“My dear pastor, I am a little child again, I belong to you and give you up my soul.”
Ursule covered her godfather’s hand with joyful tears and kisses. The old man took the child upon his knees and called her gaily his godmother. The curé, completely moved, recited the Veni, Creator, in a sort of religious effusion. These three kneeling Christians used this hymn as their evening prayer.
“What is the matter?” asked La Bougival, astonished.
“At last my godfather believes in God,” replied Ursule.
“Ah! upon my faith! he only needed that to be quite perfect,” cried the old Bressane, crossing herself with grave naïveté.
“Dear doctor,” said the good priest, “you will soon understand the greatness of religion and the necessity of its observances; you will find its philosophy, as regards its humanity, much loftier than that of the most daring intelligence.”
The curé, who displayed an almost childish delight, then agreed to catechise the old man whilst conferring with him twice a week. Thus, the conversion attributed to Ursule and to a spirit of sordid calculation was spontaneous. The curé, who had refrained for fourteen years from touching the wounds of this heart, even whilst deploring them, had been applied to as one sends for the surgeon when one knows one’s self to be hurt. Since this scene, every night the prayers pronounced by Ursule had been said together. From time to time the old man had
