CHAPTER VI. A LITTLE DINNER FOR FOUR

That same day, at half-past seven, Jean went to fetch the Cure, and the

two walked together up to the house. During the last month a perfect

army of workmen had taken possession of Longueval; all the inns in the

village were making their fortunes.

Enormous furniture wagons brought cargoes of furniture and decorations

from Paris. Forty-eight hours before the arrival of Mrs. Scott,

Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress, and Madame Lormier, the

mayoress, had wormed themselves into the castle, and the account they

gave of the interior turned every one’s head. The old furniture

had disappeared, banished to the attics; one moved among a perfect

accumulation of wonders. And the stables! and the coach-houses! A

special train had brought from Paris, under the high superintendence of

Edwards, a dozen carriages--and such carriages! Twenty horses--and such

horses!

The Abbe Constantin thought that he knew what luxury was. Once a year he

dined with his bishop, Monseigneur Faubert, a rich and amiable prelate,

who entertained rather largely. The Cure, till now, had, thought that

there was nothing in the world more sumptuous than the Episcopal palace

of Souvigny, or the castles of Lavardens and Longueval.

He began to understand, from what he was told of the new splendors of

Longueval, that the luxury of the great houses of the present day must

surpass to a singular degree the sober and severe luxury of the great

houses of former times.

As soon as the Cure and Jean had entered the avenue in the park, which

led to the house:

“Look! Jean,” said the Cure; “what a change! All this part of the park

used to be quite neglected, and now all the paths are gravelled and

raked. I shall not be able to feel myself at home as I used to do:

it will be too grand. I shall not find again my old brown velvet

easy-chair, in which I so often fell asleep after dinner, and if I fall

asleep this evening what will become of me? You will think of it, Jean,

and if you see that I begin to forget myself, you will come behind me

and pinch my arm gently, won’t you? You promise me?”

“Certainly, certainly, I promise you.”

Jean paid but slight attention to the conversation of the Cure. He felt

extremely impatient to see Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival again, but this

impatience was mingled with very keen anxiety. Would he find them in

the great salon at Longueval the same as he had seen them in the little

dining-room at the vicarage? Perhaps, instead of those two women, so

perfectly simple and familiar, amusing themselves with this little

improvised dinner, and who, the very first day, had treated him with

so much grace and cordiality, would he find two pretty dolls-worldly,

elegant, cold, and correct? Would his first impression be effaced? Would

it disappear? or, on the contrary, would the impression in his heart

become still sweeter and deeper?

They ascended the six steps at the entrance, and were received in the

hall by two tall footmen with the most dignified and imposing air. This

hall had formerly been a vast, frigid apartment, with bare stone walls.

These walls were now covered with admirable tapestry, representing

mythological subjects. The Cure dared scarcely glance at this tapestry;

it was enough for him to perceive that the goddesses who wandered

through these shades wore costumes of antique simplicity.

One of the footmen opened wide the folding-doors of the salon. It was

there that one had generally found the old Marquise, on the right of

the high chimney-piece, and on the left had stood the brown velvet

easy-chair.

No brown easy-chair now! That old relic of the Empire, which was the

basis of the arrangement of the salon, had been replaced by a marvellous

specimen of tapestry of the end of the last century. Then a crowd of

little easy-chairs, and ottomans of all forms and all colors, were

scattered here and there with an appearance of disorder which was the

perfection of art.

As soon as Mrs. Scott saw the Cure and Jean enter, she rose, and going

to meet them, said:

“How kind of you to come, Monsieur le Cure, and you, too, Monsieur Jean.

How pleased I am to see you, my first, my only friends down here!”

Jean breathed again. It was the same woman.

“Will you allow me,” added Mrs. Scott, “to introduce my children to you?

Harry and Bella, come here.”

Harry was a very pretty little boy of six, and Bella a very charming

little girl, five years old. They had their mother’s large, dark eyes,

and her golden hair.

