ANOTHER MARTYR TO MILLIONS
Three weeks have glided by; another day and Jean will be obliged to leave
with his regiment for the artillery practice. He will lead the life of a
soldier. Ten days' march on the highroad going and returning, and ten
days in the camp at Cercottes in the forest of Orleans. The regiment
will return to Souvigny on the 10th of August.
Jean is no longer tranquil; Jean is no longer happy. He sees approach
with impatience, and at the same time with terror, the moment of his
departure. With impatience--for he suffers an absolute martyrdom, he
longs to escape from it; with terror--for to pass twenty days without
seeing her, without speaking to her, without her in a word--what will
become of him? Her! It is Bettina; he adores her!
Since when? Since the first day, since that meeting in the month of May
in the Cure's garden. That is the truth; but Jean struggles against and
resists that truth. He believes that he has only loved Bettina since the
day when the two chatted gayly, amicably, in the little drawing-room.
She was sitting on the blue couch near the widow, and, while talking,
amused herself with repairing the disorder of the dress of a Japanese
princess, one of Bella's dolls, which she had left on a chair, and which
Bettina had mechanically taken up.
Why had the fancy come to Miss Percival to talk to him of those two young
girls whom he might have married? The question of itself was not at all
embarrassing to him. He had replied that, if he had not then felt any
taste for marriage, it was because his interviews with these two girls
had not caused him any emotion or any agitation. He had smiled in
speaking thus, but a few minutes after he smiled no more. This emotion,
this agitation, he had suddenly learned to know them. Jean did not
deceive himself; he acknowledged the depth of the wound; it had
penetrated to his very heart's core.
Jean, however, did not abandon himself to this emotion. He said to
himself:
"Yes, it is serious, very serious, but I shall recover from it."
He sought an excuse for his madness; he laid the blame on circumstances.
For ten days this delightful girl had been too much with him, too much
with him alone! How could he resist such a temptation? He was
intoxicated with her charm, with her grace and beauty. But the next day
a troop of visitors would arrive at Longueval, and there would be an end
of this dangerous intimacy. He would have courage; he would keep at a
distance; he would lose himself in the crowd, would see Bettina less
often and less familiarly. To see her no more was a thought he could not
support! He wished to remain Bettina's friend, since he could be nothing
but her friend; for there was another thought which scarcely entered the
mind of Jean. This thought did not appear extravagant to him; it
appeared monstrous. In the whole world there was not a more honorable
man than Jean, and he felt for Bettina's money horror, positively horror.
From the 25th of June the crowd had been in possession of Longueval.
Mrs. Norton arrived with her son, Daniel Norton; and Mrs. Turner with her
son, Philip Turner. Both of them, the young Philip and the young Daniel,
formed a part of the famous brotherhood of the thirty-four. They were
old friends, Bettina had treated them as such, and had declared to them,
with perfect frankness, that they were losing their time. However, they
were not discouraged, and formed the centre of a little court which was
always very eager and assiduous around Bettina.
Paul de Lavardens had made his appearance on this scene, and had very
rapidly become everybody's friend. He had received the brilliant and
complicated education of a young man destined for pleasure. As soon as
it was a question only of amusement, riding, croquet, lawn-tennis, polo,
dancing, charades, and theatricals, he was ready for everything. He
excelled in everything. His superiority was evident, unquestionable.
Paul became, in a short time, by general consent, the director and
organizer of the fetes at Longueval.
Bettina had not a moment of hesitation. Jean introduced Paul de
Lavardens, and the latter had scarcely concluded the customary little
compliment when Miss Percival, leaning toward her sister, whispered in
her ear:
"The thirty-fifth!"
However, she received Paul very kindly, so kindly that for several days
he had the weakness to misunderstand her. He believed that it was his
personal graces which had obtained for him this very flattering and
cordial reception. It was a great mistake. Paul de Lavardens had been
introduced by Jean; he was the friend of Jean. In Bettina's eyes,
therein lay all his merit.
Mrs. Scott's castle was open house; people were not invited for one
evening only, but for every evening, and Paul, with enthusiasm, came
every evening! His dream was at last realized; he had, found Paris at
Longueval.
