And here you come among us and ask us to expire with grief at this commonplace affair." "You call yourself a poet!" cried Dumay, "but don't you feel what you write ?" "Good heavens! if we endured the joys or the woes we sing we should be as worn out in three months as a pair of old boots," said the poet, smiling.

"But stay, you shall not come from Havre to Paris to see Canalis without carrying something back with you.

Warrior!" (Canalis had the form and action of an Homeric hero) "learn this from the poet: Every noble sentiment in man is a poem so exclusively individual that his nearest friend, his other self, cares nothing for it.

It is a treasure which is his alone, it is--" "Forgive me for interrupting you," said Dumay, who was gazing at the poet with horror, "but did you ever come to Havre ?" "I was there for a day and a night in the spring of 1824 on my way to London." "You are a man of honor," continued Dumay; "will you give me your word that you do not know Mademoiselle Modeste Mignon ?" "This is the first time that name ever struck my ear," replied Canalis.
"Ah, monsieur!" said Dumay, "into what dark intrigue am I about to plunge?
Can I count upon you to help me in my inquiries ?--for I am certain that some one has been using your name.

You ought to have had a letter yesterday from Havre." "I received none.