CHAPTER VIII. ANOTHER MARTYR TO MILLIONS
Three weeks have glided by; another day and Jean will be obliged toleave with his regiment for the artillery practice. He will lead thelife 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. Theregiment will return to Souvigny on the 10th of August.
Jean is no longer tranquil; Jean is no longer happy. He sees approachwith impatience, and at the same time with terror, the moment of hisdeparture. With impatience--for he suffers an absolute martyrdom, helongs to escape from it; with terror--for to pass twenty days withoutseeing her, without speaking to her, without her in a word--what willbecome of him? Her! It is Bettina; he adores her!
Since when? Since the first day, since that meeting in the month of Mayin the Cure's garden. That is the truth; but Jean struggles against andresists that truth. He believes that he has only loved Bettina since theday 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 Japaneseprincess, one of Bella's dolls, which she had left on a chair, and whichBettina had mechanically taken up.
Why had the fancy come to Miss Percival to talk to him of those twoyoung girls whom he might have married? The question of itself was notat all embarrassing to him. He had replied that, if he had not then feltany taste for marriage, it was because his interviews with these twogirls had not caused him any emotion or any agitation. He had smiled inspeaking thus, but a few minutes after he smiled no more. This emotion,this agitation, he had suddenly learned to know them. Jean did notdeceive himself; he acknowledged the depth of the wound; it hadpenetrated to his very heart's core.
Jean, however, did not abandon himself to this emotion. He said tohimself:
"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, toomuch with him alone! How could he resist such a temptation? He wasintoxicated with her charm, with her grace and beauty. But the next daya troop of visitors would arrive at Longueval, and there would be an endof this dangerous intimacy. He would have courage; he would keep at adistance; he would lose himself in the crowd, would see Bettina lessoften and less familiarly. To see her no more was a thought he could notsupport! He wished to remain Bettina's friend, since he could be nothingbut her friend; for there was another thought which scarcely enteredthe mind of Jean. This thought did not appear extravagant to him; itappeared monstrous. In the whole world there was not a more honorableman than Jean, and he felt for Bettina's money horror, positivelyhorror.
From the 25th of June the crowd had been in possession of Longueval.Mrs. Norton arrived with her son, Daniel Norton; and Mrs. Turner withher son, Philip Turner. Both of them, the young Philip and the youngDaniel, formed a part of the famous brotherhood of the thirty-four. Theywere old friends, Bettina had treated them as such, and had declared tothem, with perfect frankness, that they were losing their time. However,they were not discouraged, and formed the centre of a little court whichwas always very eager and assiduous around Bettina.
Paul de Lavardens had made his appearance on this scene, and had veryrapidly become everybody's friend. He had received the brilliant andcomplicated education of a young man destined for pleasure. As soon asit was a question only of amusement, riding, croquet, lawn-tennis, polo,dancing, charades, and theatricals, he was ready for everything. Heexcelled in everything. His superiority was evident, unquestionable.Paul became, in a short time, by general consent, the director andorganizer of the fetes at Longueval.
Bettina had not a moment of hesitation. Jean introduced Paul deLavardens, and the latter had scarcely concluded the customary littlecompliment when Miss Percival, leaning toward her sister, whispered inher ear:
"The thirty-fifth!"
However, she received Paul very kindly, so kindly that for several dayshe had the weakness to misunderstand her. He believed that it was hispersonal graces which had obtained for him this very flattering andcordial reception. It was a great mistake. Paul de Lavardens had beenintroduced 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 oneevening only, but for every evening, and Paul, with enthusiasm, cameevery evening! His dream was at last realized; he had, found Paris atLongueval.
But Paul was neither blind nor a fool. No doubt he was, on MissPercival's part, the object of very particular attention and favor. Itpleased her to talk long, very long, alone with him. But what was theeternal, the inexhaustible subject of their conversations? Jean, againJean, and always Jean!
Paul was thoughtless, dissipated, frivolous, but he became in earnestwhen Jean was in question; he knew how to appreciate him, he knew how tolove him. Nothing to him was sweeter, nothing was easier, than to say ofthe friend of his childhood all the good that he thought of him, and ashe saw that Bettina listened with great pleasure, Paul gave free rein tohis eloquence.
Only--and he was quite right--Paul wished one evening to reap thebenefit of his chivalrous conduct. He had just been talking for aquarter of an hour with Bettina. The conversation finished, he went tolook 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 MissPercival."
"Well, you have no reason to be discontented with the result of theenterprise. You are the best friends in the world."
"Yes, certainly, pretty well, but not quite satisfactory. There isnothing more amiable or more charming than Miss Percival, and really itis very good of me to acknowledge it; for, between ourselves, shemakes me play an ungrateful and ridiculous role, a role which is quiteunsuited to my age. I am, you will admit, of the lover's age, and not ofthat of the confidant."
