“Yes, Miss Percival.”

“Take one, Monsieur Jean.  It can’t be helped.  I have said it.  Take one—­but no, listen to me first.”

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

“It is getting dark, now you may blush at your ease.  I will tell you what I did not say at dinner.  An old lawyer in Souvigny, who was your guardian, came to see my sister in Paris, about the payment for the place; he told us what you did after your father’s death, when you were only a child, what you did for that poor mother, and for that poor young girl.  Both my sister and I were much touched by it.”

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Scott, “and that is why we have received you to-day with so much pleasure.  We should not have given such a reception to every one, of that you may be sure.  Well, now take your cigar, my sister is waiting.”

Jean could not find a word in reply.  Bettina stood there with the box of cigars in her two hands, her eyes fixed frankly on the countenance of Jean.  At the moment, she tasted a true and keen pleasure which may be expressed by this phrase: 

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

“And now,” said Mrs. Scott, “let us sit here and enjoy this delicious night; take your coffee, smoke—­”

“And do not let us talk, Susie, do not let us talk.  This great silence of the country, after the great noise and bustle of Paris, is delightful!  Let us sit here without speaking; let us look at the sky, the moon, and the stars.”

All four, with much pleasure, carried out this little programme.  Susie and Bettina, calm, reposeful, absolutely separated from their existence of yesterday, already felt a tenderness for the place which had just received them, and was going to keep them.  Jean was less tranquil; the words of Miss Percival had caused him profound emotion, his heart had not yet quite regained its regular throb.

But the happiest of all was the Abbe Constantin.

This little episode which had caused Jean’s modesty such a rude, yet sweet trial, had brought him exquisite joy, the Abbe bore his godson such affection.  The most tender father never loved more warmly the dearest of his children.  When the old Cure looked at the young officer, he often said to himself: 

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

The Abbe sank into a very agreeable reverie; he felt himself at home, he felt himself too much at home; by degrees his ideas became hazy and confused, reverie became drowsiness, drowsiness became slumber, the disaster was soon complete, irreparable; the Cure slept, and slept profoundly.  This marvellous dinner, and the two or three glasses of champagne may have had something to do with the catastrophe.