THE REWARD OF TENDER COURAGE
It was the 20th of August, the day which should bring Jean back to
Longueval.
Bettina awoke very early, rose, and ran immediately to the window. The
evening before, the sky had looked threatening, heavy with clouds.
Bettina slept but little, and all night prayed that it might not rain the
next day.
In the early morning a dense fog enveloped the park of Longueval, the
trees of which were hidden from view, as by a curtain. But gradually the
rays of the sun dissipated the mist, the trees became vaguely discernible
through the vapor; then, suddenly, the sun shone brilliantly, flooding
with light the park, and the fields beyond; and the lake, where the black
swans were disporting themselves in the radiant light, appeared as bright
as a sheet of polished metal.
The weather was going to be beautiful. Bettina was a little
superstitious. The sunshine gives her good hope and good courage.
"The day begins well, so it will finish well."
Mr. Scott had come home several days before. Susie, Betting, and the
children waited on the quay at Havre for the arrival of his steamer.
They exchanged many tender embraces; then, Richard, addressing his
sister-in-law, said, laughingly:
"Well, when is the wedding to be?"
"What wedding?"
"Yours."
"My wedding?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And to whom am I about to be married?"
"To Monsieur Jean Reynaud."
"Ah! Susie has written to you?"
"Susie? Not at all. Susie has not said a word. It is you, Bettina, who
have written to me. For the last two months, all your letters have been
occupied with this young officer."
"All my letters?"
"Yes, and you have written to me oftener and more at length than usual.
I do not complain of that, but I do ask when you are going to present me
with a brother-in-law?"
He spoke jestingly, but Bettina replied:
"Soon, I hope."
Mr. Scott perceived that the affair was serious. When returning in the
carriage, Bettina asked Mr. Scott if he had kept her letters.
"Certainly," he replied.
She read them again. It was indeed only with "Jean" that all these
letters have been filled. She found therein related, down to the most
trifling details, their first meeting. There was the portrait of Jean in
the vicarage garden, with his straw hat and his earthenware salad-dish--
and then it was again Monsieur Jean, always Monsieur Jean. She
discovered that she had loved him much longer than she had suspected.
At last it was the 10th of August. Luncheon was just over, and Harry and
Bella were impatient. They knew that between one and two o'clock the
regiment must pass through the village. They had been promised that they
should be taken to see the soldiers pass, and for them, as well as for
Bettina, the return of the 9th Artillery was a great event.
"Aunt Betty," said Bella, "Aunt Betty, come with us."
"Yes, do come," said Harry, "do come, we shall see our friend Jean, on
his big gray horse."
Bettina resisted, refused--and yet how great was the temptation. But no,
she would not go, she would not see Jean again till the evening, when she
would give him that decisive explanation for which she had been preparing
herself for the last three weeks. The children went away with their
governesses. Bettina, Susie, and Richard went to sit in the park, quite
close to the castle, and as soon as they were established there:
"Susie," said Bettina, "I am going to remind you today of your promise;
you remember what passed between us the night of his departure; we
settled that if, on the day of his return, I could say to you, 'Susie, I
am sure that I love him,' we settled that you would allow me to speak
frankly to him, and ask him if he would have me for his wife."
"Yes, I did promise you. But are you very sure?"
"Absolutely--and now the time has come to redeem your promise. I warn
you that I intend to bring him to this very place," she added, smiling,
"to this seat; and to use almost the same language to him that you
formerly used to Richard. You were successful, Susie, you are perfectly
happy, and I--that is what I wish to be."
"Richard, Susie has told you about Monsieur Reynaud."
"Yes, and she has told me that there is no man of whom she has a higher
opinion, but--"
"But she has told you that for me it would be a rather quiet, rather
commonplace marriage. Oh, naughty sister! Will you believe it, Richard,
that I can not get this fear out of her head? She does not understand
that, before everything, I wish to love and be loved; will you believe
it, Richard, that only last week she laid a horrible trap for me? You
know that there exists a certain Prince Romanelli."
