CHAPTER III. DELIGHTFUL SURPRISES
This vicarage of Longueval was far from being a palace. The same apartment on the ground floor served for dining and drawing-room, communicating directly with the kitchen by a door, which stood always wide open. This room was furnished in the most scanty manner; two old arm chairs, six straw chairs, a sideboard, a round table. Pauline had already laid the cloth for the dinner of the Abbe and Jean.
Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival went and came, examining the domestic arrangements of the Cure with a sort of childish wonder.
“But the garden, the house, everything is charming,” said Mrs. Scott.
They both boldly penetrated into the kitchen; the Abbe Constantin followed them, scared, bewildered, stupefied at the suddenness and resolution of this American invasion.
Old Pauline, with an anxious and gloomy air, examined the two foreigners.
“There they are, then,” she said to herself, “these Protestants, these accursed heretics!”
“I must compliment you,” said Bettina; “it is so beautifully kept. Look, Susie, is not the vicarage altogether exactly what you wished?”
“And so is the Cure,” rejoined Mrs. Scott. “Yes, Monsieur le Cure, if you will permit me to say so, you do not know how happy it makes me to find you just what you are. In the railway carriage what did I say to you, Bettina? And again just now, when we were driving here?”
“My sister said to me, Monsieur le Cure, that what she desired above everything was a priest, not young, or melancholy, or severe; but one with white hair and a kind and gentle manner. And that is exactly what you are, Monsieur le Cure, exactly. No, we could not have been more fortunate. Excuse me for speaking to you in this manner; the Parisians know how to make pretty phrases, but I do not, and in speaking French I should often be quite at a loss if I did not say everything in a simple and childish way, as it comes into my head. In a word, I am satisfied, quite satisfied, and I hope that you, too, Monsieur le Cure, will be as satisfied with your new parishioners.”
“My parishioners!” exclaimed the Cure, all at once recovering speech, movement, life, everything which for some moments had completely abandoned him. “My parishioners! Pardon me, Madame, Mademoiselle, I am so agitated. You will be—you are Catholics?”
“Certainly we are Catholics.”
“Catholics! Catholics!” repeated the Cure.
“Catholics! Catholics!” echoed old Pauline.
Mrs. Scott looked from the Cure to Pauline, from Pauline to the Cure, much surprised that a single word should produce such an effect, and, to complete the tableau, Jean appeared carrying the two little travelling bags.
The Cure and Pauline saluted him with the same words:
“Catholics! Catholics!”
“Ah! I begin to understand,” said Mrs. Scott, laughing. “It is our name, our country; you must have thought that we were Protestants. Not at all. Our mother was a Canadian, French and Catholic by descent; that is why my sister and I both speak French, with an accent, it is true, and with certain American idioms, but yet in such a manner as to be able to express nearly all we want to say. My husband is a Protestant, but he allows me complete liberty, and my two children are Catholics. That is why, Monsieur l’Abbe, we wished to come and see you the very first day.”
“That is one reason,” continued Bettina, “but there is also another; but for that reason we shall want our little bags.”
“Here they are,” said Jean.
While the two little bags passed from the hands of the officer to those of Mrs. Scott and Bettina, the Cure introduced Jean to the two Americans, but his agitation was so great that the introduction was not made strictly according to rule. The Cure only forgot one thing, it is true, but that was a thing tolerably essential in an introduction—the family name of Jean.
“It is Jean,” said he, “my godson, lieutenant of artillery, now quartered at Souvigny. He is one of the family.”
Jean made two deep bows, the Americans two little ones, after which they foraged in their bags, from which each drew a ‘rouleau’ of 1,000 francs, daintily inclosed in green sheaths of serpent-skin, clasped with gold.
“I have brought you this for your poor,” said Mrs. Scott.
“And I have brought this,” said Bettina.
“And besides that, Monsieur le Cure, I am going to give you five hundred francs a month,” said Mrs. Scott.
“And I will do like my sister.”
Delicately they slipped their offerings into the right and left hands of the Cure, who, looking at each hand alternately, said:
“What are these little things? They are very heavy; there must be money in them. Yes, but how much, how much?”
The Abbe Constantin was seventy-two, and much money had passed through his hands, but this money had come to him in small sums, and the idea of such an offering as this had never entered his head. Two thousand francs! Never had he had so much in his possession—no, not even one thousand. He stammered:
“I am very grateful to you, Madame; you are very good, Mademoiselle—”
But after all he could not thank them enough, and Jean thought it necessary to come to his assistance.
“They have given you two thousand francs!”
