“I have accounts to settle with you,” said the doctor to the youth; “I have all your papers here.”
“I was within an ace of not getting away,” said Savinien. “I had to order clothes and linen; the Philistines have robbed me of everything, and I am in the state of the prodigal son.”
However interesting the subjects of conversation between the old man and the young one, however pertinent some of Savinien’s remarks, the young girl sat in silence till it was dark, her green veil hiding her face, and her hands folded over her shawl.
“You do not seem to have found Paris very delightful, mademoiselle,” said Savinien at last, somewhat piqued.
“I am glad to return to Nemours,” she replied in an agitated voice, putting up her veil.
In spite of the gloom, Savinien now recognized her by her thick plaits of hair and brilliant blue eyes.
“And, for my part, I can leave Paris without regret to bury myself at Nemours, since I shall there find so fair a neighbor,” said he. “I hope, Monsieur le Docteur, that you will allow me to visit you; I am fond of music, and I remember hearing Mademoiselle Ursule’s piano.”
“I hardly know, monsieur,” said the doctor gravely, “whether your mother will be pleased that you should come to see an old man who is obliged to have a mother’s care of this dear child.”
This measured reply gave Savinien much to think about; he now recollected that kiss, so lightly wafted.
It was now night; the heat was oppressive; the doctor and Savinien were the first to fall asleep. Ursule, who remained a long time awake, her head full of plans, succumbed about midnight. She had taken off her little hat of coarse straw plait. Her head, in a little cap of embroidered muslin, presently dropped on to her godfather’s shoulder. At daybreak, near Bouron, Savinien woke the first. He saw Ursule in the untidy state produced by the jolting of the coach; her cap was tumbled and askew; her hair had come unpinned, and the plaits fell about her face, which was rosy with the heat; but in this disorder, which is horrible in a woman to whom dress is indispensable, youth and beauty are triumphant. The sleep of innocence is always lovely. Her parted lips showed pretty teeth; her shawl, thrown back, allowed him to observe, without offence to Ursule, the grace of her figure under the folds of a full bodice of flowered muslin. And through the countenance shone the purity of the maiden soul, all the more visible because no other expression mingled with it. Old Minoret, who presently awoke, arranged her head against the corner of the coach to make her more comfortable; and she did not even feel what he did, so soundly was she sleeping, after spending so many nights in thinking of Savinien’s misfortunes.
“Poor little thing!” said he to his companion, “she sleeps like a child—as she is.”
“You should be proud of her,” said Savinien, “for she seems to be as good as she is pretty.”
“Ah! she is the light of the house! If she were my daughter, I could not love her better. She will be sixteen on the 5th February next. God grant I may live to see her married to a man who will make her happy! I wanted to take her to the play in Paris, where she had never been before; she would not go; the curé at Nemours had forbidden it. ‘But,’ said I, ‘when you are married, if your husband wishes to take you?’—‘I shall do whatever my husband desires,’ said she. ‘If he should ask me to do anything wrong, and I should be so weak as to obey him, he will be held responsible before God; but I should find strength to resist—in his interest, of course.’ ”
As they reached Nemours, at five in the morning, Ursule woke up, quite ashamed of her untidiness, and of meeting Savinien’s gaze of frank admiration. During the hour which the diligence took to drive from Bouron, where it had stopped a few minutes, the young man had fallen in love with Ursule. He had studied the innocence of her soul, the beauty of her person, the whiteness of her complexion, the delicacy of her features, and the sweet voice which had spoken the brief expressive phrase in which the poor child had told everything while intending to tell nothing. In short, I know not what presentiment led him to think of Ursule as the wife the doctor had suggested to him, set in a gold frame by the magical words: “Seven or eight hundred thousand francs.”
“In three or four years she will be twenty; I shall be twenty-seven. The good man spoke of struggles, of work, of good behavior. However cunning he may be, he will end by telling me his secret.”
The neighbors parted before their respective houses, and Savinien put much meaning into his leave-taking, with a glance at Ursule full of imploring invitation.
Madame de Portenduère left her son to sleep till noon. The doctor and Ursule, in spite of their fatiguing journey, went to high mass.
Savinien’s release, and his return in the doctor’s company, had explained the object of his journey to the parochial politicians and to his heirs, who had met in council in the Church Square, as they had done a fortnight since. To the great surprise of all parties, on coming out of church, Madame de Portenduère stopped old Minoret, who offered her his arm, and conducted her home. The old lady wished to invite him and his ward to dinner that same day, telling him that the curé would be her other guest.
“He wanted to let Ursule see Paris,” said Minoret-Levrault.
“Damnation! The old man cannot stir a step without his little housekeeper,” cried Crémière.
“There must have been
