“The Order of Saint-Michael, to obtain which so many follies were committed of old, is fallen. Monsieur le Vicomte,” replied the old Court physician. “Fallen like so many other privileges! It is no longer bestowed on any but doctors and poor artists. And so kings have done well to unite it to that of Saint-Lazarus, a saint who was, I believe, an unhappy wretch brought back to life by a miracle! Viewed in this light, the Order of Saint-Michael and Saint-Lazarus to us may be symbolical.”
After this reply, full of irony and dignity, silence reigned, no one caring to break it; and it was becoming uncomfortable, when a knock was heard.
“Here is our good curé,” said the old lady, rising, and leaving Ursule to herself, while she went forward to receive the priest—an honor she had not paid to Ursule or the doctor.
Minoret smiled as he looked from his ward to Savinien. To complain or to take offence at Madame de Portenduère’s bad manners was a rock on which a small mind might have run aground; but the old man had too much breeding not to avoid it. He began talking to the Vicomte of the danger Charles X was in at that time, after entrusting the direction of his policy to the Prince de Polignac. When a long enough time had elapsed to obviate any appearance of retaliation on the old lady by speaking of business matters, he handed to her, almost jestingly, the documents of the prosecution and the receipted bills which proved the accounts drawn up by the lawyer.
“My son acknowledges them?” she asked with a glance at Savinien, who bowed in reply. “Well, then, they can be handed to Dionis,” and she pushed away the papers, treating the affair with the contempt due in her eyes to money matters.
To look down on wealth was, in Madame de Porienduere’s opinion, to enhance nobility, and leave the middle class without a foot to stand on.
A few minutes later Goupil called on behalf of his master, to ask for the accounts as between Savinien and Monsieur Minoret.
“And what for?” asked the old lady.
“To serve as a basis for the mortgage deed; there is no direct payment of money,” replied the clerk, looking insolently about him.
Ursule and Savinien, who looked in this odious person’s face for the first time, felt such a sensation as is produced by a toad, aggravated by a sense of ill omen. They both had that indefinable and vague anticipation of the future which has no name in speech, but which might be accounted for by an impulse of that inner self of which the Swedenborgian had spoken to Doctor Minoret. A conviction that this venomous Goupil would be fatal to them made Ursule quake; but she got over her agitation as she perceived with unspeakable joy that Savinien shared her feelings.
“Monsieur Dionis’ clerk is not a handsome man,” said Savinien, when Goupil had shut the door.
“What can it matter whether people of that class are ugly or handsome?” said Madame de Portenduère.
“I have no objection to his ugliness,” said the curé, “but only to his malignity, which is unbounded, and he adds to it by villainy.”
In spite of his wish to be amiable, the doctor grew cold and dignified, the lovers were uncomfortable. But for the simple good humor of the Abbé Chaperon, whose gentle cheerfulness made the dinner lively, the position of the doctor and his ward would have been almost intolerable.
At dessert, seeing Ursule turn pale, he said to her, “If you do not feel well, my child, there is only the street to cross.”
“What ails you, my dear?” said the old lady to the girl.
“Unfortunately, madame,” said the doctor severely, “her soul feels chilled, accustomed as she is to see nothing but smiles.”
“A bad education, monsieur,” said Madame de Portenduère. “Do not you think so, Monsieur le Curé?”
“Yes, madame,” Minoret put in, with a glance at the curé, who could not say a word. “I have, I see, made life impossible to this seraphic nature if she were to be cast on the world; but before I die, I will find means to protect her from coldness, indifference, and hatred—”
“Godfather! I beg of you—that is enough. I feel nothing unpleasant here,” she said, ready to meet Madame de Portenduère’s eye rather than lend too much meaning to her words by looking at Savinien.
“Whether Mademoiselle Ursule is uncomfortable I know not, madame,” said Savinien to his mother, “but I know that you are torturing me.”
On hearing this speech, wrung from the generous young man by his mother’s behavior, Ursule turned pale; she begged Madame de Portenduère to excuse her, rose, took her guardian’s arm, courtesied, and went out. Then, as soon as she was at home, she rushed into the drawing-room, and sitting down by the piano, hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.
“Why will you not leave it to my long experience to guide your feelings, cruel child?” cried the doctor in despair. “The nobility never think themselves under any obligation towards us of the middle class. In serving them, we do no more than our duty, that is all. Besides, the old lady perceived that Savinien looked at you with pleasure; she is afraid lest he should fall in love with you.”
“At any rate, he is safe!” she said, “But to try to set down such a man as you are—!”
“Wait till I come back, my
