“Hush, my child! do not calumniate God.  Come, my daughter,” said the old lady, making an effort, “do not exaggerate the harm done by an infamous joke in which no one believes.  I give you my word, you will live and you shall be happy.”

“We shall be happy!” cried Savinien, kneeling beside Ursula and kissing her hand; “my mother has called you her daughter.”

“Enough, enough,” said the doctor feeling his patient’s pulse; “do not kill her with joy.”

At that moment Goupil, who found the street door ajar, opened that of the little salon, and showed his hideous face blazing with thoughts of vengeance which had crowded into his mind as he hurried along.

“Monsieur de Portenduere,” he said, in a voice like the hissing of a viper forced from its hole.

“What do you want?” said Savinien, rising from his knees.

“I have a word to say to you.”

Savinien left the room, and Goupil took him into the little courtyard.

“Swear to me by Ursula’s life, by your honor as a gentleman, to do by me as if I had never told you what I am about to tell.  Do this, and I will reveal to you the cause of the persecutions directed against Mademoiselle Mirouet.”

“Can I put a stop to them?”

“Yes.”

“Can I avenge them?”

“On their author, yes—­on his tool, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because—­I am the tool.”

Savinien turned pale.

“I have just seen Ursula—­” said Goupil.

“Ursula?” said the lover, looking fixedly at the clerk.

“Mademoiselle Mirouet,” continued Goupil, made respectful by Savinien’s tone; “and I would undo with my blood the wrong that has been done; I repent of it.  If you were to kill me, in a duel or otherwise, what good would my blood do you? can you drink it?  At this moment it would poison you.”

The cold reasoning of the man, together with a feeling of eager curiosity, calmed Savinien’s anger.  He fixed his eyes on Goupil with a look which made that moral deformity writhe.

“Who set you at this work?” said the young man.

“Will you swear?”

“What,—­to do you no harm?”

“I wish that you and Mademoiselle Mirouet should not forgive me.”

“She will forgive you,—­I, never!”

“But at least you will forget?”

What terrible power the reason has when it is used to further self-interest.  Here were two men, longing to tear one another in pieces, standing in that courtyard within two inches of each other, compelled to talk together and united by a single sentiment.

“I will forgive you, but I shall not forget.”

“The agreement is off,” said Goupil coldly.  Savinien lost patience.  He applied a blow upon the man’s face which echoed through the courtyard and nearly knocked him down, making Savinien himself stagger.

“It is only what I deserve,” said Goupil, “for committing such a folly.  I thought you more noble than you are.  You have abused the advantage I gave you.  You are in my power now,” he added with a look of hatred.