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; she half-opened her eyes, and thought she recognized her sister.  In a very sleepy 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 a noise, 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; the clouds were heavy with rain, the wind blew tempestuously, and drove the rain in gusts before it.

Bettina did not go back to bed, she felt it would be quite impossible to sleep again.  She put on a dressing-gown, and remained at the window; she watched the falling rain.  Since he positively must go, she would have liked the weather to be fine; she would have liked bright sunshine to have cheered his first day’s march.

When she came to Longueval a month ago, Bettina did not know what this meant.  But she knew it now.  A day’s march for the artillery is twenty or thirty miles, with an hour’s halt for luncheon.  It was the Abbe Constantin who had taught her that; when going their rounds in the morning among the poor, Bettina overwhelmed the Cure with questions on military affairs, and particularly on the artillery.

Twenty or thirty miles under this pouring rain!  Poor Jean!  Bettina thought of young Turner, young Norton, of Paul de Lavardens, who would sleep calmly till ten in the morning, while Jean was exposed to this deluge.

Paul de Lavardens!

This name awoke in her a painful memory, the memory of that waltz the evening before.  To have danced like that, while Jean was so obviously in trouble!  That waltz took the proportions of a crime in her eyes; it was a horrible thing that she had done.

And then, had she not been wanting in courage and frankness in that last interview with Jean?  He neither could nor dared say anything; but she might have shown more tenderness, more expansiveness.  Sad and suffering as he was, she should never have allowed him to go back on foot.  She ought to have detained him at any price.  Her imagination tormented and excited her; Jean must have carried away with him the impression that she was a bad little creature, heartless and pitiless.  And in half-an-hour he was going away, away for three weeks.  Ah! if she could by any means—­but there is a way!  The regiment must pass along the wall of the park, under the terrace.

Bettina was seized with a wild desire to see Jean pass; he would understand well, if he saw her at such an hour, that she had come to beg his 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 what she was going to do, was that being as good as an angel?  She would make up for it by acknowledging all to Susie when she came in again, and Susie would forgive her.