“Do not think of him any more, my poor child; it is folly!” said the doctor, gravely. “Madame de Portenduère, a Kergarouët, had she only three hundred francs a year to live on, would never consent to the marriage of the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduère, grand-nephew of the late Comte de Portenduère, lieutenant-general of the King’s navy and son of the Vicomte de Portenduère, post-captain, with whom? with Ursule Mirouët, daughter of a bandmaster in a regiment, without fortune, and whose father, alas! now is the moment to tell you, was the bastard of an organist, my father-in-law.”
“Oh! godfather, you are right; we are only equal before God. I will never think of him again but in my prayers!” she said between the sobs excited by this disclosure. “Give him all that you destine for me. What can a poor girl like myself want?—In prison, he!”
“Present all your sorrows to God, and perhaps He will come to our aid.”
Silence reigned for several moments. When Ursule, who had not dared look at her godfather, raised her eyes to his, her heart was deeply touched at seeing the tears rolling down his withered cheeks. Old men’s tears are as alarming as children’s are natural.
“Mon Dieu! What is the matter?” she said, throwing herself at his feet and kissing his hands. “Are you not sure about me?”
“I, who long to satisfy all your wishes, am obliged to cause you the first great sorrow of your
