“But he may perish,” she said, looking at the doctor with a white face.
“Lovers, like drunkards, have a god of their own,” replied the doctor, jokingly.
During the night, unknown to her godfather, the poor little thing, with the help of La Bougival, cut off enough of her long and beautiful fair hair to make a chain; then, on the third day, she coaxed her music master, old Schmucke, to promise to see that her hair was not changed and that the chain was finished for the following Sunday. Upon his return, Savinien informed the doctor and his ward that he had signed his engagement. On the twenty-fifth he was to be at Brest. Invited by the doctor to dine on the eighteenth, he spent nearly two whole days at his house; and, in spite of the most prudent recommendations, the two lovers could not help betraying their good understanding to the eyes of the curé, the justice of the peace, the Nemours doctor and La Bougival.
“Children,” said the old man, “you are risking your happiness by not keeping the secret to yourselves.”
At last, on his birthday, after mass, during which they had exchanged several looks, Savinien, watched by Ursule, crossed the road and came into the little garden where they both found themselves almost alone. The doctor was indulgently reading his newspapers in the Chinese pavilion.
“Dear Ursule,” said Savinien, “will you make
