d definite duties."

"And yet," said Mrs. Scott, "not to be one's own master--to be always
obliged to obey."

"That is perhaps what suits me best; there is nothing easier than to
obey, and then to learn to obey is the only way of learning to command."

"Ah! since you say so, it must be true."

"Yes, no doubt," added the Cure; "but he does not tell you that he is
the most distinguished officer in his regiment, that--"

"Oh! pray do not."

The Cure, in spite of the resistance of Jean, was about to launch into a
panegyric on his godson, when Bettina, interposing, said:

"It is unnecessary, Monsieur le Cure, do not say anything, we know
already all that you would tell us, we have been so indiscreet as to
make inquiries about Monsieur--oh, I was just going to say Monsieur
Jean--about Monsieur Reynaud. Well, the information we received was
excellent!"

"I am curious to know," said Jean.

"Nothing! nothing! you shall know nothing. I do not wish to make you
blush, and you would be obliged to blush."

Then turning toward the Cure, "And about you, too, Monsieur l'Abbe, we
have had some information. It appears that you are a saint."

"Oh! as to that, it is perfectly true," cried Jean.

It was the Cure this time who cut short the eloquence of Jean. Dinner
was almost over. The old priest had not got through this dinner without
experiencing many emotions. They had repeatedly presented to him
complicated and scientific constructions upon which he had only ventured
with a trembling hand. He was afraid of seeing the whole crumble beneath
his touch; the trembling castles of jelly, the pyramids of truffles, the
fortresses of cream, the bastions of pastry, the rocks of ice. Otherwise
the Abbe Constantin dined with an excellent appetite, and did not recoil
before two or three glasses of champagne. He was no foe to good cheer;
perfection is not of this world; and if gormandizing were, as they say,
a cardinal sin, how many good priests would be damned!

Coffee was served on the terrace in front of the house; in the distance
was heard the harsh voice of the old village clock striking nine. Woods
and fields were slumbering; the avenues in the park showed only as long,
undulating, and undecided lines. The moon slowly rose over the tops of
the great trees.

Bettina took a box of cigars from the table. "Do you smoke?" said she.

"Yes, Miss Percival."

"Take one, Monsieur Jean. It can't be helped. I have said it. Take
one--but n