"Yes, I know you might have been a princess."
"That would not have been immensely difficult, I believe. Well, one day
I was so foolish as to say to Susie, that, in extremity, I might accept
the Prince Romanelli. Now, just imagine what she did. The Turners were
at Trouville, Susie had arranged a little plot. We lunched with the
Prince, but the result was disastrous. Accept him! The two hours that
I passed with him, I passed in asking myself how I could have said such a
thing. No, Richard; no, Susie; I will be neither princess, nor
marchioness, nor countess. My wish is to be Madame Jean Reynaud; if,
however, Monsieur Jean Reynaud will agree to it, and that is by no means
certain."
The regiment entered the village, and suddenly military music burst
martial and joyous across the space. All three remained silent, it was
the regiment, it was Jean who passed; the sound became fainter, died
away, and Bettina continued:
"No, that is not certain. He loves me, however, and much, but without
knowing well what I am; I think that I deserve to be loved differently;
I think that I should not cause him so much terror, so much fear, if he
knew me better, and that is why I ask you to permit me to speak to him
this evening freely, from my heart."
"We will allow you," replied Richard, "you shall speak to him freely, for
we know, both of us, Bettina, that you will never do anything that is not
noble and generous."
"At least, I shall try."
The children ran up to them; they had seen Jean, he was quite white with
dust, he said good-morning to them.
"Only," added Bella, "he is not very nice, he did not stop to talk to us;
usually he stops, but this time he wouldn't."
"Yes, he would," replied Harry, "for at first he seemed as if he were
going to--and then he would not, he went away."
"Well, he didn't stop, and it is so nice to talk to a soldier, especially
when he is on horseback."
"It is not that only, it is that we are very fond of Monsieur Jean; if
you knew, papa, how kind he is, and how nicely he plays with us."
"And what beautiful drawings he makes. Harry, you remember that great
Punch who was so funny, with his stick, you know?"
"And the dog, there was the little dog, too, as in the show."
The two children went away talking of their friend Jean.
"Decidedly," said Mr. Scott, "every one likes him in this house."
"And you will be like every one else when you know him," replied Bettina.
The regiment broke into a trot along the highroad, after leaving the
village. There was the terrace where Bettina had been the other morning.
Jean said to himself:
"Supposing she should be there."
He dreaded and hoped it at the same time. He raised his head, he looked,
she was not there.
He had not seen her again, he would not see her again, for a long-time at
least. He would start that very evening at six o'clock for Paris; one of
the personages in the War Office was interested in him; he would try to
get exchanged into another regiment.
Alone at Cercottes, Jean had had time to reflect deeply, and that was the
result of his reflections. He could not, he must not, be Bettina
Percival's husband.
The men dismounted at the barracks, Jean took leave of his Colonel, his
comrades; all was over. He was free, he could go.
But he did not go; he looked around him. How happy he was three months
ago, when he rode out of that great yard amid the noise of the cannon
rolling over the pavement of Souvigny; but how sadly he should ride away
to-day! Formerly his life was there; where would it be hereafter?
He returned, went to his own room, and wrote to Mrs. Scott; he told her
that his duties obliged him to leave immediately, he could not dine at
the castle, and begged Mrs. Scott to remember him to Miss Bettina.
Bettina, ah! what trouble it cost him to write that name. He closed his
letter; he would send it directly.
He made his preparations for departure; then he went to wish his
godfather farewell. That is what cost him most; he must speak to him
only of a short absence.
He opened one of the drawers of his bureau to take out some money. The
first thing that met his eyes was a little note on bluish paper; it was
the only note which he had ever received from her.
"Will you have the kindness to give to the servant the book of which you
spoke yesterday evening. Perhaps it will be a little serious for me, but
yet I should like to try to read it. We shall see you to-night; come as
early as possible." It was signed "Bettina."
Jean read and re-read these few lines, but soon he could read them no
longer, his eyes were dim.
"It is all that is left me of her," he thought.
