The next day, at half-past five in the morning, the bugle-call rang
through the barrack-yard at Souvigny. Jean mounted his horse, and took
his place with his division. By the end of May all the recruits in the
army are sufficiently instructed to be capable of sharing in the general
evolutions. Almost every day manoeuvres of the mounted artillery are
executed on the parade-ground. Jean loved his profession; he was in the
habit of inspecting carefully the grooming and harness of the horses,
the equipment and carriage of his men. This morning, however, he
bestowed but scant attention on all the little details of his duty.
One problem agitated, tormented him, and left him always undecided, and
this problem was one of those the solution of which is not given at
the Ecole Polytechnique. Jean could find no convincing reply to this
question: Which of the two sisters is the prettier?
At the butts, during the first part of the manoeuvre, each battery
worked on its own account, under the orders of the captain; but he often
relinquished the place to one of his lieutenants, in order to accustom
them to the management of six field-pieces. It happened on this day that
the command was intrusted to the hands of Jean. To the great surprise of
the Captain, in whose estimation his Lieutenant held the first rank as
a well-trained, smart, and capable officer, everything went wrong. The
Captain was obliged to interfere; he addressed a little reprimand to
Jean, which terminated in these words:
“I can not understand it at all. What is the matter with you this
morning? It is the first time such a thing has happened with you.”
It was also the first time that Jean had seen anything at the butts at
Souvigny but cannon, ammunition wagons, horses, or gunners.
In the clouds of dust raised by the wheels of the wagons and the hoofs
of the horses Jean beheld, not the second mounted battery of the 9th
Regiment of artillery, but the distinct images of two Americans
with black eyes and golden hair; and, at the moment when he listened
respectfully to the well-merited lecture from his Captain, he was in the
act of saying to himself:
“The prettier is Mrs. Scott!”
Every morning the exercise is divided into two parts by a little
interval of ten minutes. The officers gathered together and talked; Jean
remained apart, alone with his recollections of the previous evening.
His thoughts obstinately gathered round the vicarage of Longueval.
“Yes! the more charming of the two sisters is Mrs. Scott; Miss Percival
is only a child.”
He saw again Mrs. Scott at the Cure’s little table. He heard her
story told with such frankness, such freedom. The harmony of that very
peculiar, very fascinating voice, still enchanted his ear. He was again
in the church; she was there before him, bending over her prie-Dieu, her
pretty head resting in her two little hands; then the music arose, and
far off, in the dusk, Jean perceived the fine and delicate profile of
Bettina.
“A child--is she only a child?”
The trumpets sounded, the practice was resumed; this time, fortunately,
no command, no responsibility. The four batteries executed their
evolutions together; this immense mass of men, horses, and carriages,
deployed in every direction, now drawn out in a long line, again
collected into a compact group. All stopped at the same instant along
the whole extent of the ground; the gunners sprang from their horses,
ran to their pieces, detached each from its team, which went off at
a trot and prepared to fire with amazing rapidity. Then the horses
returned, the men re-attached their pieces; sprang quickly to saddle,
and the regiment started at full gallop across the field.
Very gently in the thoughts of Jean Bettina regained her advantage over
Mrs. Scott. She appeared to him smiling and blushing amid the sunlit
clouds of her floating hair. Monsieur Jean, she had called him, Monsieur
Jean, and never had his name sounded so sweet. And that last pressure
of the hand on taking leave, before entering the carriage. Had not Miss
Percival given him a more cordial clasp than Mrs. Scott had done? Yes,
positively a little more.
“I was mistaken,” thought Jean; “the prettier is Miss Percival.”
The day’s work was finished; the pieces were ranged regularly in line
one behind the other; they defiled rapidly, with a horrible clatter, and
in a cloud of dust. When Jean, sword in hand, passed before his Colonel,
the images of the two sisters were so confused and intermingled in his
recollection that they melted the one in the other, and became in
some measure the image of one and the same person. Any parallel became
impossible between them, thanks to this singular confusion of the
two points of comparison. Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival remained thus
inseparable in the thoughts of Jean until the day when it was granted to
him to see them again. The impression of that meeting was not effaced;
it was always there, persistent, and very sweet, till Jean began to feel
disturbed.
“Is it possible”--so ran his meditations--“is it possible that I have
been guilty of the folly of falling in love madly at first sight? No;
one might fall in love with a woman, but not with two women at once.”
