other of these hallucinations.  Therefore I do not blame you.  The sensations you feel, the rush of sensibility which has come from its hidden source upon your heart and upon your mind, the happiness with which you think of Savinien, are all natural.  But, my darling child, society demands, as our good abbe has told us, the sacrifice of many natural inclinations.  The destinies of men and women differ.  I was able to choose Ursula Mirouet for my wife; I could go to her and say that I loved her; but a young girl is false to herself if she asks the love of the man she loves.  A woman has not the right which men have to seek the accomplishment of her hopes in open day.  Modesty is to her—­above all to you, my Ursula,—­the insurmountable barrier which protects the secrets of her heart.  Your hesitation in confiding to me these first emotions shows me you would suffer cruel torture rather than admit to Savinien—­”

“Oh, yes!” she said.

“But, my child, you must do more.  You must repress these feelings; you must forget them.”

“Why?”

“Because, my darling, you must love only the man you marry; and, even if Monsieur Savinien de Portenduere loved you—­”

“I never thought of it.”

“But listen:  even if he loved you, even if his mother asked me to give him your hand, I should not consent to the marriage until I had subjected him to a long and thorough probation.  His conduct has been such as to make families distrust him and to put obstacles between himself and heiresses which cannot be easily overcome.”

A soft smile came in place of tears on Ursula’s sweet face as she said, “Then poverty is good sometimes.”

The doctor could find no answer to such innocence.

“What has he done, godfather?” she asked.

“In two years, my treasure, he has incurred one hundred and twenty thousand francs of debt.  He has had the folly to get himself locked up in Saint-Pelagie, the debtor’s prison; an impropriety which will always be, in these days, a discredit to him.  A spendthrift who is willing to plunge his poor mother into poverty and distress might cause his wife, as your poor father did, to die of despair.”

“Don’t you think he will do better?” she asked.

“If his mother pays his debts he will be penniless, and I don’t know a worse punishment than to be a nobleman without means.”

This answer made Ursula thoughtful; she dried her tears, and said:—­

“If you can save him, save him, godfather; that service will give you a right to advise him; you can remonstrate—­”

“Yes,” said the doctor, imitating her, “and then he can come here, and the old lady will come here, and we shall see them, and—­”

“I was thinking only of him,” said Ursula, blushing.

“Don’t think of him, my child; it would be folly,” said the doctor gravely.  “Madame de Portenduere, who was a Kergarouet, would never consent, even if she had to live on three hundred francs a year, to the marriage of her son, the Vicomte Savinien de Portenduere, with whom?—­with Ursula Mirouet, daughter of a bandsman in a regiment, without money, and whose father—­alas!  I must now tell you all—­was the bastard son of an organist, my father-in-law.”