bandmaster, once a singer at the Italiens, an organist’s natural son, and her existence depended upon a doctor’s kindness.
“What is the matter, my child?” said the old lady, making her sit down beside her.
“Madame, I am confused at the honor you deign to show me—”
“Eh! little one,” replied Madame de Portenduère in her most sour tone, “I know how much your guardian loves you and I want to please him, for he brought me back the prodigal son.”
“But, my dear mother,” said Savinien, wounded to the heart at seeing Ursule’s quick flush and the terrible contraction with which she repressed her tears, “even were we under no obligation to Monsieur le Chevalier Minoret, it seems to me that we could always feel happy at the pleasure mademoiselle gives us by accepting your invitation.”
And the young nobleman squeezed the doctor’s hand significantly, adding:
“You wear, monsieur, the order of Saint-Michel, the oldest order in France and that always confers nobility.”
Ursule’s exceeding beauty, to which her almost hopeless love had for several days lent that depth which great painters have imparted to those of their portraits in which the soul is markedly conspicuous, had suddenly struck Madame de Portenduère, whilst causing her to suspect an ambitious calculation beneath the doctor’s generosity. And so the sentence which Savinien had then answered was said
