“The artillery!  Oh, you are one of the men who fire the cannon.  Oh, how I should like to be quite near when they fire the cannon!”

“Will you take us some day when they fire the cannon?  Tell me, will you?”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Scott chatted with the Cure, and Jean, while replying to the children’s questions, looked at Mrs. Scott.  She wore a white muslin frock, but the muslin disappeared under a complete avalanche of little flounces of Valenciennes.  The dress was cut out in front in a large square, her arms were bare to the elbow, a large bouquet of red roses at the opening of her dress, a red rose fixed in her hair, with a diamond ’agraffe’—­nothing more.

Mrs. Scott suddenly perceived that the children had taken entire possession of Jean, and exclaimed: 

“Oh, I beg your pardon.  Harry, Bella!”

“Oh, pray let them stay with me.”

“I am so sorry to keep you waiting for dinner; my sister is not down yet.  Oh! here she is!”

Bettina entered.  The same frock of white muslin, the same delicate mass of lace, the same red roses, the same grace, the same beauty, and the same smiling, amiable, candid manner.

“How do you do, Monsieur le Cure?  I am delighted to see you.  Have you pardoned my dreadful intrusion of the other day?”

Then, turning toward Jean and offering him her hand: 

“How do you do, Monsieur—­Monsieur—­Oh!  I can not remember your name, and yet we seem to be already old friends, Monsieur—­”

“Jean Reynaud.”

“Jean Reynaud, that is it.  How do you do, Monsieur Reynaud?  I warn you faithfully that when we really are old friends—­that is to say, in about a week—­I shall call you Monsieur Jean.  It is a pretty name, Jean.”

Up to the moment when Bettina appeared Jean had said to himself: 

“Mrs. Scott is the prettier!”

When he felt Bettina’s little hand slip into his arm, and when she turned toward him her delicious face, he said: 

“Miss Percival is the prettier!”

But his perplexities gathered round him again when he was seated between the two sisters.  If he looked to the right, love threatened him from that direction, and if he looked to the left, the danger removed immediately, and passed to the left.

Conversation began, easy, animated, confidential.  The two sisters were charmed; they had already walked in the park; they promised themselves a long ride in the forest tomorrow.  Riding was their passion, their madness.  It was also Jean’s passion, so that after a quarter of an hour they begged him to join them the next day.  There was no one who knew the country round better than he did; it was his native place.  He should be so happy to do the honors of it, and to show them numbers of delightful little spots which, without him, they would never discover.

“Do you ride every day?” asked Bettina.

“Every day and sometimes twice.  In the morning on duty, and in the evening I am ride for my own pleasure.”