Dear Ursula,—­There is a young man in Nemours who idolizes you.  He cannot see you working at your window without emotions which prove to him that his love will last through life.  This young man is gifted with an iron will and a spirit of perseverance which nothing can discourage.  Receive his addresses favorably, for his intentions are pure, and he humbly asks your hand with a sincere desire to make you happy.  His fortune, already suitable, is nothing to that which he will make for you when you are once his wife.  You shall be received at court as the wife of a minister and one of the first ladies in the land.

  As he sees you every day (without your being able to see him) put
  a pot of La Bougival’s pinks in your window and he will understand
  from that that he has your permission to present himself.

Ursula burned the letter and said nothing about it to Savinien.  Two days later she received another letter in the following language:—­

“You do wrong, my dear Ursula, not to answer one who loves you better than life itself.  You think you will marry Savinien—­you are very much mistaken.  That marriage will not take place.  Madame de Portenduere went this morning to Rouvre to ask for the hand of Mademoiselle Clementine for her son.  Savinien will yield in the end.  What objection can he make?  The uncles of the young lady are willing to guarantee their fortune to her; it amounts to over sixty thousand francs a year.”

This letter agonized Ursula’s heart and afflicted her with the tortures of jealousy, a form of suffering hitherto unknown to her, but which to this fine organization, so sensitive to pain, threw a pall over the present and over the future, and even over the past.  From the moment when she received this fatal paper she lay on the doctor’s sofa, her eyes fixed on space, lost in a dreadful dream.  In an instant the chill of death had come upon her warm young life.  Alas, worse than that! it was like the awful awakening of the dead to the sense that there was no God,—­the masterpiece of that strange genius called Jean Paul.  Four times La Bougival called her to breakfast.  When the faithful creature tried to remonstrate, Ursula waved her hand and answered in one harsh word, “Hush!” said despotically, in strange contrast to her usual gentle manner.  La Bougival, watching her mistress through the glass door, saw her alternately red with a consuming fever, and blue as if a shudder of cold had succeeded that unnatural heat.  This condition grew worse and worse up to four o’clock; then she rose to see if Savinien were coming, but he did not come.  Jealousy and distrust tear all reserves from love.  Ursula, who till then had never made one gesture by which her love could be guessed, now took her hat and shawl and rushed into the passage as if to go and meet him.  But an afterthought of modesty sent her back to her little salon, where she stayed and wept.  When the abbe arrived in the evening La Bougival met him at the door.