"Of the confidant!"
"Yes, my dear fellow, of the confidant! That is my occupation in thishouse. You were looking at us just now. Oh, I have very good eyes; youwere looking at us. Well, do you know what we were talking about? Ofyou, my dear fellow, of you, of you again, of nothing but you. And it isthe same thing every evening; there is no end to the questions:
"'You were brought up together? You took lessons together from the AbbeConstantin?'
"'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 avery delicious dream."
Jean was annoyed, almost angry. Paul was much astonished at this suddenattack of irritability.
"What is the matter? Have I said anything--"
"I beg your pardon; I was wrong. But how could you take such an absurdidea into your head?"
"Absurd! I don't see it. I have entertained the absurd idea on my ownaccount."
"Ah! you--"
"Why 'Ah! you?' If I have had it you may have it; you are better worthit 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. WhatI wanted to say, in short, is that Miss Percival perhaps thinks I amagreeable; but as to considering me seriously, that little person willnever commit such a folly. I must fall back upon Mrs. Scott, but withoutmuch confidence. You see, Jean, I shall amuse myself in this house, butI shall make nothing out of it."
Paul de Lavardens did fall back upon Mrs. Scott, but the next day wassurprised to stumble upon Jean, who had taken to placing himself veryregularly in Mrs. Scott's particular circle, for like Bettina she hadalso her little court. But what Jean sought there was a protection, ashelter, a refuge.
The day of that memorable conversation on marriage without love, Bettinahad also, for the first time, felt suddenly awake in her that necessityof loving which sleeps, but not very profound
ly, in the hearts of allyoung girls. The sensation had been the same, at the same moment, inthe soul of Bettina and the soul of Jean. He, terrified, had castit violently from him. She, on the contrary, had yielded, in all thesimplicity of her perfect innocence, to this flood of emotion and oftenderness.
She had waited for love. Could this be love? The man who was to be herthought, her life, her soul--could this be he--this Jean? Why not? Sheknew 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 wasnothing 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 oftruth--she, in yielding; he, in resisting; she, in not thinking for amoment of the obscurity of Jean; he, in recoiling before her mountain ofwealth as he would have recoiled before a crime; she, in thinking thatshe had no right to parley with love; he, in thinking he had no right toparley with honor.
This is why, in proportion as Bettina showed herself more tender, andabandoned herself with more frankness to the first call of love--this iswhy Jean became, day by day, more gloomy and more restless. He was notonly afraid of loving; he was afraid of being loved.
He ought to have remained away; he should not have come near her. He hadtried; 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 herlips, 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 thepressure of his hands, he hardly dared touch them. He tried to escapethose eyes which, tender and smiling, anxious and curious, tried tomeet 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 thatMrs. Scott gathered those uncertain, agitated, troubled words which werenot addressed to her, and which she took for herself, nevertheless. Itwould 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 ofher budding love, as a miser guards and caresses the first coins of histreasure. The day when she should see clearly into her own heart; theday that she should be sure that she loved--ah! she would speak thatday, 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 byit--a woman is never displeased at thinking herself beloved--and vexedat 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 andunhappy, it was because of her.
Susie was, besides, conscious of her own innocence. With others she hadsometimes been coquettish, very coquettish. To torment them a little,was that such a great crime? They had nothing to do, they weregood-for-nothing, it occupied them while it amused her. It helpedthem to pass their time, and it helped her, too. But Susie had not toreproach herself for having flirted with Jean. She recognized his meritand his superiority; he was worth more than the others, he was a man tosuffer 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 veryseriously, very affectionately, but she had reflected Jean was goingaway for three weeks; on his return, if it were still necessary, shewould read him a lecture, and would act in such a manner that loveshould not come and foolishly interfere in their friendship.
So Jean was to go the next day. Bettina had insisted that he shouldspend this last day at Longueval, and dine at the house. Jean hadrefused, 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. Severaltimes on the way he had been inclined to return.
"If I had courage enough," he said to himself, "I would not see heragain. I shall leave to-morrow, and return no more to Souvigny while sheis 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 goesthrough the village?"
"Yes, that is the way we shall go."
"Why so early in the morning? I would have gone out on the terrace tosee you pass, and to wish you good-by."
Bettina detained for a moment Jean's burning hand in hers. He drew itmournfully 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, whichhas caused us great joy. We did not expect him for a month, but he iscoming back in a fortnight. He will embark the day after to-morrow atNew 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 thechildren, it will do them a great deal of good to spend a few days atthe seaside. How pleased my brother-in-law will be to know you--he knowsyou already, we have spoken of you in all our letters. I am sure you andMr. Scott will get on extremely well together, he is so good. How longshall 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 explainall about it to me this morning. Of course I am delighted to go to meetmy brother-in-law; but at the same time, I am a little sorry to leavehere, for I should have gone every morning to pay a little visit toMonsieur l'Abbe. He would have given me news of you. Perhaps, in aboutten days, you will write to my sister--a little note of three or fourlines--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 extremekindness, 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 islooking 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 theyoung 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," shereplied.
