*
From the day upon which the most infamous calumny had sullied her life, Ursule, a victim to one of those unaccountable illnesses that have their seat in the soul, was rapidly traveling toward Death. Extremely pale, speaking a few slow and feeble words at rare intervals only, casting looks of gentle indifference, everything about her, even her brow, betrayed one devouring thought. She believed that the ideal wreath of pure flowers which, at all times, people have thought to see on a virgin’s head, had fallen. In the silence and space she was listening to the shameful gossip, the spiteful comments and chuckles of the little town. The burden was too heavy for her, and her innocence was too delicate to survive such bruises. She did not complain, a mournful smile was always on her lips, and her eyes were often raised to Heaven as if appealing from man’s injustice to the Lord of angels. When Goupil got back to Nemours, Ursule had been carried from her room to the ground-floor in the arms of La Bougival and the doctor of Nemours. A great event was taking place. After having learnt that this young girl was dying like an ermine, and furthermore that her honor was less harmed than was Clarissa Harlowe’s, Madame de Portenduère was coming to see her and comfort her. The sight of her son, who had spent the whole of the preceding
