rrassment. I reflected a little, and thought
that if I addressed my little speech to your godfather it would be almost
the same as if I addressed it to you. So I have come, Monsieur le Cure,
to beg you to listen to me."

"I will listen to you, Miss Percival," stammered the Abbe.

"I am rich, Monsieur le Cure, I am very rich, and to speak frankly I love
my wealth very much-yes, very much. To it I owe the luxury which
surrounds me, luxury which, I acknowledge--it is a confession--is by no
means disagreeable to me. My excuse is that I am still very young; it
will perhaps pass as I grow older, but of that I am not very sure. I have
another excuse; it is, that if I love money a little for the pleasure
that it procures me, I love it still more for the good which it allows me
to do. I love it--selfishly, if you like--for the joy of giving, but I
think that my fortune is not very badly placed in my hands. Well,
Monsieur le Cure, in the same way that you have the care of souls, it
seems that I have the care of money. I have always thought, 'I wish,
above all things, that my husband should be worthy of sharing this great
fortune. I wish to be very sure that he will make a good use of it with
me while I am here, and after me, if I must leave this world first.' I
thought of another thing; I thought, 'He who will be my husband must be
some one I can love!' And now, Monsieur le Cure, this is where my
confession really begins. There is a man, who for the last two months,
has done all he can to conceal from me that he loves me; but I do not
doubt that this man loves me. You do love me, Jean?"

"Yes," said Jean, in a low voice, his eyes cast down, looking like a
criminal, "I do love you!"

"I knew it very well, but I wanted to hear you say it, and now I entreat
you, do not utter a single word. Any words of yours would be useless,
would disturb me, would prevent me from going straight to my aim, and
telling you what I positively intend to say. Promise me to stay there,
sitting still, without moving, without speaking. You promise me?"

"I promise you."

Bettina, as she went on speaking, began to lose a little of her
confidence, her voice trembled slightly. She continued, however, with a
gayety that was a little forced:

"Monsieur le Cure, I do not blame you for what has happened, yet all this
is a little your fault."

"My fault!"

"Ah! do not speak, not even you. Yes, I repeat it, your fault. I am
certain that you have spoken w