"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 Lavardenshas asked me for this dance, and I replied that I had promised it toyou. You would like it, wouldn't you?"
To hold her in his arms, to breathe the perfume of her hair--Jean felthis courage could not support this ordeal, he dared not accept.
"I regret extremely I can not, I am not well tonight; I persisted incoming 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 woul
d have liked to staythere, near him. But it was too late, Paul took her hand and led heraway.
Jean rose; he looked at the two, Bettina and Paul, a haze floated beforehis 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 excusemyself."
He gained the door, he looked no more at Bettina; had he looked, hewould 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. Youwill 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 acrossthe room. Paul remained alone, much surprised, understanding nothing ofwhat had passed.
Jean was already at the hall-door, when he heard some onecall--"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 extendedher hand out-of-doors, "it is raining already."
"Come and have a cup of tea in the little drawing-room, and I will tellthem to drive you home," and turning toward one of the footmen, "tellthem to send a carriage round directly."
"No, Miss Percival, pray, the open air will revive me. I must walk, letme go."
"Go, then, but you have no greatcoat, take something to wrap yourselfin."
"I shall not be cold--while you with that open dress--I shall go tooblige you to go in." And without even offering his hand, he ran quicklydown the steps.
"If I touch her hand," he thought, "I am lost, my secret will escapeme."
His secret! He did not know that Bettina read his heart like an openbook.
When Jean had descended the steps, he hesitated one short moment, thesewords 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 thedarkness.
Bettina remained there against the brilliant background made by thelight from the hall. Great drops of rain, driven by the wind, sweptacross her bare shoulders and made her shiver; she took no notice, shedistinctly heard her heart beat.
"I knew very well that he loved me," she thought, "but now I am verysure, that I, too--oh! yes! I, too!--"
All at once, in one of the great mirrors in the hall door, she saw thereflection of the two footmen who stood there motionless, near the oaktable in the hall. Bettina heard bursts of laughter and the strains ofthe waltz; she stopped. She wished to be alone, completely alone, andaddressing one of the servants, she said:
"Go and tell your mistress that I am very tired, and have gone to my ownroom."
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 wasoppressed 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 withher burning brow Susie's fresh shoulders. Then she suddenly burst intosobs, 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 donot 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 wasdull 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 askedmyself--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; youare 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 fledfrom me, he was afraid of me, evidently afraid. Now, in justice, am I aperson 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 horridmoney! This money which attracts all the others and tempts them so much,this money terrifies him, drives him desperate, because he is not likethe 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 goingaway, he said some words to me. These words were nothing. But if you hadseen his distress in spite of all his efforts to control it! Susie, dearSusie, by the affection which I bear you, and God knows how great isthat affection, this is my conviction, my absolute conviction--if,instead of being Miss Percival, I had been a poor little girl without apenny Jean would then have taken my hand, and have told me that he lovedme, and if he had spoken to me thus, do you know what I should havereplied?"
"That you loved him, too?"
"Yes; and that is why I am so happy. With me it is a fixed idea thatI must adore the man who will be my husband. Well! I don't say that Iadore Jean, no, not yet; but still it is beginning, Susie, and it isbeginning so sweetly."
"Bettina, it really makes me uneasy to see you in this state ofexcitement. I do not deny that Monsieur Reynaud is much attached toyou--"
"Oh, more than that, more than that!"
"Loves you, if you like; yes, you are right, you are quite right. Heloves you; and are you not worthy, my darling, of all the love that onecan bear you? As to Jean--it is progressing decidedly, here am I alsocalling 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 foryou?"
"Yes, if I love him."
"I am trying to talk sensibly to you, and you, on thecontrary--Understand me, Bettina; I have an experience of the worldwhich you can not have. Since our arrival in Paris, we have beenlaunched into a very brilliant, very animated, very aristocraticsociety. You might have been already, if you had liked, marchioness orprincess."
"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 besensible in my turn. This question--I grant that this is not quitesettled, and that I have, perhaps, allowed myself to be too easilypersuaded. 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 Ishall 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 toour 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 whatyou 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 achild, when we were alone in the world together, when I used to undressyou in our poor room in New York, when I held you in my arms, when Ilaid you in your little bed, when I sang you to sleep. And since then,Bettina, I have had only one d
esire in the world, your happiness. Thatis why I beg you to reflect well. Do not answer me, do not let us talkany more of that. I wish to leave you very calm, very tranquil. Youhave sent away Annie, would you like me to be your little mamma againtonight, 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 embroideriesand 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 areasleep. Do not speak. Go to sleep."
