thousand francs, who will make you happy and of whom you will be proud, but who will be noble only in heart.”
“Eh! doctor!” cried the young man, “nowadays there is no longer a nobility, there is only an aristocracy.”
“Go and pay your debts of honor and return here; I am going to engage the front seat of the diligence, for my ward is with me,” said the old man.
At six o’clock that night, the three travelers left in the Ducler from the Rue Dauphine. Ursule, who had put on a veil, never spoke a word. After having, through an impulse of superficial gallantry, sent that kiss which did as much havoc with Ursule as a whole book of love would have done, Savinien had entirely forgotten the doctor’s ward in the torments of his debts, and, besides, his hopeless love for Émilie de Kergarouët did not allow him to give a thought to a few looks exchanged with a little girl of Nemours; and so he did not recognize her when the old man helped her up first and placed himself beside her so as to separate her from the young viscount.
“I shall have some accounts to give you,” said the doctor to the young man, “I am bringing you all your old papers.”
“I very nearly did not come,” said Savinien, “for I had to order some clothes and linen; the Philistines have robbed me of everything, and I am arriving like the prodigal son.”
However interesting the subjects of conversation