At the same moment the Abbe Constantin was tete-a-tete with old Pauline,
they were making up their accounts. The financial situation was
admirable; more than 2,000 francs in hand! And the wishes of Susie and
Bettina were accomplished, there were no more poor in the neighborhood.
His old servant, Pauline, had even occasional scruples of conscience.
"You see, Monsieur le Cure," said she, "perhaps we give them a little too
much. Then it will be spread about in other parishes that here they can
always find charity. And do you know what will happen then, one of these
days? Poor people will come and settle in Longueval."
The Cure gave fifty francs to Pauline. She went to take them to a poor
man who had broken his arm a few days before, by falling from the top of
a hay-cart.
The Abbe Constantin remained alone in the vicarage. He was rather
anxious. He had watched for the passing of the regiment; but Jean only
stopped for a moment, he looked sad. For some time, the Abbe had noticed
that Jean had no longer the flow of good-humor and gayety he once
possessed.
The Cure did not disturb himself too much about it, believing it to be
one of those little youthful troubles which did not concern a poor old
priest. But, on this occasion, Jean's disturbance was very perceptible.
"I will come back directly," he said to the Cure, "I want to speak to
you."
He turned abruptly away. The Abbe Constantin had not even had time to
give Loulou his piece of sugar, or rather his pieces of sugar, for he had
put five or six in his pocket, considering that Loulou had well deserved
this feast by ten long days' march, and a score of nights passed under
the open sky.
Besides, since Mrs. Scott had lived at Longueval, Loulou had very often
had several pieces of sugar; the Abbe Constantin had become extravagant,
prodigal; he felt himself a millionaire, the sugar for Loulou was one of
his follies. One day, even, he had been on the point of addressing to
Loulou his everlasting little speech:
"This comes from the new mistresses of Longueval; pray for them to-
night."
It was three o'clock when Jean arrived at the vicarage, and the Cure
said, immediately:
"You told me that you wanted to speak to me; what is it about?"
"About something, my dear godfather, which will surprise you, will grieve
you--"
"Grieve me!"
"Yes, and which grieves me, too--I have come to bid you farewell."
"Farewell! you are going away?"
"Yes, I am going away."
"When?"
"To-day, in two hours."
"In two hours? But, my dear boy, you were going to dine at the castle
to-night."
"I have just written to Mrs. Scott to excuse me. I am positively obliged
to go."
"Directly?"
"Directly."
"And where are you going?"
"To Paris."
"To Paris! Why this sudden determination?"
"Not so very sudden! I have thought about it for a long time."
"And you have said nothing about it to me! Jean, something has happened.
You are a man, and I have no longer the right to treat you as a child;
but you know how much I love you; if you have vexations, troubles, why
not tell them to me? I could perhaps advise you. Jean, why go to
Paris?"
"I did not wish to tell you, it will give you pain; but you have the
right to know. I am going to Paris to ask to be exchanged into another
regiment."
"Into another regiment! To leave Souvigny!"
"Yes, that is just it; I must leave Souvigny for a short time, for a
little while only; but to leave Souvigny is necessary, it is what I wish
above all things."
"And what about me, Jean, do you not think of me? A little while! A
little while! But that is all that remains to me of life, a little
while. And during these last days, that I owe to the grace of God, it
was my happiness, yes, Jean, my happiness, to feel you here, near me, and
now you are going away! Jean, wait a little patiently, it can not be for
very long now for. Wait until the good God has called me to himself,
wait till I shall be gone, to meet there, at his side, your father and
your mother. Do not go, Jean, do not go."
"If you love me, I love you, too, and you know it well."
"Yes, I know it."
"I have just the same affection for you now that I had when I was quite
little, when you took me to yourself, when you brought me up. My heart
has not changed, will never change. But if duty--if honor--oblige me to
go?"
"Ah, if it is duty, if it is honor, I say nothing more, Jean, that stands
before all!--all!--all! I have always known you a good judge of your
duty, your honor. Go, my boy, go, I ask you nothing more, I wish to know
no more."