She went away. Bettina remained alone; she tried to keep her word; sheendeavored to go to sleep, but only half-succeeded. She fell into ahalf-slumber which left her floating between dream and reality. She hadpromised 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; shehalf-opened her eyes, and thought she recognized her sister. In a verysleepy 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 anoise, 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; theclouds were heavy with rain, the wind blew tempestuously, and drove therain in gusts before it.
Bettina did not go back to bed, she felt it would be quite impossible tosleep again. She put on a dressing-gown, and remained at the window; shewatched the falling rain. Since he positively must go, she would haveliked the weather to be fine; she would have liked bright sunshine tohave cheered his first day's march.
When she came to Longueval a month ago, Bettina did not know what thismeant. But she knew it now. A day's march for the artillery is twentyor thirty miles, with an hour's halt for luncheon. It was the AbbeConstantin who had taught her that; when going their rounds in themorning among the poor, Bettina overwhelmed the Cure with questions onmilitary affairs, and particularly on the artillery.
Twenty or thirty miles under this pouring rain! Poor Jean! Bettinathought of young Turner, young Norton, of Paul de Lavardens, who wouldsleep calmly till ten in the morning, while Jean was exposed to thisdeluge.
Paul de Lavardens!
This name awoke in her a painful memory, the memory of that waltz theevening before. To have danced like that, while Jean was so obviously introuble! That waltz took the proportions of a crime in her eyes; it wasa horrible thing that she had done.
And then, had she not been wanting in courage and frankness in that lastinterview with Jean? He neither could nor dared say anything; but shemight have shown more tenderness, more expansiveness. Sad and sufferingas he was, she should never have allowed him to go back on foot. Sheought to have detained him at any price. Her imagination tormented andexcited her; Jean must have carried away with him the impressionthat she was a bad little creature, heartless and pitiless. And inhalf-an-hour he was going away, away for three weeks. Ah! if she couldby any means--but there is a way! The regiment must pass along the wallof the park, under the terrace.
Bettina was seized with a wild desire to see Jean pass; he wouldunderstand well, if he saw her at such an hour, that she had come to beghis 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 whatshe was going to do, was that being as good as an angel? She would makeup for it by acknowledging all to Susie when she came in again, andSusie would forgive her.
She would go! She had made up her mind. Only how should she dressherself? She had nothing at hand but a muslin dressing-gown, littlehigh-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 satinshoes; in the hall, she might find her hat, her little sabots whichshe wore in the garden, and the large tartan cloak for driving in wetweather. She half-opened her door with infinite precautions. Everythingslept in the house; she crept along the corridor, she descended thestaircase.
If only the little sabots are there in their place; that is her greatanxiety. There they are! She slips them on over her satin shoes, shewraps herself in her great mantle.
She hears that the rain has redoubled in violence. She notices one ofthose 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 thatthe 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 inthe hall slowly strikes five. He is starting at that moment.
She will see him! she will see him! Her will is excited by theseobstacles. She makes a great effort; the bar yields, slips back in thegroove. But Bettina has made a long scratch on her hand, from whichissues a slender stream of blood. Bettina twists her handkerchief roundher hand, takes her great umbrella, turns the key in the lock; and opensthe door.
At last she is out of the house!
The weather is frightful. The wind and the rain rage together. It takesfive or six minutes to reach the terrace which looks over the road.Bettina darts forward courageously; her head bent, hidden under herimmense 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 umbrellaviolently inside out; that is nothing, the disaster is not yet complete.
Bettina has lost one of her little sabots; they were not practicalsabots; they were only pretty little things for fine weather, and atthis moment, when Bettina struggles against the tempest with her bluesatin shoe half buried in the wet gravel, at this moment the wind bearsto her the distant echo of a blast of trumpets. It is the regimentstarting!
Bettina makes a desperate effort, abandons her umbrella, finds herlittle 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. Anotherblast, nearer this time. Bettina fancies she hears the rolling of thegun-carriages. She makes a last effort, there is the terrace, she isthere just in time.
Twenty yards off she perceived the white horses of the trumpeters, andalong the road caught glimpses, vaguely appearing through the fog, ofthe long line of guns and wagons.
She sheltered herself under one of the old limes which bordered theterrace. She watched, she waited. He is there among that confused massof 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 hisregiment; she knows that a battery is composed of six guns, and sixammunition wagons. Of course it is the Abbe Constantin who has taughther 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 hismind a long walk which he had taken with her one evening, when night wasfalling, on that terrace. He raised his eyes, and the very spot wherehe re
membered having seen her, was the spot where he found her again. Hebowed, and, bareheaded in the rain, turning round in his saddle, as longas he could see her, he looked at her. He said again to himself what hehad said the previous evening:
"It is for the last time."
