eighty thousand francs a year, and the cock of Nemours!” he said.
“Is it a sacrifice then?” she replied. “Are there any sacrifices when one truly loves? And is there any merit whatever in refusing the son of a man whom we despise? However others may make virtues of their dislikes, that must not be the morality of a girl brought up by a Jordy, an Abbé Chaperon and our dear doctor!” she said, looking at the portrait.
Bongrand took Ursule’s hand and kissed it.
“Do you know,” said the justice of the peace to the curé, when they were in the street, “what Madame Minoret has just done?”
“What?” replied the priest, examining the justice with a shrewd look that appeared to be merely curious.
“She wanted to make arrangements for restitution.”
“Then you think—!” rejoined the Abbé Chaperon.
“I do not think, I am certain, and look here.”
The justice of the peace pointed to Minoret, who was approaching them on his way home, for, upon leaving Ursule’s, the two friends went back up the Grand’Rue of Nemours.
“Obliged as I have been to plead in the Assize Courts, I have naturally studied remorse thoroughly, but I have never seen anything to equal this! What is it that has given this flaccidity, this pallor to cheeks that used be as tight as a drum, bursting with