After the Cure had kissed the two children, Harry, who was looking with

admiration at Jean’s uniform, said to his mother:

“And the soldier, mamma, must we kiss him, too?”

“If you like,” replied Mrs. Scott, “and if he will allow it.”

A moment after, the two children were installed upon Jean’s knees, and

overwhelming him with questions.

“Are you an officer?”

“Yes, I am an officer.”

“What in?”

“In the artillery.”

“The artillery! Oh, you are one of the men who fire the cannon. Oh, how

I should like to be quite near when they fire the cannon!”

“Will you take us some day when they fire the cannon? Tell me, will

you?”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Scott chatted with the Cure, and Jean, while replying to

the children’s questions, looked at Mrs. Scott. She wore a white muslin

frock, but the muslin disappeared under a complete avalanche of little

flounces of Valenciennes. The dress was cut out in front in a large

square, her arms were bare to the elbow, a large bouquet of red roses at

the opening of her dress, a red rose fixed in her hair, with a diamond

‘agraffe’--nothing more.

Mrs. Scott suddenly perceived that the children had taken entire

possession of Jean, and exclaimed:

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Harry, Bella!”

“Oh, pray let them stay with me.”

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting for dinner; my sister is not down

yet. Oh! here she is!”

Bettina entered. The same frock of white muslin, the same delicate mass

of lace, the same red roses, the same grace, the same beauty, and the

same smiling, amiable, candid manner.

“How do you do, Monsieur le Cure? I am delighted to see you. Have you

pardoned my dreadful intrusion of the other day?”

Then, turning toward Jean and offering him her hand:

“How do you do, Monsieur--Monsieur--Oh! I can not remember your name,

and yet we seem to be already old friends, Monsieur--”

“Jean Reynaud.”

“Jean Reynaud, that is it. How do you do, Monsieur Reynaud? I warn you

faithfully that when we really are old friends--that is to say, in about

a week--I shall call you Monsieur Jean. It is a pretty name, Jean.”

Up to the moment when Bettina appeared Jean had said to himself:

“Mrs. Scott is the prettier!”

When he felt Bettina’s little hand slip into his arm, and when she

turned toward him her delicious face, he said:

“Miss Percival is the prettier!”

But his perplexities gathered round him again when he was seated between

the two sisters. If he looked to the right, love threatened him from

that direction, and if he looked to the left, the danger removed

immediately, and passed to the left.

Conversation began, easy, animated, confidential. The two sisters were

charmed; they had already walked in the park; they promised themselves

a long ride in the forest tomorrow. Riding was their passion, their

madness. It was also Jean’s passion, so that after a quarter of an hour

they begged him to join them the next day. There was no one who knew the

country round better than he did; it was his native place. He should be

so happy to do the honors of it, and to show them numbers of delightful

little spots which, without him, they would never discover.

“Do you ride every day?” asked Bettina.

“Every day and sometimes twice. In the morning on duty, and in the

evening I am ride for my own pleasure.”

“Early in the morning?”

“At half-past five.”

“At half-past five every morning?”

“Yes, except Sunday.”

“Then you get up--”

“At half-past four.”

“And is it light?”

“Oh, just now, broad daylight.”

“To get up at half-past four is admirable; we often finish our day just

when yours is beginning. And are you fond of your profession?”

“Very. It is an excellent thing to have one’s life plain before one,

with exact and definite duties.”

“And yet,” said Mrs. Scott, “not to be one’s own master--to be always

obliged to obey.”

“That is perhaps what suits me best; there is nothing easier than to

obey, and then to learn to obey is the only way of learning to command.”

“Ah! since you say so, it must be true.”

“Yes, no doubt,” added the Cure; “but he does not tell you that he is

the most distinguished officer in his regiment, that--”

“Oh! pray do not.”

