Such was the lieutenant of artillery, who, on Saturday, May 28, 1881, at half-past four in the afternoon, sprang from his horse before the door of the vicarage of Longueval.  He entered the gate, the horse obediently followed, and went by himself into a little shed in the yard.  Pauline was at the kitchen window; Jean approached and kissed her heartily on both cheeks.

“Good-evening, Pauline.  Is all well?”

“Very well.  I am busy preparing your dinner; would you like to know what you are going to have? potato soup, a leg of mutton, and a custard.”

“That is excellent; I shall enjoy everything, for I am dying of hunger.”

“And a salad; I had forgotten it; you can help me cut it directly.  Dinner will be at half-past six exactly, for at half-past seven Monsieur le Cure has his service for the month of Mary.”

“Where is my godfather?”

“You will find him in the garden.  He is very sad on account of this sale of yesterday.”

“Yes, I know, I know.”

“It will cheer him a little to see you; he is always so happy when you are here.  Take care; Loulou is going to eat the climbing roses.  How hot he is!”

“I came the long way by the wood, and rode very fast.”

Jean captured Loulou, who was directing his steps toward the climbing roses.  He unsaddled him, fastened him in the little shed, rubbed him down with a great handful of straw, after which he entered the house, relieved himself of his sword and kepi, replaced the latter by an old straw hat, value sixpence, and then went to look for his godfather in the garden.

The poor Abbe was indeed sad; he had scarcely closed an eye all night—­he who generally slept so easily, so quietly, the sound sleep of a child.  His soul was wrung.  Longueval in the hands of a foreigner, of a heretic, of an adventuress!

Jean repeated what Paul had said the evening before.

“You will have money, plenty of money, for your poor.”

“Money! money!  Yes, my poor will not lose, perhaps they will even gain by it; but I must go and ask for this money, and in the salon, instead of my old and dear friend, I shall find this red-haired American.  It seems that she has red hair!  I will certainly go for the sake of my poor—­I will go—­and she will give me the money, but she will give me nothing but money; the Marquise gave me something else—­her life and her heart.  Every week we went together to visit the sick and the poor; she knew all the sufferings and the miseries of the country round, and when the gout nailed me to my easy-chair she made the rounds alone, and as well, or better than I.”

Pauline interrupted this conversation.  She carried an immense earthenware salad-dish, on which bloomed, violent and startling, enormous red flowers.

“Here I am,” said Pauline, “I am going to cut the salad.  Jean, would you like lettuce or endive?”

“Endive,” said Jean, gayly.  “It is a long time since I have had any endive.”