But Paul was neither blind nor a fool. No doubt he was, on Miss
Percival's part, the object of very particular attention and favor.
It pleased her to talk long, very long, alone with him. But what was the
eternal, the inexhaustible subject of their conversations? Jean, again
Jean, and always Jean!
Paul was thoughtless, dissipated, frivolous, but he became in earnest
when Jean was in question; he knew how to appreciate him, he knew how to
love him. Nothing to him was sweeter, nothing was easier, than to say of
the friend of his childhood all the good that he thought of him, and as
he saw that Bettina listened with great pleasure, Paul gave free rein to
his eloquence.
Only--and he was quite right--Paul wished one evening to reap the benefit
of his chivalrous conduct. He had just been talking for a quarter of an
hour with Bettina. The conversation finished, he went to look for Jean
at the other end of the drawing-room, and said to him:
"You left the field open to me, and I have made a bold stroke for Miss
Percival."
"Well, you have no reason to be discontented with the result of the
enterprise. You are the best friends in the world."
"Yes, certainly, pretty well, but not quite satisfactory. There is
nothing more amiable or more charming than Miss Percival, and really it
is very good of me to acknowledge it; for, between ourselves, she makes
me play an ungrateful and ridiculous role, a role which is quite unsuited
to my age. I am, you will admit, of the lover's age, and not of that of
the confidant."
"Of the confidant!"
"Yes, my dear fellow, of the confidant! That is my occupation in this
house. You were looking at us just now. Oh, I have very good eyes; you
were looking at us. Well, do you know what we were talking about? Of
you, my dear fellow, of you, of you again, of nothing but you. And it is
the same thing every evening; there is no end to the questions:
"'You were brought up together? You took lessons together from the Abbe
Constantin?'
"'Will he soon be Captain? And then?'
"'Commandant.'
"'And then?'
"'Colonel, etc., etc., etc.'
"Ah! I can tell you, my friend Jean, if you liked, you might dream a
very delicious dream."
Jean was annoyed, almost angry. Paul was much astonished at this sudden
attack of irritability.
"What is the matter? Have I said anything--"
"I beg your pardon; I was wrong. But how could you take such an absurd
idea into your head?"
"Absurd! I don't see it. I have entertained the absurd idea on my own
account."
"Ah! you--"
"Why 'Ah! you?' If I have had it you may have it; you are better worth
it than I am."
"Paul, I entreat you!"
Jean's discomfort was evident.
"We will not speak of it again; we will not speak of it again. What I
wanted to say, in short, is that Miss Percival perhaps thinks I am
agreeable; but as to considering me seriously, that little person will
never commit such a folly. I must fall back upon Mrs. Scott, but without
much confidence. You see, Jean, I shall amuse myself in this house, but
I shall make nothing out of it."
Paul de Lavardens did fall back upon Mrs. Scott, but the next day was
surprised to stumble upon Jean, who had taken to placing himself very
regularly in Mrs. Scott's particular circle, for like Bettina she had
also her little court. But what Jean sought there was a protection, a
shelter, a refuge.
The day of that memorable conversation on marriage without love, Bettina
had also, for the first time, felt suddenly awake in her that necessity
of loving which sleeps, but not very profoundly, in the hearts of all
young girls. The sensation had been the same, at the same moment, in the
soul of Bettina and the soul of Jean. He, terrified, had cast it
violently from him. She, on the contrary, had yielded, in all the
simplicity of her perfect innocence, to this flood of emotion and of
tenderness.
She had waited for love. Could this be love? The man who was to be her
thought, her life, her soul--could this be he--this Jean? Why not? She
knew him better than she knew all those who, during the past year, had
haunted her for her fortune, and in what she knew of him there was
nothing to discourage the love of a good girl. Far from it!
Both of them did well; both of them were in the way of duty and of truth
--she, in yielding; he, in resisting; she, in not thinking for a moment
of the obscurity of Jean; he, in recoiling before her mountain of wealth
as he would have recoiled before a crime; she, in thinking that she had
no right to parley with love; he, in thinking he had no right to parley
with honor.
