Portenduère, who is in prison for debt, for he did not have, like Monsieur du Rouvre, a Monsieur Bongrand to defend him, she grew pale, staggered—Could she be in love with him? Might there be between them—?”
“At fifteen?” rejoined Bongrand, interrupting Dionis.
“She was born in February, 1814, she will be sixteen years old in four months.”
“She has never seen her neighbor,” replied the justice of the peace. “No, it was an attack.”
“A heart attack,” answered the notary.
The notary was delighted enough at this discovery, which might prevent the dreaded marriage in extremis with which the doctor could balk his heirs, whilst Bongrand saw his castles in the air overthrown; for a long time, he had been thinking of marrying his son to Ursule.
“If the poor child were in love with this fellow, it would be a misfortune for her; Madame de Portenduère is a Breton and biased as to her nobility,” returned the justice of the peace after a pause.
“Happily—for the honor of the Portenduères,” replied the notary, who was near betraying himself.
Let us do the good honest justice of the peace the justice of saying that whilst coming from the gate to the salon he abandoned, not without pity for his son, the hope he had fostered of one day calling Ursule his daughter. He reckoned on giving his son six thousand francs income upon the day when he should be appointed deputy; and, if