The Cure, in spite of the resistance of Jean, was about to launch into a

panegyric on his godson, when Bettina, interposing, said:

“It is unnecessary, Monsieur le Cure, do not say anything, we know

already all that you would tell us, we have been so indiscreet as to

make inquiries about Monsieur--oh, I was just going to say Monsieur

Jean--about Monsieur Reynaud. Well, the information we received was

excellent!”

“I am curious to know,” said Jean.

“Nothing! nothing! you shall know nothing. I do not wish to make you

blush, and you would be obliged to blush.”

Then turning toward the Cure, “And about you, too, Monsieur l’Abbe, we

have had some information. It appears that you are a saint.”

“Oh! as to that, it is perfectly true,” cried Jean.

It was the Cure this time who cut short the eloquence of Jean. Dinner

was almost over. The old priest had not got through this dinner without

experiencing many emotions. They had repeatedly presented to him

complicated and scientific constructions upon which he had only ventured

with a trembling hand. He was afraid of seeing the whole crumble beneath

his touch; the trembling castles of jelly, the pyramids of truffles, the

fortresses of cream, the bastions of pastry, the rocks of ice. Otherwise

the Abbe Constantin dined with an excellent appetite, and did not recoil

before two or three glasses of champagne. He was no foe to good cheer;

perfection is not of this world; and if gormandizing were, as they say,

a cardinal sin, how many good priests would be damned!

Coffee was served on the terrace in front of the house; in the distance

was heard the harsh voice of the old village clock striking nine. Woods

and fields were slumbering; the avenues in the park showed only as long,

undulating, and undecided lines. The moon slowly rose over the tops of

the great trees.

Bettina took a box of cigars from the table. “Do you smoke?” said she.

“Yes, Miss Percival.”

“Take one, Monsieur Jean. It can’t be helped. I have said it. Take

one--but no, listen to me first.”

And speaking in a low voice, while offering him the box of cigars:

“It is getting dark, now you may blush at your ease. I will tell you

what I did not say at dinner. An old lawyer in Souvigny, who was your

guardian, came to see my sister in Paris, about the payment for the

place; he told us what you did after your father’s death, when you were

only a child, what you did for that poor mother, and for that poor young

girl. Both my sister and I were much touched by it.”

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Scott, “and that is why we have received you

to-day with so much pleasure. We should not have given such a reception

to every one, of that you may be sure. Well, now take your cigar, my

sister is waiting.”

Jean could not find a word in reply. Bettina stood there with the box

of cigars in her two hands, her eyes fixed frankly on the countenance

of Jean. At the moment, she tasted a true and keen pleasure which may be

expressed by this phrase:

“It seems to me that I see before me a man of honor.”

“And now,” said Mrs. Scott, “let us sit here and enjoy this delicious

night; take your coffee, smoke--”

“And do not let us talk, Susie, do not let us talk. This great

silence of the country, after the great noise and bustle of Paris, is

delightful! Let us sit here without speaking; let us look at the sky,

the moon, and the stars.”

All four, with much pleasure, carried out this little programme. Susie

and Bettina, calm, reposeful, absolutely separated from their existence

of yesterday, already felt a tenderness for the place which had just

received them, and was going to keep them. Jean was less tranquil; the

words of Miss Percival had caused him profound emotion, his heart had

not yet quite regained its regular throb.

But the happiest of all was the Abbe Constantin.

This little episode which had caused Jean’s modesty such a rude, yet

sweet trial, had brought him exquisite joy, the Abbe bore his godson

such affection. The most tender father never loved more warmly the

dearest of his children. When the old Cure looked at the young officer,

he often said to himself:

“Heaven has been too kind; I am a priest, and I have a son!”

The Abbe sank into a very agreeable reverie; he felt himself at home,

he felt himself too much at home; by degrees his ideas became hazy and

confused, reverie became drowsiness, drowsiness became slumber, the

disaster was soon complete, irreparable; the Cure slept, and slept

profoundly. This marvellous dinner, and the two or three glasses of

champagne may have had something to do with the catastrophe.

