Then he made off without waiting for thanks, across the fields, through the woods, from hamlet to hamlet, from cottage to cottage—­on, on, on.  A sort of intoxication mounted to his brain.  Everywhere were cries of joy and astonishment.  All these louis-d’or fell, as if by a miracle, into the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver.  The Curb was guilty of follies, actual follies.  He was out of bounds; he did not recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave to those who did not expect anything.

He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at Sebastopol.  He was growing gray—­nay, white; for time passes, and the soldiers of the Crimea will soon be old men.

“Here!” said the Cure, “I have twenty francs for you.”

“Twenty francs?  But I never asked for anything; I don’t want anything; I have my pension.”

His pension!  Seven hundred francs!

“But listen; it will be something to buy you cigars.  It comes from America.”

And then followed the Abbe’s little speech about the masters of Longueval.

He went to a poor woman whose son had gone to Tunis.

“Well, how is your son getting on?”

“Not so bad, Monsieur le Cure; I had a letter from him yesterday.  He does not complain; he is very well; only he says there are no Kroomirs.  Poor boy!  I have been saving for a month, and I think I shall soon be able to send him ten francs.”

“You shall send him thirty francs.  Take this.”

“Thirty francs!  Monsieur le Cure, you give me thirty francs?”

“Yes, that is for you.”

“For my boy?”

“For your boy.  But listen; you must know from whom it comes, and you must take care to tell your son when you write to him.”

Again the little speech about the new owners of Longueval, and again the adjuration to remember them in their prayers.  At six o’clock he returned home, exhausted with fatigue, but with his soul filled with joy.

“I have given away all,” he cried, as soon as he saw Pauline, “all! all! all!”

He dined, and then went in the evening to perform the usual service for the month of Mary.  But this time, the harmonium was silent; Miss Percival was no longer there.

The little organist of the evening before was at that moment much perplexed.  On two couches in her dressing-room were spread two frocks—­a white and a blue.  Bettina was meditating which of these two frocks she would wear to the opera that evening.  After long hesitation she fixed on the blue.  At half-past nine the two sisters ascended the grand staircase at the opera-house.  Just as they entered their box the curtain rose on the second scene of the second act of Aida, that containing the ballet and march.

Two young men, Roger de Puymartin and Louis de Martillet, were seated in the front of a stage-box.  The young ladies of the corps de ballet had not yet appeared, and these gentlemen, having no occupation, were amusing themselves with looking about the house.  The appearance of Miss Percival made a strong impression upon both.