she remained in profound silence, raised her eyes to Heaven and wept no more; she was awaiting fresh shocks with fervent prayers and intercessions for him who was dealing death to her.
“I am glad not to be able to go down to the parlor,” she said to Messieurs Bongrand and Chaperon, who left her as little as possible, “he would come, and I feel I am unworthy of the looks with which he always blesses me! Do you think he doubts me?”
“Why, if Savinien does not discover the author of these infamies, he intends going to demand the interference of the police in Paris,” said Bongrand.
“The unknown must know that I am wounded to death,” she replied, “they will stay quiet.”
The curé, Bongrand and Savinien were lost in conjecture and supposition. Savinien, Tiennette, La Bougival and two persons devoted to the curé turned spy and were on their guard for a week; but Goupil, who was plotting alone, was not to be betrayed by any indiscretion. The justice of the peace was the first to think that the author of the mischief was afraid at his own work. Ursule was growing as white and feeble as consumptive young English girls. Everyone relaxed his attention. There were no more serenades or letters. Savinien attributed the abandonment of these obnoxious means to the secret investigations of the public prosecutor, to whom he had sent the letters received by Ursule, by his mother and himself. This truce did not last long. One morning, toward the middle
