The moment Jean perceived the Cure, he would put his horse to a gallop, and go to have a little chat with his godfather.  The horse would turn his head toward the Cure, for he knew very well there was always a piece of sugar for him in the pocket of that old black soutane—­rusty and worn—­the morning soutane.  The Abbe Constantin had a beautiful new one, of which he took great care, to wear in society—­when he went into society.

The trumpets of the regiment sounded as they passed through the village, and all eyes sought Jean—­“little Jean"-for to the old people of Longueval he was still little Jean.  Certain wrinkled, broken-down, old peasants had never been able to break themselves of the habit of saluting him when he passed with, “Bonjour, gamin, ca va bien?”

He was six feet high, this gamin, and Jean never crossed the village without perceiving at one window the old furrowed parchment skin of Clemence, and at another the smiling countenance of Rosalie.  The latter had married during the previous year; Jean had given her away, and joyously on the wedding-night had he danced with the girls of Longueval.

Such was the lieutenant of artillery, who, on Saturday, May 28, 1881, at half-past four in the afternoon, sprang from his horse before the door of the vicarage of Longueval.  He entered the gate, the horse obediently followed, and went by himself into a little shed in the yard.  Pauline was at the kitchen window; Jean approached and kissed her heartily on both cheeks.

“Good-evening, Pauline.  Is all well?”

“Very well.  I am busy preparing your dinner; would you like to know what you are going to have? potato soup, a leg of mutton, and a custard.”

“That is excellent; I shall enjoy everything, for I am dying of hunger.”

“And a salad; I had forgotten it; you can help me cut it directly.  Dinner will be at half-past six exactly, for at half-past seven Monsieur le Cure has his service for the month of Mary.”

“Where is my godfather?”

“You will find him in the garden.  He is very sad on account of this sale of yesterday.”

“Yes, I know, I know.”

“It will cheer him a little to see you; he is always so happy when you are here.  Take care; Loulou is going to eat the climbing roses.  How hot he is!”

“I came the long way by the wood, and rode very fast.”

Jean captured Loulou, who was directing his steps toward the climbing roses.  He unsaddled him, fastened him in the little shed, rubbed him down with a great handful of straw, after which he entered the house, relieved himself of his sword and kepi, replaced the latter by an old straw hat, value sixpence, and then went to look for his godfather in the garden.

The poor Abbe was indeed sad; he had scarcely closed an eye all night—­he who generally slept so easily, so quietly, the sound sleep of a child.  His soul was wrung.  Longueval in the hands of a foreigner, of a heretic, of an adventuress!