This is why, in proportion as Bettina showed herself more tender, and
abandoned herself with more frankness to the first call of love--this is
why Jean became, day by day, more gloomy and more restless. He was not
only afraid of loving; he was afraid of being loved.
He ought to have remained away; he should not have come near her. He had
tried; he could not; the temptation was too strong; it carried him away;
so he came. She would come to him, her hands extended, a smile on her
lips, and her heart in her eyes. Everything in her said:
"Let us try to love each other, and if we can love, we will!"
Fear seized him. Those two hands which offered themselves to the
pressure of his hands, he hardly dared touch them. He tried to escape
those eyes which, tender and smiling, anxious and curious, tried to meet
his eyes. He trembled before the necessity of speaking to Bettina,
before the necessity of listening to her.
It was then that Jean took refuge with Mrs. Scott, and it was then that
Mrs. Scott gathered those uncertain, agitated, troubled words which were
not addressed to her, and which she took for herself, nevertheless. It
would have been difficult not to be mistaken.
For of these still vague and confused sentiments which agitated her,
Bettina had as yet said nothing. She guarded and caressed the secret of
her budding love, as a miser guards and caresses the first coins of his
treasure. The day when she should see clearly into her own heart; the
day that she should be sure that she loved--ah! she would speak that
day, and how happy she should be to tell all to Susie!
Mrs. Scott had ended by attributing to herself this melancholy of Jean,
which, day by day, took a more marked character. She was flattered by
it--a woman is never displeased at thinking herself beloved--and vexed at
the same time. She held Jean in great esteem, in great affection; but
she was greatly distressed at the thought that if he were sad and
unhappy, it was because of her.
Susie was, besides, conscious of her own innocence. With others she had
sometimes been coquettish, very coquettish. To torment them a little,
was that such a great crime? They had nothing to do, they were good-for-
nothing, it occupied them while it amused her. It helped them to pass
their time, and it helped her, too. But Susie had not to reproach
herself for having flirted with Jean. She recognized his merit and his
superiority; he was worth more than the others, he was a man to suffer
seriously, and that was what Mrs. Scott did not wish. Already, two or
three times, she had been on the point of speaking to him very seriously,
very affectionately, but she had reflected Jean was going away for three
weeks; on his return, if it were still necessary, she would read him a
lecture, and would act in such a manner that love should not come and
foolishly interfere in their friendship.
So Jean was to go the next day. Bettina had insisted that he should
spend this last day at Longueval, and dine at the house. Jean had
refused, alleging that he had much to do the night before his departure.
He arrived in the evening, about half-past ten; he came on foot. Several
times on the way he had been inclined to return.
"If I had courage enough," he said to himself, "I would not see her
again. I shall leave to-morrow, and return no more to Souvigny while
she is there. My resolution is taken, and taken forever."
But he continued his way, he would see her again--for the last time.
As soon as he entered the drawing-room, Bettina hastened to him.
"It is you at last! How late you are!"
"I have been very busy."
"And you are going to-morrow?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Early?"
"At five in the morning."
"You will go by the road which runs by the wall of the park, and goes
through the village?"
"Yes, that is the way we shall go."
"Why so early in the morning? I would have gone out on the terrace to
see you pass, and to wish you good-by."
Bettina detained for a moment Jean's burning hand in hers. He drew it
mournfully away, with an effort.
"I must go and speak to your sister," said he.
"Directly, she has not seen you, there are a dozen persons round her.
Come and sit here a little while, near me."
He was obliged to seat himself beside her.
"We are going away, too," said she.
"You!"
"Yes. An hour ago, we received a telegram from my brother-in-law, which
has caused us great joy. We did not expect him for a month, but he is
coming back in a fortnight. He will embark the day after to-morrow at
New York, on board the Labrador. We are going to meet him at Havre. We
shall also start the day after to-morrow; we are going to take the
children, it will do them a great deal of good to spend a few days at the
seaside. How pleased my brother-in-law will be to know you--he knows you
already, we have spoken of you in all our letters. I am sure you and Mr.
Scott will get on extremely well together, he is so good. How long shall
you stay away?"
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks in a camp?"
"Yes, Miss Percival, in the camp of Cercottes."
