Modeste awaited her mother's bedtime with impatience.

She intended to write, but never did so except at night.

Here is the letter which love dictated to her while all the world was sleeping:-- To Monsieur de Canalis,--Ah! my friend, my well-beloved! What atrocious falsehoods those portraits in the shop-windows are! And I, who made that horrible lithograph my joy!--I am humbled at the thought of loving one so handsome.

No; it is impossible that those Parisian women are so stupid as not to have seen their dreams fulfilled in you.

You neglected! you unloved! I do not believe a word of all that you have written me about your lonely and obscure life, your hunger for an idol,--sought in vain until now.