“If you can save him, save him, godfather; that service will give you a right to advise him; you can remonstrate—”
“Yes,” said the doctor, imitating her, “and then he can come here, and the old lady will come here, and we shall see them, and—”
“I was thinking only of him,” said Ursula, blushing.
“Don’t think of him, my child; it would be folly,” said the doctor gravely. “Madame de Portenduere, who was a Kergarouet, would never consent, even if she had to live on three hundred francs a year, to the marriage of her son, the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduere, with whom?—with Ursula Mirouet, daughter of a bandsman in a regiment, without money, and whose father—alas! I must now tell you all—was the bastard son of an organist, my father-in-law.”
“O godfather! you are right; we are equal only in the sight of God. I will not think of him again—except in my prayers,” she said, amid the sobs which this painful revelation excited. “Give him what you meant to give me—what can a poor girl like me want?—ah, in prison, he!—”
“Offer to God your disappointments, and perhaps he will help us.”
There was silence for some minutes. When Ursula, who at first did not dare to look at her godfather, raised her eyes, her heart was deeply moved to see the tears which were rolling down his withered cheeks. The tears of old men are as terrible as those of children are natural.
“Oh what is it?” cried Ursula, flinging herself at his feet and kissing his hands. “Are you not sure of me?”
“I, who longed to gratify all your wishes, it is I who am obliged to cause the first great sorrow of your life!” he said. “I suffer as much as you. I never wept before, except when I lost my children—and, Ursula—Yes,” he cried suddenly, “I will do all you desire!”
Ursula gave him, through her tears a look that was vivid as lightning. She smiled.