"In the middle of the forest of Orleans. I made your godfather explain
all about it to me this morning. Of course I am delighted to go to meet
my brother-in-law; but at the same time, I am a little sorry to leave
here, for I should have gone every morning to pay a little visit to
Monsieur l'Abbe. He would have given me news of you. Perhaps, in about
ten days, you will write to my sister--a little note of three or four
lines--it will not take much of your time--just to tell her how you are,
and that you do not forget us."
"Oh, as to forgetting you, as to losing the remembrance of your extreme
kindness, your goodness, never, Miss Percival, never!"
His voice trembled, he was afraid of his own emotion, he rose.
"I assure you, Miss Percival, I must go and speak to your sister. She is
looking at me. She must be astonished."
He crossed the room, Bettina followed him with her eyes.
Mrs. Norton had just placed herself at the piano to play a waltz for the
young people.
Paul de Lavardens approached Miss Percival.
"Will you do me the honor, Miss Percival?"
"I believe I have just promised this dance to Monsieur Jean," she
replied.
"Well, if not to him, will you give it to me?"
"That is understood."
Bettina walked toward Jean, who had seated himself near Mrs. Scott.
"I have just told a dreadful story," said she. "Monsieur de Lavardens
has asked me for this dance, and I replied that I had promised it to you.
You would like it, wouldn't you?"
To hold her in his arms, to breathe the perfume of her hair--Jean felt
his courage could not support this ordeal, he dared not accept.
"I regret extremely I can not, I am not well tonight; I persisted in
coming because I would not leave without wishing you good-by, but dance,
no, it is impossible!"
Mrs. Norton began the prelude of the waltz.
"Well," said Paul, coming up quite joyful, "who is it to be, he or I?"
"You," she said, sadly, without removing her eyes from Jean.
She was much disturbed, and replied without knowing well what she said.
She immediately regretted having accepted, she would have liked to stay
there, near him. But it was too late, Paul took her hand and led her
away.
Jean rose; he looked at the two, Bettina and Paul, a haze floated before
his eyes, he suffered cruelly.
"There is only one thing I can do," thought he, "profit by this waltz,
and go. To-morrow I will write a few lines to Mrs. Scott to excuse
myself."
He gained the door, he looked no more at Bettina; had he looked, he would
have stayed.
But Bettina looked at him; and all at once she said to Paul:
"Thank you very much, but I am a little tired, let us stop, please. You
will excuse me, will you not?"
Paul offered his arm.
"No, thank you," said she.
The door was just closing, Jean was no longer there. Bettina ran across
the room. Paul remained alone, much surprised, understanding nothing of
what had passed.
Jean was already at the hall-door, when he heard some one call--"Monsieur
Jean! Monsieur Jean!"
He stopped and turned. She was near him.
"You are going without wishing me good-by?"
"I beg your pardon, I am very tired."
"Then you must not walk home, the weather is threatening," she extended
her hand out-of-doors," it is raining already."
"Come and have a cup of tea in the little drawing-room, and I will tell
them to drive you home," and turning toward one of the footmen, "tell
them to send a carriage round directly."
"No, Miss Percival, pray, the open air will revive me. I must walk, let
me go."
"Go, then, but you have no greatcoat, take something to wrap yourself
in."
"I shall not be cold--while you with that open dress--I shall go to
oblige you to go in." And without even offering his hand, he ran quickly
down the steps.
"If I touch her hand," he thought, "I am lost, my secret will escape me."
His secret! He did not know that Bettina read his heart like an open
book.
When Jean had descended the steps, he hesitated one short moment, these
words were upon his lips:
"I love you, I adore you, and that is why I will see you no more!"
But he did not utter these words, he fled away and was soon lost in the
darkness.
Bettina remained there against the brilliant background made by the light
from the hall. Great drops of rain, driven by the wind, swept across her
bare shoulders and made her shiver; she took no notice, she distinctly
heard her heart beat.
"I knew very well that he loved me," she thought, "but now I am very
sure, that I, too--oh! yes! I, too!--"
All at once, in one of the great mirrors in the hall door, she saw the
reflection of the two footmen who stood there motionless, near the oak
table in the hall. Bettina heard bursts of laughter and the strains of
the waltz; she stopped. She wished to be alone, completely alone, and
addressing one of the servants, she said:
"Go and tell your mistress that I am very tired, and have gone to my own
room."
