La Bougival tried to make Ursule eat her breakfast, and saw her take up the bread and leave it, unable to carry it to her lips. When she ventured a remonstrance, Ursule answered her with a gesture of the hand and one terrible “Hush!” spoken as despotically as her tone had hitherto been gentle. La Bougival, who was watching her mistress through the glass window of the door of communication, observed that she was alternately as burning red as the fever that consumed her, and as violet as the chill that followed the fever. This condition grew worse about four o’clock, when Ursule got up every moment to see if Savinien was coming or not coming. Jealousy and doubt strip love of all bashfulness. Ursule, who would not hitherto have allowed her passion to be betrayed by a gesture, put on her hat, her little shawl, and rushed out into her corridor to go and meet Savinien, but some remnant of modesty forced her back into her little parlor. There she wept. When the curé called in the evening, the poor nurse stopped him on the threshold.
“Ah! Monsieur le Curé, I don’t know what is the matter with mademoiselle; she—”
“I know,” replied the priest sadly, thus silencing the frightened nurse.
The Abbé Chaperon then told Ursule what she had not dared ascertain. Madame de Portenduère had gone to dine at Le Rouvre.
“And Savinien?”
“Also.”
Ursule gave a nervous start which made the Abbé
