life impossible for this angelic nature, if she had to go out into the world; but I shall not die without having secured her from coldness, indifference and hatred.”
“Godfather!—I beg of you—enough. I do not suffer here,” she said, braving Madame de Portenduère’s look rather than give too much meaning to her words by looking at Savinien.
“I do not know, madame,” then said Savinien to his mother, “whether Mademoiselle Ursule suffers, but I know that you torture me.”
Upon hearing this remark forced from this generous young man by his mother’s manners, Ursule turned pale and begged Madame de Portenduère to excuse her; she rose, took her guardian’s arm, curtsied, went out, returned home, hastily rushed into her godfather’s salon, where she sat down near the piano, buried her head in her hands and burst into tears.
“Why did you not leave the guidance of your feelings to my old experience, cruel child?” cried the doctor in despair. “The nobility never think themselves indebted to us bourgeois. By serving them, we do our duty, that is all. Besides, the old lady saw that Savinien was looking at you with pleasure, she is afraid that he may love you.”
“After all, he is saved!” she said, “but to try to humiliate a man like you—”
“Wait for me, little one.”
When the doctor returned to Madame de Portenduère’s he found Dionis there, accompanied by