And then, full of warmest gratitude; the Cure cried:
“Two thousand francs! Two thousand francs for my poor!”
Pauline suddenly reappeared.
“Here, Pauline,” said the Cure, “put away this money, and take care—”
Old Pauline filled many positions in this simple household: cook, maid-of-all-work, treasurer, dispenser. Her hands received with a respectful tremble these two little ‘rouleaux’ which represented so much misery alleviated, so much suffering relieved.
“One thousand francs a month! But there will be no poor left in the country.”
“That is just what I wish. I am rich, very rich, and so is my sister; she is even richer than I am, because a young girl has not so many expenses, while I—Ah! well, I spend all that I can—all that I can. When one has a great deal of money, too much, more than one feels to be just, tell me, Monsieur le Cure, is there any other way of obtaining pardon than to keep one’s hands open, and give, give, give, all one can, and as usefully as one can? Besides, you can give me something in return;” and, turning to Pauline, “Will you be so kind as to give me a glass of water? No, nothing else; a glass of cold water; I am dying of thirst.”
“And I,” said Bettina, laughing, while Pauline ran to fetch the water, “I am dying of something else-of hunger, to tell the truth. Monsieur le Cure—I know that I am going to be dreadfully intrusive; I see your cloth is laid—could you not invite us to dinner?”
“Bettina!” said Mrs. Scott.
“Let me alone, Susie, let me alone. Won’t you, Monsieur le Cure? I am sure you will.”
But he could find no reply. The old Cure hardly knew where he was. They had taken his vicarage by storm; they were Catholics; they had promised him one thousand francs a month, and now they wanted to dine with him. Ah! that was the last stroke. Terror seized him at the thought of having to do the honors of his leg of mutton and his custard to these two absurdly rich Americans. He murmured:
“Dine!-you would like to dine here?”
Jean thought he must interpose again. “It would be a great pleasure to my godfather,” said he, “if you would kindly stay. But I know what disturbs him. We were going to dine together, just the two of us, and you must not expect a feast. You will be very indulgent?”
“Yes, yes, very indulgent,” replied Bettina; then, addressing her sister, “Come, Susie, you must not be cross, because I have been a little—you know it is my way to be a little—Let us stay, will you? It will do us good to pass a quiet hour here, after such a day as we have had! On the railway, in the carriage, in the heat, in the dust; we had such a horrid luncheon, in such a horrid hotel. We were to have returned to the same hotel at seven o’clock to dine, and then take the train back to Paris, but dinner here will be really much nicer. You won’t say no? Ah! how good you are, Susie!”
She embraced her sister fondly; then turning toward the Cure:
“If you only knew, Monsieur le Cure, how good she is!”
“Bettina! Bettina!”
“Come,” said Jean, “quick, Pauline, two more plates; I will help you.”
“And so will I,” said Bettina, “I will help, too. Oh! do let me; it will be so amusing. Monsieur le Cure, you will let me do a little as if I were at home?”
In a moment she had taken off her mantle, and Jean could admire, in all its exquisite perfection, a figure marvellous for suppleness and grace. Miss Percival then removed her hat, but with a little too much haste, for this was the signal for a charming catastrophe. A whole avalanche descended in torrents, in long cascades, over Bettina’s shoulders. She was standing before a window flooded by the rays of the sun, and this golden light, falling full on this golden hair, formed a delicious frame for the sparkling beauty of the young girl. Confused and blushing, Bettina was obliged to call her sister to her aid, and Mrs. Scott had much trouble in introducing order into this disorder.
When this disaster was at length repaired, nothing could prevent Bettina from rushing on plates, knives, and forks.
“Oh, indeed,” said she to Jean, “I know very well how to lay the cloth. Ask my sister. Tell him, Susie, when I was a little girl in New York, I used to lay the cloth very well, didn’t I?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Mrs. Scott.
And then, while begging the Cure to excuse Bettina’s want of thought, she, too, took off her hat and mantle, so that Jean had again the very agreeable spectacle of a charming figure and beautiful hair; but, to Jean’s great regret, the catastrophe had not a second representation.
In a few minutes Mrs. Scott, Miss Percival, the Cure, and Jean were seated round the little vicarage table; then, thanks partly to the impromptu and original nature of the entertainment, partly to the good-humor and perhaps slightly audacious gayety of Bettina, the conversation took a turn of the frankest and most cordial familiarity.
“Now, Monsieur le Cure,” said Bettina, “you shall see if I did not speak the truth when I said I was dying of hunger. I never was so glad to sit down to dinner. This is such a delightful finish to our day. Both my sister and I are perfectly happy now we have this castle, and these farms, and the forest.”