With a charming gesture of both hands, she returned his farewell, andthis gesture, repeated many times, brought her hands so near, so nearher lips, that one might have fancied--
"Ah!" she thought, "if, after that, he does not understand that I lovehim, 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 toLongueval.
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 rainthe next day.
In the early morning a dense fog enveloped the park of Longueval, thetrees of which were hidden from view, as by a curtain. But graduallythe rays of the sun dissipated the mist, the trees became vaguelydiscernible through the vapor; then, suddenly, the sun shonebrilliantly, flooding with light the park, and the fields beyond;and the lake, where the black swans were disporting themselves in theradiant light, appeared as bright as a sheet of polished metal.
The weather was going to be beautiful. Bettina was a littlesuperstitious. The sunshine gives her good hope and good courage. "Theday begins well, so it will finish well."
Mr. Scott had come home several days before. Susie, Betting, and thechildren waited on the quay at Havre for the arrival of his steamer.
They exchanged many tender embraces; then, Richard, addressing hissister-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, whohave written to me. For the last two months, all your letters have beenoccupied 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 mewith a brother-in-law?"
He spoke jestingly, but Bettina replied:
"Soon, I hope."
Mr. Scott perceived that the affair was serious. When returning in thecarriage, 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 theseletters have been filled. She found therein related, down to the mosttrifling details, their first meeting. There was the portrait of Jeanin the vicarage garden, with his straw hat and his earthenwaresalad-dish--and then it was again Monsieur Jean, always MonsieurJean. She discovered that she had loved him much longer than she hadsuspected. At last it was the 10th of August. Luncheon was just over,and Harry and Bella were impatient. They knew that between one andtwo o'clock the regiment must pass through the village. They had beenpromised that they should be taken to see the soldiers pass, and forthem, as well as for Bettina, the return of the 9th Artillery was agreat event.
"Aunt Betty," said Bella, "Aunt Betty, come with us."
"Yes, do come," said Harry, "do come, we shall see our friend Jean, onhis 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, whenshe would give him that decisive explanation for which she had beenpreparing herself for the last three weeks. The children went away withtheir 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; wesettled 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 speakfrankly 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 warnyou 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 youformerly used to Richard. You were successful, Susie, you are perfectlyhappy, 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 higheropinion, but--"
"But she has told you that for me it would be a rather quiet, rathercommonplace marriage. Oh, naughty sister! Will you believe it, Richard,that I can not get this fear out of her head? She does not understandthat, before everything, I wish to love and be loved; will you believeit, Richard, that only last week she laid a horrible trap for me? Youknow 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 dayI was so foolish as to say to Susie, that, in extremity, I might acceptthe Prince Romanelli. Now, just imagine what she did. The Turners wereat Trouville, Susie had arranged a little plot. We lunched with thePrince, but the result was disastrous. Accept him! The two hours that Ipassed with him, I passed in asking myself how I could have said sucha thing. No, Richard; no, Susie; I will be neither princess, normarchioness, nor countess. My wish is to be Madame Jean Reynaud; if,however, Monsieur Jean Reynaud will agree to it, and that is by no meanscertain."
The regiment entered the village, and suddenly military music burstmartial and joyous across the space. All three remained silent, it wasthe regiment, it was Jean who passed; the sound became fainter, diedaway, and Bettina continued:
"No, that is not certain. He loves me, however, and much, but withoutknowing 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 heknew me better, and that is why I ask you to permit me to speak to himthis 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 thatis not noble and generous."
"At least, I shall try."
The children ran up to them; they had seen Jean, he was quite white withdust, he said good-morning to them.
"Only," added Bella, "he is not very nice, he did not stop to talk tous; usually he stops, but this time he wouldn't."
"Yes, he would," replied Harry, "for at first he seemed as if he weregoing 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; ifyou knew, papa, how kind he is, and how nicely he plays with us."
"And what beautiful drawings he makes. Harry, you remember that greatPunch 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," repliedBettina.
The regiment broke into a trot along the highroad, after leaving thevillage. 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-timeat least. He would start that very evening at six o'clock for Paris; oneof the personages in the War Office was interested in h
im; he would tryto get exchanged into another regiment.
Alone at Cercottes, Jean had had time to reflect deeply, and that wasthe result of his reflections. He could not, he must not, be BettinaPercival's husband.
The men dismounted at the barracks, Jean took leave of his Colonel, hiscomrades; all was over. He was free, he could go.
But he did not go; he looked around him. How happy he was three monthsago, when he rode out of that great yard amid the noise of the cannonrolling over the pavement of Souvigny; but how sadly he should ride awayto-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 herthat his duties obliged him to leave immediately, he could not dineat 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 hisletter; he would send it directly.