"But I wish to tell you all," cried Jean, vanquished by his emotion, "and
it is better that you should know all. You will stay here, you will
return to the castle, you will see her again--her!"
"See her! Who?"
"Bettina!"
"Bettina?"
"I adore her, I adore her!"
"Oh, my poor boy!"
"Pardon me for speaking to you of these things; but I tell you as I would
have told my father."
"And then, I have not been able to speak of it to any one, and it stifled
me; yes, it is a madness which has seized me, which has grown upon me,
little by little, against my will, for you know very-well--My God!
It was here that I began to love her. You know, when she came here with
her sister--with the little 'rouleaux' of francs--her hair fell down--and
then the evening, the month of Mary! Then I was permitted to see her
freely, familiarly, and you, yourself, spoke to me constantly of her.
You praised her sweetness, her goodness. How often have you told me that
there was no one in the world better than she is!"
"And I thought it, and I think it still. And no one here knows her
better than I do, for it is I alone who have seen her with the poor.
If you only knew how tender, and how good she is! Neither wretchedness
nor suffering repulse her. But, my dear boy, I am wrong to tell you all
this."
"No, no, I will see her no more, I promise you; but I like to hear you
speak of her."
"In your whole life, Jean, you will never meet a better woman, nor one
who has more elevated sentiments. To such a point, that one day--she had
taken me with her in an open carriage, full of toys--she was taking these
toys to a poor sick little girl, and when she gave them to her, to make
the poor little thing laugh, to amuse her, she talked so prettily to her
that I thought of you, and I said to myself, I remember it now, 'Ah, if
she were poor!'"
"Ah! if she were poor, but she is not."
"Oh, no! But what can you do, my poor child! If it gives you pain to
see her, to live near her; above all, if it will prevent you suffering--
go, go--and yet, and yet--"
The old priest became thoughtful, let his head fall between his hands,
and remained silent for some moments; then he continued:
"And yet, Jean, do you know what I think? I have seen a great deal of
Mademoiselle Bettina since she came to Longueval. Well--when I reflect--
it did not astonish me that any one should be interested in you, for it
seemed so natural--but she talked always, yes, always of you."
"Of me?"
"Yes, of you, and of your father and mother; she was curious to know how
you lived. She begged me to explain to her what a soldier's life was,
the life of a true soldier, who loved his profession, and performed his
duties conscientiously."
"It is extraordinary, since you have told me this, recollections crowd
upon me, a thousand little things collect and group themselves together.
They returned from Havre yesterday at three o'clock. Well! an hour
after their arrival she was here. And it was of you of whom she spoke
directly. She asked if you had written to me, if you had not been ill,
when you would arrive, at what hour, if the regiment would pass through
the village?"
"It is useless at this moment, my dear godfather," said Jean, "to recall
all these memories."
"No, it is not useless. She seemed so pleased, so happy even, that she
should see you again! She would make quite a fete of the dinner this
evening. She would introduce you to her brother-in-law, who has come
back. There is no one else in the house at this moment, not a single
visitor. She insisted strongly on this point, and I remember her last
words--she was there, on the threshold of the door:
"'There will be only five of us,' she said, 'you and Monsieur Jean, my
sister, my brother-in-law, and myself.'
"And then she added, laughing, 'Quite a family party.'
"With these words she went, she almost ran away. Quite a family party!
Do you know what I think, Jean? Do you know?"
"You must not think that, you must not."
"Jean, I believe that she loves you."
"And I believe it, too."
"You, too!"
"When I left her, three weeks ago, she was so agitated, so moved! She
saw me sad and unhappy, she would not let me go. It was at the door of
the castle. I was obliged to tear myself, yes, literally tear myself
away. I should have spoken, burst out, told her all. After I had gone a
few steps, I stopped and turned. She could no longer see me, I was lost
in the darkness; but I could see her. She stood there motionless, her
shoulders and arms bare, in the rain, her eyes fixed on the way by which
I had gone. Perhaps I am mad to think that. Perhaps it was only a
feeling of pity. But no, it was something more than pity, for do you
know what she did the next morning? She came at five o'clock, in the
most frightful weather, to see me pass with the regiment--and then--the
way she bade me adieu--oh, my friend, my dear old friend!"
