This step, announced by the Abbé Chaperon, had produced a revulsion in Ursule which revived the hopes of the physician, who had been in despair, and had talked of holding a consultation with the most eminent Paris doctors. Ursule had been placed in her old guardian’s armchair, and the character of her beauty was such that in mourning and in suffering she looked more lovely than at any time in her happy days. When Savinien came in, with his mother on his arm, the young invalid’s color mounted to her cheeks once more.
“Do not rise, my dear,” said the old lady, in a tone of command. “However ill and feeble I may be myself, I was determined to come and tell you what I think of all that is going on. I esteem you as the purest, saintliest, and sweetest girl in the Gatinais, and regard you as worthy to make a gentleman of family happy.”
At first Ursule could make no reply; she held the withered hands of Savinien’s mother, and kissed them, dropping tears upon them.
“Ah, madame!” she answered, in a weak voice, “I should never have been so bold as to think of raising myself so far above my position if I had not been encouraged by promises, and my only claim was a love without limits; but means have been found to separate me forever from him whom I love. I have been made unworthy of him.—Never!” she exclaimed, with a vehemence of tone that startled the listeners painfully—“never will I consent to give to any man a hand so vilified, a reputation so tarnished! I loved too well. … I may say it now, wreck that I am; I love a creature almost as much as God. And so God—”
“Come, come, child, do not calumniate God. Come, my daughter,” said the old lady, making a great effort, “do not exaggerate the importance of an infamous jest which no one believes in. You shall live—I promise it—live and be happy.”
“You shall be happy!” cried Savinien, kneeling by Ursule, and kissing her hand. “My mother calls you her daughter!”
“That will do,” said the doctor, who was feeling his patient’s pulse. “Do not kill her with joy.”
At this instant Goupil, who had found the gate into the alley ajar, pushed open the drawing-room door and showed his hideous face, beaming with the thoughts of revenge that had blossomed in his heart in the course of his walk.
“Monsieur de Portenduère,” said he, in a voice like the hiss of a viper at bay in its hole.
“What do you want?” said Savinien, rising.
“I want to say two words to you.”
Savinien went out into the passage, and Goupil led him into the yard.
“Swear to me by the life of Ursule whom you love, and by your honor as a gentleman which you prize, so to behave as though there were nothing known between us of what I am going to tell you, and I will explain to you the sole cause of the persecutions turned against Mademoiselle Mirouët.”
“Can I put an end to them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I be revenged?”
“Yes, on the prime mover—not on the instrument.”
“Why?”
“The instrument is—I am the instrument.”
Savinien turned white.
“I just caught sight of Ursule—” the clerk began again.
“Ursule!” said Savinien, with a look at the clerk.
“Mademoiselle Mirouët,” said Goupil, made respectful by Savinien’s tone; “and I would shed all my blood to undo what has been done. I repent. If you were to kill me in a duel, or in any other way, of what use would my blood be to you? Could you drink it? At this moment it would poison you.”
The man’s cool reasonableness and his own curiosity quelled Savinien’s boiling blood; he glared at this hunchback spoiled, with an eye that made Goupil look down.
“And who set you on the job?” asked the young man.
“You swear?”
“You wish to escape unharmed?”
“I wish that you and Mademoiselle Mirouët should forgive me.”
“She will forgive you.—I never will.”
“Well, you will forget.”
How terrible is the force of logic seconded by interest! Two men, each longing to rend the other, were standing there, close together, in a little yard, forced to speak to each other, united by one feeling in common.
“I will forgive you, but I shall not forget.”
“Of no use whatever,” said Goupil, coldly.
Savinien lost patience. He dealt the clerk a slap on the cheek that rang through the yard; it almost upset Goupil, and he himself staggered back.
“I have got no more than I deserve,” said Goupil, “I have been a fool. I thought you a finer fellow than you are. You have taken a mean advantage of the opportunity I offered you.—You are in my power now!” he added, with a flash of hatred at Savinien.
“You are a murderer!” exclaimed the gentleman.
“No more than the knife in the assassin’s hand,” replied Goupil.
“I ask your forgiveness,” said Savinien.
“Are you sufficiently revenged?” said the clerk with savage irony. “Will you now rest satisfied?”
“Forgive and forget on both sides,” replied Savinien.
“Your hand on it?” said Goupil, holding out his.
“Here it is,” said Savinien, swallowing the indignity out of love for Ursule. “But speak: who was behind you?”
Goupil paused, considering the two dishes of the scale, so to speak, with Savinien’s slap on one side, and on the other his hatred of Minoret. For two seconds he doubted; then a voice said to him: “You can be a notary!” and he replied, “Forgive and forget? Yes, on both sides, monsieur,” and he clasped the gentleman’s hand.
“Who is it, then, that is persecuting Ursule?” said Savinien.
“Minoret. He would like to see her dead and buried. Why, I do not know; but we will find out the reason. Do not mix me up in the matter. I can do nothing more for you if once I am suspected. Instead of attacking Ursule, I will defend her; instead of serving Minoret, I will try to
