Isaure’s friends listened respectfully to her prayer; but the glances which they exchanged betrayed their emotion at the sight of that girl unconsciously invoking God’s forgiveness for her father.
Their first thought was to remove Isaure from that horrible spot, where she had passed nearly three months. The old shepherd returned home just then; they gave him money and ordered him to bury Savigny at the entrance to the path, and to see that the unhappy man’s grave was respected so long as he lived.
Then they set out for the little valley. Vaillant ran and leaped and gambolled about in front of his mistress, and you may guess how they caressed and fondled him, seeking to reward him to whom the finding of Isaure was due. The young girl could not credit her good fortune; she pressed the baron’s hand and Alfred’s; she looked at Edouard, and in that look all her love was expressed.
At last they saw the cottage and the White House once more; they took up their abode in the latter and abandoned themselves to the joy of being united. There Isaure learned that her protector was no longer opposed to her union with Edouard, and that she could without fear give herself up to the pleasure of loving.
After three months of separation and suffering, it is natural to be in a hurry to be happy; Edouard did not wish to leave the White House except with the title of Isaure’s husband. So that the marriage was celebrated in Auvergne, quietly, without festivities, without other guests than love and friendship.
The young girl was married under the name of Isaure Gervais; she thought that the last name was her father’s, and all her friends were careful not to undeceive her. But Edouard found in his bride no less virtues and lovable qualities than charms and sweetness of character; he considered that all these were worth fully as much as a long genealogy, and he said, parodying the line in Mérope:
"She who knows how to win love needs no ancestors."
XXXIII
THREE YEARS LATER
About three years had passed since the events we have described; a short, stout individual, enveloped in an ample redingote à la propriétaire, in the pockets of which his hands were buried, was crossing Rue Vivienne about three in the afternoon. After glancing at the new books displayed in the shop of Ambroise Dupont et Cie, and admiring the fine edition of the poem, Napoléon en Egypte, by Messieurs Barthélemy and Méry, he went skipping along and was about to enter Passage Colbert, when he came into collision with a lady who was just coming therefrom.
This lady, whose manners were very free and easy, wore a pretty pink bonnet; she feared that, by running against her, the gentleman had disarranged it; she uttered an impatient exclamation and was about to rebuke him for his carelessness, when, happening to glance at him, she shouted with laughter, to which he replied by a cry of surprise: