smile while thanking him for so faithfully coming to share her sorrows.
“My child,” said Monsieur Bongrand, bringing Ursule a bulky packet, “one of your uncle’s heiresses has taken out of your cupboard all that you will want; for it will be a few days before the seals will be removed, and you will then recover whatever belongs to you. In your own interests, I have put the seals on your room.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” she replied, going to him and squeezing his hand. “Look at him once more; would you not think he was asleep?”
The old man at that moment had that bloom of transient beauty which rests on the faces of those who have died painlessly, he seemed radiant.
“Did he give you nothing secretly before dying?” whispered the justice of the peace to Ursule.
“Nothing,” she said, “he only spoke of a letter—”
“Good! it will be found,” rejoined Bongrand. “So it is very lucky for you that they insisted upon the seals.”
At dawn, Ursule bade farewell to this house in which her happy childhood had been spent, and especially to the modest room where her love had commenced, and which was so dear to her that in the midst of her dismal grief she shed tears of regret for this peaceful, sweet abode. After having, for the last time, alternately contemplated her windows and Savinien, she went out to go to the inn, accompanied by La Bougival, who was carrying her bundle, by the justice of the peace, who gave her his
