“A woman of the people to talk like this!” cried the doctor.

“In the state she is in all persons speak with extraordinary perception,” said Bouvard.

“But who is it that Ursula loves?”

“Ursula does not know that she loves,” said the woman with a shake of the head; “she is too angelic to know what love is; but her mind is occupied by him; she thinks of him; she tries to escape the thought; but she returns to it in spite of her will to abstain.—­She is at the piano—­”

“But who is he?”

“The son of a lady who lives opposite.”

“Madame de Portenduere?”

“Portenduere, did you say?” replied the sleeper.  “Perhaps so.  But there’s no danger; he is not in the neighbourhood.”

“Have they spoken to each other?” asked the doctor.

“Never.  They have looked at one another.  She thinks him charming.  He is, in fact, a fine man; he has a good heart.  She sees him from her window; they see each other in church.  But the young man no longer thinks of her.”

“His name?”

“Ah! to tell you that I must read it, or hear it.  He is named Savinien; she has just spoken his name; she thinks it sweet to say; she has looked in the almanac for his fete-day and marked a red dot against it,—­child’s play, that.  Ah! she will love well, with as much strength as purity; she is not a girl to love twice; love will so dye her soul and fill it that she will reject all other sentiments.”

“Where do you see that?”

“In her.  She will know how to suffer; she inherits that; her father and her mother suffered much.”

The last words overcame the doctor, who felt less shaken than surprised.  It is proper to state that between her sentences the woman paused for several minutes, during which time her attention became more and more concentrated.  She was seen to see; her forehead had a singular aspect; an inward effort appeared there; it seemed to clear or cloud by some mysterious power, the effects of which Minoret had seen in dying persons at moments when they appeared to have the gift of prophecy.  Several times she made gestures which resembled those of Ursula.

“Question her,” said the mysterious stranger, to Minoret, “she will tell you secrets you alone can know.”

“Does Ursula love me?” asked Minoret.

“Almost as much as she loves God,” was the answer.  “But she is very unhappy at your unbelief.  You do not believe in God; as if you could prevent his existence!  His word fills the universe.  You are the cause of her only sorrow.—­Hear! she is playing scales; she longs to be a better musician than she is; she is provoked with herself.  She is thinking, ’If I could sing, if my voice were fine, it would reach his ear when he is with his mother.’”

Doctor Minoret took out his pocket-book and noted the hour.

“Tell me what seeds she planted?”

“Mignonette, sweet-peas, balsams—­”