“And then,” said Mrs. Scott, “to have all that in such an extraordinary and unexpected manner. We were so taken by surprise.”
“You may indeed say so, Susie. You must know, Monsieur l’Abbe, that yesterday was my sister’s birthday. But first, pardon me, Monsieur—Jean, is it not?”
“Yes, Miss Percival, Monsieur Jean.”
“Well, Monsieur Jean, a little more of that excellent soup, if you please.”
The Abbe was beginning to recover a little, but he was still too agitated to perform the duties of a host. It was Jean who had undertaken the management of his godfather’s little dinner. He filled the plate of the charming American, who fixed upon him the glance of two large eyes, in which sparkled frankness, daring, and gayety. The eyes of Jean, meanwhile, repaid Miss Percival in the same coin. It was scarcely three quarters of an hour since the young American and the young officer had made acquaintance in the Cure’s garden, yet both felt already perfectly at ease with each other, full of confidence, almost like old friends.
“I told you, Monsieur l’Abbe,” continued Bettina, “that yesterday was my sister’s birthday. A week ago my brother-in-law was obliged to return to America, but at starting he said to my sister, ‘I shall not be with you on your birthday, but you will hear from me.’ So, yesterday, presents and bouquets arrived from all quarters, but from my brother-in-law, up to five o’clock, nothing—nothing. We were just starting for a ride in the Bois, and ‘a propos’ of riding”—she stopped, and looking curiously at Jean’s great dusty boots—“Monsieur Jean, you have spurs on.”
“Yes, Miss Percival.”
“Then you are in the cavalry?”
“I am in the artillery, and that, you know, is cavalry.”
“And your regiment is quartered?”—-
“Quite near here.”
“Then you will be able to ride with us?”
“With the greatest pleasure.”
“That is settled. Let me see; where was I?”
“You do not know at all where you are, Bettina, and you are telling these gentlemen things which can not interest them.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” said the Cure. “The sale of this estate is the only subject of conversation in the neighborhood just now, and Miss Percival’s account interests me very much.”
“You see, Susie, my account interests Monsieur le Cure very much; then I shall continue. We went for our ride, we returned at seven o’clock—nothing. We dined, and just when we were leaving the table a telegram from America arrived. It contained only a few lines:
“‘I have ordered the purchase to-day, for you and in your name, of the castle and lands of Longueval, near Souvigny, on the Northern Railway line.’
“Then we both burst into a fit of wild laughter at the thought.”
“No, no, Bettina; you calumniate us both. Our first thought was one of very sincere gratitude, for both my sister and I are very fond of the country. My husband knows that we had longed to have an estate in France. For six months he had been looking out, and found nothing. At last he discovered this one, and, without telling us, ordered it to be bought for my birthday. It was a delicate attention.”
“Yes, Susie, you are right, but after the little fit of gratitude, we had a great one of gayety.”
“Yes, I confess it. When we realized that we had suddenly become possessed of a castle, without knowing in the least where it was, what it was like, or how much it had cost, it seemed so like a fairy-tale. Well, for five good minutes we laughed with all our hearts, then we seized the map of France, and succeeded in discovering Souvigny. When he had finished with the map it was the turn of the railway guide, and this morning, by the ten o’clock express, we arrived at Souvigny.
“We have passed the whole day in visiting the castle, the farms, the woods, the stables. We are delighted with what we have seen. Only, Monsieur le Cure, there is one thing about which I feel curious. I know that the place was sold yesterday; but I have not dared to ask either agent or farmer who accompanied me in my walk—for my ignorance would have seemed too absurd—I have not dared to ask how much it cost. In the telegram my husband does not mention the sum. Since I am so delighted with the place, the price is only a detail, but still I should like to know it. Tell me, Monsieur le Cure, do you know what it cost?”
“An enormous price,” replied the Cure, “for many hopes and many ambitions were excited about Longueval.”
“An enormous price! You frighten me. How much exactly?”
“Three millions!”
“Is that all? Is that all?” cried Mrs. Scott. “The castle, the farms, the forest, all for three millions?”
“But that is nothing,” said Bettina. “That delicious little stream which wanders through the park is alone worth three millions.”
“And you said just now, Monsieur le Cure, that there were several persons who disputed the purchase with us?”
“Yes, Mrs. Scott.”
“And, after the sale, was my name mentioned among these persons?”
“Certainly it was.”
“And when my name was mentioned was there no one there who spoke of me? Yes, yes, your silence is a sufficient answer; they did speak of me. Well, Monsieur le Cure, I am now serious, very serious. I beg you as a favor to tell me what was said.”
