“This is your doing, mademoiselle,” said Madame Crémière, interposing with a low courtesy. “It is no trouble to you to work miracles.”
“The miracle is God’s, madame,” replied Ursule.
“Oh, indeed! God’s,” exclaimed Minoret-Levrault. “My father-in-law used to say that God was a name for many a dark horse.”
“His ideas were those of a horse coper!” said the doctor severely.
“Now, then,” said Minoret to his wife and son, “are you not coming to pay your respects to my uncle?”
“I could not contain myself face to face with that sneaking slut!” exclaimed Zélie, leading away her son.
“You would be wise, uncle,” said Madame Massin, “not to go to church without a little black velvet cap; the parish church is very damp.”
“Pah! niece,” said the old man, looking round at his followers. “The sooner I am laid to rest, the sooner you will dance.”
He walked on, dragging Ursule with him, and seeming in such haste that they were left to themselves.
“Why do you answer them with such hard words? It is not kind,” said Ursule, shaking his arm with a little refractory gesture.
“My hatred for hypocrites has always been the same, before as well as since my conversion. I have done them all kindness, and I do not ask for gratitude; but not one of all those people sent a flower on your birthday, the only day I keep.”
At some little distance from the doctor and Ursule, Madame de Portenduère was dragging herself along, overwhelmed, as it seemed, with suffering. She was one of those old women in whose dress we may still trace the spirit of the last century, who wear pansy-colored gowns with tight sleeves of a cut now only to be seen in portraits by Madame Lebrun; black lace scarves, and bonnets of extinct shapes, in harmony with their slow and solemn gait; as if they still walked in hoops, and felt them about them, as those who have had an arm cut off sometimes move the limb they have lost. Their long, pale faces, with deeply shadowed eyes and blighted brows, are not devoid of a certain melancholy grace in spite of a front of dejected curls; they drape their heads in old lace, which now has no light flutter over their cheeks; but over the whole mass of ruins predominates an indescribable dignity of manner and look.
This old lady’s red and puckered eyes plainly showed that she had wept during the service. She walked like a person in some anxiety, and seemed to be expecting somebody, for she looked back. Now, that Madame de Portenduère should look back was an event as serious as Doctor Minoret’s conversion.
“To whom can Madame de Portenduère owe a grudge?” said Madame Massin, as she came up with the heirs, who were dumbfounded by the doctor’s retorts.
“She is looking for the curé,” said Dionis, striking his forehead like a man suddenly struck by a remembrance or some forgotten idea. “I have it! I see my way; the inheritance is saved! Come, we will all breakfast cheerfully with Madame Minoret.”
The eagerness with which the whole party followed the notary to the posting house may easily be imagined. Goupil clung to his comrade, taking his arm, saying in his ear with a revolting smile: “There are crayfish!”
“What do I care?” replied the son of the house with a shrug. “I am madly in love with Florine, the most heavenly creature in the world.”
“What on earth is Florine without a surname?” asked Goupil. “I am too much your friend to allow you to be made a fool of by hussies.”
“Florine is adored by the famous Nathan, and my folly is of no use, for she positively refuses to marry me.”
“Girls who are rash with their bodies are sometimes prudent with their brains,” said Goupil.
“If you could but see her, only once, you would not make use of such expressions,” said Désiré languishingly.
“If I saw you destroying your prospects for what can be only a fancy,” retorted Goupil, with a warmth that might perhaps have taken in Bongrand, “I would go and wreck that doll as Varney wrecked Amy Robsart in Kenilworth! Your wife ought to be a d’Aiglemont, a Mademoiselle du Rouvre, and open your way to being a deputy to the Chamber. My future is mortgaged to yours, and I will not allow you to play the fool.”
“I am rich enough to be content with happiness,” replied Désiré.
“Well, what are you two plotting?” said Zélie to Goupil, hailing the two young men, who were standing together in the wide stable-yard.
The doctor turned down the Rue des Bourgeois, and walked on, as briskly as a young man, to his house, where, in the course of the past week, the strange event had taken place which was just now the ruling thought of all the town of Nemours, and of which some account must be given to render this story, and the notary’s remark to the heirs, perfectly intelligible.
The doctor’s father-in-law, the famous harpsichord player and instrument-maker, Valentin Mirouët, one of our most celebrated organists, died in 1785, leaving a natural son, the child of his old age, whom he had recognized and called by his name, but who was a thorough scapegrace. He had not the consolation of seeing this spoilt child when on his deathbed; Joseph Mirouët, a singer and a composer, after coming out in Italian opera under an assumed name, had
