“Decidedly,” said Mr. Scott, “every one likes him in this house.”

“And you will be like every one else when you know him,” replied Bettina.

The regiment broke into a trot along the highroad, after leaving the village.  There was the terrace where Bettina had been the other morning.  Jean said to himself: 

“Supposing she should be there.”

He dreaded and hoped it at the same time.  He raised his head, he looked, she was not there.

He had not seen her again, he would not see her again, for a long-time at least.  He would start that very evening at six o’clock for Paris; one of the personages in the War Office was interested in him; he would try to get exchanged into another regiment.

Alone at Cercottes, Jean had had time to reflect deeply, and that was the result of his reflections.  He could not, he must not, be Bettina Percival’s husband.

The men dismounted at the barracks, Jean took leave of his Colonel, his comrades; all was over.  He was free, he could go.

But he did not go; he looked around him.  How happy he was three months ago, when he rode out of that great yard amid the noise of the cannon rolling over the pavement of Souvigny; but how sadly he should ride away to-day!  Formerly his life was there; where would it be hereafter?

He returned, went to his own room, and wrote to Mrs. Scott; he told her that his duties obliged him to leave immediately, he could not dine at the castle, and begged Mrs. Scott to remember him to Miss Bettina.  Bettina, ah! what trouble it cost him to write that name.  He closed his letter; he would send it directly.

He made his preparations for departure; then he went to wish his godfather farewell.  That is what cost him most; he must speak to him only of a short absence.

He opened one of the drawers of his bureau to take out some money.  The first thing that met his eyes was a little note on bluish paper; it was the only note which he had ever received from her.

“Will you have the kindness to give to the servant the book of which you spoke yesterday evening.  Perhaps it will be a little serious for me, but yet I should like to try to read it.  We shall see you to-night; come as early as possible.”  It was signed “Bettina.”

Jean read and re-read these few lines, but soon he could read them no longer, his eyes were dim.

“It is all that is left me of her,” he thought.

At the same moment the Abbe Constantin was tete-a-tete with old Pauline, they were making up their accounts.  The financial situation was admirable; more than 2,000 francs in hand!  And the wishes of Susie and Bettina were accomplished, there were no more poor in the neighborhood.  His old servant, Pauline, had even occasional scruples of conscience.

“You see, Monsieur le Cure,” said she, “perhaps we give them a little too much.  Then it will be spread about in other parishes that here they can always find charity.  And do you know what will happen then, one of these days?  Poor people will come and settle in Longueval.”