regular but not insipid face, for Nature, by some rare privilege, had given her both purity of line and of physiognomy. The dignity of her life betrayed itself in the admirable harmony between her features, movements and the general expression of her person, which might have served as a model for Trust or Modesty. Her health, although brilliant, did not break out coarsely, so she had a distinguished appearance. Under her light-colored gloves, one might guess at her pretty hands. Her slender, arched feet were delicately shod in bronze kid shoes fringed with brown silk. Her blue sash, distended by a little flat watch and her blue purse with golden tassels, attracted the eyes of all the women.
“He has given her a new watch!” said Madame Crémière, squeezing her husband’s arm.
“What! is that Ursule?” cried Désiré, “I never should have recognized her.”
“Well, my dear uncle, you are causing a sensation,” said the postmaster, pointing to the whole town drawn up in two lines on each side of the old man’s path, “everyone wants to see you.”
“Is it the Abbé Chaperon or Mademoiselle Ursule who has converted you, uncle?” said Massin with jesuitical obsequiousness, bowing to the doctor and his protégée.
“It is Ursule,” said the old man dryly, walking all the time like a man beset.
Even if the evening before, whilst finishing his whist with Ursule, the doctor of Nemours and