“But,” replied the poor Cure, who felt himself upon burning coals, “they spoke of your large fortune.”
“Yes, of course, they would be obliged to speak of that, and no doubt they said that I was very rich, but had not been rich long—that I was a parvenu. Very well, but that is not all; they must have said something else.”
“No, indeed; I have heard nothing else.”
“Oh, Monsieur le Cure, that is what you may call a white lie, and it is making you very unhappy, because naturally you are the soul of truth; but if I torment you thus it is because I have the greatest interest in knowing what was said.”
“You are right,” interrupted Jean, “you are right. They said you were one of the most elegant, the most brilliant, and the—”
“And one of the prettiest women in Paris. With a little indulgence they might say that; but that is not all yet—there is something else.”
“Oh! I assure you—”
“Yes, there is something else, and I should like to hear it this very moment, and I should like the information to be very frank and very exact. It seems to me that I am in a lucky vein to-day, and I feel as if you were both a little inclined to be my friends, and that you will be so entirely some day. Well, tell me if I am right in supposing that should false and absurd stories be told about me you will help me to contradict them.”
“Yes!” replied Jean, “you are right in believing that.”
“Well, then, it is to you that I address myself. You are a soldier, and courage is part of your profession. Promise me to be brave. Will you promise me?”
“What do you understand by being brave?”
“Promise, promise—without explanations, without conditions.”
“Well, I promise.”
“You will then reply frankly, ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ to questions?”
“I will.”
“Did they say that I had begged in the streets of New York?”
“Yes, they said so.”
“Did they say I had been a rider in a travelling circus?”
“Yes; they said that, too.”
“Very well; that is plain speaking. Now remark first that in all this there is nothing that one might not acknowledge if it were true; but it is not true, and have I not the right of denying it? My history—I will tell it you in a few words. I am going to pass a part of my life in this place, and I desire that all should know who I am and whence I come. To begin, then. Poor! Yes, I have been, and very poor. Eight years ago my father died, and was soon followed by my mother. I was then eighteen, and Bettina nine. We were alone in the world, encumbered with heavy debts and a great lawsuit. My father’s last words had been, ‘Susie, never, never compromise. Millions, my children, you will have millions.’ He embraced us both; soon delirium seized him, and he died repeating, ‘Millions; millions!’ The next morning a lawyer appeared, who offered to pay all our debts, and to give us besides ten thousand dollars, if we would give up all our claims. I refused. It was then that for several months we were very poor.”
“And it was then,” said Bettina, “that I used to lay the cloth.”
“I spent my life among the solicitors of New York, but no one would take up my case; everywhere I received the same reply: ‘Your cause is very doubtful; you have rich and formidable adversaries; you need money, large sums of money, to bring such a case to a conclusion, and you have nothing. They offer to pay your debts, and to give you ten thousand dollars besides. Accept it, and sell your case.’ But my father’s last words rang in my ears, and I would not. Poverty, however, might soon have forced me to, when one day I made another attempt on one of my father’s old friends, a banker in New York, Mr. William Scott. He was not alone; a young man was sitting in his office.
“‘You may speak freely,’ said Mr. Scott; ‘it is my son Richard.’
“I looked at the young man, he looked at me, and we recognized each other.
“‘Susie!’
“‘Richard!”
“Formerly, as children, we had often played together and were great friends. Seven or eight years before this meeting he had been sent to Europe to finish his education. We shook hands; his father made me sit down, and asked what had brought me. He listened to my tale; and replied:
“‘You would require twenty or thirty thousand dollars. No one would lend you such a sum upon the uncertain chances of a very complicated lawsuit. If you are in difficulties; if you need assistance—’
“‘It is not that, father. That is not what Miss Percival asks.’
“‘I know that very well, but what she asks is impossible.’
“He rose to let me out. Then the sense of my helplessness overpowered me for the first time since my father’s death. I burst into a violent flood of tears. An hour later Richard Scott was with me.
“‘Susie,’ he said, ‘promise to accept what I am going to offer.’
“I promised him.
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘on the single condition that my father shall know nothing about it, I place at your disposal the necessary sum.’
“‘But then you ought to know what the lawsuit is—what it is worth.’
“‘I do not know a single word about it, and I do not wish to. Besides, you have promised to accept it; you can not withdraw now.’
“I accepted. Three months after the case was ours. All this vast property became beyond dispute the property of Bettina and me. The other side offered to buy it of us for five million dollars. I consulted Richard.
“‘Refuse it and wait,’ said he; ‘if they offer you such a sum it is because the property is worth double.’