He made his preparations for departure; then he went to wish hisgodfather farewell. That is what cost him most; he must speak to himonly of a short absence.
He opened one of the drawers of his bureau to take out some money. Thefirst thing that met his eyes was a little note on bluish paper; it wasthe only note which he had ever received from her.
"Will you have the kindness to give to the servant the book of which youspoke yesterday evening. Perhaps it will be a little serious for me, butyet I should like to try to read it. We shall see you to-night; come asearly as possible." It was signed "Bettina."
Jean read and re-read these few lines, but soon he could read them nolonger, 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 oldPauline, they were making up their accounts. The financial situation wasadmirable; more than 2,000 francs in hand! And the wishes of Susie andBettina 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 littletoo much. Then it will be spread about in other parishes that here theycan always find charity. And do you know what will happen then, one ofthese days? Poor people will come and settle in Longueval."
The Cure gave fifty francs to Pauline. She went to take them to a poorman who had broken his arm a few days before, by falling from the top ofa hay-cart.
The Abbe Constantin remained alone in the vicarage. He was ratheranxious. He had watched for the passing of the regiment; but Jean onlystopped for a moment, he looked sad. For some time, the Abbe had noticedthat Jean had no longer the flow of good-humor and gayety he oncepossessed.
The Cure did not disturb himself too much about it, believing it to beone of those little youthful troubles which did not concern a poor oldpriest. But, on this occasion, Jean's disturbance was very perceptible.
"I will come back directly," he said to the Cure, "I want to speak toyou."
He turned abruptly away. The Abbe Constantin had not even had time togive Loulou his piece of sugar, or rather his pieces of sugar, for hehad put five or six in his pocket, considering that Loulou had welldeserved this feast by ten long days' march, and a score of nightspassed under the open sky.
Besides, since Mrs. Scott had lived at Longueval, Loulou had very oftenhad several pieces of sugar; the Abbe Constantin had become extravagant,prodigal; he felt himself a millionaire, the sugar for Loulou was oneof his follies. One day, even, he had been on the point of addressing toLoulou his everlasting little speech:
"This comes from the new mistresses of Longueval; pray for themto-night."
It was three o'clock when Jean arrived at the vicarage, and the Curesaid, immediately:
"You told me that you wanted to speak to me; what is it about?"
"About something, my dear godfather, which will surprise you, willgrieve 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 castleto-night."
"I have just written to Mrs. Scott to excuse me. I am positively obligedto 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, whynot 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 theright to know. I am going to Paris to ask to be exchanged into anotherregiment."
"Into another regiment! To leave Souvigny!"
"Yes, that is just it; I must leave Souvigny for a short time, for alittle while only; but to leave Souvigny is necessary, it is what I wishabove all things."
"And what about me, Jean, do you not think of me? A little while! Alittle while! But that is all that remains to me of life, a littlewhile. And during these last days, that I owe to the grace of God, itwas 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 befor 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 andyour 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 quitelittle, when you took me to yourself, when you brought me up. My hearthas not changed, will never change. But if duty--if honor--oblige me togo?"
"Ah, if it is duty, if it is honor, I say nothing more, Jean, thatstands before all!--all!--all! I have always known you a good judge ofyour duty, your honor. Go, my boy, go, I ask you nothing more, I wish toknow 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 willreturn 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 Iwould have told my father."
"And then, I have not been able to speak of it to any one, and itstifled me; yes, it is a madness which has seized me, which has grownupon me, little by little, against my will, for you know very-well--MyGod! It was here that I began to love her. You know, when she came herewith her sister--with the little 'rouleaux' of francs--her hair felldown--and then the evening, the month of Mary! Then I was permitted tosee her freely, familiarly, and you, yourself, spoke to me constantly ofher. You praised her sweetness, her goodness. How often have you told methat 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 herbetter than I do, for it is I alone who have seen her with the poor. Ifyou only knew how tender, and how good she is! Neither wretchednessnor suffering repulse her. But, my dear boy, I am wrong to tell you allthis."
"No, no, I will see her no more, I promise you; but I like to hear youspeak of her."
"In your whole life, Jean, you will never meet a better woman, nor onewho has more elevated sentiments. To such a point, that one day--shehad taken me with her in an open carriage, full of toys--she was takingthese toys to a poor sick little girl, and when she gave them to her, tomake the poor little thing laugh, to amuse her, she talked so prettilyto her that I thought of you, and I said to myself, I remember it now,'Ah, if she were poor!'"
"Ah! if she were poo
r, but she is not."
"Oh, no! But what can you do, my poor child! If it gives you pain to seeher, 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 dealof Mademoiselle Bettina since she came to Longueval. Well--when Ireflect--it did not astonish me that any one should be interested inyou, for it seemed so natural--but she talked always, yes, always ofyou."
"Of me?"
