The wings of love were fastened to her shoulders; she had the air of a nymph, a Psyche; her cheeks glowed with the divine color of happiness.
"Who wrote the words to which you have put that pretty music ?" asked her mother.
"Canalis, mamma," she answered, flushing rosy red from her throat to her forehead.
"Canalis!" cried the dwarf, to whom the inflections of the girl's voice and her blush told the only thing of which he was still ignorant.

"He, that great poet, does he write songs ?" "They are only simple verses," she said, "which I have ventured to set to German airs." "No, no," interrupted Madame Mignon, "the music is your own, my daughter." Modeste, feeling that she grew more and more crimson, went off into the garden, calling Butscha after her.
"You can do me a great service," she said.

"Dumay is keeping a secret from my mother and me as to the fortune which my father is bringing back with him; and I want to know what it is.

Did not Dumay send papa when he first went away over five hundred thousand francs?
Yes.

Well, papa is not the kind of man to stay away four years and only double his capital.
It seems he is coming back on a ship of his own, and Dumay's share amounts to almost six hundred thousand francs." "There is no need to question Dumay," said Butscha.