“‘However, I must return you your money; I owe you a great deal.’
“‘Oh! as for that there is no hurry; I am very easy about it; my money is quite safe now.’
“‘But I should like to pay you at once. I have a horror of debt! Perhaps there is another way without selling the property. Richard, will you be my husband?’
“Yes, Monsieur le Cure, yes,” said Mrs. Scott, laughing, “it is thus that I threw myself at my husband’s head. It is I who asked his hand. But really I was obliged to act thus. Never, never, would he have spoken; I had become too rich, and as it was me he loved, and not my money, he was becoming terribly afraid of me. That is the history of my marriage. As to the history of my fortune, it can be told in a few words. There were indeed millions in those wide lands of Colorado; they discovered there abundant mines of silver, and from those mines we draw every year an income which is beyond reason, but we have agreed—my husband, my sister, and myself—to give a very large share of this income to the poor. You see, Monsieur le Cure, it is because we have known very hard times that you will always find us ready to help those who are, as we have been ourselves, involved in the difficulties and sorrows of life. And now, Monsieur Jean, will you forgive me this long discourse, and offer me a little of that cream, which looks so very good?”
This cream was Pauline’s custard, and while Jean was serving Mrs. Scott:
“I have not yet finished,” she continued. “You ought to know what gave rise to these extravagant stories. A year ago, when we settled in Paris, we considered it our duty on our arrival to give a certain sum to the poor. Who was it spoke of that? None of us, certainly, but the thing was told in a newspaper, with the amount. Immediately two young reporters hastened to subject Mr. Scott to a little examination on his past history; they wished to give a sketch of our career in the—what do you call them?—society papers. Mr. Scott is sometimes a little hasty; he was so on this occasion, and dismissed these gentlemen rather brusquely, without telling them anything. So, as they did not know our real history, they invented one, and certainly displayed a very lively imagination. First they related how I had begged in the snow in New York; the next day appeared a still more sensational article, which made me a rider in a circus in Philadelphia. You have some very funny papers in France; so have we in America, for the matter of that.”
During the last five minutes, Pauline had been making desperate signs to the Cure, who persisted in not understanding them, till at last the poor woman, calling up all her courage, said:
“Monsieur le Cure, it is a quarter past seven.”
“A quarter past seven! Ladies, I must beg you to excuse me. This evening I have the special service for the month of Mary.”
“The month of Mary? And will the service begin directly?”
“Yes, directly.”
“And when does our train start for Paris?”
“At half past nine,” replied Jean.
“Susie, can we not go to church first?”
“Yes, we will go,” replied Mrs. Scott; “but before we separate, Monsieur le Cure, I have one favor to ask you. I should like very much, the first time I dine at Longueval, that you would dine with me, and you, too, Monsieur Jean, just us four alone like to-day. Oh! do not refuse my invitation; it is given with all my heart.”
“And accepted as heartily,” replied Jean.
“I will write and tell you the day, and it shall be as soon as possible. You call that having a housewarming, don’t you? Well, we shall have the house-warming all to ourselves.”
Meanwhile, Pauline had drawn Miss Percival into a corner of the room, and was talking to her with great animation. The conversation ended with these words:
“You will be there?” said Bettina, “and you will tell me the exact moment?”
“I will tell you, but take care. Here is Monsieur le Cure; he must not suspect anything.”
The two sisters, the Cure, and Jean left the house. To go to the church they were obliged to cross the churchyard. The evening was delicious. Slowly, silently, under the rays of the setting sun, the four walked down a long avenue.
On their way was the monument to Dr. Reynaud, very simple, but which, by its fine proportions, showed distinctly among the other tombs.
Mrs. Scott and Bettina stopped, struck with this inscription carved on the stone:
“Here lies Dr. Marcel Reynaud, Surgeon-Major of the Souvigny Mobiles; killed January 8, 1871, at the Battle of Villersexel. Pray for him.”
When they had read it, the Cure, pointing to Jean, said:
“It was his father!”
The two sisters drew near the tomb, and with bent heads remained there for some minutes, pensive, touched, contemplative. Then both turned, and at the same moment, by the same impulse, offered their hands to Jean; then continued their walk to the church. Their first prayer at Longueval had been for the father of Jean.
The Cure went to put on his surplice and stole. Jean conducted Mrs. Scott to the seat which belonged to the masters of Longueval.
Pauline had gone on before. She was waiting for Miss Percival in the shadow behind one of the pillars. By a steep and narrow staircase, she led Bettina to the gallery, and placed her before the harmonium.
