may be, but my rubbish is dear to me," said the Duc d'Herouville, laughing, during the silent pause which followed the poet's pompous oration. "Let me ask," said Butscha, attacking Canalis, "does art, the sphere in which, according to you, genius is required to evolve itself, exist at all? Is it not a splendid lie, a delusion, of the social man?
On Sunday morning Butscha arrived at the Chalet before Madame Latournelle, who always came to take Modeste to church, and he proceeded to blockade the house in expectation of the postman. "Have you a letter for Mademoiselle Mignon?" he said to that humble functionary when he appeared. "No, monsieur, none." "This house has been a good customer to the post of late," remarked the clerk.
"Poor Butscha was right," she said one evening. The words indicate the distance she travelled in a short space of time and in gloomy sadness across the barren plain of reality. Sadness, when caused by the overgrowth of hope, is a disease, sometimes a fatal one.
The young man flung a lightning glance at the dwarf, and a few minutes later the two were pacing the terrace. "It is nine o'clock," cried Ernest. "I shall start for Paris at full gallop; I can get there to-morrow morning by ten. My dear Butscha, from you she will accept anything, for she is attached to you; let me give her a riding-whip in your name.
"I pray God you may be right," said the dwarf, clasping his hands, " and happy! That man shall have, as you have, a servant in Jean Butscha. I will not be notary; I shall give that up; I shall study the sciences." "Why?" "Ah, mademoiselle, to train up your children, if you will deign to make me their tutor. But, oh! if you would only listen to some advice.
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