This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>





[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an
entire meal of them.  D.W.]





THE ABBE CONSTANTIN

By LUDOVIC HALEVY



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.




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