the notary Dionis remarked a change in the manners and attitude of this man who had formerly been so easy-going.
“I don’t know what is the matter with Minoret, he is all odd!” said his wife, from whom he had resolved to hide his bold stroke.
Everybody attributed Minoret’s weariness—for the thought reflected in his face was like that of weariness—to the entire cessation of any occupation, to the sudden change from an active to a private life. Whilst Minoret was considering how he could ruin Ursule’s life, not a day went by without La Bougival’s making some allusion to her foster daughter as to the fortune she ought to have had, or would compare her wretched condition to that which her late master had intended for her and of which he had spoken to her, La Bougival.
“After all,” she said, “I am not saying this from any selfishness, but would not my late master, good as he was, have left me some little thing—?”
“Am I not here?” replied Ursule, forbidding La Bougival to say another word to her on this subject.
She did not want thoughts of self-interest to sully the kindly, mournful and sweet memories which went with the noble face of the old doctor, a sketch of whom, in black and white crayons, done by her drawing-master, adorned her little parlor. To her fresh and beautiful imagination, the sight of this sketch was always enough to bring back her godfather, whom she thought of ceaselessly, especially when she was surrounded by the things