Annie, her maid, had fallen asleep, in an easy-chair. She sent her away.
She would undress herself. She let herself sink on a couch, she was
oppressed with delicious emotion.
The door of her room opened, it was Mrs. Scott.
"You are not well, Bettina?"
"Oh, Susie, is it you, my Susie? how nice of you to come. Sit here,
close to me, quite close to me."
She hid herself like a child in the arms of her sister, caressing with
her burning brow Susie's fresh shoulders. Then she suddenly burst into
sobs, great sobs, which stifled, suffocated her.
"Bettina, my darling, what is the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing! it is nothing, it is joy--joy!"
"Joy?"
"Yes, yes, wait--let me cry a little, it will do me so much good. But do
not be frightened, do not be frightened."
Beneath her sister's caress, Bettina grew calm, soothed.
"It is over, I am better now, and I can talk to you. It is about Jean."
"Jean! You call him Jean?"
"Yes, I call him Jean. Have you not noticed for some time that he was
dull and looked quite melancholy?"
"Yes, I have."
"When he came, he went and posted himself near you, and stayed there,
silent, absorbed to such a degree, that for several days I asked myself--
pardon me for speaking to you with such frankness, it is my way, you
know--I asked myself if it were not you whom he loved, Susie; you are so
charming, it would have been so natural! But no, it was not you, it was
I!"
"You?"
"Yes, I. Listen, he scarcely dared to look at me, he avoided me, he fled
from me, he was afraid of me, evidently afraid. Now, in justice, am I a
person to inspire fear? I am sure I am not!"
"Certainly not!"
"Ah! it was not I of whom he was afraid, it was my money, my horrid
money! This money which attracts all the others and tempts them so much,
this money terrifies him, drives him desperate, because he is not like
the others, because he--"
"My child, take care, perhaps you are mistaken."
"Oh, no, I am not mistaken! Just now, at the door, when he was going
away, he said some words to me. These words were nothing. But if you
had seen his distress in spite of all his efforts to control it! Susie,
dear Susie, by the affection which I bear you, and God knows how great is
that affection, this is my conviction, my absolute conviction--if,
instead of being Miss Percival, I had been a poor little girl without a
penny Jean would then have taken my hand, and have told me that he loved
me, and if he had spoken to me thus, do you know what I should have
replied?"
"That you loved him, too?"
"Yes; and that is why I am so happy. With me it is a fixed idea that I
must adore the man who will be my husband. Well! I don't say that I
adore Jean, no, not yet; but still it is beginning, Susie, and it is
beginning so sweetly."
"Bettina, it really makes me uneasy to see you in this state of
excitement. I do not deny that Monsieur Reynaud is much attached
to you--"
"Oh, more than that, more than that!"
"Loves you, if you like; yes, you are right, you are quite right. He
loves you; and are you not worthy, my darling, of all the love that one
can bear you? As to Jean--it is progressing decidedly, here am I also
calling him Jean--well! you know what I think of him. I rank him very,
very high. But in spite of that, is he really a suitable husband for
you?"
"Yes, if I love him."
"I am trying to talk sensibly to you, and you, on the contrary--
Understand me, Bettina; I have an experience of the world which you can
not have. Since our arrival in Paris, we have been launched into a very
brilliant, very animated, very aristocratic society. You might have been
already, if you had liked, marchioness or princess."
"Yes, but I did not like."
"It would not matter to you to be called Madame Reynaud?"
"Not in the least, if I love him."
"Ah! you return always to--"
"Because that is the true question. There is no other. Now I will be
sensible in my turn. This question--I grant that this is not quite
settled, and that I have, perhaps, allowed myself to be too easily
persuaded. You see how sensible I am. Jean is going away to-morrow,
I shall not see him again for three weeks. During these three weeks I
shall have ample time to question myself, to examine myself, in a word,
to know my own mind. Under my giddy manner, I am serious and thoughtful,
you know that?"
"Oh, yes, I know it."