Jean perceived nothing; he had forgotten the promise made to his

godfather. And why had he forgotten it? Because Mrs. Scott and Miss

Percival had thought proper to put their feet on the footstools, placed

in front of their great wicker garden-chairs filled with cushions; then

they had thrown themselves lazily back in their chairs, and their muslin

skirts had become raised a little, a very little, but yet enough to

display four little feet, the lines of which showed very distinctly and

clearly beneath two pretty clouds of white lace. Jean looked at these

little feet, and asked himself this question:

“Which are the smaller?”

While he was trying to solve this problem, Bettina, all at once, said to

him in a low voice:

“Monsieur Jean! Monsieur Jean!”

“Miss Percival?”

“Look at the Cure, he is asleep.”

“Oh! it is my fault.”

“How your fault?” asked Mrs. Scott, also in a low voice.

“Yes; my godfather rises at daybreak, and goes to bed very early;

he told me to be sure and prevent his falling asleep; when Madame de

Longueval was here he very often had a nap after dinner. You have shown

him so much kindness that he has fallen back into his old habits.”

“And he is perfectly right,” said Bettina, “do not make a noise, do not

wake him.”

“You are too good, Miss Percival, but the air is getting a little

fresh.”

“Ah! that is true, he might catch cold. Stay, I will go and fetch a wrap

for him.”

“I think, Miss Percival, it would be better to try and wake him

skilfully, so that he should not suspect that you had seen him asleep.”

“Let me do it,” said Bettina. “Susie, let us sing together, very softly

at first, then we will raise our voices little by little, let us sing.”

“Willingly, but what shall we sing?”

“Let us sing, ‘Quelque chose d’enfantin,’ the words are suitable.”

Susie and Bettina began to sing:

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

Their sweet and penetrating voices had an exquisite sonority in that

profound silence. The Abbe heard nothing, did not move. Charmed with

this little concert, Jean said to himself:

“Heaven grant that my godfather may not wake too soon!”

The voices became clearer and louder:

But in my sleep to you I fly,

I’m always with you in my sleep.

Yet the Abbe did not stir.

“How he sleeps,” said Susie, “it is a crime to wake him.”

“But we must; louder, Susie, louder.”

Susie and Bettina both gave free scope to the power of their voices.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids,

So I love to wake ere break of day.

The Cure woke with a start. After a short moment of anxiety he breathed

again. Evidently no one had noticed that he had been asleep. He

collected himself, stretched himself prudently, slowly, he was saved!

A quarter of an hour later the two sisters accompanied the Cure and

Jean to the little gate of the park, which opened into the village a few

yards from the vicarage; they had nearly reached the gate when Bettina

said all at once to Jean:

“Ah! all this time I have had a question to ask you. This morning when

we arrived, we met on the way a slight young man, with a fair mustache,

he was riding a black horse, and bowed to us as we passed.”

“It was Paul de Lavardens, one of my friends; he has already had the

honor of being introduced to you, but rather vaguely, and his ambition

is to be presented again.”

“Well, you shall bring him one of these days,” said Mrs. Scott.

“After the 25th!” cried Bettina. “Not before! not before! No one till

then; till then we will see no one but you, Monsieur Jean. But you, it

is very extraordinary, and I don’t quite know how it has happened,

you don’t seem anybody to us. The compliment is perhaps not very well

turned, but do not make a mistake, it is a compliment. I intended to be

excessively amiable in speaking to you thus.”

“And so you are, Miss Percival.”

“So much the better if I have been so fortunate as to make myself

understood. Good-by, Monsieur Jean--till tomorrow!”

Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival returned slowly toward the castle.

“And now, Susie,” said Bettina, “scold me well, I expect it, I have

deserved it.”

“Scold you! Why?”

“You are going to say, I am sure, that I have been too familiar with

that young man.”

“No, I shall not say that. From the first day that young man has made

the most favorable impression upon me; he inspires me with perfect

confidence.”

