“Poor little thing!” cried the old man.
He patted Ursule’s hand as she laid it on his arm, and led her along the terrace beside the river, where no one could overhear them.
“Why do you say, ‘Poor little thing?’”
“Do you not see that they are afraid of you?”
“But why?”
“All my heirs are just now very uneasy about my conversion; they have doubtless attributed it to the influence you exercise over me, and imagine that I shall disappoint them of my inheritance in order to enrich you.”
“But that would not be?” said Ursule naïvely, looking at her godfather.
“Oh! heavenly consolation of my declining days!” said the old man, lifting up his ward and kissing her on both cheeks. “It is indeed for her and not for myself! O God! that I prayed Thee a moment ago to let me live until the day upon which I shall have entrusted her to some good being who is worthy of her! You will see, my little angel, the farce that the Minorets, Crémières and Massins will come and play here. You want to beautify and prolong my life, you do! Whereas they only think of my death—”
“God preserve us from hating; but, if that is so, —oh! I do indeed despise them!” said Ursule.
“Dinner!” cried La Bougival from the top of the steps, which, on the garden side, were at the end of the passage.