"Yes, of you, and of your father and mother; she was curious to know howyou 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 hisduties conscientiously."
"It is extraordinary, since you have told me this, recollections crowdupon me, a thousand little things collect and group themselves together.They returned from Havre yesterday at three o'clock. Well! an hourafter their arrival she was here. And it was of you of whom she spokedirectly. 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 throughthe village?"
"It is useless at this moment, my dear godfather," said Jean, "to recallall these memories."
"No, it is not useless. She seemed so pleased, so happy even, that sheshould see you again! She would make quite a fete of the dinner thisevening. She would introduce you to her brother-in-law, who has comeback. There is no one else in the house at this moment, not a singlevisitor. She insisted strongly on this point, and I remember her lastwords--she was there, on the threshold of the door:
"'There will be only five of us,' she said, 'you and Monsieur Jean, mysister, 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! Shesaw me sad and unhappy, she would not let me go. It was at the door ofthe castle. I was obliged to tear myself, yes, literally tear myselfaway. I should have spoken, burst out, told her all. After I had gone afew steps, I stopped and turned. She could no longer see me, I was lostin the darkness; but I could see her. She stood there motionless, hershoulders and arms bare, in the rain, her eyes fixed on the way bywhich I had gone. Perhaps I am mad to think that. Perhaps it was onlya feeling of pity. But no, it was something more than pity, for do youknow what she did the next morning? She came at five o'clock, in themost frightful weather, to see me pass with the regiment--and then--theway she bade me adieu--oh, my friend, my dear old friend!"
"But then," said the poor Cure, completely bewildered, completely at aloss, "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, ifI were certain that she has not perceived my love, certain that she hasnot been touched by it, I would stay, I would stay--for nothing but forthe sweet joy of seeing her, and I would love her from afar, withoutany hope, for nothing but the happiness of loving her. But no, she hasunderstood too well, and far from discouraging me--that is what forcesme to go."
"No, I do not understand it! I know well, my poor boy, we are speakingof 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 hermoney that you have loved her? It is rather in spite of her money. Yourconscience, my son, would be quite at peace with regard to that, andthat would suffice."
"No, that would not suffice. To have a good opinion of one's self is notenough; 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 ofmoney, another thing more serious and more grave. I am not the husbandsuited to her."
"And who could be more worthy than you?"
"The question to be considered is not my worth; we have to consider whatshe is and what I am, to ask what ought to be her life, and what oughtto be my life."
"One day, Paul--you know he has rather a blunt way of saying things, butthat very bluntness often places thoughts much more distinctly beforeus--Paul was speaking of her; he did not suspect anything; if he had, heis 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 herexistence a perpetual holiday, a husband who would give himself, hiswhole 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 agarrison in the depths of the Alps, or in some almost unknown village inAlgeria, could I ask her to follow me? Could I condemn her to the lifeof a soldier's wife, which is in some degree the life of a soldierhimself? Think of the life which she leads now, of all that luxury, ofall 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 weeksthat I passed alone in the camp, I have well considered all that; I havethought of nothing else, and loving her as I do love, the reason mustindeed be strong which shows me clearly my duty. I must go, I must gofar, very far away, as far as possible. I shall suffer much, but I mustnot see her again! I must not see her again!"
Jean sank on a chair near the fireplace. He remained there quiteoverpowered with his emotion. The old priest looked at him.
"To see you suffer, my poor boy! That such suffering should fall uponyou! 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 anunexpected 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, Isaw yesterday, and him, not for three whole weeks, not since a certainnight, when he left our house, sad and suffering."
She still held Jean's hands. He had neither power to make a movement norto 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 youhere. You will understand why when you know what I have come to ask ofyour 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. Iam quite willing to speak before you, and now I think of it, it will bebetter 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 soldierardor, heroism, and disdain of danger. The emotion which made Bettina'sheart beat quicker than usual was a high and generous emotion. She saidto 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 forboth. I must march alone, my head high, and my heart at ease, to theconquest of our love, to the conquest of our happiness!"
From her first words Bettina had gained over t
he Abbe and Jean acomplete ascendancy. They let her say what she liked, they let her doas she liked, they felt that the hour was supreme; they understood thatwhat was happening would be decisive, irrevocable, but neither was in aposition to foresee.
They sat down obediently, almost automatically; they waited, theylistened. Alone, of the three, Bettina retained her composure. It was ina calm and even voice that she began.
"I must tell you first, Monsieur le Cure, to set your conscience quiteat rest, I must tell you that I am here with the consent of my sisterand my brother-in-law. They know why I have come; they know what I amabout to do. They not only know, but they approve. That is settled, isit not? Well, what brings me here is your letter, Monsieur Jean, thatletter in which you tell my sister that you can not dine with us thisevening, and that you are positively obliged to leave here. This letterhas unsettled all my plans. I had intended, this evening--of course withthe permission of my sister and brother-in-law--I had intended, afterdinner, to take you into the park, to seat myself with you on a bench; Iwas childish enough to choose the place beforehand."
