Ursule with him, and seemed so hurried, that they were left alone.
“Why did you speak so harshly to them? It is not right,” said Ursule, shaking his arm rebelliously.
“Before, as after my entry into religion, my hatred will be the same for all hypocrites. I have done good to them all, I have asked no gratitude from them; but not one of those people sent you a flower on your birthday, the only day I celebrate.”
At a fairly long distance from the doctor and Ursule, Madame de Portenduère was dragging herself along apparently overcome with grief. She belonged to that class of old women whose dress revives the spirit of the last century, who wear violet gowns, with flat sleeves and cut in a fashion which is only seen in the portraits of Madame Lebrun; they wear black lace mantles, and old-fashioned hats in keeping with their slow, solemn step; one would think they were always walking with their hoops, and that they still felt them round them, like those who have had an arm cut off sometimes move the hand that is lost; their long, pale faces, with great bruised eyes, and withered foreheads are not without a certain melancholy grace, in spite of the towering hair and flattened curls; they wrap their faces up in old laces that refuse any longer to wave about the cheeks; but all these ruins are overruled by an incredible dignity of manner and looks. This old lady’s wrinkled, red eyes told plainly enough that she had been crying during mass. She was going along like a person in trouble, and seemed