"But then," said the poor Cure, completely bewildered, completely at a
loss, "but then, I do not understand you at all. If you love her, Jean,
and if she loves you?"
"But that is, above all, the reason why I must go. If it were only I,
if I were certain that she has not perceived my love, certain that she
has not been touched by it, I would stay, I would stay--for nothing but
for the sweet joy of seeing her, and I would love her from afar, without
any hope, for nothing but the happiness of loving her. But no, she has
understood too well, and far from discouraging me--that is what forces me
to go."
"No, I do not understand it! I know well, my poor boy, we are speaking
of things in which I am no great scholar, but you are both good, young,
and charming; you love her, she would love you, and you will not!"
"And her money! her money!"
"What matters her money? If it is only that, is it because of her money
that you have loved her? It is rather in spite of her money. Your
conscience, my son, would be quite at peace with regard to that, and that
would suffice."
"No, that would not suffice. To have a good opinion of one's self is not
enough; that opinion must be shared by others."
"Oh, Jean! Among all who know you, who can doubt you?"
"Who knows? And then there is another thing besides this question of
money, another thing more serious and more grave. I am not the husband
suited to her."
"And who could be more worthy than you?"
"The question to be considered is not my worth; we have to consider what
she is and what I am, to ask what ought to be her life, and what ought to
be my life."
"One day, Paul--you know he has rather a blunt way of saying things, but
that very bluntness often places thoughts much more distinctly before us
--Paul was speaking of her; he did not suspect anything; if he had, he is
good-natured, he would not have spoken thus--well, he said to me:
"'What she needs is a husband who would be entirely devoted to her, to
her alone, a husband who would have no other care than to make her
existence a perpetual holiday, a husband who would give himself, his
whole life, in return for her money.'
"You know me; such a husband I can not, I must not be. I am a soldier,
and shall remain one. If the chances of my career sent me some day to a
garrison in the depths of the Alps, or in some almost unknown village in
Algeria, could I ask her to follow me? Could I condemn her to the life
of a soldier's wife, which is in some degree the life of a soldier
himself? Think of the life which she leads now, of all that luxury, of
all those pleasures!"
"Yes," said the Abbe, "that is more serious than the question of money."
"So serious that there is no hesitation possible. During the three weeks
that I passed alone in the camp, I have well considered all that; I have
thought of nothing else, and loving her as I do love, the reason must
indeed be strong which shows me clearly my duty. I must go, I must go
far, very far away, as far as possible. I shall suffer much, but I must
not see her again! I must not see her again!"
Jean sank on a chair near the fireplace. He remained there quite
overpowered with his emotion. The old priest looked at him.
"To see you suffer, my poor boy! That such suffering should fall upon
you! It is too cruel, too unjust!"
At that moment some one knocked gently at the door.
"Ah!" said the Cure, "do not be afraid, Jean. I will send them away."
The Abbe went to the door, opened it, and recoiled as if before an
unexpected apparition.
It was Bettina. In a moment she had seen Jean, and going direct to him:
"You!" cried she. "Oh, how glad I am!"
He rose. She took his hands, and addressing the Cure, she said:
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Cure, for going to him first. You, I saw
yesterday, and him, not for three whole weeks, not since a certain night,
when he left our house, sad and suffering."
She still held Jean's hands. He had neither power to make a movement nor
to utter a sound.
"And now," continued Betting, "are you better? No, not yet, I can see,
still sad. Ah, I have done well to come! It was an inspiration!
However, it embarrasses me a little, it embarrasses me a great deal, to
find you here. You will understand why when you know what I have come to
ask of your godfather."
She relinquished his hands, and turning toward the Abbe, said:
"I have come to beg you to listen to my confession--yes, my confession.
But do not go away, Monsieur Jean; I will make my confession publicly.
