he had been fond of; his big easy-chair à la duchesse, his study furniture and his backgammon table, as well as the piano he had given her. In the midst of these things almost quickened into life by her regrets, the two old friends remaining to her, the Abbé Chaperon and Monsieur Bongrand—the only persons she would receive—were like two living memories of her past life, to which she linked her present by the love that her godfather had blest. Before long, the sadness of her thoughts—insensibly softened—in some measure tinged the hours and bound all these things anew in indefinable harmony; there was exquisite cleanliness, the most precise symmetry in the arrangement of the furniture, a few flowers given every day by Savinien, elegant trifles, a hush that the young girl’s habits communicated to objects and which made her home lovely. When breakfast and mass were over, she would study and sing; then she would embroider, sitting at her window overlooking the street. At four o’clock, Savinien, returning from the walk he used to take in all weathers, would find the window half-open, and would seat himself on the outer sill for a half-hour’s chat with her. In the evening the curé and the justice of the peace used to visit her, but she never would allow Savinien to accompany them. In fact, she would not accept Madame de Portenduère’s proposal, sent through her son, that Ursule should go to live with her. Moreover, the young girl and La Bougival lived in the strictest economy; altogether, they did not spend more than
