“My dear child,” said the old man, drawing Ursule on to his knee, “you will soon be sixteen years old, and your life as a woman will begin. You are now between your blissful childhood, which is coming to an end, and the agitations of love, which will make life stormy for you, for you have the highly strung nerves of an excessively sensitive nature. It is love, my child, that has come upon you,” said the old man, with a look of deep pathos, “love in its holy simplicity, love as it ought to be, involuntary and swift, coming like a thief that takes all—yes, all! And I was prepared for it. I have studied women carefully, and I know that, though with most of them love does not wholly possess them till after many proofs, many miracles of affection, if such as these do not speak nor yield till they are conquered, there are others who, under the sway of a sympathy which can now be accounted for by magnetic fluids, are vanquished in a moment. I can tell you now: as soon as I saw the lovely woman who bore your name, I felt that I should love her alone and faithfully without knowing whether in our characters or our persons we should prove suitable. Is there a second sight in love? How can the question be answered, when we see so many unions, which have been sanctioned by such a sacred contract, destroyed afterwards, and giving rise to almost eternal hatred and intense aversion? The senses may be in affinity while minds are discordant, and some persons perhaps live more by the mind than by the senses. On the other hand, characters are often suited in persons who cannot please each other.
“These two opposite phenomena, which would account for many catastrophes, demonstrate the wisdom of the law which leaves to parents supreme control over the marriage of their children; for a young girl is often the dupe of one of these two hallucinations. And, indeed, I do not blame you. The feelings you experience, the emotional impulse which rushes from its hitherto unknown focus to your heart and to your brain, the joy with which you think of Savinien, are all quite natural. But, my adored child, as our good Abbé Chaperon will have told you, society demands the sacrifice of many natural impulses. The destiny of men is one thing, the destiny of women another. It was in my power to choose Ursule Mirouët for my wife, to go to her and tell her how much I loved her, whereas a young girl is false to her virtue when she solicits the love of the man she loves; a woman is not, as we are, at liberty to follow up in broad daylight the fulfilment of her hopes. Thus, modesty is in women, and especially in you, the insurmountable barrier which guards the secrets of your heart. Your hesitation to confide even to me what your first emotions had been, shows me plainly that you would suffer the worst torments rather than confess to Savinien—”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed.
“But, my child, you must do more. You must repress these impulses of your heart, you must forget them.”
“Why?”
“Because, my little darling, you must love no man but him who will be your husband; and even if Monsieur Savinien de Portenduère should love you—”
“I had not thought of such a thing.”
“Listen to me.—Even if he should love you, even if his mother were to ask me to give him your hand, I would not consent to the marriage till I had subjected Savinien to a long and mature course of proof. His recent conduct has placed him under a cloud in every good family, and raised such barriers between him and any young girl of fortune as it will be hard to break down.”
A heavenly smile checked Ursule’s tears, as she said, “Misfortune has its good uses!”
The doctor found nothing to say to her artlessness.
“What has he done, godfather?” she inquired.
“In two years, my darling, he has run into debt in Paris to the sum of a hundred and twenty thousand francs! He has been so clumsy as to let himself be taken and imprisoned at Sainte-Pélagie, a blunder which disgraces a young man forever in these days. A spendthrift who can bring his mother to grief and penury would kill his wife with despair, as your poor father did.”
“Do you think he might amend his ways?” she asked.
“If his mother pays his debts, he will be left without a penny, and I know no harder punishment for a nobleman than to be penniless.”
This reply made Ursule thoughtful; she wiped away her tears, and said to her godfather:
“If you can save him, do so, godfather. Such a service will give you the right to admonish him; you will remonstrate with him—”
“And then,” said the doctor, mimicking her tone, “he may perhaps come here, and the old lady too, and we shall see them, and—”
“At this moment I am thinking only of him,” replied Ursule, coloring.
“Think of him no more, my poor child. It is madness,” said the doctor gravely. “Never would Madame de Portenduère—a Kergarouët—if she had but three hundred francs a year to live on, consent to see the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduère, grandnephew of the late Comte de Portenduère, lieutenant-general of the king’s naval forces, and son of the Vicomte de Portenduère, ship’s captain, married to—whom? Ursule Mirouët, the daughter of a regimental bandmaster, without a fortune; and whose father—now is the time to tell you—was the bastard son of an organist, my father-in-law.”
“Yes, godfather, you are right. We are equals only in the eyes of God. I will think of him no more—except in my prayers!” she exclaimed through the sobs with which she received this information. “Give him all you intended to leave me. What can a poor girl