“And so he does me.”

“I am persuaded that it would be well for us both to try to make a

friend of him.”

“With all my heart, as far as I am concerned, so much the more as I

have seen many young men since we have lived in France. Oh! yes, I have,

indeed! Well! this is the first, positively the first, in whose eyes I

have not clearly read, ‘Oh, how glad I should be to marry the millions

of that little person!’ That was written in the eyes of all the others,

but not in his eyes. Now, here we are at home again. Good-night,

Susie--to-morrow.”

Mrs. Scott went to see and kiss her sleeping children.

Bettina remained long, leaning on the balustrade of her balcony.

“It seems to me,” said she, “that I am going to be very fond of this

place.”

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER VII. CONFIDENCES

The next morning, on returning from drill, Jean found Paul de Lavardens

waiting for him at the barracks; he scarcely allowed him time to

dismount, and the moment he had him alone:

“Quick,” said he, “describe your dinner-party of yesterday. I saw them

myself in the morning; the little one was driving four ponies, and with

an amount of audacity! I bowed to them; did they mention me? Did they

recognize me? When will you take me to Longueval? Answer me.”

“Answer? Yes. But which question first?”

“The last.”

“When shall I take you to Longueval?”

“Yes.”

“Well, in ten days; they don’t want to see any one just now.”

“Then you are not going back to Longueval for ten days?”

“Oh, I shall go back to-day at four o’clock. But I don’t count, you

know. Jean Reynaud, the Cure’s godson. That is why I have penetrated so

easily into the confidence of these two charming women. I have presented

myself under the patronage and with the guarantee of the Church. And

then they have discovered that I could render them little services. I

know the country very well, and they will make use of me as a guide.

In a word, I am nobody; while you, Count Paul de Lavardens, you are

somebody; so fear nothing, your turn will come with the fetes and balls.

Then you will be resplendent in all your glory, and I shall return very

humbly into my obscurity.”

“You may laugh at me as much as you like; it is none the less true that

during those ten days you will steal a march upon me--upon me!”

“How upon you?”

“Now, Jean, do you want to make me believe that you are not already in

love with one of these two women? Is it possible? So much beauty, so

much luxury. Luxury to that degree upsets me. Those black ponies

with their white rosettes! I dreamed of them last night, and that

little-Bettina, is it not?”

“Yes, Bettina.”

“Bettina--Countess Bettina de Lavardens! Doesn’t that sound well enough!

and what a perfect husband she would have in me! To be the husband of a

woman possessing boundless wealth, that is my destiny. It is not so easy

as one may suppose. I have already run through something, and--if my

mother had not stopped me! but I am quite ready to begin again. Oh,

how happy that girl would be with me! I would create around her the

existence of a fairy queen. In all her luxury she would feel the taste,

the art, and the skill of her husband. I would pass my life in adoring

her, in displaying her beauty, in petting her, in bearing her triumphant

through the world. I would study her beauty in order to give it the

frame that best suited it. ‘If he were not there,’ she would say, ‘I

should not be so beautiful, so dazzling.’ I should know not only how to

love her, but how to amuse her. She would have something for her money,

she would have love and pleasure. Come, Jean, do a good action, take me

to Mrs. Scott’s to-day.”

“I cannot, I assure you.”

“Well, then, in ten days; but I give you fair notice, I shall install

myself at Longueval, and shall not move. In the first place it

would please my mother; she is still a little prejudiced against the

Americans. She says that she shall arrange not to see them, but I know

my mother. Some day, when I shall go home in the evening and tell

her: ‘Mother, I have won the-heart of a charming little person who is

burdened with a capital of twenty millions--they exaggerate when they

talk of hundreds of millions. You know these are the correct figures,

and they are enough for me. That evening, then, my mother will be

delighted, because, in her heart, what is it she desires for me? What

all good mothers desire for their sons--a good marriage, or a discreet

liaison with some one in society. At Longueval I find these two

essentials, and I will accommodate myself very willingly to either.