I am quite willing to speak before you, and now I think of it, it will be
better thus. Let us sit down, shall we?"
She felt herself full of confidence and daring. She burned with fever,
but with that fever which, on the field of battle, gives to a soldier
ardor, heroism, and disdain of danger. The emotion which made Bettina's
heart beat quicker than usual was a high and generous emotion. She said
to herself:
"I will be loved! I will love! I will be happy! I will make him happy!
And since he has not sufficient courage to do it, I must have it for
both. I must march alone, my head high, and my heart at ease, to the
conquest of our love, to the conquest of our happiness!"
From her first words Bettina had gained over the Abbe and Jean a complete
ascendancy. They let her say what she liked, they let her do as she
liked, they felt that the hour was supreme; they understood that what was
happening would be decisive, irrevocable, but neither was in a position
to foresee.
They sat down obediently, almost automatically; they waited, they
listened. Alone, of the three, Bettina retained her composure. It was
in a calm and even voice that she began.
"I must tell you first, Monsieur le Cure, to set your conscience quite at
rest, I must tell you that I am here with the consent of my sister and my
brother-in-law. They know why I have come; they know what I am about to
do. They not only know, but they approve. That is settled, is it not?
Well, what brings me here is your letter, Monsieur Jean, that letter in
which you tell my sister that you can not dine with us this evening, and
that you are positively obliged to leave here. This letter has unsettled
all my plans. I had intended, this evening--of course with the
permission of my sister and brother-in-law--I had intended, after dinner,
to take you into the park, to seat myself with you on a bench; I was
childish enough to choose the place beforehand."
"There I should have delivered a little speech, well prepared, well
studied, almost learned by heart, for since your departure I have
scarcely thought of anything else; I repeat it to myself from morning to
night. That is what I had proposed to do, and you understand that your
letter caused me much embarrassment. I reflected a little, and thought
that if I addressed my little speech to your godfather it would be almost
the same as if I addressed it to you. So I have come, Monsieur le Cure,
to beg you to listen to me."
"I will listen to you, Miss Percival," stammered the Abbe.
"I am rich, Monsieur le Cure, I am very rich, and to speak frankly
I love my wealth very much-yes, very much. To it I owe the luxury which
surrounds me, luxury which, I acknowledge--it is a confession--is by no
means disagreeable to me. My excuse is that I am still very young;
it will perhaps pass as I grow older, but of that I am not very sure.
I have another excuse; it is, that if I love money a little for the
pleasure that it procures me, I love it still more for the good which it
allows me to do. I love it--selfishly, if you like--for the joy of
giving, but I think that my fortune is not very badly placed in my hands.
Well, Monsieur le Cure, in the same way that you have the care of souls,
it seems that I have the care of money. I have always thought, 'I wish,
above all things, that my husband should be worthy of sharing this great
fortune. I wish to be very sure that he will make a good use of it with
me while I am here, and after me, if I must leave this world first.'
I thought of another thing; I thought, 'He who will be my husband must
be some one I can love!' And now, Monsieur le Cure, this is where my
confession really begins. There is a man, who for the last two months,
has done all he can to conceal from me that he loves me; but I do not
doubt that this man loves me. You do love me, Jean?"
"Yes," said Jean, in a low voice, his eyes cast down, looking like a
criminal, "I do love you!"
"I knew it very well, but I wanted to hear you say it, and now I entreat
you, do not utter a single word. Any words of yours would be useless,
would disturb me, would prevent me from going straight to my aim, and
telling you what I positively intend to say. Promise me to stay there,
sitting still, without moving, without speaking. You promise me?"
"I promise you."
Bettina, as she went on speaking, began to lose a little of her
confidence, her voice trembled slightly. She continued, however,
with a gayety that was a little forced:
"Monsieur le Cure, I do not blame you for what has happened, yet all this
is a little your fault."
"My fault!"
