“Decidedly,” said Mr. Scott, “every one likes him in this house.”
“And you will be like every one else when you know him,” replied Bettina.
The regiment broke into a trot along the highroad, after leaving the village. There was the terrace where Bettina had been the other morning. Jean said to himself:
“Supposing she should be there.”
He dreaded and hoped it at the same time. He raised his head, he looked, she was not there.
He had not seen her again, he would not see her again, for a long-time at least. He would start that very evening at six o’clock for Paris; one of the personages in the War Office was interested in him; he would try to get exchanged into another regiment.
Alone at Cercottes, Jean had had time to reflect deeply, and that was the result of his reflections. He could not, he must not, be Bettina Percival’s husband.
The men dismounted at the barracks, Jean took leave of his Colonel, his comrades; all was over. He was free, he could go.
But he did not go; he looked around him. How happy he was three months ago, when he rode out of that great yard amid the noise of the cannon rolling over the pavement of Souvigny; but how sadly he should ride away to-day! Formerly his life was there; where would it be hereafter?
He returned, went to his own room, and wrote to Mrs. Scott; he told her that his duties obliged him to leave immediately, he could not dine at the castle, and begged Mrs. Scott to remember him to Miss Bettina. Bettina, ah! what trouble it cost him to write that name. He closed his letter; he would send it directly.