"Well, I will make this petition to you, as I would have addressed it to
our mother had she been here. If, in three weeks, I say to you, 'Susie,
I am certain that I love him,' will you allow me to go to him, myself,
quite alone, and ask him if he will have me for his wife? That is what
you did with Richard. Tell me, Susie, will you allow me?"
"Yes, I will allow you."
Bettina embraced her sister, and murmured these words in her ear:
"Thank you, mamma."
"Mamma, mamma! It was thus that you used to call me when you were a
child, when we were alone in the world together, when I used to undress
you in our poor room in New York, when I held you in my arms, when I laid
you in your little bed, when I sang you to sleep. And since then,
Bettina, I have had only one desire in the world, your happiness. That
is why I beg you to reflect well. Do not answer me, do not let us talk
any more of that. I wish to leave you very calm, very tranquil. You
have sent away Annie, would you like me to be your little mamma again
tonight, to undress you, and put you to bed as I used to do?"
"Yes, I should like it very much."
"And when you are in bed, you promise me to be very good?"
"As good as an angel."
"You will do your best to go to sleep?"
"My very best."
"Very quietly, without thinking of anything?"
"Very quietly, without thinking of anything."
"Very well, then."
Ten minutes after, Bettina's pretty head rested gently amid embroideries
and lace. Susie said to her sister:
"I am going down to those people who bore me dreadfully this evening.
Before going to my own room, I shall come back and see if you are asleep.
Do not speak. Go to sleep."
She went away. Bettina remained alone; she tried to keep her word; she
endeavored to go to sleep, but only half-succeeded. She fell into a
half-slumber which left her floating between dream and reality. She had
promised to think of nothing, and yet she thought of him, always of him,
of nothing but him, vaguely, confusedly.
How long a time passed thus she could not tell.
All at once it seemed to her that some one was walking in her room; she
half-opened her eyes, and thought she recognized her sister. In a very
sleepy voice she said to her:
"You know I love him."
"Hush! go to sleep."
"I am asleep! I am asleep!"
At last she did fall sound asleep, less profoundly, however, than usual,
for about four o'clock in the morning she was suddenly awakened by a
noise, which, the night before, would not have disturbed her slumber.
The rain fell in torrents, and beat against her window.
"Oh, it is raining!" she thought. "He will get wet."
That was her first thought. She rose, crossed the room barefooted, half-
opened the shutters. The day had broke, gray and lowering; the clouds
were heavy with rain, the wind blew tempestuously, and drove the rain in
gusts before it.
Bettina did not go back to bed, she felt it would be quite impossible to
sleep again. She put on a dressing-gown, and remained at the window; she
watched the falling rain. Since he positively must go, she would have
liked the weather to be fine; she would have liked bright sunshine to
have cheered his first day's march.
When she came to Longueval a month ago, Bettina did not know what this
meant. But she knew it now. A day's march for the artillery is twenty
or thirty miles, with an hour's halt for luncheon. It was the Abbe
Constantin who had taught her that; when going their rounds in the
morning among the poor, Bettina overwhelmed the Cure with questions on
military affairs, and particularly on the artillery.
Twenty or thirty miles under this pouring rain! Poor Jean! Bettina
thought of young Turner, young Norton, of Paul de Lavardens, who would
sleep calmly till ten in the morning, while Jean was exposed to this
deluge.
Paul de Lavardens!
This name awoke in her a painful memory, the memory of that waltz the
evening before. To have danced like that, while Jean was so obviously in
trouble! That waltz took the proportions of a crime in her eyes; it was
a horrible thing that she had done.
And then, had she not been wanting in courage and frankness in that last
interview with Jean? He neither could nor dared say anything; but she
might have shown more tenderness, more expansiveness. Sad and suffering
as he was, she should never have allowed him to go back on foot. She
ought to have detained him at any price. Her imagination tormented and
excited her; Jean must have carried away with him the impression that she
was a bad little creature, heartless and pitiless. And in half-an-hour
he was going away, away for three weeks. Ah! if she could by any means
--but there is a way! The regiment must pass along the wall of the park,
under the terrace.