That thought reassured him. He was very young, this great fellow of
four-and-twenty; never had love entered fully into his heart. Love! He
knew very little about it, except from books, and he had read but few
of them. But he was no angel; he could find plenty of attractions in the
grisettes of Souvigny, and when they would allow him to tell them
that they were charming, he was quite ready to do so, but it had never
entered his head to regard as love those passing fancies, which only
caused the slightest and most superficial disturbance in his heart.
Paul de Lavardens had marvellous powers of enthusiasm and idealization.
His heart sheltered always two or three grandes passions, which lived
there in perfect harmony. Paul had been so clever as to discover, in
this little town of 15,000 souls, numbers of pretty girls, all made to
be adored. He always believed himself the discoverer of America,
when, in fact, he had done nothing but follow in the track of other
navigators.
The world-Jean had scarcely encountered it. He had allowed himself to
be dragged by Paul, a dozen times, perhaps, to soirees or balls at the
great houses of the neighborhood. He had invariably returned thoroughly
bored, and had concluded that these pleasures were not made for him. His
tastes were simple, serious. He loved solitude, work, long walks, open
space, horses, and books. He was rather savage--a son of the soil. He
loved his village, and all the old friends of his childhood. A quadrille
in a drawing-room caused him unspeakable terror; but every year, at
the festival of the patron saint of Longueval, he danced gayly with the
young girls and farmers’ daughters of the neighborhood.
If he had seen Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival at home in Paris, in all
the splendor of their luxury, in all the perfection of their costly
surroundings, he would have looked at them from afar, with curiosity, as
exquisite works of art. Then he would have returned home, and would have
slept, as usual, the most peaceful slumber in the world.
Yes, but it was not thus that the thing had come to pass, and hence his
excitement, hence his disturbance. These two women had shown themselves
before him in the midst of a circle with which he was familiar, and
which had been, if only for this reason, singularly favorable to them.
Simple, good, frank, cordial, such they had shown themselves the very
first day, and delightfully pretty into the bargain--a fact which is
never insignificant. Jean fell at once under the charm; he was there
still!
At the moment when he dismounted in the barrack-yard, at nine o’clock,
the old priest began his campaign joyously. Since the previous evening
the Abbe’s head had been on fire; Jean had not slept much, but he had
not slept at all. He had risen very early, and with closed doors, alone
with Pauline, he had counted and recounted his money, spreading out
his one hundred Louis-d’or, gloating over them like a miser, and like
a miser finding exquisite pleasure in handling his hoard. All that was
his! for him! that is to say, for the poor.
“Do not be too lavish, Monsieur le Cure,” said Pauline; “be economical.
I think that if you distribute to-day one hundred francs--”
“That is not enough, Pauline. I shall only have one such day in my life,
but one I will have. How much do you think I shall give to-day?”
“How much, Monsieur le Cure?”
“One thousand francs!”
“One thousand francs!”
“Yes. We are millionaires now; we possess all the treasures of America,
and you talk about economy? Not to-day, at all events; indeed, I have no
right to think of it.”
After saying mass at nine o’clock he set out and showered gold along his
way. All had a share--the poor who acknowledged their poverty and
those who concealed it. Each alms was accompanied by the same little
discourse:
“This comes from the new owners of the Longueval--two American ladies,
Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival. Remember their names, and pray for them.”
Then he made off without waiting for thanks, across the fields, through
the woods, from hamlet to hamlet, from cottage to cottage--on, on, on. A
sort of intoxication mounted to his brain. Everywhere were cries of joy
and astonishment. All these louis-d’or fell, as if by a miracle, into
the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver. The Curb
was guilty of follies, actual follies. He was out of bounds; he did not
recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave to
those who did not expect anything.
He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at
Sebastopol. He was growing gray--nay, white; for time passes, and the
soldiers of the Crimea will soon be old men.
“Here!” said the Cure, “I have twenty francs for you.”
“Twenty francs? But I never asked for anything; I don’t want anything; I
have my pension.”
His pension! Seven hundred francs!
“But listen; it will be something to buy you cigars. It comes from
America.”
And then followed the Abbe’s little speech about the masters of
Longueval.
He went to a poor woman whose son had gone to Tunis.
“Well, how is your son getting on?”
“Not so bad, Monsieur le Cure; I had a letter from him yesterday. He
does not complain; he is very well; only he says there are no Kroomirs.
Poor boy! I have been saving for a month, and I think I shall soon be
able to send him ten francs.”
“You shall send him thirty francs. Take this.”
“Thirty francs! Monsieur le Cure, you give me thirty francs?”
“Yes, that is for you.”
“For my boy?”