You will have the kindness to warn me in ten days--you will let me know

which of the two you abandon to me, Mrs. Scott or Miss Percival?”

“You are mad, you are quite mad! I do not, I never shall think--”

“Listen, Jean. You are wisdom personified; you may say and do as you

like, but remember what I say to you, Jean, you will fall in love in

that house.”

“I do not believe it,” replied Jean, laughing.

“But I am absolutely sure of it. Good-by. I leave you to your duties.”

That morning Jean was perfectly sincere. He had slept very well the

previous night; the second interview with the two sisters had, as if by

enchantment, dissipated the slight trouble which had agitated his

soul after the first meeting. He prepared to meet them again with much

pleasure, but also with much tranquillity; there was too much money in

that house to permit the love of a poor devil like Jean to find place

honestly there.

Friendship was another affair; with all his heart he wished, and with

all his strength he sought, to establish himself peacefully in the

esteem and regard of the sisters. He would try not to remark too much

the beauty of Susie and Bettina; he would try not to forget himself

as he had done the previous evening, in the contemplation of the four

little feet resting on their footstools. They had said, very frankly,

very cordially, to him: “You shall be our friend.” That was all he

desired--to be their friend--and that he would be.

During the ten days that followed, all conduced to the success of this

enterprise. Susie, Bettina, the Cure, and Jean led the same life in the

closest and most cordial intimacy.

Jean did not seek to analyze his feelings. He felt for these two women

an equal affection; he was perfectly happy, perfectly tranquil. Then he

was not in love, for love and tranquillity seldom dwell at peace in the

same heart.

Jean, however, saw approach, with a little anxiety and sadness, the day

which would bring to Longueval the Turners, and the Nortons, and the

whole force of the American colony. The day came too soon.

On Friday, the 24th of June, at four o’clock, Jean arrived at the

castle. Bettina received him alone, looking quite vexed.

“How annoying it is,” said she, “my sister is not well; a little

headache, nothing of consequence, it will be gone by tomorrow; but I

dare not ride with you alone. In America I might; but here, it would not

do, would it?”

“Certainly not,” replied Jean.

“I must send you back, and I am so sorry.”

“And so am I--I am very sorry to be obliged to go, and to lose this last

day, which I had hoped to pass with you. However, since it must be, I

will come tomorrow to inquire after your sister.”

“She will see you herself, to-morrow; I repeat it is nothing serious.

But do not run away in such a hurry, pray; will you not spare me a

little quarter of an hour’s conversation? I want to speak to you; sit

down there, and now listen to me well. My sister and I had intended

this evening, after dinner, to blockade you into a little corner of the

drawing-room, and then she meant to tell you what I am going to try to

say for us both.”

“But I am a little nervous. Do not laugh; it is a very serious matter.

We wish to thank you for having been, ever since our arrival here, so

good to us both.”

“Oh, Miss Percival, pray, it is I who--”

“Oh, do not interrupt me, you will quite confuse me. I do not know how

to get through with it. I maintain, besides, that the thanks are due

from us, not from you. We arrived here two strangers. We have been

fortunate enough immediately to find friends. Yes, friends. You have

taken us by the hand, you have led us to our farmers, to our keepers;

while your godfather took us to his poor--and everywhere you were so

much beloved that from their confidence in you, they began, on your

recommendation, to like us a little. You are adored about here; do you

know that?”

“I was born here--all these good people have known me from my infancy,

and are grateful to me for what my grandfather and father did for

them; and then I am of their race, the race of the peasants; my

great-grandfather was a laborer at Bargecourt, a village two miles from

here.”

“Oh! oh! you appear very proud of that!”

“Neither proud nor ashamed.”

“I beg your pardon, you made a little movement of pride. Well, I can

tell you that my mother’s great-grandfather was a farmer in Brittany.