Bettina was seized with a wild desire to see Jean pass; he would
understand well, if he saw her at such an hour, that she had come to beg
his pardon for her cruelty of the previous evening. Yes, she would go!
But she had promised to Susie to be as good as an angel, and to do what
she was going to do, was that being as good as an angel? She would make
up for it by acknowledging all to Susie when she came in again, and Susie
would forgive her.
She would go! She had made up her mind. Only how should she dress
herself? She had nothing at hand but a muslin dressing-gown, little
high-heeled slippers, and blue satin shoes. She might wake her maid.
Oh, never would she dare to do that, and time pressed; a quarter to five!
the regiment would start at five o'clock.
She might, perhaps, manage with the muslin dressing-gown, and the satin
shoes; in the hall, she might find her hat, her little sabots which she
wore in the garden, and the large tartan cloak for driving in wet
weather. She half-opened her door with infinite precautions. Everything
slept in the house; she crept along the corridor, she descended the
staircase.
If only the little sabots are there in their place; that is her great
anxiety. There they are! She slips them on over her satin shoes, she
wraps herself in her great mantle.
She hears that the rain has redoubled in violence. She notices one of
those large umbrellas which the footmen use on the box in wet weather;
she seizes it; she is ready; but when she is ready to go, she sees that
the hall-door is fastened by a great iron bar. She tries to raise it;
but the bolt holds fast, resists all her efforts, and the great clock in
the hall slowly strikes five. He is starting at that moment.
She will see him! she will see him! Her will is excited by these
obstacles. She makes a great effort; the bar yields, slips back in the
groove. But Bettina has made a long scratch on her hand, from which
issues a slender stream of blood. Bettina twists her handkerchief round
her hand, takes her great umbrella, turns the key in the lock; and opens
the door.
At last she is out of the house!
The weather is frightful. The wind and the rain rage together. It takes
five or six minutes to reach the terrace which looks over the road.
Bettina darts forward courageously; her head bent, hidden under her
immense umbrella, she has taken a few steps. All at once, furious, mad,
blinding, a sudden squall bursts upon Bettina, buries her in her mantle,
drives her along, lifts her almost from the ground, turns the umbrella
violently inside out; that is nothing, the disaster is not yet complete.
Bettina has lost one of her little sabots; they were not practical
sabots; they were only pretty little things for fine weather, and at this
moment, when Bettina struggles against the tempest with her blue satin
shoe half buried in the wet gravel, at this moment the wind bears to her
the distant echo of a blast of trumpets. It is the regiment starting!
Bettina makes a desperate effort, abandons her umbrella, finds her little
sabot, fastens it on as well as she can, and starts off running, with a
deluge descending on her head.
At last, she is in the wood, the trees protect her a little. Another
blast, nearer this time. Bettina fancies she hears the rolling of the
gun-carriages. She makes a last effort, there is the terrace, she is
there just in time.
Twenty yards off she perceived the white horses of the trumpeters, and
along the road caught glimpses, vaguely appearing through the fog, of the
long line of guns and wagons.
She sheltered herself under one of the old limes which bordered the
terrace. She watched, she waited. He is there among that confused mass
of riders. Will she be able to recognize him? And he, will he see her?
Will any chance make him turn his head that way?
Bettina knows that he is Lieutenant in the second battery of his
regiment; she knows that a battery is composed of six guns, and six
ammunition wagons. Of course it is the Abbe Constantin who has taught
her that. Thus she must allow the first battery to pass, that is to say,
count six guns, six wagons, and then--he will be there.
There he is at last, wrapped in his great cloak, and it is he who sees,
who recognizes her first. A few moments before, he had recalled to his
mind a long walk which he had taken with her one evening, when night was
falling, on that terrace. He raised his eyes, and the very spot where he
remembered having seen her, was the spot where he found her again. He
bowed, and, bareheaded in the rain, turning round in his saddle, as long
as he could see her, he looked at her. He said again to himself what he
had said the previous evening:
"It is for the last time."
With a charming gesture of both hands, she returned his farewell, and
this gesture, repeated many times, brought her hands so near, so near her
lips, that one might have fancied--
"Ah!" she thought, "if, after that, he does not understand that I love
him, and does not forgive me my money!"