Mr. Scott had come from Paris before Jean was back, and he, too, approved of Bettina’s plan, for they wished her to marry only one she truly loved.  But when the lieutenant came back with his regiment, he had made up his mind to avoid meeting Bettina, and had even decided to exchange into another regiment.  He refused an invitation to the chateau, but the good abbe begged of him not to leave the district.

“Wait a little, until the good God calls me.  Do not go now.”

Jean urged that honour made it clear to him he should go away.  The abbe told him that he was quite sure Bettina’s heart was all for him as truly as he believed Jean’s love was all for her.  Her money, Jean confessed, was the great drawback, as it might make others think lightly of his love for her.  Besides, he was a soldier, and he could not condemn her to the life of a soldier’s wife.

The abbe was still trying to convince his godson, when there came a knock at the door, and the old man, opening the door, admitted—­Bettina!

She went straight to Jean and took him by both hands, saying, “I must go to him first, for less than three weeks ago he was suffering!” The young lieutenant stood speechless.  “And now to you, M. le Cure, let me confess.  But do not go away, Jean, for it is a public confession.  What I have to say I would have said to-night at the chateau, but Jean has declined our invitation, and So I come here to say it to M. le Cure.”

“I am listening, mademoiselle,” stammered the cure.

“I am rich, M. le Cure, and, to speak the truth, I like my money very much.  I like it selfishly, so to say, for the joy and pleasure I have in giving.  I have always said to myself, ’My husband must be worthy of sharing this fortune,’ and I have also said, ’I want to love the man who will be my husband!’ And now I am coming to my confession....  Here is a man who for two months has done all he could to hide from me that he loves me....  Jean, do you love me?”

“Yes,” murmured Jean, his eyes cast down like a criminal, “I love you.”

“I knew it.”  Bettina lost a little of her assurance; her voice trembled slightly.  She continued, however, with an effort.  “M. le Cure, I do not blame you entirely for what has happened, but certainly it is partly your fault.”

“My fault?”

“Yes, your fault.  I am certain you have spoken to Jean too much of me, much too much.  And then you have told me too much of him.  No, not too much, but quite enough!  I had so much confidence in you that I began to consider him a little more closely.  I began to compare him with those who, for more than a year, have sought my hand.  It seemed to me that he was their superior in every way.  Then, there came a day... an evening... three weeks ago, the eve of your departure, Jean, and I found I loved you.  Yes, Jean, I love you!...  I beg you, Jean, be still; do not come near me....  I have still something to say, more important than all.  I know that you love me, but if you are to marry me I want your reason to sanction it.  Jean, I know you, and I know to what I should bind myself in becoming your wife.  I know what duties, what sacrifices, you have to meet in your calling.  Jean, do not doubt it, I would not turn you from any one of these duties, these sacrifices.  Never!  Never would I ask you to give up your career.