“For your boy. But listen; you must know from whom it comes, and you
must take care to tell your son when you write to him.”
Again the little speech about the new owners of Longueval, and again the
adjuration to remember them in their prayers. At six o’clock he returned
home, exhausted with fatigue, but with his soul filled with joy.
“I have given away all,” he cried, as soon as he saw Pauline, “all! all!
all!”
He dined, and then went in the evening to perform the usual service
for the month of Mary. But this time, the harmonium was silent; Miss
Percival was no longer there.
The little organist of the evening before was at that moment much
perplexed. On two couches in her dressing-room were spread two frocks--a
white and a blue. Bettina was meditating which of these two frocks she
would wear to the opera that evening. After long hesitation she fixed on
the blue. At half-past nine the two sisters ascended the grand staircase
at the opera-house. Just as they entered their box the curtain rose on
the second scene of the second act of Aida, that containing the ballet
and march.
Two young men, Roger de Puymartin and Louis de Martillet, were seated
in the front of a stage-box. The young ladies of the corps de ballet
had not yet appeared, and these gentlemen, having no occupation, were
amusing themselves with looking about the house. The appearance of Miss
Percival made a strong impression upon both.
“Ah! ah!” said Puymartin, “there she is, the little golden nugget!”
“She is perfectly dazzling this evening, this little golden nugget,”
continued Martillet. “Look at her, at the line of her neck, the fall of
her shoulders--still a young girl, and already a woman.”
“Yes, she is charming, and tolerably well off into the bargain.”
“Fifteen millions of her own, and the silver mine is still productive.”
“Berulle told me twenty-five millions, and he is very well up in
American affairs.”
“Twenty-five millions! A pretty haul for Romanelli!”
“What? Romanelli!”
“Report says that that will be a match; that it is already settled.”
“A match may be arranged, but with Montessan, not with Romanelli. Ah! at
last! Here is the ballet.”
They ceased to talk. The ballet in Aida lasts only five minutes, and
for those five minutes they had come. Consequently they must be enjoyed
respectfully, religiously, for there is that peculiarity among a number
of the habitues of the opera, that they chatter like magpies when they
ought to be silent, to listen, and that they observe the most absolute
silence when they might be allowed to speak, while looking on.
The trumpets of Aida had given their last heroic ‘fanfare’ in honor
of Rhadames before the great sphinxes under the green foliage of the
palm-trees, the dancers advanced, the light trembling on their spangled
robes, and took possession of the stage.
With much attention and pleasure Mrs. Scott followed the evolutions of
the ballet, but Bettina had suddenly become thoughtful, on perceiving
in a box, on the other side of the house, a tall, dark young man. Miss
Percival talked to herself, and said:
“What shall I do? What shall I decide on? Must I marry him, that
handsome, tall fellow over there, who is watching me, for it is I that
he is looking at? He will come into our box directly this act is over,
and then I have only to say, ‘I have decided; there is my hand; I will
be your wife,’ and then all would be settled! I should be Princess!
Princess Romanelli! Princess Bettina! Bettina Romanelli! The names
go well together; they sound very pretty. Would it amuse me to be a
princess? Yes--and no! Among all the young men in Paris, who, during the
last year, have run after my money, this Prince Romanelli is the one who
pleases me best. One of these days I must make up my mind to marry. I
think he loves me. Yes, but the question is, do I love him? No, I don’t
think I do, and I should so much like to love--so much, so much!”
At the precise moment when these reflections were passing through
Bettina’s pretty head, Jean, alone in his study, seated before his desk
with a great book under the shade of his lamp, looked through, and
took notes of, the campaigns of Turenne. He had been directed to give a
course of instruction to the non-commissioned officers of the regiment,
and was prudently preparing his lesson for the next day.
But in the midst of his notes--Nordlingen, 1645; les Dunes, 1658;
Mulhausen and Turckheim, 1674-1675--he suddenly perceived (Jean did
not draw very badly) a sketch, a woman’s portrait, which all at once
appeared under his pen. What was she doing there, in the middle
of Turenne’s victories, this pretty little woman? And then who was
she--Mrs. Scott or Miss Percival? How could he tell? They resembled each
other so much; and, laboriously, Jean returned to the history of the
campaigns of Turenne.
And at the same moment, the Abbe Constantin, on his knees before his
little wooden bedstead, called down, with all the strength of his soul,
the blessings of Heaven on the two women through whose bounty he had
passed such a sweet and happy day. He prayed God to bless Mrs. Scott
in her children, and to give to Miss Percival a husband after her own
heart.