Preceded by two little chorister boys, the old Cure left the vestry, and at the moment when he knelt on the steps of the alter:
“Now! Mademoiselle,” said Pauline, whose heart beat with impatience. “Poor, dear man, how pleased he will be.”
When he heard the sound of the music rise, soft as a murmur, and spread through the little church, the Abbe Constantin was filled with such emotion, such joy, that the tears came to his eyes. He could not remember having wept since the day when Jean had said that he wished to share all that he possessed with the mother and sister of those who had fallen by his father’s side under the Prussian bullets.
To bring tears to the eyes of the old priest, a little American had been brought across the seas to play a reverie of Chopin in the little church of Longueval.
BOOK 2.
CHAPTER IV. A RIOT OF CHARITY
The next day, at half-past five in the morning, the bugle-call rang through the barrack-yard at Souvigny. Jean mounted his horse, and took his place with his division. By the end of May all the recruits in the army are sufficiently instructed to be capable of sharing in the general evolutions. Almost every day manoeuvres of the mounted artillery are executed on the parade-ground. Jean loved his profession; he was in the habit of inspecting carefully the grooming and harness of the horses, the equipment and carriage of his men. This morning, however, he bestowed but scant attention on all the little details of his duty.
One problem agitated, tormented him, and left him always undecided, and this problem was one of those the solution of which is not given at the Ecole Polytechnique. Jean could find no convincing reply to this question: Which of the two sisters is the prettier?
At the butts, during the first part of the manoeuvre, each battery worked on its own account, under the orders of the captain; but he often relinquished the place to one of his lieutenants, in order to accustom them to the management of six field-pieces. It happened on this day that the command was intrusted to the hands of Jean. To the great surprise of the Captain, in whose estimation his Lieutenant held the first rank as a well-trained, smart, and capable officer, everything went wrong. The Captain was obliged to interfere; he addressed a little reprimand to Jean, which terminated in these words:
“I can not understand it at all. What is the matter with you this morning? It is the first time such a thing has happened with you.”
It was also the first time that Jean had seen anything at the butts at Souvigny but cannon, ammunition wagons, horses, or gunners.
In the clouds of dust raised by the wheels of the wagons and the hoofs of the horses Jean beheld, not the second mounted battery of the 9th Regiment of artillery, but the distinct images of two Americans with black eyes and golden hair; and, at the moment when he listened respectfully to the well-merited lecture from his Captain, he was in the act of saying to himself:
“The prettier is Mrs. Scott!”
Every morning the exercise is divided into two parts by a little interval of ten minutes. The officers gathered together and talked; Jean remained apart, alone with his recollections of the previous evening. His thoughts obstinately gathered round the vicarage of Longueval.
“Yes! the more charming of the two sisters is Mrs. Scott; Miss Percival is only a child.”
He saw again Mrs. Scott at the Cure’s little table. He heard her story told with such frankness, such freedom. The harmony of that very peculiar, very fascinating voice, still enchanted his ear. He was again in the church; she was there before him, bending over her prie-Dieu, her pretty head resting in her two little hands; then the music arose, and far off, in the dusk, Jean perceived the fine and delicate profile of Bettina.
“A child—is she only a child?”
The trumpets sounded, the practice was resumed; this time, fortunately, no command, no responsibility. The four batteries executed their evolutions together; this immense mass of men, horses, and carriages, deployed in every direction, now drawn out in a long line, again collected into a compact group. All stopped at the same instant along the whole extent of the ground; the gunners sprang from their horses, ran to their pieces, detached each from its team, which went off at a trot and prepared to fire with amazing rapidity. Then the horses returned, the men re-attached their pieces; sprang quickly to saddle, and the regiment started at full gallop across the field.
Very gently in the thoughts of Jean Bettina regained her advantage over Mrs. Scott. She appeared to him smiling and blushing amid the sunlit clouds of her floating hair. Monsieur Jean, she had called him, Monsieur Jean, and never had his name sounded so sweet. And that last pressure of the hand on taking leave, before entering the carriage. Had not Miss Percival given him a more cordial clasp than Mrs. Scott had done? Yes, positively a little more.
“I was mistaken,” thought Jean; “the prettier is Miss Percival.”
The day’s work was finished; the pieces were ranged regularly in line one behind the other; they defiled rapidly, with a horrible clatter, and in a cloud of dust. When Jean, sword in hand, passed before his Colonel, the images of the two sisters were so confused and intermingled in his recollection that they melted the one in the other, and became in some measure the image of one and the same person. Any parallel became impossible between them, thanks to this singular confusion of the two points of comparison. Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival remained thus inseparable in the thoughts of Jean until the day when it was granted to him to see them again. The impression of that meeting was not effaced; it was always there, persistent, and very sweet, till Jean began to feel disturbed.
