“Do you stay quietly here,” said Zélie, without the smallest reproach to her husband for his blundering; “I will take the matter in hand. We will keep the money, and Désiré shall not fight.”
Madame Minoret put on her shawl and bonnet and hurried off to Ursule with her son’s letter; she found her alone, for it was about twelve o’clock.
In spite of her audacity, Zélie Minoret was abashed by the girl’s cold looks, but she scolded herself for her cowardice, and took an airy tone.
“Here, Mademoiselle Mirouët, have the kindness to read this letter, and tell me what you think of it,” she exclaimed, holding out her son’s letter.
Ursule felt a thousand conflicting emotions on reading this letter, which proved to her how deeply she was loved, and what care Savinien would take of the honor of the woman he was about to marry; but she was at once too pious and too charitable to desire to be the cause of death or suffering to her worst enemy.
“I promise you, madame, that I will hinder this duel, and your mind may be easy; but I beg you to leave me the letter.”
“Let us see, my beauty, if we cannot do better than that. Listen to me. We have estates to the tune of forty-eight thousand a year round le Rouvre, which is a real royal château; besides that we can give Désiré twenty-four thousand francs a year in consols; seventy-two thousand francs a year in all. You will allow that there are not many matches to compare with him. You are an ambitious little puss—and you are very right,” added Zélie, noting Ursule’s eager gesture of denial. “I have come to ask your hand for Désiré; you will take your godfather’s name—that will do it honor. Désiré, as you may have seen, is a good-looking young fellow; he is very much liked at Fontainebleau, and will soon be public prosecutor. You, who are such a coaxing charmer, will get him to Paris. At Paris we will give you a fine house; you will shine and play a part in society; for with seventy-two thousand francs a year and the salary of a good appointment, you and Désiré will be in the highest circles. Consult your friends; you will see what they say.”
“I need only consult my heart, madame.”
“Pooh, pooh! Now you will be talking of that little lady-killer Savinien? Hang it all! you will pay very dear for his name, his little moustache twirled into two curly spikes, and his black hair. A pretty boy he is! A nice business you will make of housekeeping on seven thousand francs a year, and a husband who ran into debt for a hundred thousand in two years in Paris. You don’t know it yet, my child, but all men are alike; and though I say it that shouldn’t, my Désiré is every bit as good as a king’s son.”
“You are forgetting, madame, the danger that your son is in at this moment, which can only be averted by Monsieur de Portenduère’s wish to oblige me. The danger would be quite inevitable if he should learn that you are making such a dishonoring proposal. I may assure you, madame, that I shall be happier with the small income to which you allude than with the wealth you describe to dazzle me. For reasons unknown as yet—for everything will be known, madame—Monsieur Minoret, by his odious persecution, has brought to light the affection which binds me to Monsieur de Portenduère, and which I may openly avow since his mother will give us her blessing; I may tell you that this affection, now sanctioned and legitimate, is all I live for. No lot, however splendid, however elevated, would induce me to change. I love beyond all possibility of repentance or change. Hence it would be a crime, undoubtedly punished, if I were to marry a man to whom I could only bring a heart that is wholly Savinien’s. And, indeed, madame, since you drive me to it, I will say more: even if I did not love Monsieur de Portenduère, I could never make up my mind to go through the sorrows and joys of life as your son’s companion. If Monsieur Savinien has been in debt, you have often paid Monsieur Désiré’s. Our natures have neither the points of resemblance nor of difference which would allow of our living together without covert bitterness. I, perhaps, should not show him the tolerance that a woman owes to her husband; I should therefore soon become a burden to him. Think no more of a marriage of which I am unworthy, and which I may decline without causing you the smallest regret, since, with such advantages, you will not fail to find plenty of girls handsomer than I am, of higher rank, and much richer.”
“Swear to me, child,” said Zélie, “that you will prevent these two young men from taking their journey and fighting.”
“It will, I know, be the greatest sacrifice Monsieur de Portenduère can make for my sake. But my bridal wreath must not be claimed by bloodstained hands.”
“Very well, little cousin; I am much obliged to you, and I hope you may be happy.”
“And I, madame, hope you may realize the promise of your son’s future.”
This reply struck to the mother’s heart; she remembered the predictions of Ursule’s last dream; she stood up, her little eyes fixed on Ursule’s face—so pale, pure, and fair in her half-mourning dress—for Ursule had risen, as a hint to her self-called cousin to leave.
“Then you believe in dreams?” asked Zélie.
“I suffer from them too much not to believe in them.”
“But then—” Zélie began.
“Good morning, madame,” said Ursule, with a bow to Madame Minoret, as she heard the curé’s step.
The Abbé