"Ah! do not speak, not even you. Yes, I repeat it, your fault. I am
certain that you have spoken well of me to Jean, much too well. Perhaps,
without that, he would not have thought-- And at the same time you have
spoken very well of him to me. Not too well--no, no--but yet very well!
Then, I had so much confidence in you, that I began to look at him, and
examine, him with a little more attention. I began to compare him with
those who, during the last year, had asked my hand. It seemed to me that
he was in every respect superior to them.
"At last, it happened, on a certain day, or rather on a certain evening-
three weeks ago, the evening before you left here, Jean--I discovered
that I loved you. Yes, Jean, I love you! I entreat you, do not speak;
stay where you are; do not come near me.
"Before I came here, I thought I had supplied myself with a good stock of
courage, but you see I have no longer my fine composure of a minute ago.
But I have still something to tell you, and the most important of all.
Jean, listen to me well; I do not wish for a reply torn from your
emotion; I know that you love me. If you marry me, I do not wish it to
be only for love; I wish it to be also for reason. During the fortnight
before you left here, you took so much pains to avoid me, to escape any
conversation, that I have not been able to show myself to you as I am.
Perhaps there are in me certain qualities which you do not suspect.
"Jean, I know what you are, I know to what I should bind myself in
marrying you, and I should be for you not only the loving and tender
woman, but the courageous and constant wife. I know your entire life;
your godfather has related it to me. I know why you became a soldier;
I know what duties, what sacrifices, the future may demand from you.
Jean, do not suppose that I shall turn you from any of these duties,
from any of these sacrifices. If I could be disappointed with you for
anything, it would be, perhaps, for this thought--oh, you must have had
it!--that I should wish you free, and quite my own, that I should ask you
to abandon your career. Never! never! Understand well, I shall never
ask such a thing of you.
"A young girl whom I know did that when she married, and she did wrong.
I love you, and I wish you to be just what you are. It is because you
live differently from, and better than, those who have before desired me
for a wife, that I desire you for a husband. I should love you less--
perhaps I should not love you at all, though that would be very
difficult--if you were to begin to live as all those live whom I would
not have. When I can follow you, I will follow you; wherever you are
will be my duty, wherever you are will be my happiness. And if the day
comes when you can not take me, the day when you must go alone, well!
Jean, on that day, I promise you to be brave, and not take your courage
from you.
"And now, Monsieur le Cure, it is not to him, it is to you that I am
speaking; I want you to answer me, not him. Tell me, if he loves me,
and feels me worthy of his love, would it be just to make me expiate so
severely the fortune that I possess? Tell me, should he not agree to be
my husband?"
"Jean," said the old priest, gravely, "marry her. It is your duty, and
it will be your happiness!"
Jean approached Bettina, took her in his arms, and pressed upon her brow
the first kiss.
Bettina gently freed herself, and addressing the Abbe, said:
"And now, Monsieur l'Abbe, I have still one thing to ask you. I wish--
I wish--"
"You wish?"
"Pray, Monsieur le Cure, embrace me, too."
The old priest kissed her paternally on both cheeks, and then Bettina
continued:
"You have often told me, Monsieur le Cure, that Jean was almost like your
own son, and I shall be almost like your own daughter, shall I not? So
you will have two children, that is all."
...........................
A month after, on the 12th of September, at mid-day, Bettina, in the
simplest of wedding-gowns, entered the church of Longueval, while, placed
behind the altar, the trumpets of the 9th Artillery rang joyously through
the arches of the old church.
Nancy Turner had begged for the honor of playing the organ on this solemn
occasion, for the poor little harmonium had disappeared; an organ, with
resplendent pipes, rose in the gallery of the church--it was Miss
Percival's wedding present to the Abbe Constantin.
The old Cure said mass, Jean and Bettina knelt before him, he pronounced
the benediction, and then remained for some moments in prayer, his arms
extended, calling down, with his whole soul, the blessings of Heaven on
his two children.
Then floated from the organ the same reverie of Chopin's which Bettina
had played the first time that she had entered that little village
church, where was to be consecrated the happiness of her life.
And this time it was Bettina who wept.
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