“Is it possible”—so ran his meditations—“is it possible that I have been guilty of the folly of falling in love madly at first sight? No; one might fall in love with a woman, but not with two women at once.”
That thought reassured him. He was very young, this great fellow of four-and-twenty; never had love entered fully into his heart. Love! He knew very little about it, except from books, and he had read but few of them. But he was no angel; he could find plenty of attractions in the grisettes of Souvigny, and when they would allow him to tell them that they were charming, he was quite ready to do so, but it had never entered his head to regard as love those passing fancies, which only caused the slightest and most superficial disturbance in his heart.
Paul de Lavardens had marvellous powers of enthusiasm and idealization. His heart sheltered always two or three grandes passions, which lived there in perfect harmony. Paul had been so clever as to discover, in this little town of 15,000 souls, numbers of pretty girls, all made to be adored. He always believed himself the discoverer of America, when, in fact, he had done nothing but follow in the track of other navigators.
The world-Jean had scarcely encountered it. He had allowed himself to be dragged by Paul, a dozen times, perhaps, to soirees or balls at the great houses of the neighborhood. He had invariably returned thoroughly bored, and had concluded that these pleasures were not made for him. His tastes were simple, serious. He loved solitude, work, long walks, open space, horses, and books. He was rather savage—a son of the soil. He loved his village, and all the old friends of his childhood. A quadrille in a drawing-room caused him unspeakable terror; but every year, at the festival of the patron saint of Longueval, he danced gayly with the young girls and farmers’ daughters of the neighborhood.
If he had seen Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival at home in Paris, in all the splendor of their luxury, in all the perfection of their costly surroundings, he would have looked at them from afar, with curiosity, as exquisite works of art. Then he would have returned home, and would have slept, as usual, the most peaceful slumber in the world.
Yes, but it was not thus that the thing had come to pass, and hence his excitement, hence his disturbance. These two women had shown themselves before him in the midst of a circle with which he was familiar, and which had been, if only for this reason, singularly favorable to them. Simple, good, frank, cordial, such they had shown themselves the very first day, and delightfully pretty into the bargain—a fact which is never insignificant. Jean fell at once under the charm; he was there still!
At the moment when he dismounted in the barrack-yard, at nine o’clock, the old priest began his campaign joyously. Since the previous evening the Abbe’s head had been on fire; Jean had not slept much, but he had not slept at all. He had risen very early, and with closed doors, alone with Pauline, he had counted and recounted his money, spreading out his one hundred Louis-d’or, gloating over them like a miser, and like a miser finding exquisite pleasure in handling his hoard. All that was his! for him! that is to say, for the poor.
“Do not be too lavish, Monsieur le Cure,” said Pauline; “be economical. I think that if you distribute to-day one hundred francs—”
“That is not enough, Pauline. I shall only have one such day in my life, but one I will have. How much do you think I shall give to-day?”
“How much, Monsieur le Cure?”
“One thousand francs!”
“One thousand francs!”
“Yes. We are millionaires now; we possess all the treasures of America, and you talk about economy? Not to-day, at all events; indeed, I have no right to think of it.”
After saying mass at nine o’clock he set out and showered gold along his way. All had a share—the poor who acknowledged their poverty and those who concealed it. Each alms was accompanied by the same little discourse:
“This comes from the new owners of the Longueval—two American ladies, Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival. Remember their names, and pray for them.”
Then he made off without waiting for thanks, across the fields, through the woods, from hamlet to hamlet, from cottage to cottage—on, on, on. A sort of intoxication mounted to his brain. Everywhere were cries of joy and astonishment. All these louis-d’or fell, as if by a miracle, into the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver. The Curb was guilty of follies, actual follies. He was out of bounds; he did not recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave to those who did not expect anything.
He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at Sebastopol. He was growing gray—nay, white; for time passes, and the soldiers of the Crimea will soon be old men.
“Here!” said the Cure, “I have twenty francs for you.”
“Twenty francs? But I never asked for anything; I don’t want anything; I have my pension.”
His pension! Seven hundred francs!
“But listen; it will be something to buy you cigars. It comes from America.”
And then followed the Abbe’s little speech about the masters of Longueval.
He went to a poor woman whose son had gone to Tunis.
“Well, how is your son getting on?”
“Not so bad, Monsieur le Cure; I had a letter from him yesterday. He does not complain; he is very well; only he says there are no Kroomirs. Poor boy! I have been saving for a month, and I think I shall soon be able to send him ten francs.”
