saw each of Savinien’s letters in a dream, and never failed to foretell them the very morning, while relating the dream that was their forerunner.
“Now,” she said to the doctor, the fourth time that this fact took place without the curé and the doctor being at all surprised: “I am easy; no matter how far away Savinien may be, if he should be wounded, I shall feel it at that very moment.”
The old doctor remained sunk in deep meditation, which the justice of the peace and the curé judged to be of a painful nature, from the expression of his face.
“What is the matter with you?” they both asked when Ursule had left them alone.
“Will she live?” replied the old doctor. “Will such a delicate, tender flower be able to withstand any heart-sorrows?”
Nevertheless, the “little dreamer,” as the curé nicknamed her, was working ardently; she understood the importance of a good education for a woman of the world, and all the time that was not given to singing, the study of harmony and composition, she spent reading the books that the Abbé Chaperon selected for her from her godfather’s library. Even whilst leading this busy life, she was suffering, but without complaint. Sometimes, she would remain whole hours looking at Savinien’s window. On Sunday, coming from mass, she would follow Madame de Portenduère, contemplating her with tenderness, for, in spite of her harshness, she loved her as being Savinien’s mother. Her piety increased,