He went to Canada at the end of the last century, when Canada was still

French. And you love very much this place where you were born?”

“Very much. Perhaps I shall soon be obliged to leave it.”

“Why?”

“When I get promotion, I shall have to exchange into another regiment,

and I shall wander from garrison to garrison; but certainly, when I am

an old commandant or old colonel, on half-pay, I shall come back, and

live and die here, in the little house that was my father’s.”

“Always quite alone?”

“Why quite alone? I certainly hope not.”

“You intend to marry?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“You are trying to marry?”

“No; one may think of marrying, but one ought not to try to marry.”

“And yet there are people who do try. Come, I can answer for that, and

you even; people have wished to marry you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh! I know all your little affairs so well; you are what they call a

good match, and I repeat it, they have wished to marry you.”

“Who told you that?”

“Monsieur le Cure.”

“Then he was very wrong,” said Jean, with a certain sharpness.

“No, no, he was not wrong. If any one has been to blame it is I. I

soon discovered that your godfather was never so happy as when he was

speaking of you. So when I was alone with him during our walks, to

please him I talked of you, and he related your history to me. You are

well off; you are very well off; from Government you receive every month

two hundred and thirteen francs and some centimes; am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Jean, deciding to bear with a good grace his share in the

Cure’s indiscretions.

“You have eight thousand francs’ income?”

“Nearly, not quite.”

“Add to that your house, which is worth thirty thousand francs. You are

in an excellent position, and people have asked your hand.”

“Asked my hand! No, no.”

“They have, they have, twice, and you have refused two very good

marriages, two very good fortunes, if you prefer it--it is the same

thing for so many people. Two hundred thousand francs in the one, three

hundred thousand in the other case. It appears that these fortunes are

enormous for the country! Yet you have refused! Tell me why.”

“Well, it concerned two charming young girls.”

“That is understood. One always says that.”

“But whom I scarcely knew. They forced me--for I did resist--they forced

me to spend two or three evenings with them last winter.”

“And then?”

“Then--I don’t quite know how to explain it to you. I did not feel the

slightest touch of embarrassment, emotion, anxiety, or disturbance--”

“In fact,” said Bettina, resolutely, “not the least suspicion of love.”

“No, not the least, and I returned quite calmly to my bachelor den, for

I think it is better not to marry than to marry without love.”

“And I think so, too.”

She looked at him, he looked at her, and suddenly, to the great surprise

of both, they found nothing more to say, nothing at all.

At this moment Harry and Bella rushed into the room, with cries of joy.

“Monsieur Jean! Are you there? Come and see our ponies!”

“Ah!” said Bettina, her voice a little uncertain, “Edwards has just

come back from Paris, and has brought two microscopic ponies for the

children. Let us go to see them, shall we?”

They went to see the ponies, which were indeed worthy to figure in the

stables of the King of Lilliput.

CHAPTER VIII. 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!”

CHAPTER IX. 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.

ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

Ancient pillars of stone, embrowned and gnawed by time

And they are shoulders which ought to be seen

Believing themselves irresistible

But she will give me nothing but money

Duty, simply accepted and simply discharged

Frenchman has only one real luxury--his revolutions

God may have sent him to purgatory just for form’s sake

Great difference between dearly and very much

Had not told all--one never does tell all

He led the brilliant and miserable existence of the unoccupied

If there is one! (a paradise)

In order to make money, the first thing is to have no need of it

Love and tranquillity seldom dwell at peace in the same heart

Never foolish to spend money. The folly lies in keeping it

Often been compared to Eugene Sue, but his touch is lighter

One half of his life belonged to the poor

One may think of marrying, but one ought not to try to marry

Succeeded in wearying him by her importunities and tenderness

The women have enough religion for the men

The history of good people is often monotonous or painful

To learn to obey is the only way of learning to command

End of Project Gutenberg’s L’Abbe Constantin, Complete, by Ludovic Halevy