“You shall send him thirty francs. Take this.”
“Thirty francs! Monsieur le Cure, you give me thirty francs?”
“Yes, that is for you.”
“For my boy?”
“For your boy. But listen; you must know from whom it comes, and you must take care to tell your son when you write to him.”
Again the little speech about the new owners of Longueval, and again the adjuration to remember them in their prayers. At six o’clock he returned home, exhausted with fatigue, but with his soul filled with joy.
“I have given away all,” he cried, as soon as he saw Pauline, “all! all! all!”
He dined, and then went in the evening to perform the usual service for the month of Mary. But this time, the harmonium was silent; Miss Percival was no longer there.
The little organist of the evening before was at that moment much perplexed. On two couches in her dressing-room were spread two frocks—a white and a blue. Bettina was meditating which of these two frocks she would wear to the opera that evening. After long hesitation she fixed on the blue. At half-past nine the two sisters ascended the grand staircase at the opera-house. Just as they entered their box the curtain rose on the second scene of the second act of Aida, that containing the ballet and march.
Two young men, Roger de Puymartin and Louis de Martillet, were seated in the front of a stage-box. The young ladies of the corps de ballet had not yet appeared, and these gentlemen, having no occupation, were amusing themselves with looking about the house. The appearance of Miss Percival made a strong impression upon both.
“Ah! ah!” said Puymartin, “there she is, the little golden nugget!”
“She is perfectly dazzling this evening, this little golden nugget,” continued Martillet. “Look at her, at the line of her neck, the fall of her shoulders—still a young girl, and already a woman.”
“Yes, she is charming, and tolerably well off into the bargain.”
“Fifteen millions of her own, and the silver mine is still productive.”
“Berulle told me twenty-five millions, and he is very well up in American affairs.”
“Twenty-five millions! A pretty haul for Romanelli!”
“What? Romanelli!”
“Report says that that will be a match; that it is already settled.”
“A match may be arranged, but with Montessan, not with Romanelli. Ah! at last! Here is the ballet.”
They ceased to talk. The ballet in Aida lasts only five minutes, and for those five minutes they had come. Consequently they must be enjoyed respectfully, religiously, for there is that peculiarity among a number of the habitues of the opera, that they chatter like magpies when they ought to be silent, to listen, and that they observe the most absolute silence when they might be allowed to speak, while looking on.
The trumpets of Aida had given their last heroic ‘fanfare’ in honor of Rhadames before the great sphinxes under the green foliage of the palm-trees, the dancers advanced, the light trembling on their spangled robes, and took possession of the stage.
With much attention and pleasure Mrs. Scott followed the evolutions of the ballet, but Bettina had suddenly become thoughtful, on perceiving in a box, on the other side of the house, a tall, dark young man. Miss Percival talked to herself, and said:
“What shall I do? What shall I decide on? Must I marry him, that handsome, tall fellow over there, who is watching me, for it is I that he is looking at? He will come into our box directly this act is over, and then I have only to say, ‘I have decided; there is my hand; I will be your wife,’ and then all would be settled! I should be Princess! Princess Romanelli! Princess Bettina! Bettina Romanelli! The names go well together; they sound very pretty. Would it amuse me to be a princess? Yes—and no! Among all the young men in Paris, who, during the last year, have run after my money, this Prince Romanelli is the one who pleases me best. One of these days I must make up my mind to marry. I think he loves me. Yes, but the question is, do I love him? No, I don’t think I do, and I should so much like to love—so much, so much!”
At the precise moment when these reflections were passing through Bettina’s pretty head, Jean, alone in his study, seated before his desk with a great book under the shade of his lamp, looked through, and took notes of, the campaigns of Turenne. He had been directed to give a course of instruction to the non-commissioned officers of the regiment, and was prudently preparing his lesson for the next day.
But in the midst of his notes—Nordlingen, 1645; les Dunes, 1658; Mulhausen and Turckheim, 1674-1675—he suddenly perceived (Jean did not draw very badly) a sketch, a woman’s portrait, which all at once appeared under his pen. What was she doing there, in the middle of Turenne’s victories, this pretty little woman? And then who was she—Mrs. Scott or Miss Percival? How could he tell? They resembled each other so much; and, laboriously, Jean returned to the history of the campaigns of Turenne.
And at the same moment, the Abbe Constantin, on his knees before his little wooden bedstead, called down, with all the strength of his soul, the blessings of Heaven on the two women through whose bounty he had passed such a sweet and happy day. He prayed God to bless Mrs. Scott in her children, and to give to Miss Percival a husband after her own heart.