“You are a murderer!” said Savinien.

“No more than a dagger is a murderer.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Savinien.

“Are you revenged enough?” said Goupil, with ferocious irony; “will you stop here?”

“Reciprocal pardon and forgetfulness,” replied Savinien.

“Give me your hand,” said the clerk, holding out his own.

“It is yours,” said Savinien, swallowing the shame for Ursula’s sake.  “Now speak; who made you do this thing?”

Goupil looked into the scales as it were; on one side was Savinien’s blow, on the other his hatred against Minoret.  For a second he was undecided; then a voice said to him:  “You will be notary!” and he answered:—­

“Pardon and forgetfulness?  Yes, on both sides, monsieur—­”

“Who is persecuting Ursula?” persisted Savinien.

“Minoret.  He would have liked to see her buried.  Why?  I can’t tell you that; but we might find out the reason.  Don’t mix me up in all this; I could do nothing to help you if the others distrusted me.  Instead of annoying Ursula I will defend her; instead of serving Minoret I will try to defeat his schemes.  I live only to ruin him, to destroy him —­I’ll crush him under foot, I’ll dance on his carcass, I’ll make his bones into dominoes!  To-morrow, every wall in Nemours and Fontainebleau and Rouvre shall blaze with the letters, ’Minoret is a thief!’ Yes, I’ll burst him like a gun—­There! we’re allies now by the imprudence of that outbreak!  If you choose I’ll beg Mademoiselle Mirouet’s pardon and tell her I curse the madness which impelled me to injure her.  It may do her good; the abbe and the justice are both there; but Monsieur Bongrand must promise on his honor not to injure my career.  I have a career now.”

“Wait a minute;” said Savinien, bewildered by the revelation.

“Ursula, my child,” he said, returning to the salon, “the author of all your troubles is ashamed of his work; he repents and wishes to ask your pardon in presence of these gentlemen, on condition that all be forgotten.”

“What!  Goupil?” cried the abbe, the justice, and the doctor, all together.

“Keep his secret,” said Ursula, putting a finger on her lips.

Goupil heard the words, saw the gesture, and was touched.

“Mademoiselle,” he said in a troubled voice, “I wish that all Nemours could hear me tell you that a fatal passion has bewildered my brain and led me to commit a crime punishable by the blame of honest men.  What I say now I would be willing to say everywhere, deploring the harm done by such miserable tricks—­which may have hastened your happiness,” he added, rather maliciously, “for I see that Madame de Portenduere is with you.”

“That is all very well, Goupil,” said the abbe, “Mademoiselle forgives you; but you must not forget that you came near being her murderer.”

“Monsieur Bongrand,” said Goupil, addressing the justice of peace.  “I shall negotiate to-night for Lecoeur’s practice; I hope the reparation I have now made will not injure me with you, and that you will back my petition to the bar and the ministry.”