“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?”