"There I should have delivered a little speech, well prepared, wellstudied, almost learned by heart, for since your departure I havescarcely thought of anything else; I repeat it to myself from morning tonight. That is what I had proposed to do, and you understand that yourletter caused me much embarrassment. I reflected a little, and thoughtthat if I addressed my little speech to your godfather it would bealmost the same as if I addressed it to you. So I have come, Monsieur leCure, 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 Ilove my wealth very much-yes, very much. To it I owe the luxury whichsurrounds me, luxury which, I acknowledge--it is a confession--is by nomeans disagreeable to me. My excuse is that I am still very young; itwill 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 thepleasure that it procures me, I love it still more for the good whichit allows me to do. I love it--selfishly, if you like--for the joyof giving, but I think that my fortune is not very badly placed in myhands. Well, Monsieur le Cure, in the same way that you have the care ofsouls, it seems that I have the care of money. I have always thought, 'Iwish, above all things, that my husband should be worthy of sharing thisgreat fortune. I wish to be very sure that he will make a good use ofit with me while I am here, and after me, if I must leave this worldfirst.' I thought of another thing; I thought, 'He who will be myhusband must be some one I can love!' And now, Monsieur le Cure, this iswhere my confession really begins. There is a man, who for the last twomonths, has done all he can to conceal from me that he loves me; but Ido 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 acriminal, "I do love you!"
"I knew it very well, but I wanted to hear you say it, and now I entreatyou, 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, andtelling 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 herconfidence, her voice trembled slightly. She continued, however, with agayety that was a little forced:
"Monsieur le Cure, I do not blame you for what has happened, yet allthis is a little your fault."
"My fault!"
"Ah! do not speak, not even you. Yes, I repeat it, your fault. I amcertain 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 havespoken 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, andexamine, him with a little more attention. I began to compare him withthose who, during the last year, had asked my hand. It seemed to me thathe was in every respect superior to them.
"At last, it happened, on a certain day, or rather on a certainevening-three weeks ago, the evening before you left here, Jean--Idiscovered that I loved you. Yes, Jean, I love you! I entreat you, donot speak; stay where you are; do not come near me.
"Before I came here, I thought I had supplied myself with a good stockof courage, but you see I have no longer my fine composure of a minuteago. But I have still something to tell you, and the most important ofall. Jean, listen to me well; I do not wish for a reply torn from youremotion; I know that you love me. If you marry me, I do not wish it tobe only for love; I wish it to be also for reason. During the fortnightbefore you left here, you took so much pains to avoid me, to escape anyconversation, 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 inmarrying you, and I should be for you not only the loving and tenderwoman, 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; Iknow 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 anyof these sacrifices. If I could be disappointed with you for anything,it would be, perhaps, for this thought--oh, you must have had it!--thatI should wish you free, and quite my own, that I should ask you toabandon your career. Never! never! Understand well, I shall never asksuch 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 youlive differently from, and better than, those who have before desiredme for a wife, that I desire you for a husband. I should love youless--perhaps I should not love you at all, though that would be verydifficult--if you were to begin to live as all those live whom I wouldnot have. When I can follow you, I will follow you; wherever you arewill be my duty, wherever you are will be my happiness. And if the daycomes 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 couragefrom you.
"And now, Monsieur le Cure, it is not to him, it is to you that I amspeaking; 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 soseverely the fortune that I possess? Tell me, should he not agree to bemy husband?"
"Jean," said the old priest, gravely, "marry her. It is your duty, andit will be your happiness!"
Jean approached Bettina, took her in his arms, and pressed upon her browthe 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--Iwish--"
"You wish?"
"Pray, Monsieur le Cure, embrace me, too."
The old priest kissed her paternally on both cheeks, and then Bettinacontinued:
"You have often told me, Monsieur le Cure, that Jean was almost likeyour 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 thesimplest of wedding-gowns, entered the church of Longueval, while,placed behind the altar, the trumpets of the 9th Artillery rang joyouslythrough the arches of the old church.
Nancy Turner had begged for the honor of playing the organ on thissolemn occasion, for the poor little harmonium had disappeared; anorgan, with resplendent pipes, rose in the gallery of the church--it wasMiss Percival's wedding present to the Abbe Constantin.
The old Cure said mass, Jean and Bettina knelt before him, he pronouncedthe benediction, and then remained for some moments in prayer, his armsextended, calling down, with his whole soul, the blessings of Heaven onhis two children.
Then floated from the organ the same reverie of Chopin's which Bettinahad played the first time t
hat she had entered that little villagechurch, 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
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