“Ah! if she were poor, but she is not.”

“Oh, no!  But what can you do, my poor child!  If it gives you pain to see her, to live near her; above all, if it will prevent you suffering—­go, go—­and yet, and yet—­”

The old priest became thoughtful, let his head fall between his hands, and remained silent for some moments; then he continued: 

“And yet, Jean, do you know what I think?  I have seen a great deal of Mademoiselle Bettina since she came to Longueval.  Well—­when I reflect—­it did not astonish me that any one should be interested in you, for it seemed so natural—­but she talked always, yes, always of you.”

“Of me?”

“Yes, of you, and of your father and mother; she was curious to know how you lived.  She begged me to explain to her what a soldier’s life was, the life of a true soldier, who loved his profession, and performed his duties conscientiously.”

“It is extraordinary, since you have told me this, recollections crowd upon me, a thousand little things collect and group themselves together.  They returned from Havre yesterday at three o’clock.  Well! an hour after their arrival she was here.  And it was of you of whom she spoke directly.  She asked if you had written to me, if you had not been ill, when you would arrive, at what hour, if the regiment would pass through the village?”

“It is useless at this moment, my dear godfather,” said Jean, “to recall all these memories.”

“No, it is not useless.  She seemed so pleased, so happy even, that she should see you again!  She would make quite a fete of the dinner this evening.  She would introduce you to her brother-in-law, who has come back.  There is no one else in the house at this moment, not a single visitor.  She insisted strongly on this point, and I remember her last words—­she was there, on the threshold of the door: 

“‘There will be only five of us,’ she said, ’you and Monsieur Jean, my sister, my brother-in-law, and myself.’

“And then she added, laughing, ‘Quite a family party.’

“With these words she went, she almost ran away.  Quite a family party!  Do you know what I think, Jean?  Do you know?”

“You must not think that, you must not.”

“Jean, I believe that she loves you.”

“And I believe it, too.”

“You, too!”

“When I left her, three weeks ago, she was so agitated, so moved!  She saw me sad and unhappy, she would not let me go.  It was at the door of the castle.  I was obliged to tear myself, yes, literally tear myself away.  I should have spoken, burst out, told her all.  After I had gone a few steps, I stopped and turned.  She could no longer see me, I was lost in the darkness; but I could see her.  She stood there motionless, her shoulders and arms bare, in the rain, her eyes fixed on the way by which I had gone.  Perhaps I am mad to think that.  Perhaps it was only a feeling of pity.  But no, it was something more than pity, for do you know what she did the next morning?  She came at five o’clock, in the most frightful weather, to see me pass with the regiment—­and then—­the way she bade me adieu—­oh, my friend, my dear old friend!”