He then took Zélie aside to impart to her Massin’s idea about Ursule. The women, whose hearts were full of vengeance, and who longed to turn the tables on “the little hussy,” hailed the idea of turning her out of the house with glee.
When Bongrand arrived he was indignant at the request made to him, as a friend of the deceased, by Zélie and Madame Massin, to desire Ursule to leave the house.
“Go yourselves and turn her out the home of her father, her godfather, her uncle, her benefactor, her guardian! Go—you who owe your fortunes to her nobility of character—take her by the shoulders—thrust her into the street in the face of the whole town! You think her capable of robbing you? Well, then, engage a guardian of the property; you have a perfect right to do so. But understand clearly that I will put seals on nothing in her room; it is her own, all that is in it is her property; I shall inform her what her rights are, and advise her to place there everything that belongs to her—Oh! in your presence!” he added, hearing a murmur of disapproval.
“What?” cried the tax-receiver to the postmaster and the women, who were speechless at Bongrand’s angry address.
“A pretty magistrate!” said Minoret.
Ursule, on a low chair, half fainting, her head thrown back, her hair undone, was sobbing from time to time. Her eyes were heavy, their lids swollen; in short, she was in a state of moral and physical prostration, which might have touched the heart of the fiercest creatures excepting heirs.
“Ah, Monsieur Bongrand, after my happy fête, here are death and despair,” she said, with the unconscious poetry of a sweet nature. “You know what he was. In twenty years he never spoke an impatient word to me! I thought he would live to a hundred! He was a mother to me,” she cried, “and a kind mother!”
The utterance of her broken ideas brought on a torrent of tears, broken by sobs, and she fell back half senseless.
“My child,” said the Justice, hearing the inheritors on the stairs, “you have the rest of your life to weep in, and only a moment for business. Bring into your own room everything in the house that belongs to you. The heirs insist on my affixing seals—”
“Oh, his heirs may take everything!” cried Ursule, starting up in a spasm of fierce indignation. “I have here all that is precious to me!” and she struck her bosom.
“What? what?” asked the postmaster, who, with Massin, now showed his horrible face.
“The memory of his virtues, of his life, of all his words, the image of his heavenly mind,” she replied, her eyes and cheeks flaming as she raised her hand with a proud gesture.
“Ay, and you have a key there too,” cried Massin, going on all fours like a cat to seize a key which slipped out of the folds of her bodice as she lifted her arm.
“It is the key of his study,” she said, coloring. “He was sending me there just when he died.”
The two men exchanged a hideous smile, and turned to the Justice with a look that expressed a blighting suspicion. Ursule saw and interpreted the look, malignant on Minoret’s part, involuntary on Massin’s, and drew herself up, as pale as if all her blood had ebbed; her eyes glistened with the lightnings that can only flash at the cost of vitality, and in a choking voice she said:
“Ah, Monsieur Bongrand, all that is in this room is mine only by my godfather’s kindness; they may take it all; I have nothing about me but my clothes; I will go out of it and never come in again.”
She went into her guardian’s room, and no entreaties could bring her forth—for the heirs were a little ashamed of their conduct. She desired La Bougival to engage two rooms at the Old Posting Inn till she should find some lodging in the town, where they might stay together. She went into her room only to fetch her prayerbook, and remained all night with the Curé and another priest and Savinien, weeping and praying. Savinien came in after his mother had gone to bed, and knelt down without speaking by Ursule, who gave him the saddest smile, while thanking him for coming so faithfully to share in her sorrows.
“My child,” said Monsieur Bongrand, bringing in a large bundle, “one of your uncle’s relations has taken out of your wardrobe all that you need, for the seals will not be removed for some days, and you will then have everything that belongs to you. In your own interest I have placed seals on your things too.”
“Thank you,” she said, pressing his hand. “Come and look at him once more. You would think he was sleeping.”
The old man’s face had at this moment the transient bloom of beauty which is seen on the face of those who have died without pain; it seemed radiant.
“Did he not give you anything privately before he died?” asked the Justice of Ursule in a whisper.
“Nothing,” she replied. “He only said something about a letter—”
“Good! that will be found,” said Bongrand. “Then it is lucky for you that they insisted on the seals.”
At daybreak Ursule bid adieu to the house where her happy childhood had been spent, and above all to the room where her love had had its birth, and which was so dear to her that in the midst of her deep grief she had a tear of regret for this peaceful and happy nook. After gazing for the last time on her windows and on Savinien in turn, she went off to the inn, accompanied by La Bougival, who carried her bundle; by the Justice, who gave her his arm; and by Savinien, her kind protector.
And so, in spite of every precaution, the suspicious lawyer was in
