“I do not love him, godfather, we have never spoken to each other,” she replied, sobbing. “But to hear that this poor young man is in prison, and to know that you harshly refuse to get him out, you who are so good!”
“Ursule, my good little angel, if you do not love him, why do you put a red dot before the day of Saint-Savinien as well as before the day of Saint-Denis? Come now, tell me the minutest incidents of this love affair.”
Ursule reddened, restrained her tears, and there was a moment’s silence between her and her uncle.
“Are you afraid of your father, your friend, your mother, your physician, your godfather, whose heart has for several days been made more tender than it was before—?”
“Well then, dear godfather,” she rejoined, “I will open my soul to you. In the month of May, Monsieur Savinien came to see his mother. Up till that journey, I had never paid him the least attention. When he left to live in Paris, I was a child, and I swear to you, I could see no difference between a young man and such as you, unless it were that I loved you, without dreaming that I could possibly love anybody better. Monsieur Savinien arrived by the mail-coach on the eve of his mother’s birthday, without our knowledge. At seven in the morning, after having said my prayers, whilst opening the window to air my room, I saw the windows of Monsieur Savinien’s room open, and Monsieur Savinien in his dressing-gown, busy shaving, and putting a
